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| 18. Wind-Singers Volume III.II: The Final March; In the aftermaths of The Hunt and the Artifact: Auruiron, Cellindien, and Inheroth embark with their Host toward the East. | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Apr 6 2016, 02:01 PM (3,115 Views) | |
| Ioristion | May 25 2016, 08:00 PM Post #61 |
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Chapter XXIX: The War of the Beornings Eldrand marched forward with his strong, sturdy double-bladed axe. His kindred rallied alongside him. The Orcs were numerous. The woods were ablaze. Grimbeorn's Lodge was besieged as well as several small villages and farmsteads dotting the Anduin Vales. The Lord of the Beornings fought onward, bravely. The Elves joined the fray on the plains. Their mail was of lighter weight, sturdier and heavier even still, in comparison to mithril coats of mail. Chain mail met Orc scimitars, but their parrying skills were strong, as were their shields, that many of them had borne upon their backs, their dirty fur cloaks draping behind them in the muck. The healers and those who were unable to fight were sheltered behind a shield-wall formed by many of the brave Noldor. The Orcs were petty compared to the ancient Noldor, who did not forget their ways of combat. There was a great gust of wind and in the smoke of the flaming trees, the Beornings transformed into bears, and ripped Orcs to shreds left and right. They barreled through their foes in their ferocity. The Noldor held the line. In the midst of the fighting, Eldrand's brother-in-law attacked, and turned on Eldrand, even in the heat of battle. The bears clawed and bit at each other ruthlessly, even amidst the sea of Orcs and Elves and Beornings. In the end, the brother-in-law was slain, his wife left to grieve, and his sons forced to contend with that loss. Eldrand and his followers pointed their claws northward, beckoning for the Noldor to follow. They were close to the eaves of Mirkwood and far-off from Grimbeorn's Lodge now, and the battle was chaotic. They made their way beyond the battle, and marched as far north as they could for that day, battered and bruised, scraped and scratched. But the Noldor had learned their lesson from the catastrophe in Eregion in the previous year. They had trained themselves long and hard for fighting again. And there were no casualties, not among the Elves of the Company, and not among the five Beornings who accompanied them. But they had passed the remains of dead, half-eaten Beorning wives, dead carasses of bears, and dead Beorning children. The ground had been slippery with the black blood of the Orcs, mingled with the red Beorning blood. The land reeked of death. The land was scorched and ashen. Many trees had fallen, only burned carcasses remaining of their former glory. They rested sadly that night, the war wearing heavily on them. There had been a cold silence between the followers of Macil and Cellindien, and those of Macilon. But now, an even colder silence arose, marred by the death that surrounded them. The land grew cleaner as they journeyed north. And the sun shined anew. The land grew brighter. The land grew safer. The fields gradually gave-way to copses of trees and smaller forests of oak, ash, and pine. The air smelt sweeter. But the air grew colder. And the land remained marred by swaths of snow. Strangely, the lands east of the river were greener than those upon the west. The trees of Mirkwood stood tall with evergreen leaves. But on the scent of the air was a poisonous fume. By March 8th, they had reached the old Forest Gate to the Elven road through Mirkwood. They relied on Inheroth to lead the way. They had marched sixty miles in two days and fought their bloody battle in the morning hours on the 7th. They had bandaged their wounds and endured their pain with grace. They were light and enduring on their feet. They had not time to argue about their route now. The prospect of risking imprisonment in King Thranduil's Halls no longer frightened them, for they were better off there than in the clutches of the Orcs, and they could, after all, escape, according to Melimwe. Edited by Ioristion, May 30 2016, 04:58 PM.
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| Ioristion | May 25 2016, 08:16 PM Post #62 |
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Chapter XXX: Beneath the Eaves of Mirkwood They traveled through the shadowed forest for several days. On the 9th, they encountered little danger. Their eyes were sharp, and Inheroth kept them on the road. The road wound to and fro through the old, gnarled trees, a haze and a vapor attempting to drown them. When the haze became too much, Auruiron commanded that all who possessed cloaks endowed with the powers of the West should wear them, and all should travel in careful groups. Their march became slower. The most they could march was forty miles per day, and this was only because their feet did not tire easily, and they would tread lightly as they traveled. The road assisted them as well. The road gradually became more straight-forward, and they kept to it. Little changed throughout the 10th, the 11th, and the 12th. They rationed their lembas, their water supply, and their miruvior carefully, giving preference to the Beornings, who had larger stomachs. But most of the remaining miruvior now went to the pack-horses, who needed the strength to endure heavy loads for many long miles. They had begun their journey with two flasks of miruvior per Elf. They had drank only one sip per day. They had ceased drinking it in the Golden Wood, replacing it with red and white wine to warm their throats. They had only granted water to the pack-horses, until they reached the land of the Beornings for the second time. Then, the pack-horses needed controlled droughts of miruvior. Now, the pack-horses needed the miruvior to sustain them during nearly double the spans of length of their daily travels. On the 13th, the Beornings and the Eldar had chopped wood by the Enchanted River, using their strength to make a bridge of logs across it, tilting several trees in the correct direction. They had crossed the river carefully, guiding the laden pack-horses as they crossed. Large and sturdy were the trees that the Beornings had chopped with the assistance of the Eldar. Auruiron commanded that none should fall in it, lest they lose sight of ever having left Rivendell, and lest they forget the fallen. These efforts had still greatly delayed them by a day. On the night of the 14th, chaos erupted in the trees above the Company. They were only a day now from King Thranduil's Halls. Edited by Ioristion, May 25 2016, 08:42 PM.
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| Ioristion | May 25 2016, 09:35 PM Post #63 |
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Chapter XXXI: The Long Day Begins They camped quietly in the deep breath before the plunge. Their bows were drawn. Auruiron had commanded, that all who wore enchanted cloaks, should wear them now, to protect them from their egregious foes. He knew their scions had stalked the highlands of Dorthonion, and of the low vales north of Doriath. His gold gleamed palely in the moonlight. The skittering noises intensified above them. Many had their swords and shields at the ready, and spears, if they had any. The Beornings had already transformed, forming a perimeter around the camp. They seemed to be in control of their actions. Lerinon, Malfinseron, Findistedis, Celebressel, and Alcano, had all slipped with Macilon beneath the latter's cape, sitting on its folds. They felt something ductile, strong and sticky, latch hold of the cape. They held their rears down on the folds, pressing their full weight into the ground against the pressure. Something large towered above them. There was a deep roar and a large mass leaped above them, pushing the other large mass away from them. Claws met stingers and fangs. The six crawled out of the cape to assess the situation. The sounds of combat were everywhere. Chaos reigned within the darkness. Macilon reattached his cape to his shoulders, to find himself rise, bound to the spider webs above him. Alcano grabbed his legs. Macilon yanked the cape down, slashing at the web with his sword as he yanked. Alcano's hands accidentally touched the webbing on the cape. The whole mess disgusted him. More spiders attacked as swords slashed and arrows fired into vast, gaping husks, large spider rears attacked to horrid mandibles and fangs, and deep clusters of hundreds of eyes, the spiders wretching as they attacked, eight hairy legs per spider. And poisonous was their venom. Edited by Ioristion, May 25 2016, 09:38 PM.
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| Ioristion | May 28 2016, 10:28 PM Post #64 |
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Chapter XXXII: The Sting Auruiron and Melimwe had barricaded themselves into a shield-wall of proud Noldorin warriors. The Noldor had faced such foes before, for they had stalked the vales between Dorthonion and Doriath. The spawn of Ungoliant were accursed. Auruiron drew his sword, longing to avenge the deaths of the Two Trees at Ungoliant's poisons. Several large husks swooped down from above, attempting to bind the shields in spider-webs. Archers fired upward and spears stabbed the spiders' underbellies. But then their formation got scattered when the heavy dead husks fell toward them. Auruiron looked upward. Vast webs towered high into the trees above. The Noldor were not easily stung, but two of them were wounded with poisonous stings, for such was war. The healers quickly got over to them, carrying them on their backs. Ioristion thought his cloak might protect him from the stings. The spiders saw his shining raiment, and shot large strands of web at him, pulling him upward. Macil yelled and plunged into the fray, chopping at the webs. A spider sneaked behind him as he chopped, the stinger plunging into his back. He fell forward. Ioristion gazed into the spider's vast clusters of luminous, pale eyes, helplessly. He closed his eyes, resigning himself to his fate. The shock and awe of battle had gotten to him, hindering any normal reactions that he might have felt from the safety of his manse. Cellindien found herself fighting near to Ioristion and Macil, forcing herself to focus on Ioristion amid the confusion. She did not see the injury until she saw it in her brother's eyes as she plunged her sword into their attacker. She turned, a cry escaping her before she realized it was happening. "Macil!!!" Adrenaline and anxiety were common in this type of fight... one she had seen too many times to count. Now, a different fear crept in and the duty of love became less of a duty and more of a desperation. She screamed again, charging a second spider as it skittered towards them and standing over her fallen beloved. "Ioristion, stay close!" A troop of Noldor had overheard the commotion amidst the clamor of battle. They tried to reach them, but got cut-off by more spiders. Five large black shapes charged into the fray: Eldrand and his followers had skin-changed. The bears tore and clawed at the spiders' legs and mandibles, even clawing-back their stingers. The bears formed a protective circle around fallen Macil, Ioristion, and Cellindien. Rostoriel was reaching them with the rest of the wounded. She saw Macil and screamed. She reached down and felt his pulse. His pulse was faint, but not lost. "We have to get out of here!" She yelled. Auruiron had charged at the spiders in a fury, Melimwe barely keeping him from getting stung himself. They heard the outcry. And Melimwe barked commands, calling the entire Company to push its way forward. The fell beast swooped low over the forest above. A large screech was heard far above them. The spiders suddenly skittered away in terror, as if some signal had been given. And deep in the distance, they heard the sounds of marching, metallic-booted, feet. And they heard the cries of horns. "Yrch!" Melimwe yelled. "Everyone gird yourselves, carry the wounded on your backs, and march, I say, MARCH!!!" The Company moved as swiftly as they could. Several Noldor carried Macil. The marching sounds were several miles away. Keen were the senses of the Eldar. But they were slowly closing. As they reached the halfway point at mid-day, the Orcs were on their heels. Other horn-calls could be heard. Auruiron gazed up upon the ledge of a low-cliff. A great stag stood, its majestic antlers spreading far above it. And there seated on the stag was none other than King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm. Before any words could be spoken, a volley of arrows charged at the Wood-Elves, who were armored and equipped for a long battle. Auruiron turned to Cellindien and Macilon, "Get Macil and the other wounded out of here! Go, north and east, find the healers! Take our healers with you! Go!" Macilon nodded and the wounded quickly got behind the Wood-Elven lines. The pack-horses with the provisions had been well-protected by twenty Noldor during the spider-attack. They, too, went with the wounded, who now were girded and teethered to their backs. Some wood-elven scouts aided in guiding the wounded to safety. It was these scouts who had sighted the approaching army deep in the south and had run doggedly north to warn the King, sending birds with messages, the information traveling in haste. Now that had all come to fruition. The Battle under the Trees had finally begun. Auruiron wondered if the King had even seen them, for he had been gazing far afield upon his stag, and now none of it mattered. He would count himself fortunate if he were imprisoned by Thranduil and not impaled on a spear. Melimwe called the Noldor who had survived the spider attack, suffering only minor scratches, into their battle formation. Little did the Wood-Elves know who stood to fight alongside them. They would not be recorded in the annals. Their true identities would not be known. But there they stood: Noldor of the West. And the Yrch marched forward, more arrows fell, phalanxes were formed, and the battle began in earnest. Lerinon cowered behind Inheroth. |
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| Ioristion | May 28 2016, 10:29 PM Post #65 |
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Chapter XXXIII: The Battle under the Trees With the children of Ungoliant and orcs close upon their heels, Inheroth shouted for the others, any who could hear him over the sound of the oncoming fray, to follow him behind the line of Wood-Elves. His twin daggers, both gifts from Thinfiligon, were in hand; both were dyed black with the blood of spider. He cast a frantic look about, seeking a familiar face amongst the Elves of backwards glance to make sure the Noldor were close behind still. Fahnraen whipped around upon hearing her name. Her eyes darted about, searching the host of elves charging foward in search of safety. Her sight was wild, with eyes large and brow furrowed in fear and confusion, but then it seemed that a warmth fell over her as her eyes locked with his, "Inheroth!" her voice sounded of relief and even held a tone of near joy. She turned away from the few elves she had been fleeing with, and ran instead for Inheroth. It was clear that the party she left had been much larger before. "Our captain has fallen." She said as she came within a few feet of him, "I do not know of the other scouting parties, we were delayed." She looks to him almost helplessly, as if waiting to be told what to do next. “More wounded! Make way!” The cries parted Elven lines, as wounded soldiers and scouts were escorted away from the chaos and bloodshed towards the relative safety of the healers. However, even the smallest gaps in the front-line were seized upon by the enemy, barreling past the retreating injured with cruel and hasty belligerence. None trod far into Elven territory before being cut down. Agarwaenor's blade was as swift as it was slender, a curved sliver of silver that shone even in the dim light of the woods. His armour was similarly brilliant, red and golden. He twirled and leaped, parried and riposted, with all the grace of a well-rehearsed dancer. His face was hidden behind the visage of an Owl, wide dark eyes only betrayed the silver ones behind when the light caught them. He followed the wounded as they approached the healers, striking arrows from the air before they could fall upon his allies. As they left the range of the enemies' volleys, he stopped in his tracks. “Fools!” he spat, “You may stare into each others' eyes when death is not knocking at our door! To arms!” There was a hideous screech. A fell beast crashed and clawed its way through the canopy. It was not used to groping among tree-branches. It was lurching its way toward Inheroth. Several other fell beasts attacked other portions of the battle-line. And large, lumbering trolls shoved the trunks of evergreen trees aside, roaring as they plodded forward with their spiked war-clubs. "Get out of the way!" Inheroth shouted; without another moment's warning, he pulled Fahnraen away from the clutching claws of the fell beast, and jumped back, running towards Lerinon and the Noldor. "Follow me!" his voice rose above the fray. "Agarwaenor, run!" he cried out again. Their swords were no match for the enemies hewing at them now. They were now the quarry of beasts too strong to hew away at with swords and arrows. Around him he could see the remaining contingent of Wood-Elves scattering into the tree tops; "Good," he thought silently and desperately to himself, "they will not notice us, they will not see us, we will be safe," as he led them further into the dark and tangling trees. The Noldor had sung. Their blades had flashed in the flickering sunlight through the trees. Their shields had glinted. Their raven hair had flowed behind them. And Melimwe's blonde plumes had streamed from his silver helm. But some of their shields had already been stained. And now black-blood flowed. They had suffered minor wounds. But then the trolls came, and Melimwe signaled a retreat, blowing his wooden whistle, for their weapons were ineffective against such forces. The Wood-Elves had fired at the trolls and the fell-beasts. Some of the Noldor held the rearguard, forming a phalanx with their spears. Melimwe ushered the soldiers through, in Inheroth's direction, and as he gazed upon the rearguard, he watched the slow falls of the spiked clubs, the trolls charging forward with their wide arms, roaring terrible roars. Red blood flowed down the hillside, gathering in large pools. There had been no means of escape. Raven hair was crushed beneath the wide feet that stomped above it all irreverently. The trolls tore into the Wood-Elven lines. Fire-arrows had caused the trees to catch fire, creating a great ruin. And Melimwe barked at his men, "No! This is their fight. Our fight awaits us. The lands will plunge into darkness if we do not reach the East. We cannot fall here!" And the Noldor had merely been presumed as other Wood-Elves, for despite all their strength, their powers had diminished throughout the fading Ages. And their garb was rustic chain-mail and furs, their finery packed away on the horses, and no one would have known the wiser. Their banners had yet to be unfurled. When they reached the inner camp, Fareon approached Inheroth and the others, "We must decide what to do NOW. Do we stand and fight, or flee?" Inheroth knew Melimwe's words to be truth; he could not help but look back even then, and feel his heart torn asunder at the sight of the Wood-Elves falling in droves. He thought that he would weep, but the desperation to keep on kept him upon his feet. He kept a mental tally; he could see Fahnraen and Agarwaenor, Lerinon and Auruiron. His heart stuttered. They came to a stop. "We must go," he gasped. "We must...we must...or this will have all been for naught..." Fahnraen clung to Inheroth's arm, one hand grasping it tightly. Her breaths came in small pants, not from fatigue but fear. She seemed to hang on his every word, appearing clueless herself as to what their next course of action should be. Fareon barked softly at Agarwaenor, audible, yet low enough for other Wood-Elves to fail to overhear him over the dint and clamor of battle, "I fear you must again betray your King!" Agarwaenor came to a halt, perched on a low branch. Even under the Owl-hood, his furious eyes burned like torches, like the trees of his home some distance behind. "You ask this of me?" he barks, before dropping silently to the ground below. "Nay! You deserters, you oathless scoundrals! Turn with me and return to the fray! Show some allegiance to your kin!" Inheroth spun towards Agarwaenor. "We are your kin! And this is not your fight! Now you must choose. Our path, my brother...or that of the Wood Elves." His voice softened suddenly. "Please...come with us. They will hold their line. Please...." And Lerinon was no longer frightened upon hearing the name Thranduil. Nor did he long to be near his side. The sight of the Yrch and trolls and fell beasts had taken his deep desires and terrors right out of him. He was still in shock at sighting the deaths of several Noldor he had known ever since he was a boy. No longer would they work the fields or gather the reeds or fish the Gulf of Lhun, nor sing, nor dance, nor write, nor laugh, nor smile, nor breath. He girded himself, hyperventilating, at first, but then he turned toward Agarwaenor, standing at a great height, and he seemed in that moment to be an image of the great Kings of Doriath of old, his eyes gleaming as he declared, "Thine eyes have not seen the Shadow. But ours hath beheld it. A worse force than this gathers in the wastes of Rhun. It waits, biding its time, until the powers of Mordor and Gondor and Rohan and Erebor and Lorien and Imladris and the Woodland Realm are all but spent. Then, it will strike, and swallow all the lands in an eternal, unending, nightmare. Defeat the Shadow with us, or stand aside forever." He spoke as if he had gained the voice of prophecy." And then he turned the daggers of his words inward, ripping through the tissues of his heart, "Will ye abandon thine own brother again? Fine. LEAVE HIM." Agarwaenor felt his fingers curls into fists without his command, and for a moment he thought he might strike Lerinon. However, it was only a brief wave of anger, and quickly it passed under a tide of calm. He exhaled slowly, and reached up to pull away the faceplate of his cowl. However, it was not Lerinon to whom he looked, but his brother. “You would have me do this? You would have me abandon my King, and treason against the memory of Oropher? Is this truly your will, your calculated judgment? Tell me it is so, and I will go with you.” "Please!" Inheroth cried out again. He imagined Lerinon's blood upon his hands and almost wept, "Please!" he whispered again, "help us defeat this shadow; and the lands of Oropher will be safe always." Agarwaenor then cast his silver eyes upon Lerinon, the fire of their fury not extinguished. He pulled his cowl back over his face, the light of his eyes glimmering through. For a while, he spoke not, and only peered into Lerinon's eyes, as if trying to evoke some knowledge from them. "So be it," he conceded, after a time. Melimwe marched-over and clasped Lerinon on the shoulders, "We have to go, now. Where would they have taken the wounded with spider-wounds? I could not find them among the makeshift healing tents." Lerinon heaved a deep sigh, "They must have pressed toward the Halls of Thranduil themselves. Let us go before any high lords among the Wood-Elves, or the King himself, should note our absence." |
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| Ioristion | May 28 2016, 10:29 PM Post #66 |
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Chapter XXXIV: The Return to King Thranduil's Halls Fahnraen turned her gaze downward. She felt ashamed in that moment. She looked back from whence they had fled, and even at that distance they could still see the fleeting glimses through the trees of the battle still raging on. Agarwaenor cast his eyes skywards, and read the stars. "I know the way," he found himself saying, without his own heed. They made their way away from the clamor of battle, the screeching of the fell beasts, the thumping of the trolls, and the clash of swords, the firing of arrows, and all the screams fading in the distance. It was Midnight when they reached the Gates. The 16th of March had begun. Of the Noldor, sixteen casualties had been suffered in the rear-guard. They had been torn to pieces by the overwhelming strength of the trolls. Some of their wives were among the healers, screaming as they wept, when they learned their husbands in some cases, and sons in others, did not make it out alive. Some had been born in the Gap of Maglor. Few among the fallen had been born in Aman itself. Others had been born in Himring, and others still on the plains of Estolad. And a small few had been born at Minas Noldorion itself. They had known the sacred rivers. Gelion. Narog. Lhun. They had walked through the woods of Ossiriand. They had seen the halls of Doriath, when Elf turned against Elf, blood pouring-out libations for the Silmaril Jewel. Others had fought at Sirion. And some had fought in the War of Wrath. But all who were born in the Age beyond, did not know the clamor of battle, save the small few who had suffered the Sacking of Eregion. Macil's followers had not been in the rearguard. Yucalwe had been with them in the rout with the spiders. The five Beornings had survived when they ran parallel to the battle in the wilderness. They were weary from the battle with the spiders and the long climbs through the wilderness beyond. |
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| Ioristion | May 28 2016, 10:29 PM Post #67 |
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Chapter XXXV: The Wounded Awaken Macil slowly opened his eyes, to see Cellindien gazing down at him... He felt weak and faint. He tried to remember what had happened. Ioristion had been captured, and he, Macil, had hacked him free from the webs. Golden silk had been ensnared in foul spiderwebs. But the Gift of the Valar was not easily beaten. The whole night had been chaotic. First, the spiders had descended, trying to crush the Noldor, who used their shields in a porcupine formation, spears aimed upward in between the shields, as spiders descended rashly upon their pikes. The Beornings had left the Elf-path and transformed. The Beornings were the chief reason why the Noldor were not defeated. Their thick hides and long, tough claws had been more than a match for the spawns of Ungoliant. They had avoided the stingers and clawed at the mandibles. The poison was only lethal when injested. The Beornings had kept their fangs clear of any poison. But Macil's memory grew foggy. He had heard Cellindien scream his name. Then he faded in and out of consciousness. Rostoriel had given him some of the last miruvior. Then a Wood-Elf healer gave him an antidote beyond the battle-lines. Macil's memory was foggy through it all. He had thought he had heard vast armies marching. He dimly remembered sighting King Thranduil on his royal stag. He wondered where he was, but then he focused his attention on Cellindien's eyes. He loved staring into her eyes. He had dreamed of her again. But his dream was tamed. She no longer had hair flowing down to the ground, billowing in the wind, and nor did they kiss within the dream. But her three cloaks had flowed around her nonetheless. "Macil..." Cellindien breathed his name from her place beside his bed. Her armor and weapons were nearby, still in the process of being thoroughly cleaned. Now she wore a simple dress and her hair was loose, brushed to free it of any vestiges of webbing. It fell around her shoulders as she bent over her betrothed, gently stroking his cheek. A tear slipped from her eye before she could stop it and she laughed softly, wiping it from where it landed on his cheek. "Beloved. I feared that I would need to follow you... so soon." He gently took her hand and kissed it, "Me too........... what happened all back there? My memory fades.... in and out...... that poison was so vile....." She brought his hand back to her lips, mirroring the gesture. "You saved Ioristion. The spiders nearly took him, but you cut him free. He is well, and soon you will be also." Macil sat-up on his resting place, "I feel weak..... but I will be fine. Where are we?" His stomach hurt badly. He put his hands on his chest and grimaced painfully. "We are in the halls of the Elvenking, Thranduil Oropherion. Easy!" She put an arm around his shoulders, helping him to sit. She noticed the grimace and guessed at its source. "Does your stomach trouble you...? I'm told it is a side-effect of the venom, if you need a basin..." She looked about hurriedly. Macil smiled, "Where is my gear? There should be a flask of miruvior left." He felt bandaged-wrapping on his back. He wore a thin tunic and his cloak. His gear had been placed against the rear wall of the healing chamber. Macil took the miruvior and gently drank it. Gradually, the pains in his stomach slowly lessened. As they lessened, Macil began to look around the room, he saw that the Beornings were being treated for minor scratches and scrapes with the spiders' mandibles. They were also bruised in several places from when the spiders tried to step-on them or crush them with their bellies. Two Noldor of the First Age were resting carefully, the healers tending to them. One Alunil had broken ranks with the shield-wall and had nearly got crushed to death. The other, Glasdil had been stung as well. They were brothers and they had married in Himring before the first Watchful Peace had been broken. Their children had been born in Ossiriand after the declaration that the War of Wrath had ended. Their daughters were not trained to be healers, nor were their wives, all of whom were weavers of cloth, and they had remained behind in Minas Noldorion. Glasdil's miruvior had run-out. He had given most of his to a pack-horse. He was pale and sickly and given more of the antidote. He would have died in the forest were it not for Rirossel surrendering what little remained of her miruvior. It had been a long march of being carried and struggling in the forest. Macil turned back to Cellindien, "Thank you........" She shook her head. "I have done little. There was little I could do, save stand guard. But I would not leave you." Macil smiled, but then he suddenly frowned when he asked: "What happened.... in between....on the journey here...... I lost sight of..... there was some great Lord upon a stag..... my memory is foggy...." "Your memory does not betray you," Cellindien replied. "The Elvenking rode forth with an army. There was an attack... a great company of yrch and trolls. The others of our company joined in the battle. There were... casualties. But one more battle has been won, and soon we must be on our way again." And Macil girded himself, standing tall. "Yes...... and I will not leave your side." He stumbled back onto the place of rest. He had been dizzy. Macil grunted, "If we leave today.... I will have need of your shoulder." Cellindien helped him to stand, then gasped, easing him down. "Ai, take care! Slowly, Macil, and you will have it." Macil nodded grimly. Edited by Ioristion, May 30 2016, 08:56 AM.
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| Ioristion | May 28 2016, 10:30 PM Post #68 |
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Chapter XXXVI: Boats on the Forest River Lerinon was standing in the Library when Auruiron stormed-up to him, "We have to get provisions and leave now. The Battle is won by the Wood-Elves, from what little tidings I have gleamed, and the King will be returning. I do not trust him after the egregious ways in which he treated you." Fareon nodded, "Shall we take Agarwaenor's secret egress?" Auruiron shook his head, "No...... not this time. We will need boats. We will need to take the river." By now, they had recovered from their wounds, for the spider stings had only put them to sleep. Others only had minor scratches, easy to attend to, and they girded themselves again. After a brief moment's hesitation Fahnraen stepped forward. Her face was down-turned and she spoke quietly, lacking the air of authority, though she shared her voice all the same, "If you wish to travel by water, I know the paths of the river, and also where the Wood-elves dock their boats." Auruiron turned to Fareon, "Go summon the others. Gather the Company at once." And Fareon did so. The Beornings were silent and grumpy, for they, in particular, didn't enjoy traveling on the rivers. When they had all gathered together in the Library, with all their baggage strapped to their backs, and tent equipment carried by several score of Elves, Auruiron nodded to Fahnraen, "Lead us thence." They would leave the pack-horses behind as a gift for King Thranduil. Fahnraen gave a single curt nod to Auruiron and her brow furrowed in determination, though as she turned to lead the way a feeling of doubt weighed heavily within her. She calmed her inner questioning with the knowledge that their current course was not decided by her, that she was merely their guide to reach their destination safely. With a deep breath she strode in confidence before the company. Her path eventually lead them within the great Halls of King Thranduil. She crept silently, motioning those who followed to do the same so as not to attract attention. It was easy to remain unnoticed, as hardly an elf was in sight for most were away in the battle. Their path took them downward, deep within the winding labyrinth of the Woodland Realm. They eventually found themselves in the cellars where the river ran beneath. Many boats were docked there. She turned and whispered, "Board with haste, we must leave at once." Some of the guards had not forgotten Lerinon and Fareon and their King's ruthless mistreatment of them in prison. And they had been punished themselves for Fareon and Lerinon's escape. They had been demoted in rank and charged with boat-guarding duty, a thankless task that required little effort, other than to be imprisoned themselves in the cellars. They had seethed for years regarding the escape, at first blaming their former captives, until they got sick of their own anger, slowly turning toward the King, who refused to promote their ranks or give them more efficient duties. They were never even allowed to see their own King during their meager leisure-time. They jumped to their feet, weapons in hand, when they first sighted the approach of Fahnraen and Auruiron and the others, and Lerinon conversed with them. They finally had an excuse to become free from boat-duty. They decided that they had been deprived of glory through their absence at the Battle under the Trees. They now would seek their fortunes with the apparent Heir of Doriath. They were the same four Elves whom Lerinon and Fareon had fought and locked in their own cells. They loaded up their gear and belongings, and filled as many of the boats as they could fill. They grabbed their oars and slipped away from the Woodland Realm, gliding down the Forest River. They rowed in twenty boats altogether. And Ioristion still held the artifact in his sack. They were now a Company of One-Hundred-and-Eighteen altogether. They were now the same in number as when they had begun, despite all of their tragedies on the road. They had lost Aegnil and the sixteen warriors, but they had gained five Beornings, the two sisters, Malfinseron, and the three Silvan companions of Yucalwe. And Alunil was still morbidly shocked and weeping as he entered the boat with Melimwe, trying to regain his composure: Glasdil had died. Macil and Cellindien had already left the healing chamber when he died. Glasdil's last words were: "No, my brother. Leave me........... do not let our long centuries of waiting be for naught! Go, for both of our wives, and our daughters..... live......." And Alunil had been directed away by the healers, who burned the hroa and scattered the ashes, so that the Elven-King would never learn of it. Alunil had girded himself gracefully, steady against the pressure, no longer conscious of his own failing health. One Galu had helped him reach the boats. And it was still March 16th. And the sun had begun to set when they sailed down the river that flowed blood-red in the fading sunlight. Edited by Ioristion, May 30 2016, 09:01 AM.
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| Ioristion | May 30 2016, 09:12 AM Post #69 |
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Chapter XXXVII: Moonrise of the Forgotten They had glided along the currents of the river for a long time. They did not need to toil dreadfully as they rowed as the strong currents took them. They had navigated through some rapids with caution through a winding whitewater gauntlet, but they had made it, and many Elves got soaking-wet. The water had flowed down the cloaks of Auruiron and Melimwe and their like into the bottoms of the boats. Arthon had grabbed a fold of Melimwe's cape. The cape had been the only reason he was there. The cape had kept him from sailing into the West. He was a grim Elf of plain raven-hair and stern countenance, who had never married nor had children, because he had believed that the Doom of Mandos had been too grim to permit him to do so. But he had been fiercely loyal to Maglor son of Feanor, and he had mourned in a long depression after Maglor had disappeared, and he had touched the cloak of Auruiron, providing Arthon with the only sense of hope he could ever have. Hope was not born within the cloak, but from the Vala in whose tears the cloak had once been bathed. It had ultimately come from the One who existed before all things. Several of Arthon's friends had perished during the troll onslaught in the Battle under the Trees. His grief was deep and grabbing the cape had helped him. It reminded him of what they were fighting for. There would be no peace for his Prince or for Auruiron if the dark Maia-traitor remained alive, according to Arthon. Arthon let go of the cape when the rapids appeared. He and the other rowers toiled through the surging river. Edited by Ioristion, Jun 2 2016, 08:51 PM.
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| Ioristion | May 30 2016, 09:41 AM Post #70 |
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Chapter XXXVIII: The Catalogue of the Seventeen When they camped that night beneath the stars, they did not set-up their war-tents, that got soaked rolled-up on their poles. They had been tied into the boats. Their backs ached as they lay down on rocky slates or tree-roots along the river. They knew that they were safe now, for the spiders were further to the south, and they woke-up stiff and aching on the morning of the 17th of March. Auruiron gathered some of the Noldor together. He wanted to know who had fallen in the assault. Hannas stood at Auruiron's side, dark-haired with deep-grey eyes. He was Auruiron's squire. He had been born in the Second Age. His mother had remained at Minas Noldorion. His father, Eglanor, had perished in the troll-assault. He had pushed Hannas just out of range of the troll's rampage, yelling at Hannas to run. The Wood-Elven lines had closed behind Hannas. Eglanor had been born in Aman. He had served Lord Alcarin and then Auruiron. Alwendil stood with them. His father had perished in Dorthonion. His mother had been slain in the Dagor Bragollach. He had narrowly escaped the thrashing when he turned and saw them all cut down. First Eglanor had died after shoving Hannas, then Nenglasson of Eldamar's golden fields and Nullandil of Taniqueti's lower slopes and Belfaer of Tirion's Forge and Ranui of Himring and Nodil of Maglor's High Hill and Saelon of Rerir's deep slopes and Thorn of Estolad's old vast plains and Taur of Ossiriand's woods and Taerdil of Ost-en-Edhil and Tolog of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain and Boronor of deep Imladris and Dolefaer of Forlindon and Dolendil of Harlindon and Gulon of the Tower Hills and Goldur of Minas Noldorion. All of them had survived the wargs of Eregion and of the Hithglaer and of the foothills nigh the Carrock. Some of them had survived every Dagor of the First Age, every slaughter, including the thirty-year long War of Wrath. Some had survived Eregion's sacking. But none of them had fought in the Last Alliance. None of them fought in Arnor. None of them fought in Lorien to the now-distant south. And now, they fought beneath the evergreen eaves, beneath the shade of Greenwood, in the murky muck that mocked every stem, root, and twig, from north to south. And there, trampled in the muck, they died, their blood flowing into the mud, pooling beneath unworthy feet. Raven hair, once shining, beautiful, now bathed in mud and blood, unrecognized. And in less than a moment's time: Three Ages of the World had died. And the West had died with them. And then Alunil revealed the death of Glasdir and his final words in the Halls of Thranduil. Auruiron stared silently and solemnly at the flowing currents of the river that now seemed bloody in the rising sunlight. The others stared at him as he knelt down by the river's edge along its rocky shore, and placed his hands beneath the water, so deep that the sunlight's bleeding reflection poured across the water above his palms. He stared at his bloody-looking hands. He stared at them as tears slowly streamed down his cheeks. Melimwe had bowed in silence. He remembered all of the places that the fallen were from, for he had seen them all: the lands where their stories had begun. He reflected on their long toiling labor in forges and in mines and along riverbeds full of reeds and in the forests hunting boar and bear and on the fields harvesting all their crops and in his cellars weaving and cooking and skinning and tanning and melding and forging and writing, century after century, and the arbor-building and the chair and bench carving and the carvings of frescos and reliefs on the marble and on the cutting and shaping and hauling of the marble from the mountains on their sturdy carts, piece by piece, journey after journey. He reflected on all of their music and singing, their harps and lyres, drums and trumpets, and their bells ringing... the lays they had writ and sung, the ballads they had played, the epics they had written, and how they wove the silk and pressed the velvet and sewed the dresses and robes and cloaks, how they had forged their swords and armor and helms and saved their cut hair to weave into plumes... how they made the papyrus and parchment and mixed the ink... and he thought of all the times they had marched and fought and all their scars and their bleeding-out and healing and recoveries.... all and everything to lead them to that fateful day, when neither Elvenking nor Elven hosts nor bear nor stag nor any eagle could spare them from the swift onslaught that crushed them beneath their shields and broke their spears and turned their swords and smashed their heads and gouged their eyes and bled their hearts. The rest of them felt what he felt. There was, at first, no use for words. But Raen of Minas Noldorion approached with Alwendil of Tirion, and they knelt at Auruiron's sides, and Raen whispered in his ears: "Come now, my Lord... my Prince of Gold.... know that while our hearts bleed, we also know.... none of this was in vain......" Auruiron tried to smile, looking up at him, "How do you know?" Alwendil placed a firm hand on Auruiron's shoulder, "Because we are here. No one who died yesterday or in Eregion's land of stone did not die without knowing what they were dying for.... Mandos has them now, and a time will come, when the West will release them to their hroar and happier times.........but know that they gave their lives -willingly- for -our- cause........remember this......my Lord....." Even Alunil and Hannas knelt beside Auruiron, attempting to comfort him. "I do not deserve this," Auruiron balked. "For long centuries I sat on that joke of a throne in vain.........." Hannas stammered, "You sat there because we let you...... we wanted you to............ Gil-galad marched off to war and n'er returned, and Elrond of Imladris abandoned us............ we always needed a King. Maglor was our King... Maedhros was our King.... and -you- became our King when the others could not avail us. Fingolfin was ever distant, Finarfin will ever be distant, and only Fingon was worth rallying behind............ but then he died. We did not come here to watch you continue to waste and fade away feeling sorry for yourself or blaming yourself for everything that falls asunder. Stand up, son of Alcarin! Let the wailing harpist pluck his final note... let the High-King rise." "I am no High-King," Auruiron shook his head. Hannas seized Auruiron by the shoulders, "You are to us." And no visions of the past were born from their touching of the cloak. For Lorien alone remained true Master of all visions and dreams... And Auruiron suddenly stood, proudly, his golden hair shining in the light of the rising sun, his sunlit cape billowing behind him. And he spoke with the wrathful forcefulness of a Feanorian: "Our Foe shall pay a thousand-fold for our fallen. And none shall then withstand us." Edited by Ioristion, Jun 2 2016, 08:45 PM.
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| Ioristion | May 31 2016, 10:04 AM Post #71 |
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Chapter XXXIX: Toward Long Lake They oared onward again, paddling hard among the rapids, and at times they disembarked, carrying the boats and all their gear in sections, whenever they came upon any waterfalls. They sweated in the heat of the sun. Sunlight glistened on the water. Rainbow trout swam the stream. They wanted to converse their lembas. Many of them turned to fishing in their breaks. Eventually, the Mirkwood evergreen trees on either side of the river slowly began to dissipate, as the lands fell to meet Long Lake. Escaroth was singed, its ruined, blackened planks floating in the middle of the lake. "Take cover!" Melimwe yelled. For the sun was setting and they looked north to see the Lonely Mountain, Erebor, towering tall, and Dale was in flames, and a massive army had gathered on the bare hills near its base, cutting down trees and carving-out any siege machines they did not haul all the way from Rhun. Melimwe gazed intently, sighting a design of armor that he had never seen before, not even in the days of Ulfang. Their armor was gold and their helms domed with great horns rising from them as if strangely-shaped antlers, and their cloaks were dark maroon. Many of the men did not wear the full cloaks, but had padding of the same color. They bore golden halberds and swords and had many archers with fiery arrows. They would have outnumbered the Company one hundred to one. "We can help!" Auruiron turned, but Melimwe retorted: "They are too many! We cannot defeat that many! And the Naugrim are strong, look at them all holed-up in there! They have hidden doors to sneak-in supplies during a siege! They have armies in the Iron Hills, from what I have read in Imladris. Auruiron, my beloved brother, my heart yearns for them, and longs to fight alongside them, but know this: this is our chance to defeat Guldrambor! And no, I am not afraid to say his name anymore. This is our chance! If the Easterlings have sent such a huge army, they will be defenseless against us!" Saelbainor turned toward Melimwe, "No! It will not be that simple, Melimwe! Do you not realize how numerous the Easterlings are? I have been there. I have seen there lands, when I traveled there in secret with my hood covering my eyes. I could see enough through the pores. Listen! They have many cities, large and great and terrible, on the southeastern shores beneath the forest!" "Can we trust the Dorwinion Elves?" Melimwe inquired. Saelbainor nodded grimly, "Yes, I have little doubt. They admired and love the Elves of Doriath, from the tales they have heard from travelers from afar, from when the Sindar first returned from the west to those lands. But listen carefully... they have also heard of the depravity of our people. They despite the Noldor." Melimwe gazed sharply at Lerinon, who was sitting with Fareon, Inheroth, Fahnraen, Agarwaenor, and the four Wood-Elven guards and others in a nearby boat, "Ah........" Saelbainor turned and suddenly burst in laughter, "Ingenious!" Macilon turned sadly. He was in the same boat as Auruiron, Melimwe, Alunil, Hannas, Raen, Celebressel, Malfinseron, Findistedis, and Alcano. Auruiron had been keeping a sharp eye on Macilon ever since he revealed himself in Lorien. Macilon nodded, "Beware! For you ponder gaining advantage of Lerinon's deepest desire... a desire that could kill him." "And how do you know this?" Melimwe gazed intently into Macilon's eyes. Macilon blinked, "I am forbidden to tell you." Melimwe scoffed, "Fine. Have your way for now. But know this: if you have been weaving lies, and if you truly are an agent of Guldrambor, you shall not survive this journey. If it calls for a Fourth Kinslaying, then so be it! Traitors shall meet the fate of thine former Master Maeglin." Macilon closed his mouth and eyes and did not say anything. Edited by Ioristion, May 31 2016, 10:08 AM.
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| Ioristion | May 31 2016, 10:33 AM Post #72 |
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Chapter XL: The River Running Celebressel pulled her slightly damp furs around her as the vessels continued across the vast crystalline surface of Long Lake. She had been with the healers and pack-horses, protected by the shield-wall from the spiders. Such was the military might of the Noldor: not a single healer or pack-horse had been harmed. The other Elves were still gazing at Erebor in horror. They could sight spurts of catapult fire and ballista-bolts aimed at the great Doors. They watched with horror as they sailed away. She rested her silver-haired head on Alcano's shoulder. Alcano reached down gently, stroking her hair, while the others rowed into the currents. When they reached the currents, the stream that ran beneath the waters down the River Running propelled them, albeit more slowly. But then they saw why the currents grew stronger: they led to deep waterfalls that flowed far down. They docked their boats along the shoreline and built-up their tents, for they were tired of sleeping on the hard ground without protection. Furs were laid down as carpets and the camp was set. But they did not light any fires. They did not know if Easterling deserters or if another force of their army was near at hand. Macilon did not converse with his adherents. He seemed aloof and dreamy-eyed. It had been a tense road for all of them, and especially for the Elves of Mirkwood, some of whom were loathe to leave their realm behind in the midst of war. At dawn on the 18th, they climbed down the narrow, old road, down the cliffs, winding to and fro, till they reached the bottom of the waterfalls. The strength of Beorning arms and Elvish perseverance bore their boats down above them. Then they returned their boats to the waters and continued down the river, and the trees of Mirkwood rose again for them on either side of the river. They had rationed their lembas carefully and fished sparingly. They had plenty of water to fill their flasks. They camped quietly now, fearful of the Easterlings, and Saelbainor became worried that supply-lines might have been established between Rhun and Erebor along the rivers. The Celduin's currents were swift, leading down toward the Sea of Rhun from its strong headwaters nigh the Lonely Mountain. They rowed when they needed to, often, and in shifts. They had feared that Yrch deserters or a retreating army might come upon then, but the fear was moot. "Apparently, King Thranduil has done a thorough task at eliminating the opposing force," Melimwe noted. Throughout the 19th, they passed out of Mirkwood again, and wide, open, grassy plains, fed by the waters of the river, flowed before them. Even wild horses grazed in some of the fields. Melimwe saw no signs of Easterlings for leagues upon leagues, aside from their war-path, where siege machines had trampled the grass, and where the Easterlings had cleared ground for their camps. They camped halfway down the river on the night of the 20th. Edited by Ioristion, Feb 1 2018, 08:34 PM.
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| Ioristion | May 31 2016, 10:51 AM Post #73 |
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Chapter XLI: Heir of the Ainon Cundan Ioristion had been restless ever since the dark revelation in Lothlorien. He tried not to think of "Findekano," whom he now perceived as a figment of his own imagination, of his own thoughts, made manifest by the artifact: that he, Ioristion, had debated himself the entire time. He tried to rest himself in the thought that he had saved himself and Cellindien from the bile by these strange means, and from themselves in Thorin's Halls, but Findekano had worn the golden cloak, for the image of him had been borne from the cloak. But he saw the Elf, robed in black again, and Ioristion was bidden to follow, and Ioristion did not know why he, Ioristion, obeyed. When they were out of ear-shot of the others, Ioristion stammered beneath the light of the moon and stars, "Why not tell me outright?" Macilon raised his hand, "Calm thyself... Child of Lore.... foreordained brother of my brother. Know that I was forbidden to tell thy father." Ioristion wiped his tears aside, "Wait... are you telling me, that Findekano has truly appeared to me?" Macilon nodded, "But not in the way you think. The Maia, Uireb, told me that Findekano had been restored to the realm of the living, for his sacrifice. But he was forbidden to journey back to Middle-Earth directly. The artifact's powers are of one's own imagination, but the power of dreams and visions flows from Lord Irmo, Lorien, himself, and that power cannot be disrupted by any mortal agency. Know that Findekano likely stands upon the same sort of balcony that you and Finlos and Rostor and Alcano dreamed of, gazing into the same sort of basin. But like Lord Finwe, he cannot intervene directly, watching aloof as Finwe observes Vaire's strands. But here is something that Findekano can do: while he cannot communicate directly, he gave his consent and approval of all of his apparent interventions that he, Findekano, dreamed of, when Uireb induced him into a deep sleep that lasted several weeks. He dreamed of the future, foreknowing what would occur, akin to the foresight of one Lord Elrond, whom I have heard tale of. And then he approved of it. He does not speak to you directly from a basin in the West. But he approves of everything you think of him. Know this, and trust yourself, for he has seen it all." Ioristion stared at him dumbstruck. A Power had actually dared to intervene without intervening. It confused him, giving him a headache. Macilon smirked, "Now calm thyself. Tell me, would you like to see Findekano again tonight? Never will he appear again for Auruiron. But you may see him." Ioristion rolled his eyes, "And yet it is not him, but of my own mind, that he had foreseen, and then approved of.... my mind is bursting from this, Macilon!" Macilon nodded, "Then tonight is not the night. Tell me, for I am curious. Have you ever dreamed of me?" Ioristion laughed, clearly losing his mind again, "Sometimes..... in various guises... based on the tales that Rostor told me long ago." "And what did he tell you?" "He told me of your fondness for capes and dancing and for resting closely with your brethren. He told me that you taught him everything." And Macilon outspread his cape, starlight and moonlight glistening on its crimson fiery folds, "Come then, Son of Lore, Heir of the Ainon Cundan. And rest thyself within the cape of dreams. For you are slipping ever so deeply into madness again, and this, alone, will cure it." They rested alongside each other, wrapped in Macilon's vast cape, resting in the tall, fluffy grass, beneath the moon and stars. The air smelt of fresh grass. They did not need to worry about ticks or other bugs, for the Eldar never suffered from disease. And right before the sun would rise, they awoke and danced, as Rostor did of old. Black and red and golden silk streamed and billowed and curled and flapped and fluttered in the rising sunlight. Edited by Ioristion, May 31 2016, 10:55 AM.
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| Ioristion | May 31 2016, 01:17 PM Post #74 |
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Chapter XLII: The Six Convene They traveled on again per usual and not much had gained in the hardships of their journey. Ioristion remained in the same boat as Macil and Cellindien. He whispered the truth to Rostoriel, who nodded, embracing her husband jovially. She didn't know if they were going to live or die, so she had resolved herself to live for the moment, to live it up for every moment left. She had been broken several times, by the Fall of Gondolin and the deaths of her parents, by the loss of her brother, by the madness of her husband. Now she was strong. And she kissed her husband strongly. They buried their faces in each others' hair as they did in centuries past, embracing tightly, firmly, holding each other up. They reached a new place along the river to camp. Macilon tapped Lerinon, Celebressel, Malfinseron, Findistedis, and Alcano on the shoulder, and they ascended the crest of a nearby hill to view the stars. Then they moved further down the hill to a low vale, out of sight, out of ear-shot. The wind rustled through their cloaks. They had specifically put-on their Lorien garb. They left their traveling garb and chainmail back in the camp. They stood in a circle and outspread their capes, revealing a strange ritual, as Macilon swept his cloak atop them all, all of them slipping down beneath its folds. He whispered something to them. Alunil had ascended the crest of the hill. It is not natural....... he stammered within himself, not natural........ should I inform our Lord, or keep silent? Our Lord has indulged himself in many such strange displays..... he will not listen....... but who may I speak to, who has not indulged? Maybe we were the villains..... Three Kinslayings and Three Ages later, and here we are! No Silmarils, no Rings..... but capes.... these strange cloaks and arts performed with them...... these strange visions...... who is inducing this? Long have I watched this canker drive our little society to madness....... and what can I do about it? I said nothing. And now I cannot say anything. Alunil saw the forms beneath the cloak move, as Macilon whipped it back. Alunil ran out of sight back to the camp, saying nothing. Edited by Ioristion, May 31 2016, 07:29 PM.
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| Ioristion | May 31 2016, 08:21 PM Post #75 |
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Chapter XLIII: Boat of the Last Alliance At dawn on the 22nd, they set-out again, weary of their journey. Tensions remained high in the air. Some of the Noldor were hard-boiled at Auruiron for leading them daftly into the fray in Mirkwood. The Mirkwood Elves had gazed at each other coldly, rowing and focused on moving down-river and speaking only when they had to, Lerinon feeling sick to his stomach and Fareon shaking his head at it all. Lerinon felt sorrowful for poor Inheroth most of all. Lerinon found Agarwaenor cold and unhelpful to the grand "Quest" that they were attempting to fulfill. Amarthandor, Sainion, Auravon, and Arancir rowed in Yucalwe's boat, with Limdor, Circhon, and Palanelon. They had spoken of the old Chief in the old Avarin days of Lindorinand and of their hunting. And they had spoken more about the Last Alliance. Amarthandor sighed, "I miss Eregion. I miss its golden spires. I remember that foul day when the Yrch came, flooding our lands, ruining everything. The spires burning, the catapult-flames crashing through roofs and windows..... and the Dark Lord, who once had seem so beautiful, so brilliant..." Sainion nodded, "I remember Annatar. He was magnificent. How did we get fooled so easily?" Yucalwe laughed, "You mean, as we Feanorians all got fooled far earlier by Melkor? Now that would be a tale to tell. Now should it be a lay, a song, or a dirge?" "It should be a dirge," Auravon sighed. "A dirge for the fallen." Arancir remained silent. He was soft-spoken. Yucalwe nodded, "A dirge then. For Aman or for Eregion?" "Why not both?" Limdor nodded, "I, for one, am curious.... I have seldom heard tales of such Elven realms of far-off places......" Yucalwe smiled, "Ah, yes, I nearly forgot. You have spent your entire life in Lorien." Palanelon sighed, "We were glad to do so. Did you not hear what happened to -our- portion of the army?" Yucalwe frowned, "I know. The Dead Marshes right?" Palanelon slowly nodded, "Yes.... few made it out alive. Judge us for cowardice how you will, but the Dark Lord was far from us. We had heard tales of his devastation, but he still seemed very much far away. If we had fought beside you, we three might have died and n'er returned, to be here with you now." Yucalwe nodded, "I do not blame you. A dirge for both then." Auravon nodded, "For the Last Alliance also." "Fair enough," Yucalwe balked. "Shall we include the War of the Jewels, all of its campaigns, including the War of Wrath?" "No," Amarthandor balked, "Those have been done to tears." "Unnumbered," Sainion interjected. "Yes....." Yucalwe bowed. "Very well. A Second Age dirge it is." Edited by Ioristion, May 31 2016, 08:22 PM.
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| Ioristion | May 31 2016, 08:37 PM Post #76 |
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Chapter XLIV: The Dirge When they camped that night on the 23rd of March, they were sick of camping without better light. So they gathered driftwood near the bases of the river-trees and built their campfires. Yucalwe took his shield and turned it into a makeshift desk, took-out his quill and ink, that he ever carried ever since he returned from Minas Noldorion, and parchment, as the others gathered around him. It was a sacred act. Amarthandor and Auravon held the shield steady. And Yucalwe began to write: ~A many-colored Prince came forth~ ~From the darkest deep throng so long~ ~Mandos' shadows, deeply dwelling~ ~The Two Trees bright, soon were falling~ ~Glorious was that Prince who walked~ ~Upon the bright-shod road to Tirion~ And Yucalwe muttered, "No. I cannot write it in verse tonight. There was too much rowing in the past weeks and far too much marching." "Very well," Limdor replied. "Then why not write-out the base story first in freer verses and forge the Form later?" "I may not be able to forge the Form later," Yucalwe replied grimly. Circhon shook his head, "No, you should not speak like this." "But what I tell is true," Yucalwe gently retorted. Palanelon stammered, "Then -someone- will turn it into verse. Write what you must." Yucalwe nodded, "Very well." Edited by Ioristion, Jun 2 2016, 08:45 PM.
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| Ioristion | May 31 2016, 10:14 PM Post #77 |
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Chapter XLV: Phantoms of the Past Along the River Running, trees began to grow, as the land became less barren. Small groves began to dot the long, vast grassy plains, still yellowed from winter. A grim sorrow seemed to lie upon the land. Ioristion wondered if the Balchoth who had served Dol Guldor once settled here ages ago. He had read about them in the Hall of Fire, where much tidings were recorded, that reached the ears of Master Elrond. While Yucalwe and others conversed about writing dirges, Macil strode away quietly from the camp, away from the tents. He did not want to hear the same old stories of the same old life he had endured: the peril of Eregion and his near-death in the Last Alliance. He had grown sick of it. He had drowned his sorrows with his old veteran companions already. He had drowned his sorrows overly much during those pitiful months in Lorien. In truth, he feared the days, the wars, to come. Cellindien did not notice his departure at first, busy consulting with one of the other warriers on the issue of a damaged pauldron. The youngers members of their company had taken to complaining, but as the road became longer Cellindien, along with the elders, became quieter. There was no call to complain, for there was no hope of improvement. All one could do was press onward. Even so, she too had begun to feel a fear of the war, a fear different from the weary anticipation she had held before. When her work was done she returned to the center of the camp, hoping to share a fire with her beloved and forget the fear for a time. Ioristion had seen Macil walking away solemnly. Ioristion did not want to disturb him at first. As he saw Cellindien approaching, he wondered aloud: "Are you seeking him out, my sister?" Cellindien raised an eyebrow, than gave a rare laugh. "Is it so obvious? No, do not answer. Where has he gone?" "He wandered yonder," Ioristion pointed to the south. "Come, I suppose we should find him. Yucalwe is less observant than usual," Ioristion balked, glaring at Yucalwe's writing attempts about the old wars that had haunted them so much. Ioristion rose, grabbing his golden cape from where it lay folded farther away from the fire, "I am coming with you, I cannot stand their talk..." Cellindien started off in the direction he indicated without waiting, quiet again. "What do they hope to achieve...? I had thought that songwriting was better left until after the long journeys." Ioristion muttered, "Oh, I do not know why they did not bother to write such lays beneath the Golden Bough or back in Imladris! They were talking about it all enough while they were there. I....I suppose they had to work through their horrific memories first, as it is the only logical explanation that I can think of. It took me what, thousands of years? To regain my senses?" He walked onward with her. "You speak as if you have already done so," she replied lazily. It was almost a habit by now, and she smiled to soften the words. "Perhaps you should join them? Talk some sense into them?" Ioristion sighed sadly, for he had missed the days when he and his sister had traveled Eriador together, "Very well then......I..I will see both of you at another time." Ioristion turned around and headed back toward the camp. Cellindien frowned, surprised by his expression. Surely he couldn't be lonely in such a busy camp? She looked away from the camp, to where she hoped to find Macil, then back at her retreating brother, and sighed, torn between calling him back and continuing on her own. After a minute she shook her head and walked away from the camp. Ioristion would be safe. Better for him to spend time with his wife or the others, after all. Macil sat hunched-over on a hillside, his black and red cloak wrapped tightly around him, as his sad, solemn eyes gazed at the stars above. Cellindien made her way over to him without speaking, gathering her own cloak around her and sitting down silently at his side. Macil slowly turned to her, "And what brings you here on this dark eve? What brings us here....... far beyond lands of named recognition. Are you not frightened, my love? I am...." She did not answer right away, keeping her eyes on the sky. "So many questions... like the Sapling, and yet not." She looked to him, smiling sadly. "And I think you know the answers. Duty to love, duty to serve the light... and for the third, yes. Yes, I am very afraid." "We have faced worse," Macil tried to smile. "To think how narrowly we escaped when all of those dragons were roasting the lower levels of Gondolin. Apparently the Lords of Shadow and Flame had special plans for the Court of the Fount, and did not want it roasted immediately. To think that Macilon was not roasted... I am sorry, my love. I commit the same error that made me leave the others at the camp....." He rested his head on Cellindien's right-shoulder, "We are both afraid..... but look up at those stars. They know not fear..... they burn so brightly, and if they ever falter, they would never know it........" "The very same mistake," she scolded gently. Then, "But we are not stars, though some of us may favor cloaks resembling stars in all their brightness." She took his left hand in her right, tenderly stroking the back of his hand with her thumb. "I have faltered many times already. I know that we have promised to follow each other, but I do not wish to leave yet, with or without you." Macil nodded understandingly, "I feel the same.... but a promise is a promise. But I forgot to mention my intentions: I would follow you if death was the sole option. For our hroar are sacred... and it would be most loathsome for me to toss mine to the wargs on purpose. The Lord of the Halls would never let my fea free if I did.... My promise, is to follow you, when death is the only doom that will avail us. But I also believe.... that we should live for each other. Enough of this talk of death and dying. Whatever doom may await us at the end of this road... let us leave it there. Let us live up our lives for once, and cherish the moments that we have......." Cellindien shook her head, smiling despite the gravity of their conversation. "That sounds oddly familiar, my love. It almost puts me in mind of another hill, long ago. A pity that we have grown so old and left those times behind." They heard the crickets chirping in the grass, a first sign of spring. They gazed at the stars for many long moments, solemn and sad, yet restful. "One of these days," Macil tried to laugh, "I will have to dance with you again. But for now, come. Let us return to our tent in the camp and rest. There will be more rowing on the morrow." Edited by Ioristion, Jun 1 2016, 09:24 AM.
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| Ioristion | Jun 1 2016, 10:48 AM Post #78 |
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Chapter XV: The Writing In the camp, Yucalwe began his dirge, discordantly, in its absence of Form, for he was too fatigued from the harshness of the journey: He came forth from Lord Mandos' Halls, In beauty he did cloak, As many hearts all heard his calls, Till the Two Trees did croak. His cape was iridescent, long, Iridescent were all his robes, His golden hair did shine and fall, Brown and black and gold and red, For many eyes had seen him different. But then the darkened sadness came, When his discordant lies, Flew from his mind, heart and lips, Glorious in his guise, The hearts of many had he entranced, Seducing souls and minds, But he wanted them most of all, The Three Jewels, Silmarils, Of Feanor's craft and might. So Melkor sowed his jealousy, Made Feanor his rival, Then found the spider, Ungoliant, And brought her to deep Peril as the Eldar celebrated, Mirthful and unconcerned, Till Laurelin and Telperion fell, And all their light went out. Then all was deep, darkness, and woe, Oaths and Kinslayings soon would follow, Blood-stained hands and fallen souls, Would march in wrath to exile, And be defeated countless times, Till the ending of an Age. Then the Princes last were lost. Then new realms then came. For proud remained the Noldor still, Glorious in their might, They followed Celebrimbor the Prince, Fled to the east in flight. The others were watching in awe at Yucalwe's word-craft. They were discordant and disorderly, but such was the nature of writing. It would have to be crafted, shaped, and molded like a sword in the forge. The metric feet and rhymes would come later. Amarthandor took-over the dirge, taking the shield and quill and ink, imitating Yucalwe's discordant verses: Great allegiances had then been made, With Hadhodrond of old, And Lord Durin his favor gave, Hammers falling, mithril smelting. Great cities were then built, Golden spires and domes so high, Charging high then toward the sky. New courtyards and gardens, All beset with holly. Then came he, Annatar, Lord of Gifts, From the West he came, A feigned Maia. His cloak was iridescent, The Noldor had forgotten, Seduced by beauty. His pale hair was long and brilliant, And a fire seemed to glow Within his eyes. Swiftly, gained he, adherents, Attendants, servants, a manse, A place to preen his glory Upon the Citadel. Before him Prince Celebrimbor bowed, And all the Gwaith-i-Mirdain, And so began the forging. Rings of Power were born from flames, And powerful were their might, And glorious were those mighty days, Until he revealed his true nature, Mairon the Fallen, Sauron Gorthaur, Lieutenant of Angband, Melkor's Servant. And he hung Celebrimbor tall and high, Upon a bloody spear, A banner of terror for the land, Hroar disgrace, the lands in waste. From Numenor came a mighty host, A host stalwart and strong, Drove Sauron back and overthrew, His armies, not for long. Came he to Numenor all in chains, Till he became Advisor, To the High King the Golden, Whom he made afraid of death. So gathered he, the Golden King, An army strong and vast. Golden were his streets, his palaces, His Citadel, and the altars of sacrifice, Where the Faithful Elf-friends perished, For their allegiance, to Tol Eressea. Their robes and capes were brilliant, Glistening in sunlight, As innocent blood poured down the altars, As a great storm was raging. Atalante became the Isle's name, With little left behind. Then Sainion took the shield and began his verses: The Faithful and Lindon's High King, Gathered forces in all their might, The King of Men awaiting, On Amon Sul for Gil-galad's rise Of banners in the rising sunlight, Flowing in the morning breeze. The Council had convened, Eregion was no more. The forces marched to Dagorlad, Where blood would stain the ashen soil, The Gardens of the Entwives had been laid waste, Ents burning, gardens blazing, And countless were the corpses, Men and Elves and Orcs and trolls, And all manner of evil foes. The Dead Marshes would claim Their souls. Then came the march Through tall Black Gates And long waiting, for seven years, Supplies arriving, armies sustained, Till that horrific final day, When came forth he, Sauron the Great And Terrible was his might, his visage hideous, His armor black, a golden Ring, On his finger, glowing. Elves fell, some were saved, Others wounded, some gravely. Gil-galad fought, his Star was blazing, Till it fell, in Mordor's Shadow. Then fell he, Tall Elendil, And then his last surviving son, Isildur, demanded retreat, Till then fought he, On the slopes of Orodruin. From Sauron's finger, He cut the Ring. The wounded fled, Alliance ended, The war concluded, Victory sounded. Around Isildur's royal neck, Above his shining armor, There glowed, The Ring. Yucalwe smiled, "That is a good beginning for a three-part Dirge. We will have to iron-it-out when all is over, if we survive...." Sainion nodded, "Someone will. Ah, here comes our brother." Yucalwe laughed, "You came precisely in time. Sit with us, Ioristion." Ioristion sat reluctantly, still feeling sorrowful for Cellindien. Amarthandor smiled, "Are you certain, Sainion, that Isildur sounded the retreat?" Sainion shook his head, "Its all blurry. Everything happened so chaotically. I do not know if we will ever know the precise order, save from the mind of Lord Elrond, who was closest to our King." Auravon nodded, "I would have contributed, but you have all covered everything we wished to tell." Yucalwe smiled, "You can help with the editing, then." Auravon laughed, "Perhaps. But will anyone ever write a lay or dirge about us?" Ioristion suddenly smirked, "I already did." Amarthandor smiled, "But that one only concerned you and Macil." Ioristion shook his head, "I suppose..." Amarthandor laughed, "Do you remember the time when you were nearly surrounded, and Macil and I charged into a horde of Yrch to save you?" Ioristion nodded, "You have told that story already." Auravon nodded, "And what about the time those trolls came drumming and made you crazy? Your ears could not stand it." Ioristion smiled, "I do not pretend to be a war-hero. I was a healer, and a fairly mediocre one, if I recall correctly. I remember........" Sainion smiled, "How you never really healed anyone, but cowered in the camp?" Ioristion nodded sadly, "I fought only when I had to, and healed only when I had to. I..." Yucalwe raised his hand, "Enough! You did your part, Ioristion. You kept Macil alive long enough to get him to Gondor. Your hands bound the wounds of countless wounded soldiers in the healing tents. You steeled your nerve as long as you could. You were already breaking, Ioristion. Macil losing consciousness was finally enough to break you. But he is alive and you are stronger now, and your wounds have healed." "Have they?" Ioristion stammered, "Have they? I had a sister once. And I had a brother once. And where are they? I am glad for them, but it will never be the same... I pity not myself, but on the passing of it all....." Yucalwe nodded sadly, "Many are the things that fade and pass. And many are the things that re-awaken." Edited by Ioristion, Jun 1 2016, 10:53 AM.
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| Ioristion | Jun 1 2016, 11:10 AM Post #79 |
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Chapter XVI: Children of the Bear Aertira and Salhera and Mornhelm's heads were crowned with golden-brown hair. With them sat Beornor the dark and Eldrand the old. They had rowed patiently, glad to be rid of Orcs, and glad to have left the wars behind them. When they were children, they were brought out into the wilderness by their parents, and taught from an early age how to commune with bears. The bears did not harm them, sensing something special about them, and their learning had accelerated, for they had followed the teachings of Grimbeorn, that had spread throughout their vast kindred. Grimbeorn had learned the hidden art from his father, who had taken great portions of his life to learn how to skin-change. But secrets had been discovered. Eldrand sighed, "Aye.... how'd we get ourselves out here in this mess, hmm?" Beornor grunted, "Because -you- had to change your toll prices!" Eldrand spat in the dirt, "If I had to do it all over again... these Elves are strong folk. They could've handled themselves. I would've left them far alone...." He kept his voice down, since a plenitude of Elves were sitting nearby. "Hush," Aertira exclaimed. "Know this, Eldrand. Did you not see our homestead burning? We would have fought, and bravely, to the last. But were we not with these Elves, we would have been dead! And your brother-in-law, he would have had us killed during the battle! Did you not see? He tried to! A Kinslayer!" Eldrand grimly nodded, "For better or worse, here we are. I've overplayed my fake rustic dialect. They think we Beornings aren't a-learnin,' these outsider folk. I find it funny. We may not read or write, but we know many other things, like how to talk. Oh these Elves drive me crazy sometimes!" "Hush," Salhera interjected. "Listen. When this here war is over, we'll rebuild." Mornhelm laughed, "Better not rebuild using the materials of those Elf-halls. They were too Dwarvish for my taste.... greedy and gold-grubbing Dwarven....." Aertira smiled, "I do not know. I rather liked them." Eldrand laughed, "That is because you haven't spent much time with Dwarves, Aertira!" Aertira smirked, "No. But I rather like these Elves..." "Now don't get any ideas!" Eldrand stammered, laughing, "These Elven folk are only known for a-marryin' their own kind! They don't want to marry other folk like us. They'll lose their long years of livin' if they do that, from what I've been told. You wouldn't want to do that to some handsome Elf-lord now, would ya?" Aertira nodded sadly, "No, I would not wish to do so. That would be cruel...... but why do they get long years of livin' and we don't?" "It's the way we're made," Eldrand spat in the dirt. "At least we live longer than them Dalemen. At least we can run around on all fours when we want to." "Yes, but its painful," Salhera muttered. "It isn't much fun transformin' into a barn-stormin' bear! It hurts the joints...." Aertira nodded, "See those story-tellin' Elves yonder?" Eldrand looked toward Yucalwe and his cohorts, "What of 'em?" Aertira laughed, "I'm going to sit with 'em. I want to learn a thing or two." "So do I," Salhera smiled. "Me too," Mornhelm muttered. "Fine, go then!" Eldrand suddenly stammered angrily. "Go you youngin's, leave ye elder folk behind!" They knew what Eldrand was like in such moods. The "bear rage," they called it. So they quickly stood and marched away toward the Elves. Beornor grunted, still sitting with Eldrand at the fire, "What, I'm not good enough company, Eldrand? Look it. We're older and wiser, but let 'em learn. Let 'em learn how it is. Let 'em learn how scary these Elven folk really are. It's a wonder we've even helped 'em in the first place! But to tell ye the truth, I've grown a-fond of 'em, see, I'm findin' em fine. They seem like decent folk. Why'd you help 'em if you're so afraid of 'em?" Eldrand sighed angrily, "It was the right thing to do, at the time, even though I've feared 'em. I still didn't go into them white woods with yellow leaves. That place is a-haunted!" Beornor laughed, "Yet them elven folk seem fine, for what it's worth. I think we've a-deprived ourselves of somethin' special by not a-goin' in there. No matter. I'll stay with ye. If ye want to wander yonder and turn all bear all of a sudden, I'll go with ye." Eldrand nodded and stood, "Ye......" And they walked out of sight. |
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| Ioristion | Jun 1 2016, 11:58 AM Post #80 |
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Chapter XVII: Golden Beornings "Hail!" Yucalwe shouted at the three younger Beornings as they approached. "Do you wish to share our fire, finally?" Aertira nodded, "I am more courageous than old Eldrand, I think. He kept us away for so long. So we waited till he got angry and tired to finally come over." Yucalwe smirked, "Do you think that we are blood-ghosts who steal your ponies at night?" Salhera laughed hard, "I doubt it, this time." Amarthandor smiled, "Come then, and share our fire." The two young Beorning women sat on either side of Ioristion, who felt odd wedged-in between them. He was wearing his golden cloak. Something is drawing them towards me, he thought. Or.... they are being drawn towards -it-....... Beornings are suspicious people..... and yet here they are, resting beside me....... oh no, what will Rostoriel think? Oh..........they better not presuming that I would wish to seek the fate of Luthien......... Mornhelm sat as close to Ioristion as he could as well. Rostoriel was sitting with Cullasson, Cullastor, and Rirossel, nearby, visiting with them, her back turned toward Ioristion. Salhera smirked at Ioristion, "Are elf-ghosts normally cloaked so beautifully?" Ioristion took a deep breath and smiled, "We are among the living. Are bears normally crowned so beautifully?" He pointed at their hair. Aertira laughed, "Sometimes." Amarthandor yawned, "Forgive us... but we will retire for the night." Sainion and Auravon rose with him. They bowed and vanished into their tent. Yucalwe yawned, "We shall have to switch-out a few rowers and talk as we row tomorrow." Aertira shook her head, "No, that would not prove wise. Eldrand is still suspicious of you." Yucalwe smiled, "Then why does he aid us?" Aertira smirked, "Because he says it is right." Yucalwe nodded, "Well, we are fortunate for this sense of honor then." He rose and bowed and vanished into the tent. Ioristion turned toward the other campfire, "Rostoriel, my beloved wife," he particularly emphasized "wife," "Come over hither." And Rostoriel nodded, and they sat around the campfire. Rostoriel gazed at the two young Beorning women with suspicion, but she noted Ioristion's awkward discomfort, and then she deeply pondered: Is it my husband that they are attracted to....... or is it the cloak? It must be the latter. It must be........ it better be....... And the Beornings spoke of their honeycombs and large bees and of the pleasant trees and grassy hills in the springtime, and of the bears, for their heightened senses of suspicion had grown lesser and lesser throughout their journey with the Elves. And Rostoriel was warming-up to them, and she told them all about Imladris, and Ioristion told them all about Minas Noldorion, for he believed that it would not do any harm to speak of it to folk who were not Elves. And he no longer needed to fear Malfinseron. Finally, Aertira said, "Come on, all of you, over the hill to our south. There is something that I wish to show you." Mornhelm laughed, "Oh no, not now, Aertira you must be joking." Salhera nodded, "It is too painful." Mornhelm scoffed, "It hurts the joints only temporarily." Salhera nodded sorrowfully, "But the contortions... the growth..." Ioristion had guessed what they were speaking of, "Wait. Rest with me for awhile, and you may find it is not as painful." Ioristion looked to Rostoriel for approval. She smiled and nodded. Ioristion finally gave the Beorning sisters what they wanted: the opportunity to rest beneath his golden folds. He spread them across their shoulders. They all felt a soothing, calming feeling, the Beornings burying their noses and then their heads beneath the folds. Rostoriel smiled at them. Then, in time, they all arose, and went over the crest of the hill. The three Beornings borrowed Ioristion's cloak, hunching themselves beneath it. Slowly, the shapes of the folds began to change. They grew brighter and brighter as they appeared to pulse with light. The cloak fell-off. Ioristion approached the bears cautiously. But unlike old Beorn, they were not savage in their bear-forms, for the cloak of the Vala had blessed and calmed them. Rostoriel and Ioristion, Cullasson and Cullastor, and Rirossel, all pet the bears with wonder in their eyes. The bears even seemed to have a golden coat of color intermingled in their brown fur. Then the bears began to lick them, kissing them, as the Elves laughed and smiled. They washed their faces in the river later. Suddenly, the bears started to contort. Ioristion quickly tossed his cape atop them. The three Beornings reemerged beneath the cloak, sweaty, their faces calmed. Aertira's eyes grew wide, "You! You are a magician! This cape..... it made everything different." Rostoriel smirked, "It appears that we have a new following, my husband. And fear not for your other sister and brother. They will come around, in time." She sighed with relief, So they were attracted to the cloak after all......... And Ioristion smiled. Edited by Ioristion, Jun 1 2016, 06:09 PM.
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12:44 AM Jul 11