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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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| Ioristion | Jul 11 2016, 08:05 PM Post #161 |
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Chapter XCVIII: The Song of the Turfs of Sutland Book 4- The First Wave Crashes Melimwe assembled all the Noldor, Arrayed resplendently as they had set forth From Imladris so far away, From Noldorion, where Auruiron Would n'er return, Melimwe knowing in his heart of hearts, His lord had been far too attached Unto that place, his tower of old, In triumph had he parted from it, His final memory and not then A somber parting beneath white sails, Oh he would have had his "prize" Maglor son of Feanor parting for The Straightest Road in Song, But it would have been a song so bleak, So filled with solemn peril, and now at least he might make his peace With Mandos within his far-off Halls, And maybe even vouch for his brother, If the words that came beside the Bruinen Were never true, but none shall know, At least, among the mortals so. All of this Melimwe reasoned, Rationalizing the death of he Whom he loved most, his brother. Now Melimwe took the red velvet Of Eregion atop his gold upon his back, And rode across the lines, Auruiron's golden Hair flying, gliding, from the plums of Melimwe's silver Helm that seemed as if a crown, gleaming as if Earendil's Star from such a distance across the plain, And spears were marshaled, swords were drawn, And arrows set to the string, Such was the plan Melimwe wove With Saljuk: to let arrows rain down On hard, staunch shields, Rather than toward the weakness Of a Mumak's eye. They had only seven Mumakil, And needed them to besiege Sakuta, Should Guldrambor escape, Or for in the most dire moments Of the battle, when there is no Path to flee unto the deepening woods Of Dorwinion. Melimwe, hot with anger, Turning against his own nature, Deigned that they would fight Unto the death and ne'r retreat. Lerinon wondered in his sorrow, If Macilon might have saved his father, Had he, Lerinon King, not exiled him, And still was he in the shock of grief, And Fareon declared to him, "Stay back, gwador, and you stay with him, Inheroth. Fahnraen and I shall press ahead, Avenging my fallen father for us three. Gwador Lerinon King, you are no warrior, You were ever an Elf of letters, not of swords, Therefore, remain and watch, For thy people will need you In days to come. I loved our Adar... Oh if only you had parted from him In peace, but you need not these words..." Lerinon was already livid, But Inheroth clutched him tightly As Fareon parted from them Without a further word. Now the lines of shields were raised, As Melimwe led the march. It had been as many marches before, But there would be no running this time, And Raen was filled with Feanorian wrath At the downfall of his Lord Auruiron. He darted ahead, hot with righteous Anger, Melimwe commanding him to halt, As Easterling war-chants Rose with a chorus of Far Haradrim, A horde of Khand riding as cavalry, The Gurthbaini representing Umbar, These, who all, had betrayed Sauron, Refusing to march to Minas Tirith, Now to face the ancient Noldor Of the Downfallen West, For none could escape the ghosts Of history, not Thorongil Elessar Whom Ballithor, father of Baralinthor, Beheld in Linhir, ancient line of Kings renewed, And not the line of Alcarin, Servants of the Sons of Feanor. The Enemy was already marching Across the hot, scorching sands Beneath their bronze boots, Torn, red cloaks, flowing behind them, Their garments drenched with sweat Beneath their bronze coats of mail. "Is Auruiron's death in vain?" Melimwe wondered aloud as the Soldiers marched. Raen turned to him, "Nay.... for he was meant to perish here. We waited for this moment For several thousand years, The moment that our lord Might at last find peace. He has found his peace And made it with the West, And soon shall I!" Melimwe replied gently, "Be eager not to join him..." A tear fell down his cheek Beneath his helm, "He would want you to live, Raen..." But it was too late: Raen had resumed His daft, foolish charge, And as Melimwe saw him Surrounded by the Enemy lines, He deigned it not the time For great and lofty speeches. He cried aloud and charged, And the Noldorin force, Charged into the fray. Edited by Ioristion, Jul 12 2016, 02:12 PM.
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| Ioristion | Jul 11 2016, 10:23 PM Post #162 |
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Chapter XCIX: The Song of the Turfs of Sutland Book 5- Unnumbered Tears The shields thrashed into the shields, Noldor against the Easterling Horde As it had been so long ago Before Angband's tall, dark gates, When Ulfang turned on Maedhros, And the first Easterlings struck Terrible blows against the Sons Of Feanor. Blood split onto the sands, First-born against the Men of Shadow, Yet Second-born ever still, One of the Kinslayings unmentioned In the annals of Eldarim myth and lore. Oh I can hear the swallows crying, Chirp, chirp, cry, chirp, And the maidens, weeping, The healers from their tents, moaning, Tearing out their hair, yet failing, Hearts in agony, beating, Beating, beat, and the boots, Marching, thud, thud, And the winds whirling, Whir, whir, And the drums dooming, Doom, doom, doom. And that which was at first Filled to the brim of beauty Betrayed its inner horror, The healers in trauma succumbing, Clenching their teeth as they watched. Many of Auruiron's followers fell that day, Bathed in the Easterlings' blood, And many were their fallen upon the field. Every now and then Melimwe would risk A glance up at the canopy atop the distant Mumak, "That dirty coward," Melimwe thought, "That dirty rotten coward..." But the bodies of the slain were piled high, Nearly forming trenches of pale skin, dark hair, Silver glistening eyes, all the while run red. Melimwe was breathing fast, his will stern, His strength rising, He stumbled on the corpse of Raen, His anger mounting, His blade singing, And evermore fell among the Easterlings. The phalanxes had been formed, Shields, arrows deflecting, Blood-stained, golden shields gleaming. Alunil came to Melimwe's right, And Hannas to his left, And they fought gloriously, Covered in dirt and sand, Their bloodstained armor glinting In the sunlight, And then the Mumakil marched. For Guldrambor had tired Now at his attempts At vengeance. The horns were sounded, Easterlings retreating in ranks As the Mumakil thudded forward, More than a few were stomped-on During the stampede, squished bronze, Gold-plated armor, smashed helms, Streams of blood flowing. Melimwe sounded a retreat, An Easterling grabbed his cape And pulled him down, but Hannas Reached for him, pulling him up, Preventing him from being trampled, Only for Hannas to falter, Lost in the shadows, The movements pressing in around him, He struggled for breath against the shadows, He gasped and coughed, Then could breathe no longer, He had pushed Melimwe forward Toward their retreat. The world grew faster Then slower, then faster, Then slower, and then he expired. His face was pressed down Deep into the sand, a pool of blood forming atop His smashed head, smashed by the thudding Bronze-plated boots of the Men of Rhun, Nevermore would he see his wife and child In Middle-Earth ever again, The fruit of several thousand years of labor. Alunil kept Melimwe alive during their retreat, Their mad rush for the forest, There now were but a few Noldor left, Overwhelmed by Guldrambor's sheer numbers, But most of all were they overwhelmed beneath The gigantic feet of the Mumakil, A pressure that none, Maia, Elf, man, or demon, Could ever hope to endure. Hallothanar had held his soldiers back, For he doubted his King, A King his people never wanted. Dairlingul appeared at Hallothanar's side, "Mount the Mumakil with your men. Hearken to me... you must obey your King." "You are -not- my King anymore," Hallothanar coldly replied, "You have left us with a monster." Dairlingul nodded, "A monster he may be, And here I am violating his exile, To warn you: the foe you see out there, On blood-ridden plains, is a foe far worse. Why rage you?" And Hallothanar confessed, "My brother's killer is out there on the field." And Dairlingul seized Hallothanar by the shoulders, "Then you take your archers, you mount these Mumakil As they are so named, where you are free to fire Without being trampled, and you avenge not only Your brother's death, but of all the lordly Princes Of the West who have fallen this day due to our Grave folly. Now go!" And Hallothanar obeyed without a further word. Edited by Ioristion, Jul 11 2016, 10:39 PM.
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| Ioristion | Jul 11 2016, 10:50 PM Post #163 |
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Chapter C: The Song of the Turfs of Sutland Book 6- A Rout of Chaos By now within the battle, Many had been slain. Rirossel watched many Husbands and sons From afar, Attempt to fire at the Mumakil, And they felled one of them, And they fell beneath its collapsing corpse, Unable to escape the final thrashing Of its doom. Her heart fell to pieces, Many hopes shattered, There would not be many wounded, And their camp might not survive, This, she knew, and they were still Too many to hide atop the Mumakil. The day had cost them gravely. Yet wondrous had it remained, That less than a hundred Noldorin Elves Had challenged and faced three thousand Easterlings, Of Sakuta alone, and slain a thousand, before Suffering their horrid defeat in their rout of a retreat. The Elves of Dorwinion were not strong With sword or any other blade, For they, as the Teleri of old, Were a people of the bow and quiver. Their armor was poor, and they were weak On the plains, and thus they remained nigh Their flets. Few could climb the Mumakil, Where the men of Gondor and Harad Stood tall within their moving forts. But Fareon and Fahnraen had ascended Their own flag Mumak, with Ivordir, Saljuk, and Daerfalas. And Lerinon was weeping, all he could do was weep, For he was no warrior, and he wept in Inheroth's arms, Within his golden folds of old, coddled there, upon the flet, Many among his servants and forces died on the plains beneath him. But Inheroth did not act dishonorably. His place was beside His King, his Gwador, to protect him, such was his duty. But could he protect his King, his Gwador, from himself? Could he rouse Lerinon from the pit of despair, to seek glory? Someday, but not as of yet, during this war, The Unknown War, the untold, save in the songs Of impoverished minstrels on the quays of Pelargir And in the taverns, from Ethring to Tarlang, To Dol Amroth, or so a bard would dream. Death had struck the former followers of Feanor. Death had struck the servants of Auruiron. Death had struck the trauma in the heart of Lerinon, Who declared, "If my Lord-Father be gone forever, Or if he be living, I do not know, L-let me have the courage to declare At least this: if any Elf was deserving Of being named Gil-galad's Heir of the House of Finwe, it was him, Auruiron, Alcon, My father, and so do I declare him, in the Authority of my Realm, High King of all the Noldor. Adar..... come back to us. Abandon us not To Mandos. Your brother waits for you, my Uncle, whom I now so willingly accept," And he wept endless tears unnumbered as he spake, And Inheroth replied, "I do not believe that he is dead, He whom I now honor as my Lord-Father, And if he has perished, may he meet Thinfiligon of the Silver Wren. Nay, he is not gone." And Lerinon buried his face Deeper into his former cloak, "It is not for him that I weep. It is for all the perished dead... Oh what a world, To have such horror in it!" The battle was far from won. The darkest day had but begun. Edited by Ioristion, Jul 12 2016, 02:24 PM.
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| Ioristion | Jul 12 2016, 02:55 PM Post #164 |
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Chapter CI: The Song of the Turfs of Sutland Book 7- Rostor i Finlos Upon the night before the battle loomed, And many thoughts felt dark and doomed, Cellindien Finlos wandered through the glade, Deep beneath the high canopy's coolest shade, Beneath the stars that gleamed above, A place and time one would expect For such a love none would reject, With a sound and pious mind of love. Macil Rostor strode through the glade, As Beren of old so far away, Aegon, from the bushes, watching, Curiosity, not a woeful stalking, Nor dishonorable, nor fearful, He had heard the tale of Rostor And Finlos from the mouth of Ivordir, In Gondor long ago. And Macil spoke: "My dearest love, Beloved betrothed, I fear our so-called King Intends to march us, on the eave of battle, Into a fight we may not win. And we shall face our doom Unflinching, this, I know, But I... the dream, remember the dream, The nightmare within which Guldrambor might so ensnare me, Creating a false image of yourself To beguile and besmirch my honor." Cellindien warmly replied, "That is nothing to be afraid of. What is it that you are asking?" Macil did not flinch, "To kiss you, As we would have on our wedding day, If our dooms ever took us to it. I hear the hours of wait Are long in Lord Mandos' Halls, Then rebirth, then childhood, Then all anew, in the West forever, But torment would prove the waiting. For I have waited long, first from our sundering Till we reunited in Imladris, Then nothing since that time." "We are old," Cellindien replied, "We are not young children. But if this would soothe your spirit, So will it soothe mine. Yes, it is right And good." And she approached him, Her silver hair glimmering wildly in the moonlight, Flowing behind her, her silver-grey eyes as stars, Her gold cape flowing beneath her black and red cloak, The green cloak that Saelbainor had given her Was elsewhere. And he approached her, His rusty hair glinting in the moonlight, Shimmering down his back atop his Shimmering black and red cape, luminous, In the moonlight, and soon she whipped her Capes around him, and he did the same, And they embraced, so deep, so close, They could feel each others' hearts, beating, Beat... beat... beat... And the wind whirled their hair, Wildly flowing, as their hearts throbbed, As they lost themselves unto each other Within their deepest kiss they ever shared, And then they kissed each others' cheeks, Equally deep, and held their embrace, long and tight, Standing there beneath the moon and stars, Flickering through the gaps in the high canopy, There in the shadows of the night. Aegon had left the bushes, Honored to have witnessed what appeared to be, The fourth act of a magnificent story. He had intended nothing ill By watching it. Now, in the blaze of battle, Her capes tied tightly around her Shoulders, flickering folds of black And red and gold behind her, She fought-on as staunchly as she could, But evaded the Mumakil, whose size and strength Reminded her of Gothmog when the Balrog had Assailed the Court of the Fount so long ago. She had gazed bemused at Guldrambor, Attempting to resist, panicking, Hiding her face within her deep dark red And golden folds, feeling the comfort of The Vala's Tears, the consolation, Protected from the nightmares. Macil had done the same with his, Fighting beside her, taking care not to falter, Hence why the capes were tightly tied, Folds tied upward toward the shoulders, To avoid being dragged down by their sheer Length and train, trampled to death by soldiers Of either side. They fled back toward where The lines were regathering. They had several scratches, But they had trained well: the Swordmaster, Aegnil Luingil, Had trained them well, and they did not bother with Melimwe's Silly style that he had taught in Gondolin, And, for that matter, nor did Melimwe. True battle was a harder matter Than imaginative scenarios or stratagems. It might work in a one on one fight, It would not work upon the battlefield. Nor, for that battle, did Siagon employ The ways of the bullfight upon the field. The weary Noldor were escorted toward The healing tents. The Mumakil would cover Their retreat. Those strong enough to protect Others would form the rear-guard. It was now a game of giants, ears as large As eagles' wings, trunks as long as masts at sea, As tall as a house of mortal men, Tall war-towers upon their backs. Valiant were Rostor i Finlos During the rout of chaos, They protected as many lives as They could, but the Company of a Hundred Was now down to twenty-five: Lerinon, Ioristion, Fareon, Cellindien, Macil, Alcano, Celebressel, Rostoriel, Rirossel, Cullasson, Cullastor, Malfinseron, Findistedis, Melimwe, Yucalwe, Arancir, Inheroth, Agarwaenor, Fahnraen, Auravon, And Amarthandor. Lerinon's retainers also Survived thus far, as did the Beornings. But many still fell among The litany of the dead. Great were the Beornings' might, Their staunchest strength was A great and terrible sight. |
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| Ioristion | Jul 12 2016, 03:17 PM Post #165 |
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Chapter CII: The Song of the Turfs of Sutland Book 8- The Might of the Beornings Aertira and Salhera and Mornhelm, Had gathered in their tent the night before, With Ioristion, for Rostoriel was with others, And Daechon and Isenadin Ninniachon, and Aegon sat among them. Mornhelm stood, fanning his red and golden Folds about him, "Men of the Vales are rugged, But I am young, and never, ever, have we received Such a gift, not even from the tolls of travelers." Ioristion smiled, "You are a 'Gold Magician,' too, now, It would appear," and Mornhelm laughed heartily, "None can replace you, oh 'Gold Magician.'" They had not yet known the trauma and the suffering To come upon the morrow. Isenadin stood, fanning his cape around, As if a boy in Pelargir playing around one of the fountains, "I love it..." "You know," Salhera smiled, "I rather feel... I think I love you," She glanced gently at Isenadin. "Why? Do my golden and red folds make me appear.... Taller?" Salhera shook her head, "Nay... I would love you no matter What size you were, how tall or short or stout..." Isenadin felt his heart pulsing, his blood rushing throughout his body, "Yes... and I you.........." He no longer felt jealous about Fingaereth, A dwarf in height, as himself, who had wed Malgelir. Salhera had beckoned, Isenadin approaching, and soon, They were embracing, and soon, kissing, for they were both Terrified of the war to come, and neither knew if they would Ever have such an opportunity ever again, ever. Daechon saw Aertira gazing at him, expressing the same gaze, She beckoned, no words were necessary. It did Ioristion's heart good to behold such a sight, For it was not profane "love" that moved them, But a deeper, more gentle, and truer love, And Isenadin and Mornhelm spread their capes, Sharing the consolation with them all, And even Aegon had been permitted to Chastely, reverently, rest among them. And at dawn upon that next, fateful, day of doom, Aertira had declared that their new betrothed loves Should be wed to them if they ever survived the battle, And thus the young men, Daechon and Isenadin, unfit for battle, Should remain behind with the healers or with the archers on the flets, Watching their future wives and brother-in-law Intently on the field of battle, For their inner wars would prove fell enough, There is nothing similar to that dark suspense, When you fear for the life of a loved one, Watching that person charge into the fray, Begging, hoping, praying, That thine loved one Shall survive, Terrified at every move The loved one makes. So thus they charged. Aertira, Salhera, Mornhelm, All gathered, Gathering his folds gleaming, Gleaming beneath the shining, The shining trees, in the sunlight, Golden, beauteous, folds as fiery red As sun's flares, as they shared their last Fraternal kisses, vanishing beneath his folds, The sounds of growling rising, then roaring, And then they charged as the embassies turned rotten, And through the Easterling lines they tore, gigantic bears, Vast claws, gnashing teeth, terrifying the men who had never Seen such foes, their lower body fur tinted auburn, their upper body fur Shining golden-brown, as bright as gold, within the sunlight despite the dust, Despite the turts of Sutland as they rampaged, Knocking spears aside, tearing through wooden Pikes as if their claws were scythes threshing the Wheat from the chaff, as shields were clawed out of the way, Necks broken and rent asunder, the power of their blows Charging, their fanged maws biting hard, arms and legs, Blood, flowing, and then when the Mumakil came, The bears were wise enough to then retreat With the rest of the Noldor, They escaped with naught but scratches. Isenadin had taken Mornhelm's cape, he Climbed the rope-ladder with Daechon, Not looking down, for his fear of heights Was a challenge enough, And they had stood on the same flet As Inheroth and Lerinon, Dairlingul and Hallothanar, Who had charged with his archers into the fray Before the retreat, no longer cowards, And upon the same flet as Aegon, For Melimwe had thus stationed him, Knowing his gift of writing was far more important, Than any prowess on the battlefield, For writing alone, would preserve the story, And that required survival, That one may, from what one knows, Proceed to write. |
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| Ioristion | Jul 12 2016, 03:39 PM Post #166 |
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Chapter CIII: The Song of the Turfs of Sutland Book 9- The Charge of Gondor and the Shahadmaradi It had been centuries since Gondorians fought Upon the sandy plains nigh Rhun, And for long centuries, long Ages, Gondor and Harad had been at war. But now Southern Dunadan clasped Southron on the shoulders, comrades-at-arms, Soldiers, with a common cause, Ceasing to hate each other, For the real foe now charged before them. And Angolhel foolishly mounted the place That Lerion long feared, the place where Salagost, Lerion's father, had perished by Rangers' arrows, crushed beneath his Mumak, In South Ithilien. And Angolhel's hair fanned, Fanned wildly behind her, golden-brown, as a cape, Flowing, atop her silken cape, lavender and red, Shining fiery bright within the sunlight, As she outstretched her arms, Giving herself to any arrows that might Pierce her heart, for she believed now strongly In Elven magic, not yet comprehending the difference Between spiritual enchantment, thus mysticism, And false sorcery. She did not comprehend The true powers with which she had been gifted. Her long, wide, vast cape, flickered, flapped, Flapping behind her, bathed in light, She seemed a Maia, there to match Her fell opponent, as the Mumakil of Both sides began to march forward, Controlled before any charge. She had remembered the Lady of the Wood, In all her powers, destroying Dol Guldor, seen from afar. She wished she could be that Lady, A desire shared by Celebressel, Alcano's wife. Angolhel glistened as if a living Star, And Lerion's heart throbbed as he gazed at her, "This is my wife. My Lady! May she prevail!" By now he had nearly surrendered All thoughts of vengeance. Orel stood at his side, Still sorrowful, that Limdor, Circhon, and Palanelon, Yucalwe's companions, and now their own, Who had taught them, the Southern Dunedain, many things, Had all died, for they had charged with Hallothanar's reinforcements. The morale of the men was all deeply low, for orders were orders, And Ivordir was forbidden to lead any Mumakil charge, Lest they stomp upon their own forces, without intention. Ivordir signaled to Saljuk, for their Shahadmaradi Haradrim To blow their horns, for the sandy, blood-ridden plains Now were clear of any Quendi, and now the Enemy's infantry Had fallen back, making room, for the stampeding Mumakil. Aegon thought he might have caught a glimpse of a golden head Nigh the black canopy, but he rubbed his eyes, the glimpse was gone. But Guldrambor had made himself now visible, grasping his railings as if his Hands were claws, his golden and red, many-colored, folds gathering, Gleaming in the arms of Narushon and Anzulbar. They did not yet detect the foulness beyond. Angolhel had long since feared that sight, The sight of her former fell Master Sorcerer, Now Emperor, in all his beauty, Standing there atop his flag-Mumak, But now she stood staunchly, stoutly, Without fear, until her glance met his, And she whipped her cape around herself, Hiding within, that she might not be lost To an endless eternity of nightmares. "How awful is it," she had thought, "That one so beautiful could instill such terror." It never occurred to her that her foe was never truly Beautiful, not since before his Fall, so long ago Within the West. And then the Mumakil charged, into the fray, upon both sides. |
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| Ioristion | Jul 12 2016, 09:52 PM Post #167 |
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Chapter CIV: The Song of the Turfs of Sutland Book 10- The Wages of Sorcery Angolhel whipped back her cape, As she evaded several arrows For the Mumakil now trampled Side by side, as ships during A naval battle, and Angolhel's Eyes became ensnared The vision overtaking her, Trapped in the gaze of Guldrambor. Now in her dream, he stood thus tall, Flanked by his retainers, And Anzulbar and Narushon Held open his sparkling, iridescent folds, As Guldrambor was bathed in light, His hair fanning on the winds, Angolhel could not help her throbbing heart, As Guldrambor declared: "Come, my dear, Return to me, and over Rhun I'll make you Queen, High Empress And High Sorceress, and before you Thus all shalt bow, in awe of thine Great, precious, beauty." The battle faded beneath her, She blinked, and he was beside her, Beauteous, as he outspread his folds, "Come to me... for power shall be thine..." But she had heard the warnings from all Who knew of Macilon, "I have a husband. Be gone from me..." He tempted her again, "Hast thou forgotten our years together?" In reality, Lerion had seen her faint, And they pulled her from the high place In the war-tower, and laid her down, As the Mumak continued to maneuver, And as archers continued to fire, They all ducking in the enclosed space In the tower, meager though it was, And Lerion, weeping, kissed her, as hard As he could, and she did not awaken, But Amarthon had seen what had occurred, And he knelt down beside them, Spreading his cape over all three, And in the vision, Angolhel still stood Defiant, as Guldrambor continued, "Remember thou, when we rested together Beneath my cape, and dreamed of flying, Gliding across the sea, and toward the stars?" "All lies," Angolhel replied, "None of them real." She tried to escape by whipping her cape Around and over herself, But Guldrambor whipped it back, She was ensnared within his luminous, Iridescent, sparkling cape, that shined As if the sun shined upon it, there, within Its lining, her strength, her fidelity, struggling Against her throbbing heart, Remembering how she had kissed his cheeks Remembering how deeply he had kissed her lips, Remembering how their hearts had throbbed, Remembering how he had suspended his cape in midair, And she had watched it shimmer, How his cape had shined as bright as flames That never burned her, All lies, all rooted in lies, and all lies, forever and ever, lies, Lies, lies, lies, and more lies, Remembering how he had bewitched her, How he had used her, as an agent in the Southron lands, How she had been besmirched with dreams of power, Of highest sovereignty, and how the old woman, the sage, Of Saraj, had slapped her hard, slapping her delusions away, Slapping all her lies away, as she fell upon the cold, hard stone Roof of the Temple of the god of dreams, So thus did she slap Guldrambor, Who then revealed his truest color: darkness. Angolhel screamed, and for all her strength, she Was but a mortal, but then there was a light, And it grew brighter, and it grew brighter, And it grew brighter, blinding, as Guldrambor cried Aloud and vanished, for now, vanquished, As Angolhel awoke to see two faces: That of her husband, and of Amarthon. They could not hold her back. She insisted. She insisted on facing him Again. Again, she mounted the high place, Again, she fanned her hair, and outspread her cape, Then she looked down, and collapsed within her high place, Peering carefully over the edge, The bloodstained fields of sand All beneath her, and the corpses of rangers And Haradrim were visible through the gaps In the wooden beams, some Mumakil, on both sides, Had fallen, and Guldrambor had shrunk back down Beneath the black canopy, for he had never expected Amarthon, the young fool whom he had deceived into Thinking he was Ar-Pharazon returned to rule the world, Amarthon, who with Malnoron, his father, would conquer Pelargir for Guldrambor, Amarthon, who would seize The Throne of Minas Tirith, only to yield it to Guldrambor Eventually, oh no, he had never expected that Amarthon Would return: not as a King, but as a traitor to his fell cause. And then it dawned on Guldrambor: his former cape, worn now By Amarthon, woven in the West: his own goodness, his own powers That he had wrought before his Fall in Aman, Now opposed him. But Angolhel's heart was filled with shock In horror at the trauma below her. She had begun the battle gazing straight At Guldrambor, steeling her will, Attempting to avoid direct contact With the fights below. But now she saw it in all its horror, She felt dead throughout her mind and body, Although she was alive, in truth, She hid beneath her folds and cried, And a Mumak among their number Was struck down, most harshly, Collapsing onto the sands below, As many died amidst grey, pounding, Bulky, thrashing, flesh. Alagoshel took her position, But then she saw the Enemy Begin a horrific charge between their lines, A charge that took all save Guldrambor on his flag-Mumak, Toward and between the Dorwinion trees, crushing roughshod Through the healing camp below, as healers rushed to their patients' sides, Trying to save them, and some escaped, while many were crushed beneath the large hoofs Of the Mumakil. Squashed piles of disfigured blood and flesh remained In many places. Then Guldrambor's Captains began a retreat, Planned by Guldrambor, who wished to leave survivors To suffer, tortured, from the deaths, For trauma was as great as any bile-induced Nightmares that he could ever inflict upon them. He shined once more in all his beauty, A final mockery to them, before parting, But Alagoshel stood in defiance, As did Ivordir and Daerfalas, And others among the few Whom had survived. The Haradrim retainers began A blockade of their own, To hem Guldrambor in Between their Mumakil And the trees, But then they mounted another charge, And as they charged, Fahnraen let loose her arrow, Plunging into the eye of the nearest Mumak, As Fareon did the same, Guldrambor losing two more of them, His men screaming in terror, As the great benemoths collapsed On all fours, crushing all beneath them, War-towers collapsing into the sand and dust, Crushing all beneath them. Then Guldrambor realized it might now be a fair fight, He thought of finishing the rest of them, when Hallothanar And his surviving archers let loose their arrows, Guldrambor losing ten Mumakil in total out of twenty, His legions out of earshot, further commands awaiting. But Guldrambor gazed down at his long-lusted prize, His sadistic eyes longing for his victory, losing his strategic mind, Without any with experience to counsel him. And he had not a full military mind, For he was a laughingstock among his peers In Angband. So he and his Mumakil trod away, With his army, back along the southeastern shores, Then east, then northeast, to Sakuta, Where he might plot His next fell maneuvers, Relishing the days to come. Lerinon had hoped that Macilon and Sindri might come With an army of mortals from Eir, With horns blazing loud On western horizons, But upon this day, It was not to be, And maybe ne'r to be. Edited by Ioristion, Jul 13 2016, 07:24 PM.
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| Ioristion | Jul 12 2016, 10:42 PM Post #168 |
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Chapter CV: The Song of the Turfs of Sutland Book 11- The Litany of the Dead So fell the following upon that day, The Battle of the Turfs of Sutland, On the southeastern shores of The Sea of Rhun: Fell Ciron, Brutally slaughtered During the rout of chaos, Doom rising. Fell Orel, Captain of the Southern Dunedain, Of Ithilien, and fell ten of his twenty rangers. Fell thirty-six of Saljuk's men, including Saljuk. Fell all the young noble sons of Tumladen, Save for Circhon and two others. Fell Echuidor the healer in his tent, Fell the bard, Nenthor, who had been thought As destined to bring the Song to Gondor, And who now never will. He is with his sons. Fell Malgelir of the Silver Fist, Upon the Mumak that collapsed, And in the healing tents, Fell ten of the wounded Noldor, Fell fifty of Hallothanar's soldiers, Fell another hundred of Hallothanar's sentries, Fell Angoluhtiel, Arhbain, Duvaiseth, Coleth, Gloshel, And many other healers, fell Bain, When the Mumak fell. Fell Rostiel and Himelon, Dying in each others' arms, as the Mumak collapsed atop them. Fell Duon and Tinnedir, and fell Gwathron as he took an arrow to the heart, An arrow that was meant for Amarthon. Fell Pala. Fell Limben who would n'er return upon the seas. Fell Sain. Fell Auron and Amarthandor of Eregion. Fell Aiwendil, Alunil, Hannas, and Raen. Fell Caranor, Amarchon, and Calemir, During the Mumakil's last charge. Fell Beornor, who had turned into a bear And charged on his own, without the aid Of any Elf enchantments. He had cut down a hundred Easterlings before he fell. Fell Alagossel of Nargothrond. Fell Auruiron, he was not found, after the battle. Of the Company of the Eldar, the following remained: Melimwe, Sael, Yucalwe, Cellindien, Macil, Alcano, Celebressel, Findistedis, Malfinseron, Ioristion, Rostoriel, Rirossel, Cullasson, Cullastor, Inheroth, Malchon, Lerinon, Fareon, Arancir, Fahnraen, and Agarwaenor, Dairlingul, Hallothanar, Aertira, Salhera, Sasuko, and Mornhelm. Only ten Of the unknown Eldar remain alive. Of the Company of Ivordir, the following remained: Ivordir, Glossel, Daerfalas, Raedwyn, Gwainoth, Naitheg, Duvaissel, Arhbaineth, Sainion, Amarthon, Auravon, Arancir, Baralinthor, Silevrendor, Abrazan, Malagi, Lerion, Rivrossel, Angolhel, and Alagoshel, Circhon and two young heirs of Lordship from Tumladen, and Noruros and Eiliant of Ost Rimmon, Colhel, Fingaereth, Daechon, and Isenadin Ninniachon, Tinnuchon and Uialchon, And Forty-Four Haradrim, And ten Southern Dunedain: These alone survived, though they Are many, far greater still Are all the casualties, All buried upon that fatal nightfall. The Enemy had lost two thousand soldiers, Ten Mumakil, and Naifrati. But Siagon and Anzulbar, Narushon, and the Mouth were much alive and well, But several Sami Knights fell in the fray, And many among the cavalry, Who had charged in the rout of chaos, Only to ride afoul of Hallothanar's archers. Aertira, Salhera, Daechon, Isenadin, Mornhelm, All gathered with Ioristion, Alcano, and Celebressel, And Rostoriel, as Alcano broke-down And for once did not defy his father, As Celebressel wept at all the horror. Aegon remained with Lerinon and Inheroth, Soon joined by Sainion and Arhbaineth. Melimwe came with Yucalwe, Cellindien, Macil, Cullasson, Cullastor, and Rirossel. Edited by Ioristion, Oct 27 2017, 05:41 PM.
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| Ioristion | Jul 13 2016, 08:31 PM Post #169 |
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Chapter CVI: The Song of the Turfs of Sutland Book 12- Aftermath And when they returned to the Silver Halls, Renamed the Golden Halls, They marched wearily into the Throne-Room To find themselves surrounded by soldiers: Fanon sat upon the throne With Macilon and Sindri at his sides, And the weary, war-battered Host Was escorted to the dungeons. Lerinon was shaking in his cape, Quivering as a wet dog abandoned In a rainstorm, Inheroth whipped his cape Around them both, For they had not been stripped Of their finery, For Fanon did not permit Anyone to speak When the mass-arrest occurred. Macilon now found himself in a Grave predicament: he had been Exiled by one of his Seven, Then forced to imprison The other Five. He was for this unable To attend the battle, Rendering Guldrambor's Rampant destruction And desecration All the more potent. Lerinon shook convulsively In his cell, knowing he had lost His father. So he rested there Beneath his gold of old, Resting there with Inheroth Whose loyalty and devotion Alone were truly golden. And Inheroth kissed his tears, As Lerinon sobbed without control, As murmurings were heard throughout the cells. Lerinon felt still partly in shock, partly in denial, Partly angered, and partly depressed, all at once. Inheroth felt the endless pain as well. Lerinon whipped his cape over their heads, Weeping faces vanishing neath deep red, Hearts pulsing in their agony. Lerinon stammered, "They are dead, All dead, because of me! I...." Inheroth held his head against his chest, "Hush now... Gwador... they are not dead Because of you..." He gently stroked his Raven hair, "We were all deceived, the lot Of us... Gwador," he whispered, "Ever since You did set foot within my life... I have trusted You... I trust you still... and I need you to focus On the present moment... we must regain your Throne, That you may sit upon it anew In all your splendour... Come, Gwador, for later still, shall we Have time to weep..." They deeply kissed each others' cheeks In brotherly affection, hearts pulsing firmly, Burying their faces in each others' hair, Then in the folds of Lerinon's cape, Their tears mingling within the fibers, As the Powers of the West replied, As they rose into the divine ecstasy That steeled their nerves, toughened Their hearts, as Lerinon whipped back The cape. They heard footsteps come Down the halls. A key entered into the Door of their cell and twisted, A black form entered, the cell closing behind him, The key turning. And Lerinon punched Macilon To the floor, and stammered, "Foul traitor! You ought to die this day!!!" His yelling Echoed terrors down the halls. Macilon shouted, "Wait! Wait! Hear me out! I have been tricked! You know the secret Lerinon. You know the truth. No, Inheroth, He may not tell you, for Guldrambor would Thus destroy the both of you, and all of us, If it were ever told, beyond the few who have Been chosen. You exiled me, Lerinon. How did that proceed? Not altogether well, I gather. I ought to have Been there by your side upon that battlefield, Many lives might have been spared. Yet I have Learned thus: it is not thine fault, but that of The lure of the artifact. The closer it has come To Guldrambor, the farther it has strayed from Our powers. Such objects may be used For good or ill... I am sorrowful for Auruiron..." Lerinon stammered, "Can it be destroyed?" Macilon slowly shook his head, "Nay... we can Only attempt to regain control over it... Now listen, carefully. Fanon has not yet declared Himself a King. You may yet regain your Throne, But now you must understand that it is a weight, A responsibility, a yoke upon your shoulders, With consequences. Do you understand?" Lerinon nodded. "Good," Macilon replied, Whipping his cape around and over them all, "Now hear the secret that I may tell you both, I overheard Fanon and Dairlingul..............." The wounded had been taken to The houses of healing, With armed guards at their sides, Awaiting their arrest to dark, dank cells. The escapees ran caped Down the halls, folds flying Behind them with their fanning hair, They rushed into the Throne-Room. A voice spoke, "Ah, how pleasant Of you to join us... Fanon has been quite A loyal servant." The Mumakil were indeed On their way to Sakuta. But one had Chartered a boat to take him to the Golden Halls. He did not want Anzulbar or Narushon endangering Themselves: they were to watch their prisoner, his prize. Lerinon stared with Macilon at the Throne in terror: Gleaming eyes peered over the golden folds That swathed around his face and mouth, flowing Down onto the dais and stairs before him. Then, he outspread his folds in all his beauty, As he was oft to do to delude his foes, "Behold my Majesty so great... this realm Is mine, all of Rhun... you ought to have remained On other shores far away, as you have for centuries, Cowards as you are..." Macilon balked, "Call him Not a coward. You might as well be called a coward, You who hide atop thine Mumakil and let thine servants Perform thine malice for thee. Surrender in the name Of Uireb!" "So that is thine precious 'secret'!" Guldrambor laughed mockingly, and Macilon's face was flushed with shame, The sight of Guldrambor's beauty had deceived him, Now he had failed to perform as Uireb had instructed, The fear of all their demise rose as winds of shadow Upon his heart. Duvaissel entered the chamber, "My husband, Bain, is dead, because of you..." She fought back her tears, "I overheard... My Bain was once Saelbainor, who was once Gurthbainor, trained in Umbar, and many were The innocents who fell to our sacrificial blades. Yet some Power redeemed us, and in saving us, Hath brought us unto this doom. Call me Queen Beruthiel, or whomever you wish." Ioristion was there, Behind her, with Alcano and Celebressel. He turned to Alcano, "Forgive me.... my son..... now I understand the secret...." He held his staff aloft before Guldrambor, who laughed, "And what is that? Findekano's 'Staff'? He is not hither!" And Cellindien readied her sword beside Macil, Stammering, "You have hounded us long enough! Now come and face your doom!" But as she gazed, she saw Aegnil standing there, And Macil perceived Queen Finlos of Gondolin, her longer hair Glistening, her capes flowing, billowing around her, And Lerinon then perceived himself, cloaked as he was Within that darkened dream, And Melimwe perceived High King Auruiron of Tirion, of the West, And all perceived all whom their imaginations sought to perceive, And Duvaissel perceived Bain in his vast black and golden cape: She rushed toward him with her dagger, as he laughed, terribly, Whipping her cape over him, deeply kissing him, as a black bile Oozed forth from Guldrambor's mouth, consuming her, As Macilon darted toward him with the artifact, And he, Guldrambor, had not the time to master it, He knew what Macilon was going to attempt to do: To subdue him within the Maia Uireb's cape, his brother's power rising, And Findekano's apparition arose from the Staff, And the chamber was filled to the brim with light, Striving against all the darkened shadows of the night, As Guldrambor abandoned Duvaissel's body. An armed conflict ensued, Elves against Elves, Fanon's Elves madly clashing, but Guldrambor raised His high command: They shoved at the former prisoners, Escaping through side-doors from the Throne-Room, As the former prisoners gave chase. Fanon and his forces barred the harbor doors After they had entered: then they and Guldrambor Sailed away. Duvaissel awoke to find the Throne-Room Empty. She felt relieved that it was naught but a Single nightmare. She knew how close her brush with Death had been. And now she truly wept For her young, dead husband. Lerinon restored order within the Halls, And pardoned all who had been deceived by Fanon, And Dairlingul was pardoned, surrendering, And Sindri was pardoned, he longing now, To return to his seclusion by the sea, And Lerinon bade him do so. Macilon formally disbanded the Seven From their secrecy: Guldrambor now was harshly dangerous, Knowing now that Uireb sought To save him from himself, For Uireb truly feared That he would watch his brother Be tossed into the Doors of Night And perish at the end of Time, Uireb had loathed to let that happen. They were caught now in an impossible Situation, as Feanor and his sons before them: To fail Uireb would become their eternal exile. To victor would require that they somehow spare, And if possible, redeem, their greatest, most wretched, Most loathed, most feared, and most terrible, foe. That thought alone burned them the most in the midst of their trauma: And they felt filled with wrath that they were commanded thus. All petty squabbles were set aside. Agarwaenor sat once more beside Inheroth, Who sat to Lerinon's right, as Fareon sat To Lerinon's left, with Ioristion, The Sons at last were unified, Unified in their anger towards Guldrambor, While Macilon recused himself in shame, Ruminating, alone, with the artifact, in the shadows. And in that eve, Lerinon lost his mind, Running, flapping his cape, in an empty Chamber, as if a child again, while Inheroth Watched with a loss of what to do: Lerinon charged toward him, whipping his red And golden folds around and over him, Lerinon deeply burying his lips into Inheroth's cheeks, Inheroth returning the favor, Fear and worry rising, in the moonlight. Theirs was, and ever remained, A chaste bond of brotherhood, Affectionate, and close, held deep, It was Lerinon's renewed energy that felt unnatural, In the midst of such dark trauma. So ended the Great Battle of the Turfs of Sutland In all their beauty, their agony, and horror. Edited by Ioristion, Jul 24 2016, 03:52 PM.
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| Ioristion | Jul 14 2016, 08:59 PM Post #170 |
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Chapter CVII: The Writer of Trauma Aegon still shook as he set down his quill and ink. The candle burned low now. The days had been rough, and he had sought solace through writing. It reminded him of when his father Aeg had died and how he had placed his trauma into every ounce of sweat that he had shed as he had journeyed sorrowfully behind Ivordir and his Company through the rough country of the Vale of Ringlo. In time, he had reached the brink, more trauma had come upon them, and, in truth, the Company was miserable, stammering in between each other, and he had known from reading Ivordir's account, entitled "The Final Quest," that all direct evidence of their trauma had been expelled from the record, save some traces of it, here and there. He had wondered if a man could become spiritually numb from all the trauma that he endures. In truth, it had all been worked-off, through the blood and the tears and the sweat of their brows, their anger and depression bursting into an energy somehow, an energy that propelled them, league by league, and mile by mile. It had all churned through their instinctive reflexes: the reflexes of survival. But there it was, still hanging over their heads, as nightmares, troubling their dreams. Aegon still dreamed of that tavern in Ethring from time to time, waking him with the sorrows and the sweats. And he had drunk himself out of pain many times, countless times, with that Dorwinion wine, lulling himself to sleep every time. But now the drinking had turned rampant among the entire unified Company. He wondered if Ivordir had remained his Captain. His sole consolation, staving-off the trauma, was that of the cloak of Auruiron, flowing resplendently, puissant, beautifully, from his back. He wondered what evil would come of Fanon: it was as the treachery of Maeglin so long ago. And Yucalwe had taught him much during the past few weeks of all that history. He understood that now, he, a country youth from Tarlang, now knew more of the First Age, more of the myths and legends, that had settled into his mind as fixed realities, far more than the wisest, most learned scholars of Gondor, and this knowledge gave him unbridled pleasure. Melimwe had visited him and checked his account at times. And many a time, they had wept, together, mortal and Elf, in each others' arms, ever weeping, gazing at Auruiron's harp, resting beside a wall in the corner of Aegon's chamber. Sainion and Arhbaineth had visited him at times as well. Their relationship remained strong as it was when they had parted from Pelargir. Sainion was never much of a warrior, or, for that matter, a runner, and he had deeply surprised himself whenever he had trod the long weary leagues of Ivordir's Company, surprised at what, when pushed, his body could accomplish. It was fortunate that he had trained in taking long walks ever since he had been a child. And Sainion had deemed: "This account is one of blood and beauty, ever shifting, ever interchanging, filled with love and passion, horror and death. We are blessed by the West... and not spared from sorrow. For many of the Eldar who had perished were valiant, far more valiant than we, who have survived, and they deserve to grace those pages. But the only one who would have known all of their names was Auruiron, and he is lost to us. And the Southern Dunedain... and the tall Haradrim... brave Saljuk who had dared to defy the Eye itself... alas...alas...alas..." The trauma stalked their days as if sly shadows, seeping beneath their consciousness, dogging their steps, day by day... even the beauty of the sun, and of the sea-waves, and of the trees... failed to satisfy. They mourned for many a day, and time lost its previously felt importance. Their horror seemed to drag-on... forever... And they left not the Golden Halls until they had finally accepted all that they had been through, the guards who had not been at the battle guarding all the windows, to prevent any from taking joy-leaps or mad-leaps off the cliffs into the sea... And there were blood-chortling instances of shouting, of arguing, of hot tempers flaring, of wrath, and of men and Elves nearly coming to blows... shock... denial... anger... depression... acceptance... they had passed through all of them. They had tried to find their joys through fishing, hunting, drinking, eating, walking, and hiking. These remedied their responses. But sorrow was felt far deeper among the Eldar. And it had occurred to them that more of them would most assuredly perish if they ever went to war again. This, too, they were aware was inevitable. And the most probable conclusion would be Guldrambor's death: but it would cost the lives of many, including many innocents, if not all of them. Auruiron was probably dead. His hroa had disappeared: Guldrambor had stolen his body. Such was Melimwe's unyielding belief. Why had not the cloak protected Auruiron's body? Melimwe had no answer whatsoever... And to contend with their trauma, they turned ultimately toward each other for solace, and to their capes, which possessed no inherent powers of their own, but the powers of the West, that were truly the power of the One, channeled through them, the same Power that had welded Ea through Eternal Song. Edited by Ioristion, Jul 14 2016, 09:02 PM.
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| Ioristion | Jul 14 2016, 11:07 PM Post #171 |
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Chapter CVIII: The Treason of Malagi Malagi, Lerion's apprentice, had descended into a deep darkness. And on that fateful day, with Fanon, he was gone, he, Malagi, the ever silent and solemn servant of his master. Lerion did not even notice his absence until several weeks had passed. And Guldrambor had graced him with a lofty position in return for his information: the same position that had been occupied by Naifrati. Malagi still felt loyal to Lerion, seeking to convert him back to the side of Guldrambor, and Guldrambor allowed it. Malagi roomed with Anzulbar and Narushon in the Citadel. He had ever exalted Guldrambor upon Lerion's tales of him before their turn toward Gondor. He had wept bitterly over the deaths of his comrades in the Minas Tirith Cisterns. He had wept bitterly over the demise of his people upon the plains of Pelennor, he had despised Mithon and all his rangers, he had kept himself aloof from Orel and his men, and did not bond with them, and then he had beheld Guldrambor's feigned beauty, and fell seduced by the promise of greater power. Longing to be more than a mere tool of destiny, he joined the Enemy. Edited by Ioristion, Jul 15 2016, 11:01 PM.
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| Ioristion | Jul 14 2016, 11:37 PM Post #172 |
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Chapter CIX: Lost in Mandos Auruiron heard a deep voice, whispering to him, beckoning him. He opened his eyes. He was still wearing his golden cape. He was resting in a strange yet familiar chamber. Slowly, he remembered. He stood and gazed out the window at the distant parapets of Tirion, its magnificent golden domes and spires rising above vast structures and streets carved of sparkling white marble. There were his table, his sheets of music upon him, his Quenya-scrawled words waiting, and he wondered where his mother and father were. It all felt surreal yet comforting. His memories were vague as if a distant dream. "Perhaps it was all a nightmare... a long and terrible nightmare..." He rushed down into the court below. He beheld Maglor son of Feanor sitting there in his golden cape, playing his harp, his voice as illustrious as he had ever remembered. Auruiron approached him cautiously. Maglor suddenly rushed toward him, deeply kissing him on his cheeks, embracing him tightly. "Welcome home," he said. "Much must be prepared. Have you not heard? Finwe, my father, and the rest of my brothers, have all agreed, upon our shared nightmares of the future, that we lay the Silmarils to rest, and abdicate the Throne to one far more -worthy- than us." Auruiron did not remember his nightmare in Lothlorien in which he had been made High King and sighted Findekano for the last time. Auruiron deeply kissed Maglor on his cheeks, returning the gesture. Maglor did not transfigure himself into Guldrambor or into any other fell evil. Auruiron heaved a deep sigh of relief. He began to wonder if he had been dreaming all along, everything from that fateful day of Melkor's release from Mandos, everything, including Feanor, the Oath, and all of it. Perhaps it was all merely a test of sorts, a game played by the servants of Irmo Lorien himself, meant to make him prove himself somehow. Auruiron could not tell. But the air smelt fresh and clear. And Maglor closely grasped his hands, "Alcon... Auruiron, in the tongue of our cousins, who have arrived at late from those dark lands of which we dreamed, you shall be crowned our Highest King this afternoon." Auruiron felt a sickness in his stomach, "I am not in Tirion... I am in Mandos... I am being tested..." Maglor shook his head, "Why, the Halls of Mandos are far to the West! You have naught to fear, my brother...." He called me brother... Maglor deeply smiled, "Come. Nelyo shall come as well. We are to prepare you in your chambers... we should enjoy these next hours of peace before we are overwhelmed by the crowds on our way to the Citadel... my grandfather, Finwe, means to crown you himself." Auruiron's eyes beamed. It felt too good to be true. He ignored the pain in his stomach as Nelyo arrived, and as they made their way up back into Auruiron's manse. Auruiron heard proud words from his mother. His father appeared far differently than he had remembered in terms of his demeanor: Alcarin was strangely jovial. Auruiron's last memory of his father had been of him dying at Alqualonde during the First Kinslaying. That, too, now felt as naught but a dream. Auruiron soon found himself resting with the two Sons of Feanor. Nelyo had not even lost his hand. Auruiron gazed at the ceiling, "Lord Mandos... what is the meaning of this test..." Maglor and Nelyo laughed it off as nonsense. Auruiron glared at them, "What is the point... we were all defeated and -doomed- by you... and I am no High King. Is that the point of this? For me to admit that I would have been a terrible High King? Well I have admitted it! I would prove most awful. Now let this vision end. I wish to see my wife again... or at the least, please consider, forcing me to take the next test... fine, I admit it, I was wrong to follow Maglor into Exile, I betrayed the West, I suffered tears unnumbered, in accordance with thy Doom, and I died, in accordance with thy Doom, and now all is done, and I wish to know why you are keeping me hither thus, and for how long, that I may begin my long solitude within these thy Halls... Power of the West you may be, and Keeper of Doom, but no foul torturer are ye... Let me out of this vision and, pray, let me be, I beg of thee...." Maglor and Nelyo both laughed even harder. Nelyo smirked, "Auruiron... why speak such nonsense so? You are merely frightened at the prospect of your crowning. That is all. This is no vision. Here..." He deeply kissed Auruiron on his cheeks, in brotherly affection, "Is that better?." Auruiron deeply smiled and returned the gesture, embracing Nelyo, but he could not help but notice: Maitimo Nelyafinwe had -never- behaved toward him in that manner. Nelyafinwe often avoided him. Auruiron interrogated him about it, and Nelyo replied, "Oh.... I remember behaving in ways such as that in my dreams of late, but they, alone, were tests of Lorien, nothing more and nothing less.... Middle Earth was horrible, in my brief view of it.... and the fire, the falling in the fire, my heart was glad to have awakened from that part of it...." Auruiron nodded, "I had a wife.... I had a son... and a daughter-in-law.... no, wait, two daughters-in-law...and a grandson, and a grand-daughter-in-law...." Nelyo frowned, "All fictitious..........." Auruiron's eyes grew wide, "So.......... it all truly was nothing but a dark and terrible dream, with some laughs, and some smiles....... it felt as if several thousand years of length....." "As did ours," Maglor frowned, "But messages have come out of Lorien: we have passed the test. And only one evening has passed, despite everything. Such are Lord Irmo's powers." And Maitimo Nelyo Nelyafinwe outspread his fiery orange cape of silk, lined with fiery bright red, and his folds glimmered in the sunlight, his eyes hidden beneath his fiery-toned silky hair, long and beauteous, and he gently smiled. Auruiron embraced both Sons of Feanor, weeping sorrowful tears, for he felt loathe to dismiss several thousand years of life and living as a mere passing night's dream. Nelyo and Maglor bundled themselves within Auruiron's cape, swathing themselves in his gold, as Auruiron held tight his embrace. Their embrace was the only thing that now felt real. His mind was reeling with confusion. And so he abandoned himself to that moment, thinking of nothing else other than that moment, when all his feigned orderings of the universe appeared to coalesce. Something still felt awful and rotten. Edited by Ioristion, Jul 25 2016, 12:25 AM.
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| Ioristion | Jul 24 2016, 12:16 AM Post #173 |
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Chapter CX: The Court Lerinon gathered the entire Company in the Great Hall before him. Inheroth sat pensively at his side. Macil tried to smile at Cellindien. All were perturbed. There they stood, in their fine garb, cloaks flowing, their hair anointed with oil, their eyes glistening, as if some majestic painting painted by a painter who would have shunned the visages of war and chaos. Depression lingered behind their eyes. The scene felt surreal to many of them. They had but days earlier been imprisoned, and days prior to that, they had witnessed a bloodbath on the field of battle. Their foe had escaped with Elven accomplices and the traitor Malagi. Auruiron was now dead to them all completely. Melimwe approached the Throne, "My good liege, if I may, as thine uncle, make a humble suggestion before you: my brother, your father, whom I loved, whom you loved, whom we all, loved, is dead and gone from us, and ever shall I cry my eyes out about him, wondering how long Mandos will hold him in his clutches." No, Melimwe, do not despair. Estel, estel, estel, and ever, estel: he may yet be alive. No, his corpse vanished, he was done when he had died. No, there was no corpse beneath the cape. No.... "I sense doubt lingering in thine eyes, my most noble uncle," Lerinon gently replied. Melimwe sighed, "He may yet be alive, for there was no body. A hroa cannot simply vanish after death. It bleeds, it must be buried. There was no hroa. Why?" Lerinon's eyes were beaming brightly, "He may yet be alive?" Melimwe shook his head, "I do not know............. he appeared lost............. to my deepest regret, my liege, we must set this matter aside. That Guldrambor was able to penetrate this very throne-room is a dark portent indeed.......... we must gird ourselves and press-on, lest we falter forever in the days ahead... for when the Enemy returns, I do not believe that he will relent." Yucalwe stepped forward, "He, our foe, had no words for me, and I believe that I know why: He means to break us, all of us, mentally first, and then, in other ways. Such is his nature! He seeks to drain us of our resolve... he is savoring something particularly horrific for me, I have little doubt... but he must have observed, somehow, that Auruiron and I were reconciled, and by taking Auruiron away from us, he seeks to raise high the unsavory tides of discord... all against us...." Amarthon stood at Yucalwe's side, with Abrazan, "I concur. He assailed Gondor indirectly, using my companions and I as pawns in an ugly, murderous game." "That game is far from over," Sasuko boldly replied. "I have watched him play it... manipulated it... he has nearly all of south-east Rhun in his power now...." Noruros sighed, "He is correct. Not even we men of Gondor may prove enough to defeat him." Melimwe nodded, "He seeks to lure us out after him, that much is plain to me. My liege, oh precious, Golden King, Lerinon........ you have gained all of your truest wishes, the fulfillment of your wildest dreams... your grandest of visions..... tell me, are you content?" Lerinon shook his head, fighting back his sudden tears, "No............... I, too, am a pawn in this most dreadful game.......................so many have died because of it............ and my father most among them...................." Melimwe slowly stepped up the stairs to the throne, "Good. Now gird yourself, oh King. For the night is long, and darkness rises. What is thy command?" And a weary Sindri hobbled into the room with Dairlingul, their clothes all tattered, their faces bloody, as Sindri declared: "Eir is under attack, my King! The Easterling army has come from Erebor!" And Lerinon declared: "We are weary of war ourselves. We shall not play his game. Let the men of Eir defend themselves. Our foe attempts to lure us out into the open... Malchon, Hallothanar, order the guards to bar the gates, set watches after nightfall, and prepare our realm for a Siege." Sindri sputtered, "But...but Macilon fights alongside the men of Eir! We are in dire need of aid!" Lerinon nodded, "Let him fight. He exiled himself in any case. As for you two, you may rejoin him, or remain hither, but we shall look to our own defense." Dairlingul seethed and said nothing. Edited by Ioristion, Jul 24 2016, 12:35 AM.
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| Ioristion | Jul 24 2016, 12:38 AM Post #174 |
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Chapter CXI: The Craft In Tirion, the Sons of Feanor, were behaving altogether differently than they ever had behaved in front of Auruiron. Celegorm and Caranthir were attentive, and the twins, Amras and Amrod, remained close to Auruiron. Curufin and his son, Celebrimbor, also were attentive. And Feanor felt obliged to serve Auruiron most of all. This behavior shocked Auruiron. He fell further. Celegorm deeply smiled, stroking his wind-swept sandy-toned hair, "I caught the five-pronged-horned stag the other day. We shall have a high feast this eve." Auruiron nodded, "Pardon me, if you will. I have lost my appetite." "How so?" And Auruiron told them all his life story. Maitimo "Nelyo" Nelyafinwe laughed after a long and brutal silence, after the tale reached its current moment, "How whimsical! Well, you thought all of that? You should write it down. It would prove a most interesting story. But, of course, you know us well: we never would have lost our minds as such and swore an absurd oath that would lead us to our doom." Maglor laughed, his dark hair fluttering around him as he swiftly turned his head, "It was all a dream, Auruiron, as you call yourself. Alcon is a better name. But I am glad for the names the Sindar gave us when we arrived. Auruiron... it sounds brighter, somehow." He flared a fold of his golden cape and flung it over Auruiron's head. Only the sounds of weeping came out from beneath the gold. Auruiron then felt Maglor's gentle embrace, as he gently came beneath the folds, as he gently, deeply, affectionately, buried his lips in Auruiron's left cheek, as Auruiron returned the gesture, burying his tear-strewn face in Maglor's golden-brown silky hair. It was not raven-black, for the oath had not been spoken. Soon, all seven sons of Feanor were embracing Auruiron. And Amras and Amrod took Auruiron away: to prepare him for his coronation. Edited by Ioristion, Jul 24 2016, 10:39 AM.
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| Ioristion | Jul 24 2016, 11:00 AM Post #175 |
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Chapter CXII: Pityo Ambarussa Amras and Amrod upheld the rear of Auruiron's golden cape as Auruiron ascended the stairs of his tower. They would aid him as he preened. Auruiron felt shocked, imprisoned, and unable to make sense of the sudden, new, reality, unfolding before him as if the folds of some false, yet beauteous, iridescent tapestry, an unfurled banner, a flowing cape. The red wine tasted real enough. Auruiron drank his fill of it. He, in his shock and irrationality, then deigned to make the best of the world that unfolded before him. Pityo Amras turned his head in haste, flipping his folds of fiery, silky hair, his grey eyes beaming as if the stars, binding himself close within Auruiron's golden folds, as Ambarussa Amrod did the same. Amrod's hair was darker red. Auruiron smiled, "You remind me of my sons within my dream." "Forget the dream," Pityo warmly replied, "We are brothers now..." "As close as we can ever be," Amrod warmly replied. He deeply kissed Auruiron on the cheek. Auruiron swiftly returned the gesture, and then, with Pityo. They buried their faces in each others' hair as they embraced. Then Pityo and Amrod stood, Pityo declaring, "Behold we, the brothers, Ambarussa," as they danced for Auruiron, their hair and their fiery orange silky capes, lined with deep rose-red, all flipping and flapping wildly as they spun, and while their display dazzled him, Auruiron began to realize: Something is wrong....... oh Auruiron... something is terribly wrong...........tell it straight and true, right now, to yourself... you never knew these brothers much, and nor did many of them, save Makalaure, truly love you.... Maitimo barely tolerated you...............wake yourself up. He struggled and toiled and struggled and toiled and nothing happened. The Ambarussa remained close to him, protective and affectionate brothers, who were soon anointing his golden hair with oil, brushing it, and preparing his royal garb. Edited by Ioristion, Jul 24 2016, 11:49 AM.
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| Ioristion | Jul 24 2016, 11:50 AM Post #176 |
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Chapter CXIII: The Coronation of High King Auruiron And then they processed, resplendently, to the Citadel, the seven sons of Feanor upholding Auruiron's now-royal cloak, the crowds cheering, Auruiron's parents cheering, and everyone, cheering, as Auruiron entered, and sat upon the Throne, where Feanor, Finwe, and Fingolfin awaited him, and Finwe crowned Auruiron. And as Auruiron stood, Maglor approached, and kissed him, as a dark, deep bile exuded from Maglor's lips onto Auruiron's cheek, as the Light of the Two Trees dimmed, and as Auruiron stared at Maglor's face, to find that he was no longer Maglor: Guldrambor scowled at Auruiron, entrapping him in the depths of endless nightmare, and Auruiron wept, endlessly, and none could hear his cries, as Tirion fragmented and broke, and all was lost in shadow. It had all been naught but a lie: He never truly had conversed with any of the sons of Feanor. All of his experiences were rendered banal, his own life-story was real, marred by endless years of depression and sorrow unending, and now there was no one to comfort him, now, he had no choice, but to face the darkness on his own. And in the Citadel of Sakuta, Guldrambor gloated, as Auruiron hung from the precipice beneath the balcony, high above the bones of the murdered: as Maitimo long before him. Guldrambor had begun his true game: to make Melimwe and Lerinon and all of Auruiron's armies despair of the loss of him, and to perfect the torments that Melkor and Sauron had both inflicted upon their prey. He would perfect Melkor's methods of torture, that Melkor had done to Maedhros Maitimo Nelyo Nelyafinwe atop the Thangorodrim, that Melkor had done to Hurin, the father of Turin Turambar and Nienor Niniel, and that Sauron had done to Celebrimbor, subduing the latter to that trifle, that least of trifles: "One Ring to rule them all. One Ring to find them. One Ring to bring them all. And in the darkness, bind them." Auruiron, emaciated, starved for days, scourged, bloody, and barely kept alive, the bile forced down his throat, whenever his jailers would bring him up to bind his wounds, hung there, on the precipice, as the cruel tides of the turbulent stormy sea churned in the blood-red tide of the sunset beneath him. Yet far worse was the emotional, mental, spiritual agony, that he now endured. His wife would deeply kiss him, then become Guldrambor, his sons would deeply embrace him, then vanish before Guldrambor, all sweetness drained away, distrust rising, all enjoyment of life and living vanishing, as all the signs of affection: the kissing of cheeks, the sharing of wine, the embracing of close friends and bonded kith and kin, the courtship, the love, the beauty, the power, and the glory, were all stripped away, leaving him, hanging there, for once in his long-lived life, truly bereft, of Estel. And Findekano did not appear. No one flew to save him. And he dreamed, at times, that he had escaped: only to find himself still hanging there in the red and dying evening. Edited by Ioristion, Jul 27 2016, 09:24 PM.
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| Ioristion | Jul 24 2016, 01:48 PM Post #177 |
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Chapter CXIV: The March to Eir Now Lerinon exalted himself, in all his ravening glory. He watched as Inheroth appeared to obey his orders reluctantly. Lerinon did not see Agarwaenor. He preferred to avoid Agarwaenor out of respect for Inheroth, longing to avoid any sort of a scene of ruination between them. But the heart of Melimwe was moved by the words and appearances of Sindri and Dairlingul, and so he took several of his best warriors and Mornhelm, alone, of all the Beornings, and they sneaked out of the palace on several boats. Abrazan, Yucalwe, and Sasuko went with them. "So impractical!" Sasuko noted, as his cape kept getting stuck in the bushes. His cape was long compared to his own height. "Here," Abrazan laughed, tying the cape-up into manageable tight-knit folds, as much as he could for a young man of a dwarven height: "You'll need it on the field of battle." Sasuko sighed, "Very well." Yucalwe nodded, "It is highly impractical, but it is also necessary that we wear them.... somehow.... they will not catch aflame as other capes will........if anything, through these inexplicable powers of the West thus channeled through them, through our faith...... they will protect us from not only arrow-fire, but from other ills.........the Enemy is strong......." "And vain," Sasuko noted. "He uses his feigned beauty to besmirch us." "A tempter," Abrazan nodded as they trudged along between the vast tree trunks, the evergreen canopy high above them, their feet marching across the turf and soil, leaf and twig, above the roots and beneath the boughs of the bare, white beeches. Sparrows were singing in the eaves above. Sunlight slanted through the deepening layers of leaves upon the branches far above them. "Father... do you believe that Macilon can hold the front?" Yucalwe shook his head, "Macilon may be a strangely wise sage, who shares my taste in colors, but he is no soldier. He may inspire them for a time, but I doubt that he will hold the lines. Guldrambor's commanders must have taken over control of the Erebor Contingents of the Easterlings. They may have been defeated at Erebor, but they are strong enough to fight nonetheless. They may have despaired at Sauron's passing, and that will undoubtedly make them dangerous, far more dangerous than they were before. He who despairs has nothing to lose because he has nothing and only nothing and nothing other than nothing." Abrazan smiled, "You were ever a Sage yourself, Adar." Yucalwe laughed a little, "Yes.... my son.... yes...." Sasuko mustered a laugh, "Look at the three of us here. Silken black lined with red capes, flowing hither on the twigs and roots, getting stuck in the bushes. At least they don't get dirty." Yucalwe laughed, "Aye... the dirt just drops right off of them. We are a strange sight..... Know this, Sasuko: Guldrambor alone is the originator of our behavior. He alone crafted the excessive-cheek-kissing, cape unfurling, dancing, draping, and beyond, beyond." Sasuko felt stricken with terror, "And.... does that make us fall right into his hands? Are we not traitors or dangerous?" Yucalwe nodded, "We are hardly traitors, although quite dangerous. But know this also, Sasuko: these traditions came from Amanuiron back in the good olden days of yore, long before he became infatuated with the nothingness of evil. We can only hope to turn his original goodness, his deep bonds of love and loyalty and of brotherhood, against him." Sasuko deeply nodded, "Then I have a request: allow me to bond with you both as if you were my kith and kin, for both my parents, and my brothers, are dead." Yucalwe deeply clasped Sasuko on the shoulder, "We shall think about it... but I lean toward an answer of yes. For now, focus on the quest at hand." Yucalwe brushed his gauntlet against his own dirty coat of chainmail beneath his cape. Sasuko girded himself and steeled his nerves as they marched along. Edited by Ioristion, Dec 18 2016, 08:32 PM.
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| Ioristion | Jul 24 2016, 03:57 PM Post #178 |
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Chapter CXV: The Fall of Eir Eir was ablaze when they first sighted it, its tiled roofs and stucco buildings caught in the wake of the blazing wooden beams. Macilon had already rescued several families, using his flame-repelled cape to shield himself and his suppliants from major burns. There was ever that lingering fear, that terror, of the thought of a roof collapsing, a doom that no cape would protect an Elf against. He moved as swiftly as he could. Sindri wept at the sight from atop the cliffs of Dorwinion across the River Running. He was bidden to remain within Dorwinion's borders. The healers had already tended to his wounds, most of which were minor, but he beheld the dark smoke rising as if gigantic funnels up into the heavens. The guards were now hemmed-in near the Great Hall with their noble masters. Their faces were sweaty, ashen, and their worn, dirty armor, their torn cotton cloaks, their battered shields: these were defenders, far from the unbridled beauty of the Eldar, yet ever courageous. The Easterlings had indeed taken their time in retreating from Erebor, they had marched the long, weary road along the river, they had lost several of their number to gangrene and other wound infections, but their force remained strong when they reached the farmlands, starving and desperate as they raided them, pillaging and reeving all the crops. The city had fortified its walls, but they still had siege machines that they had hauled back on the long and weary road from Erebor, their flowing red silks were torn and worn and dirty, their gold-plated bronze armor battered, covered with dirt and grime, their helms and shields were dented, some of their spears splintered, and they had besieged the city out of desperation, longing to avoid returning to their respective tribes and homelands in defeat, and, in particular, their commanders, who had won the coup, had not desired to return in defeat to Sakuta, to receive the unbridled wrath of their Master and Emperor, and face the doom of all who were cast off the cliffs behind the Citadel. The Elves and two men joined the fray, aiding the survivors of Eir, smuggling them, one by one, out of the city, for the Easterlings were still far too numerous to be counted. And Melimwe had recognized their desperation. They could not face such an army. They had not the numbers. They could only hope to survive and take the refugees to Dorwinion, to safety. The bells tolled high in the tower. It was a long and fleeting sound as if a horn of sorrow. The bells tolled high in the tower. It felt as if it were Gondolin all over again. The bells tolled high in the tower. Melimwe kept himself aloof from the flames. His hair was long and the plumes of his helm, woven from Auruiron's golden hair that had been cut, were nearly as long as Galadriel's, and while his golden cape was all tied-up and his hair tucked beneath it, he knew he would easily falter ablaze in the flames if he were burned. His hair got wet and tangled and smelled of sewage as they had sneaked into the city through usage of the lower ducts of the cistern and sewage system, they had made it near the Great Hall in this manner, and they stank. The refugees had all fled inside the Great Hall as the City Watch held the gates. Melimwe and the others began the smuggling, one by one, until only the defenders remained outside the Hall. The nobles had finally deigned their lives more important than their garb: the Elves would refill all the gaps. Only a third of the City and a fourth of their army survived the battle. The Easterling forces were chopped in half. And the blazing streets ran red with blood, shattered shields and spears and halberds and broken swords and severed limbs, and blood-chortling screaming amidst the clamor. The survivors of Eir escaped along the shoreline and came under Elven protection. While Lerinon had been, at first, furious, at his uncle's insubordination, he recognized the importance of the survival of a culture, of an entire people. The Elves consolidated space in their own chambers. The mortals took-up residence in two of the guest-wings. The healers labored on the wounded. And the exile of Macilon had ended. Edited by Ioristion, Jul 27 2016, 09:25 PM.
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| Ioristion | Jul 26 2016, 06:15 PM Post #179 |
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Chapter CXVI: The Truth of the Mirror Celebressel wandered in one of the gardens in her golden-red cloak. The refugees had already been settled. The healers were at work. Alcano walked with her. A breeze blew through the red and yellowish tulips and evergreen leaves on the beech trees. Celebressel wrapped her arms in her folds, her head downcast, "My husband...." Alcano inclined his head, "Yes, my love?" Celebressel sighed, "I have come to a realization...... I believed.......... no, it was not true, yet it felt......." They stopped and faced each other. Celebressel nodded, "I....... think this cloak has brightened my spirits of late........... I can feel powers... of the West... flowing through its folds.... a power similar to the aura of my life within the Golden Wood...... oh Alcano! I exiled myself!" "What do you mean?" "I mean this.......... I believe I dreamed it all. The Lady of the Wood does not need handmaidens. I dreamed I was a handmaiden, and, for a time, believed it...." "You are not sensible, my love." She grew slightly furious, "Wait.... hearken to me......... listen. Alcano, know this: I was, for the longest time, a weaver of elven robes, cloaks, and dresses..... this was the task my Lady-Mother trained me to do.......... but I fell asleep one night........... and it seized me. In the dream, I had known how to wash the basin and the vessels, I had processed down into our Lady's garden, I had caught a glimpse in the........." "But what of Malfinseron? You claimed he caught you!" "He caught me approaching the garden...... after I had awakened. I believed, when I awoke, everything that the dream told me.... everything I thought I was... came to me, within the dream....... in that moment, I did truthfully speak, based on what I knew at the time........ that I was a handmaiden of the Lady...... that I had cleaned the basin......... and that I had gazed into its depths." "My dear, much war and death has dulled our senses and harmed our lines of thought, the both of us." "You do not believe me........ allow me to reinforce this. My so-called 'confession' to Malfinseron earned me his ire, and then he strove to reinforce my exile! He, too, is young and naive, as we all are, the four of us....... He wished to woo the aid of the Galadhrim by assisting in their legal affairs, no doubt... So away we marched, me taking what little provisions I could......" "Why did your friends and family not try to stop him?" "They were away, my family and friends divided between Cerin Amroth and the Hythe. Only Findistedis remained, and she attempted to talk me out of leaving, but when she learned of the appearances of the Lady in my dream..... she believed that she should leave with me, and protect me......... and when she saw Malfinseron from a distance, before parting from the City with us, and when I told her in secret who he was...... and of the role he played in my dream...... she began to believe me, truly, upon seeing him...." Then Alcano slowly began to believe her. "My love, this cloak with which I have been gifted, has unveiled the truth to me............. I cannot explain it.......... a powerful dream had seized me, bonded us swiftly together, and now I have realized that.................. the visions that I had seen in the fictitious Mirror in my dream, these strangely came true, and yet they all were veiled by a lie............" "Tell me. Why did you believe, so easily, that everything in the dream was true, and everything that you had lived prior to the dream was false?" "No..... let me explain. I knew that I was a weaver. In the dream, I had been promoted to the position of handmaiden to the Lady............" "Did you ever speak to your parents about this?" "No, for I was afraid to..... I was afraid that they would take me to the Lord and Lady." "And why do you fear them?" "Because........ I feared the dream would come true, that I would be truly exiled.........." "And did exiling yourself truly aid you?" "It brought me into your arms......... is that not enough? I was made a handmaiden. I cleaned the vessels. I befriended other handmaidens. I became curious. I gazed into the Mirror. I was caught doing so. I was formally exiled by the Lord and Lady, and I had already exiled myself when I ran into Malfinseron, believing that the Lord and Lady, through a dream, had exiled me for an unknown reason....... and Malfinseron enforced it! He enforced it! And I never saw the Lord and Lady, I never saw my friends or family again, and now I have a new family, new friends, caught in a war in a distant land, not knowing if ever I will return..............." Alcano nodded grimly, "And in the Mirror, what did you see? Tell me everything this time. Hide no details. You told me that you foresaw our coming, learned my name, and learned that you and your sister would wed me and Malfinseron, and you have told us little more beyond this...." "You, your father, your grandfather, your Company, a scarred Elf dying from a nightmare with a Jewel-shaped Orb.... and I saw your face..... we kissed.... I witnessed a glimpse of our wedding, and of my sister's wedding.... of who Malfinseron would become..... and thus I did not fear him....when he enforced our exile..... The visions came as flashes, swift in haste, and did not linger. When I awoke from that dream, I pondered it for days. I truly wondered if I had awakened and walked to the Garden in the middle of the night. Now I am certain that all of it.......... it was all a dream. Nothing more and nothing less." "A precise dream..... what do you suppose caused it?" "The Lady, maybe......... she has some hidden Power that veils the entire Realm......... it protects it.......... and the name of our Realm was not an accident. Hence, I believed, that she had contacted me in a vision, telling me to leave the Realm...........later, I dreamed of her standing there, giving me her sign of peace..........you have my word, I did not lie.... I truly saw and experienced these things, even if they were within my mind.................they were as memories to me............." "Yes........ and your Realm truly shares its name with Lorien, the realm of............ visions and dreams in the Uttermost West........ the land where all our troubles first began, when Amanuiron betrayed Yucalwe...... and my grandfather............... and now my grandfather is gone." "Our grandfather............................" Grief still marred their hearts. It weighed heavily upon their minds. They continued their walk, their fiery and black and fiery and golden cloaks trailing on the marble road behind them. Edited by Ioristion, Aug 14 2016, 10:27 PM.
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| Ioristion | Jul 26 2016, 08:56 PM Post #180 |
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Chapter CXVII: Toward the Confrontation In the midst of all the clamor, Yucalwe claimed the artifact, and kept it safe and secret. And in his chamber, he placed it against his heart, knowing how perilous it was. There was something he wished to learn. He found himself, in his dream, vivid and precise and real as ever, in the streets of Himring. He climbed the old way his mind remembered, up to the Citadel. He marveled at such a gift, to present the internal sinews of his mind in such vivacity, such power.... its power was on par with the sight of the Seat of Seeing, yet as immediate and close as the Mirror... and of the Palantiri of legend. Yucalwe knew of the Palantiri from the days in which Feanor had forged them. He took none of them for his own. He knew of the Mirror from a conversation he had had with Celebressel regarding her dream. He knew of the Seat of Seeing from Ivordir's account of the latter's foolhardiness. Ivordir, in retrospect, wished that he had never touched the Seat. Yucalwe thrust open the doors of the Citadel, walking to the ore-forged throne in the center, the Star of Feanor emblazoned in a banner high above it. Edited by Ioristion, Jul 27 2016, 09:25 PM.
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12:44 AM Jul 11