Valley of Rivendell Free RP

[Tharmáras]

"The air was warm. The sound of running and falling water was loud, and the evening was filled with a faint scent of trees and flowers, as if summer still lingered in Elrond's gardens." - Tolkien, from The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring - Many Meetings

' "I'm ready for anything,' answered Frodo. "But most of all I should like to go walking today and explore the valley. I should like to get into those pine-woods up there." He pointed away far up the side of Rivendell to the north.' - Frodo and Narrator, from The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring - The Council of Elrond

Welcome to the Valley of Rivendell! This majestic land is home to many Elves and is gracious to visitors. This IC thread has no GM guiding a planned story although I'll be monitoring the posts. This is a place where you can roleplay your character / NPCs either alone or with fellow Plaza members. You may write of your dwelling places and wanderings here.

There will be a seperate thread for The Last Homely House and the Houses of Healing soon and the Host of Imladris. I'll be asking folks what they would like to see in an OOC thread for Rivendell activities or if anyone wants to lead something in particular or help me whatever I'm a GM for.

Rules:
1.) The time is 3014 but "flashback RP'ing" roleplaying in the past, is welcome.
Tharmáras RPs Elrond, Aragorn, Glorfindel, Erestor, Gandalf, and Galadriel here. Annúnfalas writes Arwen and also Celebrían flashbacks.

2.) Please review the Roleplaying Code of Conduct before posting https://lotrfanaticsplaza.com/forum/rol ... of-conduct . No spamming or godmoding please. To preserve the sanctity of the Tolkienesque atmosphere, no sexual allusions/content/jokes are allowed and fandom/franchise crossovers are forbidden. If I see or am notified you have crossed lines or incur OOC complaints, you will be asked to edit your post. Thanks for understanding.


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[The Elf Imperishable]

Generous Oak, The Treeish Huorn

There were many trees in the vale, each with their own stories rooted in soil. The range of their lives varied more than the uniqueness of their leaves. So it happened that one day a slight vibration occurred underneath a certain part of the vale, only detected by perhaps the most astute rangers or a relatively bored elf. There stood an isolated tree on a small incline.

If one could see underground, they would see a peculiar sight: tree roots unnaturally wriggling, as if grasping for more water and nutrients from the moist earth. This was no ordinary tree!

So it was that Generous Oak gained sentience. From all appearances, he looked like an everyday Imladris Oak tree who housed many creatures. But though he lacked eyes, ears, mouth, and limbs; Generous Oak saw every being around him; listened to the songs of the wind; tasted the earthiness of the soil, and felt the slightest touch from even the smallest of creatures. For now, he was content to rest alone, standing in the vale as part of the environment.

[Lirimaer]

Sérëlindë Liriasîdh, a Silvan Elf

The journey had not been terribly arduous, but the sight of Imladris' majestic arches and waterfalls had filled Liria with a desire to fling the caution which had been her constant companion of late to the warm and gentle breeze and run through the long grass which swept up a long hill toward the welcoming shadow of dark pines.

She did not, of course; the illustrious Lord Elrond was of the Noldor, and his good opinion, it had been impressed upon her, was something to be cultivated - and running off to climb trees like a hoyden in her first century would bring discomfort to her studious company. Overcoming the desire to slip from Alagos' back and melt into the glorious green of the valley, Liria leant forward, one smooth palm stroking the strong, warm neck of the horse in unspoken promise, later they would explore this lush valley, once they had been welcomed formally.

Her eyes flickered up, catching the amused glance of her riding companion, and she smiled ruefully, sitting back and presenting once again the serene image of calm her mother had despaired of ever seeing, despite her name. They were toward the rear of the company and as the path narrowed to cross a bridge, Liria halted briefly, motioning her companion onward, before bringing up the rear.

Across the vale, a lonely tree shivered, if that was the right word. Liria shaded her eyes and took a good long look. It was an oak, looked to be in the prime of its life, and had some wonderful boughs for climbing, almost as if someone had designed it that way. She would have liked to taste the bark, as her brothers used to say, since she had a habit of falling from trees as a youngster. But there was no time for that kind of thing.

She urged Alagos into a trot until they caught up with the rest of their company. It wouldn't do to be tardy.

[Laintaen]

The morning was clear and warm, heralding a day too fine to be spent indoors. Laintaen unlatched the lock on her front door and pulled it open, the hinges giving a groan of protest that shamed her. How long had she spent inside this time? Far too long.

A small, red-haired Elfling darted across the front yard, shrieking with laughter as she was chased by an even smaller blond form. She stared at them for a moment, then shook her head and the figures faded back into memory where they belonged. It had been many years since she and her brother had played so.

Not so many since her parents embarked on their journey to Valinor, taking him with them and leaving her alone.

You insisted on such, the voice in her head sternly reminded her.

As she glanced over the garden, no longer haunted by shades of the past, she saw it well overgrown by long grasses. Perhaps she could enquire at the House about purchasing a goat, one that would keep the grass length in check without her having to tend to it quite so much.

You could go as far as the House, surely, the voice reassured. It’s not so far.

Her gaze drifted over to the vegetable patch and she gave a grimace at the disorder that had been able to take over during her neglect. Herbs had intermingled with vegetables, and weeds had thrived in the fertile soil. On a closer inspection, she saw that the parsley had run rampant and choked the cluster of mushrooms, allowing inedible toadstools to grow in their place.

And you could look for new wild mushrooms on the way.

The reasons for venturing past the border fence were piling up. Laintaen steeled her nerve, grabbed her satchel, and headed out.

She knew where to look for mushrooms and headed to a shady area not far across the Vale. Sure enough, growing around the base of an aspen tree, a cluster of Scaly Pholiota mushrooms poked their caps through the leaf litter. She crouched down to pick some, careful not to damage the stems so that they might be transplanted into her own garden.

It was as she had her fingers dug into the soil that she felt something reverberate through the ground. What on Arda was that? It was not the earth moving, it was something moving in the earth, and it did not feel like an animal either. She pushed her fingers deeper into the dirt, hoping to feel it again, but nothing further came from the source.

Then something else happened. The aspen tree before her reacted. There was no other way to describe it. It was as if it took a deep breath and let it out again, wholly satisfied. She hurriedly placed the final mushroom in her satchel and placed her hands on the aspen’s trunk. She could feel nothing. Whatever the aspen had needed to do, it was done.

She sat back on her heels and brushed the dirt off her fingers. What a strange sensation.

Still pondering the incident, she got to her feet and began moving towards the House, eventually finding the path. So caught up was she in her thoughts that it took her a moment to realise she could hear hoof falls. She moved to the side of the path, lest they should come this way.

[Quill]

Quill
Entrance to the Valley

The wind ran through the break in the mountains like the voice of a cold, clear flute. The hooded elf pressed her calves gently into her horse’s flanks, urging the palomino forward, through the keyhole of the cliff and onto the overlook that yielded a full view of the valley below. It was just past midnight, the black sky shaded with violet, and the stars sang a sweet hymn above her. As the wind moved past her, it eased the hood from her head, revealing the honey-colored hair woven into a thick braid on her shoulders. Quill’s blue eyes shone with the reflected light of the lamps of Rivendell, and with a faint sheen of tears, for she had not looked upon that valley for many years now, and it still laid claim to a great piece of her heart - not only because it was the place she called home, but because it was home also to her two sisters, who dwelt there with their families. Not so long ago, at least not long in the counting of elves, she had stood upon this precipice on a wintry dawn, full of trepidation as she went to make peace with the relatives she had for decades since been sundered from. There was no trepidation now, for their reunion had gone as well as she could have hoped for, and she felt the soft glow of anticipation at the thought of seeing her sisters, and in particular, her niece, again in only a few short hours.

The vision of Veryamedliel brought a smile to her lips. She wondered if the mischievous young elleth had changed much in the last seven years. The memory of her sadness at her aunt’s departure was a bittersweet one; when Quill had told her she was traveling to Lindon for a time to study with a healer there, Very had shed quite a few tears. She had not warned them that she was on her way back to Rivendell - indeed, it had come as an unexpected surprise that she would even be returning this soon, as she had planned to stay in Lindon for a few more years of study - and she was looking forward to the sheer delight of the surprise when she turned up on Meril’s doorstep in the morning. With that thought holding her fatigue at bay, she clucked to Shanstrin, and together they made their way slowly down the narrow path descending into the valley.

[Lirimaer]

Sérëlindë Liriasîdh, a Silvan Elf

The view past the bridge was delightful, opening up the whole of the valley more and more; the Last Homely House could be seen in the distance now - or some of the rooftops at least.

Their Galadhrim escort relaxed their vigilance more with every passing moment, for clearly this hidden haven had never seen an enemy inside her fair borders. Music carried on the breeze, faint and beguiling, and as Alagos pricked his ears and danced forward, Liria couldn't help the sway that his gait produced, and found herself smiling. Oh, that her whole stay here in this place might be so carefree and whimsical!

She was still musing on the delights her visit might include when the path wound back around a small copse and revealed an elf maid on the verge; she was carrying a satchel and clearly going somewhere, but had politely stopped to wait for them to pass.

Liria lifted her hand in greeting as she passed, a more friendly echo of the more formal nod of thanks given by the Galadhrim who led the column; perhaps she would see the elleth again whilst she was staying in the realm.

[Rior Laegiel]

Aduial Mar
Lilith, Rior and Raeru

"Thank you for letting me stay here with you." Smiling Lilith gives Rior a warm hug goodbye. The two of them have known each other since he married her old friend Olly and the two of them have grown close over the years and are more like brother and sister than friends. "You know that I am more than happy to let you stay with me whenever you are here in the valley. I would not have it any other way." "I know but I never want to take anything for granted," thinking of Olly, she knew that both of them had been reminded some years ago that even their immortal lives could be cut short at any moment without warning. As always when visiting Imladris, Lilith would stop by the masoleum to talk to Olly before returning home to Lórien.

"Meow." Dropping a brown toy mouse at Lilith's feet and looking at the elleth with a look that says 'play with me'. "Hello there, little one!" Kneeling beside the white cat, Lilith pats her gently and she purs lightly. "I do not have time to play today, I am sorry," hugging Raeru for a moment before putting her back down and standing up to leave. With a wave and goodbyes to both of them she left.

"Meow?" Raeru turns to look at her elven friend as if to ask why Lilith had to go. "She had to go home to her own house, she was just here to visit us for a while. But I have time to play," reaching for the mouse to invite Raeru to play but she just gave him a short look and walked away.

With both Lilith and Raeru gone, Rior tried to remember what he had put on his to-do list for today. Knowing he had to do some gardening to remove weeds that had started showing up in the flower beds he decided that was as good a thing to start with as any. Leaving the toy mouse in the grass he went to gather what supplies he needed. He would at least need a bucket and maybe a trowel. What else?

[Laintaen]

Laintaen
Gathering mushrooms in the Valley

Only moments after moving aside, a group of mounted Elves rode past. They were clearly reaching the end of their journey and were eager to reach the welcome respite that Elrond’s house promised. They did not stop, though one amongst them (Liria) waved to her as they passed. Laintaen returned the greeting with a smile. Perhaps she would see the elleth again if she ever made it as far as the House.

But as the horses disappeared around the bend in front of her, all thoughts of making it to the House had fled from her mind. Why had she wanted to go there? To buy something? Something about mushrooms?

How could she remember what that was when something had just tried to speak to her through the earth?

She absent-mindedly broke a piece off the cap of one of the mushrooms and chewed it while she thought. It hadn’t felt like an animal, perhaps a plant? The aspen tree before her had reacted. Another tree, perhaps? In olden times, the trees had woken up. Perhaps another tree had done just that.

Once again, her thoughts made her unmindful of her surroundings and she was jerked back to the present by the sound of another horse. Making sure she was on the edge of the path, she turned to see another mounted Elf woman (Quill). She rode slowly, though with clear purpose. Because she didn’t seem in a as much of a hurry the previous group, Laintaen decided to greet her.

“Good morning,” she said as the elleth drew level with her. “A fine morning for a ride, you are the second to pass this way recently. I hope your journey was a pleasant as what awaits you in Imladris. Forgive me, I have not been abroad for several years. Have we met before? I am Laintaen.”

She hesitated before her next question, then decided to forge ahead. “This perhaps may seem an odd question, but did you feel anything… strange pass through the Valley this morning?”

[Quill]

Quill
On the Path

Quill let Shanstrin take her time picking her way down the winding path into the valley. Any fatigue she might have been feeling had its edge taken off by the sight of the Last Homely House lying below. She was in no hurry, though, considering that her family wouldn’t be awake for some time, so she didn’t rush her horse, but instead relaxed in the saddle and enjoyed the cool breeze laced with moisture from the ubiquitous falls of Imladris. Hours passed them by as they traveled, the sky paling overhead and the walls of the valley revealed in the glorious curtain-raising of dawn. The early light made pink and purple ribbons of the waterfalls streaming from the green-hatted mountains and into the river far beneath their feet. Some of the city’s denizens would already have stirred, Quill knew, and she saw movement amongst the archways that were still far away. Anticipation stoked a small but sacred flame within her heart.

The air grew warm and sunny as the elf and her horse descended, the path at last evening out as it reached the cliffside that drew level with the buildings of Rivendell itself. It was preparing to be a lovely day, Quill observed, her eyes yet unclouded by weariness. The voices of the water spoke to her, and above their chorus, a gentle hymn of Imladris floated out across the vale. She would soon be there.

As they rode, though, they happened upon an elleth (Laintaen) walking on foot on the path ahead of them. Quill and Shanstrin both perked up; this was the first sign of life they had seen in many miles, other than animals and insects. Instinctively the palomino slowed her pace as they drew even with the elf, who greeted them openly enough, and introduced herself.

“Mae govannen,” Quill said, studying the elleth’s face and searching for a memory to match it to. “I don’t believe we have met, though I dwelt here for quite some time. I have been gone from the valley for many years now. I go by Quill,” she added, almost as an afterthought, and frowned when Laintaen asked her question. “No, I couldn’t say that I have,” she answered. “Though I have been riding through the night, so perhaps I am not the best person to ask. What do you mean, pass through the Valley?”

[Aethelu]

Arphen
Somewhere in the Valley

Arphen had been wandering the valley for some time, it was time to take a rest. Spotting a rock, she swept a hand across it to clear it of any debris, and sat down. Her pale dress pooled around her feet as she sighed. The day had started off so well, but now here she was searching for her daughter. Another disagreement, raised voices, a banging door, and she was gone again. As Bainiel had grown older, as she had become a young woman, the rage that seemed to bubble below the surface was quicker to erupt. Arphen was sure that Bainiel had weapons hidden in the valley somewhere so she could practice and release her anger. Perhaps if she sat for a while and listened she would hear a swinging sword or a bow string releasing. Around her, birds were singing. It was a calming sound, it gave her a chance to take deep breaths and focus her mind.

The day had started well enough, breakfast together, and a discussion of plans for the day. Arphen had planned to take a visit to Imladris, perhaps find some new supplies for her crafts. That was all it took for Bainiel to slam her fists on the table. "Why do you ignore that this is the anniversary of the day our father died?" she had asked, gesturing between herself and her younger brother Idhion. Of course Arphen didn't forget, she had mourned the loss of her dear husband many, many years ago. But she had mourned in silence, let her tears fall where her children couldn't see, she had to be strong for them. In time, she had come to learn that for Bainiel this meant that her mother didn't care. Bainiel had shouted, used some cruel names, and stormed out of the house. Idhion had jumped up and run after her before the door had even slammed shut, always the peacekeeper. Arphen had tried to follow her, but they had taken off at speed and knew their own secret roots through the valley.

As she sat on the rock, she wondered what to do. It was true that Bainiel would return home in time, but would she be more angry? Would she feel that her mother had ignored her just as she felt she ignored this date? Perhaps she would be more angry if her mother seemed to stalk her through the valley. Perhaps she should leave it to Idhion to calm her. Closing her eyes, she tried to centre herself once more.

[Laintaen]

Laintaen
Wandering the Valley with Quill

The honey-haired elleth on the equally regal mare slowed at Laintaen’s side and introduced herself as Quill.

“I gell i nín*,” she replied to the Quill’s greeting. “The Valley is blessed to have you grace her paths once more. I believe you will not find Imladris much changed since your last visit, and hopefully it will not take long for you to feel again at home. What brings return?”

Her second questions seemed to confuse her companion. “Forgive my strange question,” she explained, “but I have just experienced something decidedly unfamiliar. I was gathering supplies for my garden not far from here and as I had my hands in the earth, I felt something pass through the ground. It was not an earthquake, not did it feel like an animal. Then the tree before me seemed to recognise the motion and rejoice! The only thing I can conclude is that the Hidden Valley is now the location of a newly sentient tree. I hope this does not sound too bizarre. But I have been so distracted by the event that I am considering seeking out this new Ent..”

She glanced around at the surrounding trees, as if she expected to see one smiling and waving at her, then hearkened back to something else Quill had said. "'Riding through the night'? You must be exhausted. I have little I may offer by way of breakfast, but can give you some Scaly Pholiota mushrooms. Though far better when cooked with butter and herbs, they are still pleasantly bitter when raw and can restore stamina and strength."

*The joy is mine (I think )

[Aethelu]

Bainiel and Idhion
In the Valley

How could she forget? How could she act as though this day meant nothing? It didn't matter how many years passed, Bainiel could not forget the day they came to the house. The war was over, the battle won they said, but her father...

She stormed through the valley, following the path she had taken so many times before when she had found herself at odds with her mother. She knew she wasn't behaving like a good elven lady, but she couldn't help it. As she reached the edge of the small clearing she had come to think of as her own, she found herself wondering if she should try to be better. When these fights happened, she thought about holding her tongue, she thought of being kinder to her mother who she knew was trying her best, she thought of what her father would do. But the anger bubbled up and she lashed out with cruel words before she even had a chance to stop herself. Now she needed to release some of that anger in, to her at least, a better way.

In the clearing there was a tall, hollowed out tree stump with a rock atop it. It looked a little strange she suspected, but so far it had not been disturbed. Removing the stone, inside sat a small bow, a quiver of arrows, and a short sword. She let her fingers dance across the smooth wood of the bow before settling on the cool hilt of the sword. Taking a deep breath, she removed it from its hiding place and slowly unsheathed it. It wasn't the sharpest or brightest of blades, but it was enough for her for now.

Bainiel closed her eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the sword in her hand. She raised it up, ready to take a few swings.

"I'm getting slower."

The voice behind her startled her and she spun around with a yell, sword swinging out wildly. There was a yelp as her younger brother Idhion jumped away from her.

"Sorry," cried Bainiel, quickly dropping the sword and rushing towards him. "Did I hurt you?"

"No," he laughed, reaching out a hand towards her outstretched one and grasping it firmly. "You need to control your swing though. And your temper." She dropped his hand and turned away. Idhion swung himself up onto a low hanging branch in a nearby tree, watching as she turned herself this way and that. "Do you really believe Mother doesn't know what day it is?"

"Perhaps," she muttered, finally coming to a halt and looking up at her brother. "She does nothing every single year."

"Maybe she can't face doing anything. Maybe she doesn't want us to see she's sad. Maybe she's not sad anymore."

"Take that back!" Bainiel shouted out, her hands balled up in fists by her side. "Of course she's sad, we're all sad."

"Exactly," responded Idhion in his soft voice. "She couldn't be sad in front of us when we were small though, now could she, perhaps she has just gotten used to not being sad when we are there. Surely if we all sat and talked about it, without shouting, we could let her know she can be sad. That we can be sad together."

Bainiel knew he was right, he always right, and his soft voice always had a way of cutting through the thoughts that tried to shout down her better judgement. She took a deep breath and let it out as a loud sigh, which made Idhion smile. That was always her way of letting go of those thoughts in her head.

"Yes, we should all talk," she said at last, allowing a slight smiled to creep in. "Let me put this away and we'll go home."
She reached down to pick up the sword before walking over to where the scabbard lay. As she began to slide the sword into the scabbard, her hand slipped. The blade skipped across the edge of the hard leather and slid across her arm. Red instantly began to blossom on her sleeve. Bainiel bit her lip and turned towards Idhion. In an instant he jumped down from his branch and hurried to her side. The cut was deeper than they both expected as they pulled back the sleeve.

"Cut a strip from my dress," Bainiel said with a wince. "We'll use it as a bandage for now." Idhion nodded, using her sword to cut a strip from the bottom of her dress. Carefully they wrapped it around the cut, though it quickly began to turn red as well. "We should go to Rivendell, they have healers there." Within minutes, the sword had been returned to its hiding place, and the two set out towards Rivendell in silence. This was not the way this day was supposed to go.

[Moriel]

Enyalië

Twilight fell over Linyamiril, the Crystalpool, in the valley of Imladris. In days long past, it had been a bustling hive, center of operations for the various Mordagnir enterprises, and revolving door for three wayward members of that family, only one of whom now survived. Tavari stood at the edge of the lake, gazing across its mirrorshine surface, and breathed a deep sigh of relief. So often in the past had she stood here, the bridge stretching away towards the house itself, a beacon of white, flanked by Arasoron and Indilë. A brief shudder ran down the nís’s spine, and she closed her eyes. It was not a shudder of cold, but of memory. Arasoron’s shade haunted her constantly, but it was not often now that she thought of he and his wife together or for long, and when her eyes fell shut, they were with her. Her twin stood to her right, taller and broader than Tavari herself, and dark of hair and eyes. He looked often grim to those who did not know him, but she could see the happiness in his face. On his hip rode the dirk Telperil, which sat in the present on Tavari’s own, called Glamor. To her left, stood her childhood friend, and sworn sister: Indilë, the spearmaid, and the fire of her hair was as bright as the bark of her laugh. They had come back to Linyamiril from their latest sojourn, and after their concert sigh, the peace of the place stole over them not with calm, but energy. “Last one to the house has to clean all the leathers!” Indilë shrieked, and dashed forward, despite the burden of Mornassë on her back. The twins fled after her on hot pursuit, all laughing with delight as the scene faded.

Tavari stepped forward, waving to the greeting of the lamplighters as they walked across the bridge towards her. Throughout the grounds of Linyamiril and at intervals upon the bridge hung Fëanorian lamps, blue flame in white crystal, which were hooded during daylight hours. Dusk was coming, and Tavari’s pace quickened as she crossed the bridge. The manor house grew larger, veins of pink showing amongst the white of its marble construct. Then the door stood before her, and fell open easily before her hand. This was a place of peace, and it knew her well. Almost in a dream, Tavari wended her way through the house, each corridor calling her by name. At last, she descended stairs of a darker shade, down a narrow passage and into the deeps of Linyamiril. The ceiling was vaulted but low, and the pressing silence was broken only by the soft footfalls of the nís returning there for the first time. Her brother had brought her here before, when she had first returned to Imladris. They had not yet dwelt in this manse again then, and he had brought her for the purpose of showing her this vault. Tavari had wondered at first if Aigronding had converted the underground chamber into a crypt in her absence, but he quickly dissuaded her of that notion.

It was, as once might say, a storage unit. But this was no ordinary chamber of heavy doors and padlocks: on each side of the hall stood several doors, wrought intricately with gold and silver, with a lighted lamp above each. They had been made by the dwarves in the country of Lindon, and only Aigronding knew by what means each might be opened. Some had holes for keys, and others had no hole at all. He had led her to the very end of the passage beneath the vaulted ceiling, where stood a small door, only about as tall and wide as an elf. On this door were arrayed designs in gold and silver: about the edges motifs of curling vines and leaves, trees reaching and branching at the corners. At head height, a quartet of arms: the gryphon, for their father Erindan; the lion rampant, for Tavari Rávnisse; below these, the swan, for Aigronding’s house in Gondolin. Below this trio lay a different symbol: a silver horse, with eyes of glittering mithril. Tavari’s heart had risen in her throat at the sight of it and the memory of Fëalasso, left behind in the Flight. Her fingertips traced its outlines as Aigronding explained what was behind the door: the sword she had left behind in her second flight, nearly five millennia before. All that time he had kept it, awaiting her return. Heartsickness had lanced through Tavari’s chest, thinking of her little brother placing her sword in this place like a sacred relic, in hope that though it had not proved vain, must have grinded at him like the ice of Forochel.

“It will be there when you are ready to reclaim it.” His voice had interrupted her reverie, even as her hand rose to splay over the trio of sigils that represented their broken family. Her eyes had risen to rest on the symbols beneath her fingers, and the black eye of the gryphon gazed at her dispassionately. At length, her voice replied.

“How will I open it?” she asked, the metal cold beneath her hand.

“Speak your name.”

She had turned to look at him, questioning. “Tavari?”

Nothing happened. Her brother had merely smiled, clasped his hands behind his back, and meandered away.

Now Tavari stood before the door with fluttering in her heart, but not of trepidation. She surveyed its designs with love, and it seemed to her that a whisper crept along the vines and branches of its woody border, and the flame above seemed to pulse brighter, illuminating her wheaten hair with sunlight. The gryphon smiled upon her, benevolent and watchful, the lion roared silently of her pride, but when she reached out her hand it was laid upon the horse. Tavari pressed the surface of her flesh against the silver equine, feeling its legs dig into the heel of her hand, the broad curve of its back against the palm below her knuckles, and its arched neck tossing beneath her fingers. Distant echoes of a jubilant bugling neigh rang in her ears. Again she closed her eyes, hardly needing to call the images forth: the great grey stallion, powerful haunches gathering beneath him as he reared, striking at the sky and Laurelin’s light with the exuberance of being alive as she clung to his back and laughed with the same. Oromë calling to her as he rode towards them upon the great Nahar, his Huntsman’s face beaming with pride for his acolyte; resting his hand upon her face and acclaiming her with the name she uttered now, given voice at last after Ages.

“Roccotaurë.”

The word ghosted from her lips, quiet but strong. Tavari may have imagined the tingle that ran through her fingertips, but she did not invent the shifting and grinding sounds of unknown machinery that worked within the door, causing it to erupt forward from the surface of the wall, and slide slowly to one side. And there, within the shallow chamber, hung the sword. At first glance it was unremarkable to look upon: a simple longsword, the burnished blade just over a meter in length. It was perfectly balanced, capable of thrust and cut with equal facility, and double-edged for finesse. The quillons were straight and simple, flaring through the middle to protect the hand and tapering at their ends to round points. The hilt was pommeled with a thick cone of steel, and the two-handed grip was bound tightly with stout black leather. Below the hilt, however, was the first indication of this blade’s storied history: upon the ricasso on both sides of the blade, had been stamped with the device of Fëanor, by whose hands it had been forged. The breath stilled in Tavari’s chest as her eyes fell upon this sigil, and below it, the scribed runes of the smith’s name; and it may again have been her imagination that the light from a lamp behind her lanced against it and caused the surface of the metal to sheen with fire, bright as the lights of that forge, hot as the fëa of the prince who had created it, and the echoes of his voice whispered at the edges of her mind.

“Tavari.”

The fires of the forge were hot against her skin. The stone room was crowded, filled as it was with Fëanor and his seven sons, each of whom seemed to take up more space than their physical forms warranted. The twins Ambarussa stood off to her left, Makalaurë next to them. To her right were Curufinwë, Maitimo, and Tyelkormo closest, Directly behind her stood Carnistir, who had nudged her forward at the sound of his father’s voice. With a quick glance back at him, Tavari stepped towards the prince at the forge. Fëanor’s back was to her, black hair falling down his back slick with sweat from the heat. He was stripped to the waist but for the heavy leather apron that protected his torso from flying sparks and steam as he worked. Here more than anywhere, to Tavari, his power and authority radiated; she was not afraid, but it did seems as though his hard gaze were upon her, even with his face away. He had not approved of her at first, this fire-spirited prince of the Noldor, nor her association with his sons. But time, her unwillingness to be cowed, and perhaps Nerdanel, had changed his mind. Again she glanced back at Carnistir, who nodded his encouragement.

“Come here, child.” Fëanor spoke again, sensing her hesitance. At his command, she stepped forward again. “You will have heard of the new types of weapons that are being made, indeed you will have seen them on the hips of my sons.” It was true: each of them had begun to carry a thing called a sword at times, and other types of blades were produced from the forges now as well. They were not yet common, but the fascination spread. “There are those who would have you fear these weapons. Heed them not: there is no fear in them for those who are in the right, and those who control the blades. You are with us, and have nothing to fear. Long have you trained at the bow for sport and hunting, to rank with the finest of archers. Now it is time for you to master a new skill.” At last Fëanor turned, and in his hands shone a beautiful thing: the sword called out to Tavari’s very soul, though she had never touched such a thing before. Even as, smiling, Fëanor extended the blade towards her, Tavari’s wondering hands extended to take it. From the needle-sharp point to the leather-wrapped hilt her eyes swept, to the sigil below the crossguard and the runes where, in his own hand, Fëanor had graven his name. Taking the grip in both her hands for the first time, Tavari reversed the blade until it pointed towards the floor, bowed her head, and pressed the hilt into her heart.

“Thank you, my lord.”

Tavari’s fingers wrapped around the black leather of her sword’s grip. A thrill ran up her arm and the heart pounded in her chest as she lifted it from the hooks upon which it had hung. Despite the length of its neglect, no dust or rust gathered upon the blade, and as she brought it fully into the light, its face reflected each flame with the brightness of the forge the day it had been made. Even as she had once had a twin, so had this sword: Fëanor had given to her a second blade, this to take to Arasoron. They were alike in weight and length, but the grip of his had been strapped with dark brown, patches of which sheened as though with gold, and though its ricasso was likewise stamped with Fëanor’s crest, it lacked the runes below. Later, the plain pommel had been replaced with a galvorn gryphon’s head by the great smith Telchar. This sword had been with Arasoron when he perished, and Tavari had not seen it since she had been dragged from his corpse at Ost-in-Edhil. But here and now, in this place, with his dirk on her hip and her sword in her hand she felt, for the first time in a long, long time, complete. The sword was an extension of her body as none other had ever been, and her bones welcomed its return, as one of their own number displaced. Tavari reversed her grip on the sword and took from a hook below where it had hung the scabbard and baldric, carefully oiled, which had dwelt in the chamber with it. She slipped the great nameless sword into its home and strapped the baldric about her torso until the hilt protruded over her right shoulder, at just the right height for a clean draw. At the touch of her hand the door to the small chamber slid closed, and Tavari strode from the vault.

It was fully dark when she emerged from the house, but the black night was interrupted here and there by the glow of the lamps, now unhooded. She eschewed the brightness of the bridge and turned away from the house to a path which ran along it towards a grove of trees. The light was scarce here, as she entered the copse: branches blotted out the moon and stars above, and only scattered lamps gave faint illumination to the path. At first, the trees seemed like any other, but as Tavari pressed further among them, a faint scent of sweetness began to permeate the air. One of the many Mordagnir enterprises was orchards and, hidden within this ordinary grove was a stand of apple tress. Slowly the ordinary trunks gave way to this which bore the tangy fruit, and as she forged on, all at once these gave way to a clearing. Moonlight poured into this sudden space, a precise circle of grassy sward, and at its precise center a small building of white marble, bathed in the silver glow of Tilion’s vessel. It seemed to Tavari that she beheld again the light of Telperion in Tirion upon Túna as the moon’s rays reflected the light of the stone, hard and soft at once. And such a thing was fitting: this was the Mordagnir family mausoleum.

To this place had Tavari never come. It had not yet been completed when she took her leave of Imladris following the sack of Eregion, and since her return she had refused all efforts by Aigronding to bring her here. He had not asked in some time- it had been the cause of one of their many disagreements when she had first returned to the vale. But the sight of the building now did not cause her distress, nor trepidation, and Tavari’s feet drew her forward, across the clearing, and up the steps leading to the arched doorway of the mausoleum. Far different from that which she had trod during many winters in Thargelion, but this floor too was pale-cool beneath her feet, and the thin veins of pink in the marble warmed the moonlight that seeped through the skylight in the uppermost reaches of the small building’s roof. Crystal covered the opening to keep out the water, and diffused any light into gentle softness, seeming to increase the quiet of this space. Directly beneath the skylight in the center of the room stood a statue of an elf. His features were strong and his bearing regal, but there was no haughty arrogance in the face of Lord Erindan Mordagnir, even in stone: his expression was ever as she had known it in life, kind and wise. As with her twin who so took after him, many had looked upon Erindan and pronounced him dour, but his eldest child knew better. Tavari pressed her palm to her heart and bowed before the statue.

“Father.”

Erindan’s bones did not lie in any of the sarcophagi her gaze now fell upon as she surveyed the rest of the room, for there had been no chance to remove him from Gondolin when the city fell. But Tavari felt his presence nonetheless as she stood in the moon-cool quiet, gazing upon the face of a beloved father to whom she had never had the chance to say goodbye. She moved on. Slowly now, across the gap between statue and sarcophagi to the one which stood directly behind the her father. It was narrow at the base and widened to a broad table at the top, where two effigies lay. This stone bower was flanked by stone gryphons rampant, and delicate stone lilies scattered about their clawed feet. Tavari drew near the figure closest to her, and looked down upon her oldest friend.

Indilë’s face was as it had been in life: sharp, high-cheekboned, and even in stone the vulpine flash of her eyes was evident. Some stonemason had taken endless care in describing the web of braids that held her mass of hair away from her face, and rather than the sedate expression that usually decorated the faces of such effigies, it seemed that the corners of her lips had been turned up, mocking death. Tavari had not felt the tears spring up behind her eyes, but they ran down her face nonetheless. Like her father, Indilë’s bones were not here. The burning, raging force of her fëa had destroyed her body at their parting, and there had been nothing left of her recover. Nothing but the great spear Mornassë, which Tavari had taken with her into the wild. A stone replica of the spear lay in Indilë’s stone right hand, while her left lay, not upon her chest, but handclasped with her husband’s right. Slower yet, Tavari moved around the sarcophagus to his effigy and, at last, gazed upon her twin brother’s face. Her heart seemed to swell and clench at once as Arasoron, entombed below his stone figure, gazed back. He could not see, nor speak, nor breathe, he was but stone; this she knew, and yet it felt as though his eyes pierced her, knowing all, as he had always done.

“I am here, háno.”

It seemed strange to address Arasoron thus now; though he had the title first, it was Aigronding’s now. Did Arasoron see her now from the Halls of Mandos, and know she had come home to their little brother, so long parted? Could he see her here, reaching out to lay her hand on his stone one? It was not as cold as Tavari had expected. Though her cheeks were still damp, her voice was soft and steady.

“I am here,” she repeated, “though I am late. I did always have a tendency to be late, even when you were expecting me.” Tavari thought of him in the gardens of Aman, hair sticking up wildly after the tongue of a kine mussed it while waiting for her, and laughed. The silver sound echoed off the marble walls in the quiet. “Thank you for waiting.” She rubbed her fingertips over his stone knuckles. “Even after all this time, I still don’t quite know what I’m doing, Arasoron,” she spoke companionably, as if he stood beside her. “But I know I have come to the right place. My exile is ended. I have been here for years now but… never quite realized until now. Is this place home? I don’t know. Maybe that is why I no longer feel the compulsion to move on. Certainly there is no king here. Or perhaps Maitimo has lifted his edict from beyond the veil.” A smile played about her lips. “If you see him, ask him, will you? Arasoron…” her voice dropped to a husky whisper, “you would be so proud of Maltahtar. He is the best of us. More goodhearted than you or I could ever be. I wish you were here to see him. I wish you were here. By Oromë, I wish you were here,” her head bowed, and her hand clenched upon his. “I miss you, háno.” It was a plaintive admission, but the swift wave of sadness that covered her did not last long. Again she smiled, and laughed. “You would so love my fool.”

Dry eyed, Tavari strode from the mausoleum, and the moon in her hair was as the mingling of the lights. Her periwinkle eyes sparkled with the fire of the stars, and her stride was one of purpose as she made her way back through the woods, away from the sweet-smelling trees, through the still dark trunks beyond, and at last returning to the grounds before the house. All was still and silent. It was the deeps of night, and not a soul stirred but she. This time, the light of the lamps called to her: the Fëanorian lamps that lined the bridge, blue flame in white crystal. How Aigronding had acquired so many she did not know, but their presence wrapped her in a warm embrace and filled her with light. Tavari’s pace became measured as she crossed the bridge, until she stood at the peak of its slight arc over the water. The light of the lamps bathed the breadth of the bridge and glimmered on the water below, and enveloped the nís who stood between them. She halted, and reached up to grasp the hilt of her sword. Slowly she drew the blade from its scabbard and brought it into the light. The metal seemed to glow blue about its edges, not after the manner of those blades that sensed nearby orcs, but a subtle pulse of energy, as Fëanor’s lights touched the steel that his hands had formed.

Automatically, Tavari came into an en guard position. She felt perfectly balanced and light as a feather with her sword in her hand, and the movements came without thought. The cuts, thrusts, parries, ripostes, evasions, retreats, and advances of her earliest training flowed through her body. Every extension of the blade was perfectly placed and the point landed precisely where her thought commanded it. Her body lunged and twisted, effortlessly through the forms that would give any onlooker no doubt that she had earned the title Rávnissë, the Lioness. As she drilled the movements, though still perfectly controlled, became wilder: describing circles about the surface of the bridge she fought a thousand enemies and sparred with a hundred friends, now leaping to balance upon the railing, now diving to evade an attack. Time passed without notice, and it was not until a bright light glanced off her blade and into her eyes that Tavari paused. All at once she became aware of the weariness of her body: her movements had naturally cycled back into simple drills of their own accord, and her skin was slick with sweat. The bright light had been the sun: a sharp ray piercing between the trees from over the horizon. Dawn was breaking. The night had passed beneath the liquid machinations of her sword, the hours of toil made meditation by their reunion. Slowly Tavari completed the sequence the sun had interrupted, her eyes raised to the sky rather than her invisible foe. Duskily, Tilion tarried with his vessel, ever eager to catch a glimpse of Arien as she brought the day with hers. Tavari stood straight, watching them slowly move, the sword at her side, loose and comfortable in her hand. Then the warlike nís raised her blade to salute them both, brought the pommel to her mouth and kissed it reverently, her heart at peace.

[Quill]

Quill
Wandering the Valley with Laintaen

“That is well,” Quill said in response to Laintaen’s description of the valley, changeless as ever, a sanctuary untouched by the rumors of the outside world. “It comforts me that no matter how far I roam, Imladris is waiting patiently for me to resume my place within it. Already I feel at home, just now.” The smile the thought summoned to her face slipped when the other elleth explained what she had meant about something passing through the Valley: a motion disturbing the earth, though not a creature or a quake, and a sense of joyfulness from the tree.

“An Ent?” Quill repeated. “Here in the Valley? Now that would be something for the annals, wouldn’t it?” After a thought, she swung down from her horse to join Laintaen on the ground. “I confess you’ve piqued my curiosity. Where were you thinking to look first?” She laughed when the elf offered her the mushrooms she had gathered. “That’s very kind of you, and if you don’t mind, I do think I’ll take you up on the offer,” she said. “Mushrooms are among my favorite foods, and I’ll need something to bolster my energy if we are going to go questing after this Ent of yours.”

[Androthelm]

Androthelm the Whitemane
Dreaming amidst the Trees

It was a warm and gentle morning -- but what other sort of morning was there, in the Homely House of Elrond? -- and the Whitemane, who had been called Longspear by some and Whitemane by others and Androthelm to his kin in the distant lands of his youth, was smoking a pipe and enjoying the sunshine.

Perhaps he ought to have noted the rumbling beneath the earth, tranquil as he was with his back against a mighty (if senseless) tree which grew some few yards off the winding path down into the secret valley. Perhaps he ought have noted quite a lot of things, but the truth of it was that the Whitemane's mind was a distance away--many thousand years away, in fact, wandering through the sagas now reduced to song and memory and fitting new lyrics to an old tune.

When Sorontar descended... Upon a gust of wind-- Androthelm hummed, then opened his eyes and his mouth, releasing first a smoke-ring and then a gasp. In a heartbeat, he was back in Greenwood, among the folk of Thranduil, and there--The White Hart!

But, no. He was in Imladris, in Rivendell. Come down to the Valley-- But, here. This was no time for songs. Those were newcomers (Quill and Laintaen), and the Hart was a horse, all strangers to Androthelm. That was not unusual -- many strangers passed through Imladris, seeking the guidance of Lord Elrond, and there were plenty who dwelt permanently in the Valley who the Whitemane was yet to meet. Always time for an introduction, he thought, popping to his feat with more agility than one might expect -- though less, perhaps, than he had once mustered.

"Hail!" he cried, approaching the path. "Hail, Fair Folk. Where do you wander, so early on such a fine morning?"

[Laintaen]

Laintaen
Wandering the Valley with Quill, in search of a new Ent

Laintaen smiled at Quill’s offer of assisting her search for the new Ent. She opened her satchel and handed the elleth several of the mushrooms. “Of like tastes, we are, for they are one of my favourite foods as well. They are so versatile, and suitable even for horses, if your steed is hungry as well.” She admired the handsome, gold-coloured beast. “She is a splendid creature, and you seem very attuned to each other. What is her name?”

The red-haired elleth looked around again while they shared their breakfast and contemplated their next move. “How might one begin to search for a newly sentient tree? The tales tell of the Eldar teaching them how to speak. Perhaps we could talk to them, call out to them, and see whether anything responds?”

All at once, she remembered a song her mother used to sing her and her brother when they were younger. In a voice certainly not splendid but clear enough, she began to sing.

“Long ago, when the world was new
The trees ran wild, as children do.
But Ivon watered the ground with dew,
And from her songs, the Shepherds grew.

These mighty Ents, though numbered few,
Watched o’er their flock, from those who drew
A blade or flame against their yew.
And forests thrived as foes withdrew.

But Ages end and begin anew,
The Mortals pass and the trees do too.
The forests lost and swept from view,
And the Shepherds weep for the woods they knew.”

Her song faded, and something did respond. Not a tree but a Man, long in years by the reckoning of Men, if his age could be determined by the length of his white beard (Androthelm). He sprang out of the grass a few yards from the path on which they stood, and took her quite by surprise. She was very unobservant this morning!

“Suilad, anuifaunt*,” she greeted once she had mastered her surprise. “It seems this morning has seen fit to welcome many new friends to the Valley, including what may be an Ent. My companion, who goes by Quill, and myself seek the source of a strange call that ran through the earth not long ago. If nothing else calls your immediate attention, perhaps you would like to join us?”

*old man (respectful)

[Veowyn]

Sparring (an open area not far from Tingdain Forge)

The night before, Veowyn had spent some time visiting an old friend, Tenharien at the Adab Gelir. During their time of catching up, Veo had mentioned sparring. He had seemed surprised, but she really did want to. She had invited him to meet her near Tingdain Forge, so that they might get that thrilling work out.

She had tied her wild brown curls back in a long plait, that dangled past the middle of her back. She wore tan leggings, with a light green tunic with elbow length sleeves. Over it she wore a thick leather vest, made from nameless creatures in from Mirkwood, the stitching and laces almost looked silver, made from spider silk threads. Her boots and her bracers were all made from the same sort of blackened leather. She had set her knife belt on the grass not far from her. She had also brought some sparring blades. these were blades she had made for her kids really, not sharp in any way, but they were made of the same metals swords and daggers she would really carry were, instead of the wooden sparring blades some used. She did have a few wooden staves on hand as well, though. She was excited really, it had been a while since she had sparred with any one other than while teaching her kids. I would be good to get some practice with someone with more skill than herself.

Speaking of the kids. While Thorion and Bella were off somewhere else within the Valley, a young Valion had accompanied his mother today. The young elf sat on the grass with a few scrolls he had borrowed from the Lord Elrond's extensive library. Veowyn loved that her son actually had a curiosity in history and such, but she hope that he would want to get up and maybe get some practice in himself. She always emphasized that it was important to keep the body just as sharp as the mind. Survival relied on both. Valion on the other hand was usually just curious to learn more about everything he could find in the archives. He would make a great lorist some day, she thought proudly.

She was watching him read, with a smile on her lips, when she heard a noise not far from them. They were safe in the Valley, she had to remind herself when she tensed up. Hopefully it would be Ten, so they could get moving.

[Tenharien]

Sparring (an open area not far from Tingdain Forge)

"Ah, I see we have a young one with us today! And who is this young lad?" Tenharien asked as he arrived, waving to them both. "Did you come to train too, little one? Or are you just studying? Perhaps reading for fun?" Ten smiled and then looked over to Veowyn who he went right over to and hugged gently. "And you look a vision as always, love. I must say, I do like your hair like this."

Tenharien had his hair just tied back in a simply tight ponytail to keep it out of the way. He was wearing his normal training gear. A light blueish long shirt and pants to match. He didn't bring anything else, forgetting that Veowyn might want to practice with weapons. "Sorry, I didn't bring anything, love. I'm just so used to teaching unarmed combat in the mornings, I never really bring anything with me. Anyway, I'm excited to learn what new techniques or concepts you've learned from the land of fair folk. Obviously, you've been taking care of yourself." Ten said with a smirk and then walked over to join the young ellon and see what he was reading.

[Quill]

Quill
With Laintaen and Androthelm

Quill accepted the mushrooms with a spark in her eyes, a spark which kindled into pleasure as she bit into one. At Laintaen’s mention of the fungi’s appropriateness for horses, she offered one on a flat palm to Shanstrin, who snuffled at it with eager velvety lips. “That is kind of you to say,” Quill said as the horse gobbled up the treat. “We have faced many roads together, Shanstrin and I, and I could not imagine parting with her.”

She nodded along with Laintaen’s musings regarding their search for the Ent. “Those are all as good ideas as any,” she answered, and fell silent in pleasant surprise when the other Elf suddenly began to sing. The lyrics Quill did not recognize, but the tune was familiar and fair, and by the time the last verse came about she was humming along with a low harmony. She had just opened her mouth to praise Laintaen’s voice when an unexpected turn of events interrupted her: an older, white-bearded man (Androthelm) emerged from some hidden bower off the path. Quill was startled, though not shocked, to see a mortal in this ageless valley. Many different folk passed this way, and it was not hers to question.

He greeted them in a friendly enough manner, inquiring as to their destination. To Quill’s relief, Laintaen wasted no time in responding, offering a brief explanation and extending an invitation to the man to join them in their little quest.

“Indeed,” Quill agreed with a smile. “You should come along, and we will see what other curiosities this morning has in store for us!”

[Androthelm]

Androthelm the Whitemane
The Paths of Imladris

"Apologies, apologies, fair folk." the Whitemane bowed low, letting his beard dangle. "I did not mean to interrupt your song, or your exploring! Indeed, newcomers and old neighbors alike are often drawn together in this beautiful Valley."

On discovering what it was these folk were searching for, Androthelm's eyes grew wide with youthful delight. "A tree-shepherd? I will confess, though they have long lurked at the edges of songs -- as well, I think, as tales I remember from childhood. If there is truly an Ent in Imladris, I would love to meet them, if you truly do not mind my company."

When the second elf (Quill) confirmed his invitation, Androthelm's heart jumped. Rivendell was a beautiful home, but one did sometimes miss the fields of the Mark and adventure 'neath an open sky...
Shaking himself out of his reverie, Androthelm smiled. "Off we go then! Where shall we begin our shepherd-hunt?"

(OOC Edit: @Quill How did I only just realize I missed your post? Edited in a sort of lazy retcon)

[Veowyn]

Sparring (an open area not far from Tingdain Forge)

Mother and son both looked when Tenharien spoke up. Veowyn returned her friend's warm embrace. "Mae govannen, mellon nin! Ten, this is my son, Valion." The fair haired elven lad was still looking up from the pages he was studying. "Hello, Master Tenharien." Valion spoke so formally, his mother chuckled. "I am actually reading about this history of the Tingdain! So many famous blades were made here!" His enthusiasm shone through, to his eyes that matched his mother's.

Veowyn looked from her son, to her friend. "Don't worry about the weapons. i have plenty to share. Unarmed is always good to practice as well." She saw him move to join Valion in the grass. Nope, that is not what she was here to do today. She darted ahead, and grabbed up both wooden staves in her hands. She then swung one down, aiming to sweep it under his legs. She then pointed the end at him, with a teasing look on her face. Valion snickered at Ten from behind his scroll. Veowyntossed the second staff in Ten's direction. "First thing, always be on your guard. Second, I came for a work out. We can lay in the grass later." She winked at him, the blue seemingly brighter with her laughter. She backed up from him, raising her staff. She motioned with her free had for him to follow, and come at her.

[Rose Sandybank]

Arriving at Aduial Mar.

Amaniel was weary, she had been on horse back for weeks now, she was travelling in haste with her adopted daughter Bellethiel. It was a warm day with a slight breeze but Amaniel was too exhausted to notice she was quiet and solemn following an ordeal she had been through. she had lost her smile.

She had managed to escape her captor with a little help and had fled all the way from umbar to mirkwood with her faithful wolf hound Enzo. She constantly looked over her shoulder incase he followed or found her, only stopping to rest the horse in hidden put of the way places, she was glad Enzo was with her but she was always afraid of being found and hoping she got to her daughter before "he" did. As soon as she arrived in mirkwood she called to her daughter to pack something as they were leaving, "it's not safe here" after some persuading bellethiel packed some things and they began a hasty journey from mirkwood to rivendell to see her father, with Enzo trotting along beside them.

They were approaching rivendell now, where she could finally feel safe and could rest. She did not relish having to tell her father about her recent situation or how he would react to her captivity.

As they approached the house she could see her father in the garden, she tried to dismount but being exhausted she fell to the ground in a heap with Enzo the wolfhound standing over her.

[Lobelia Brindleway]

Bellethiel with her mother Amaniel - arriving at Aduial Mar

Bellethiel was travelling to rivendell with her mother at her side on horseback with their luggage scrapped to the horses. They stopped for abit so Bellethiel could take her cloak off as it was very warm now with only a gentle breeze.

They had been traveling for weeks to visit her grandfather Rior in rivendell. Her mother had been very quiet and deep in thought she didn't know what was wrong or what the hurry was to suddenly just pack up and leave. Her mother before they had set off hadn't been seen for weeks.

Bellethiel thought back to a few weeks ago when her mother arrived back at the house at the crack of dawn, threw Bellethiel's blanket she was sleeping under off her and told her to hurry and pack up her things they were leaving. Bellethiel was shocked and stood up sleepily and told her mother, 'Mother what has been going on, where have you been? And why do we suddenly have to leave!?' she looked bewildered.
Her mother had thrown her, her backpack and some food from the kitchen and Bellethiel had thrown supplies into it. Quickly getting dressed from out of her night gown. She was sure her clothes was on back to front but her mother had been so quick she didn't have time to change again. And that's it so there they are on horseback travelling to rivendell. Her mother wouldn't say where she had been why she had disappeared for weeks and was so withdrawn.

They could see her grandfather's house now in the not so distance and Bellethiel was glad. She was tired and hungry and needed a drink.

Suddenly out of the corner of her eye her mother fell off her horse and landed on the ground. Bellethiel jumped down from her own horse horrified, went round to the side and lent down at her mother's side. 'Mother what's happening, are you alright?' Bellethiel had tears in her eyes now.
She tried to shake her mother awake and she screamed into the air hoping her grandfather could hear her from his house. ' Grandfather, Grandfather, come quickly, mother has fainted!!!'

[Tenharien]

"It's nice to meet you, young ellon. Valion. That is a great name. Oh and well mannered," Tenharien said in shock, taken aback a little. "Tingdain? Hmm, and are you into fine blades?" It was obvious to him, but still Ten wanted to hear the boy's thoughts on his readings.

"Well well, look at you," Tb]Tenharien[/b] said, admiring the elegance of Veowyn's movements. He lifted his book to step back and smiled, glad he could train with one of his good friends again. "Still as sharp as you ever were. Maybe better eh? You know it's much more fun to train with elves than to battle orcs sometimes. Only sometimes though." He caught the staff and spun it, to get the feel and weight of it. Tenharien cleared his through and looked at Veowyn with a raised brow. "I'm sure we will... and don't worry, you'll break a sweat."

"Decent! Love, I am always on guard. Probably because I don't trust anyone. Still a good lesson to recall. "Have you learned blade work from your mother, Valion? Let's drill in this footwork shall we?" Tenharien took a large step towards her and grabbed the staff with one hand near the other, attacking her with an overhead strike to test her base.

[Rior Laegiel]

Aduial Mar
Rior and Raeru

"You want to help with the gardening?" Rior asked when Raeru approached him to see what he was doing. She had always been curious and sometimes followed him around to keep an eye on him when it was just the two of them. The ellon didn't mind as it was nice to have company even if the feline didn't talk back. After losing the wolfhound some time ago Rior had decided not to get another animal companion other than his horse but Raeru had other plans. It seemed like yesterday when the Mirkwood forest cat had adopted him but it had been a few years ago when Rior served as butler to King Thanduil. After moving to Imladris the two of them had settled into their new home gradually and eventually found a daily rythm together in their new home.

The flowers he was tending to had long stems and flowers in different colors. They had a lovely scent to them and he held down a flower to Raeru for her to smell and she sneezed before turning her head away and taking two steps back. "These flowers are called sweet pea, they are my favourite flowers. One of my favourites anyway but I guess you do not like them," the ellon chuckled watching her reaction. Why would anyone like flowers with such an awful smell? And what a strange name for a flower, there was nothing sweet about the smell of it, and it didn't resemble a pea either. If you asked her, not that anyone had, the ellon beside her had always been a little strange but that was one of the reasons she liked him and had chosen to move in with him from the start.

The two of them were interruped by a familiar voice. "Grandfather, grandfather, come quickly, mother has fainted!!!" Was Belle and Amaniel here? Surprised, he got to his feet and hurried toward where his granddaughter's voice had been coming from as he could hear the panic in it. Not that he wasn't happy that they were here but usually they sent word so that he could prepare for their arrival. Following the ellon to greet the guests, Raeru stopped at a distance as soon as she saw Enzo. She was best friends with Siolfor and had no problems with horses but she wasn't at all used to canines and seeing the wolfhound Raeru watched him carefully, ready to run if she would need to.

As he kneeled beside Amaniel with a worried expression on his face Enzo growled at him and showed his teeth but Rior didn't take any notice of him. Enzo would never trust him and he had to accept that. "What happened?" he asked instead and turned to Belle. Normally he would have greeted them but now the thought of hugs and pleasantries were the last thought on his mind. Those things would have to wait. When the wolfhound started growling Raeru thought it best to retreat before anything unpleasant happened. Finding her toy mouse that she had left in the grass earlier that day, she made it safely to one of her secret hiding spots. Rior had found some of them but she was pretty sure that not even he knew of this one. While waiting for his granddaugher to reply Rior gathered his daughter into his arms and rose to his feet. "We better get her to a healer."

[Lobelia Brindleway]

Bellethiel with Amaniel and Rior

Bellethiel's throat had gone a little hoarse from trying to yell for her grandfather, luckily though she wouldn't have to yell for longer as she saw her grandfather had come running along with wolfhound Enzo at his side. He was baring his teeth.

Her grandfather asked her what had happened, to which she replied rather hoarse and tired, 'I don't know, we were just riding on our horses to your house, the next minute she had fallen off her horse and collapsed....I'm so glad you heard me.' Bellethiel said with relief. Her grandfather Rior picked up his daughter and told her that they had better get her to a healer.

Bellethiel back at Rior's house with Amaniel

Bellethiel had just given her mother Amaniel some relaxing herbs by liquid that were given to them by a healer from the houses of healing.

She had been at her mother's bedside for 2 to 3 days tending to her mother's needs since they had arrived back. Feeding her liquid typed food, reading her tales from a book she had found in her grandfather's house. Her mother had kept slipping in and out of unconsciousness. But she knew she was still listening to her talk and read and she occasionally woke to be fed.

Belle left her mother resting and went into the kitchen to make herself a drink, and found Rior there.

She decided to tell her grandfather what had been happening before they came at his home.

'Grandfather, mother has been acting strange, before we arrived, I was asleep in bed and the next thing mother comes in after weeks of being away...no contact...nothing...wakes me up at the crack of dawn and tells me to pack my stuff and we are coming to you.' She paused for abit her face sketched with worry and she took a sip of her tea before continuing.

'I tried to ask her what was wrong whilst traveling here but she wouldn't tell me.' Then the passing out happened. 'Now we have found out mother is expecting a child from the houses of healing, I wonder who the father is. I didn't know she was seeing someone.' She looked at her grandfather's face worriedly. 'I do hope she tells us more when she is well enough too. And explain where she had been all these weeks. Had she not sent word to you?' she asked her grandfather..

She took another sip of her tea and said ' I have been hearing her have nightmares since being here and a few times I'd had to come into her room to calm her down and sooth her as she had awoken a few times from screaming.
Bellethiel had tears in her eyes now as she thought back to a night where her mother had screamed for the second time from a nightmare.
She waited for her grandfather to reply.

[Laintaen]

Laintaen
Wandering the Valley with Quill and Androthelm

And so the party in search of new awakenings grew to three as the old man agreed to join them. “We would be happy to add your company to ours,” Laintaen returned, “and your voice to our cause. I am Laintaen. May we have your name and what fortune brought you to the Valley this morning?”

But they were no closer to locating this new Ent, and her song had drawn the attention of none but the Man. “At present, we have little on which to base our search. We do not know whether this Ent has a voice of its own yet, and I had thought that singing aloud of their kind might elicit a response.” She turned to both Quill and Androthelm. “Have either of you anything you might think pique its interest? Songs, poems, perhaps even tales might do the trick?”

She thought for a moment, then recalled a tale of her own. "One of my favourite places as a young Elf was the talan my father built in the boughs of one of the trees on our property. I would spend hours up there, reading until the sun left too little light to discern the pages. Though only 15 feet off the ground, I would pretend I was at the top of the tallest mallorns in Lorien."

OOC: Should we poke Dwarrow Elf, see if he wants to give us another hint to follow?

[Veowyn]

Sparring (an open area not far from Tingdain Forge)

Veowyn made a face when Tenharien said it was only better, sometimes, to train with elves vs orcs. "Where do spiders fall on that list?" Valion confirmed why she would ask. "Amme does tend to battle more with spiders than goblins and orcs." He shrugged. "Amme does teach sometimes, yes. Mostly learning how to defend myself enough to get away, for now. I learn a lot from watching her, too. Although I have enjoyed learning when we are here in Imladris."

Veowyn easily held her ground, and met the attack with her own staff in both hands blocking above her head. She then side stepped, pushing the attack off of her. "Again." She encouraged. This was fun. She did share his earlier sentiment though. It was nice to spar with a friend. "Practicing" in the moment was one was to get the adrenaline running. This was another type of exhilarating. And she was just getting started.

[Nen]

Calemireth
(A Private RPG)

Many Summers After

Post 1

The smell of memories was upon the air as Calemireth gazed out of the arched windows of her verandah. Honeysuckle growing up the twisted columns was in full bloom, and the Noldo felt drowsy in its heady scent. She listened to the fall of water about her, and allowed its rushing sounds to calm her tired soul. Her long, slender fingers played idly with the strings of the lyre, and her dark head rested against the back of a reclining couch adorned in gold and white. These colours of day blended well with the chiffon-like train of her light blue gown. It felt good to be in one again after all these years out in the wild. Calemireth closed her eyes briefly. Those were not the memories she wanted to remember. Her green eyes looked upon the growing shadows in the valley, and the blushing glow of the sun coming in from the west. Her idle fingers continued to strum the lyre as she lifted her voice in soft song:

"Once in the fair lands beyond the Misty Mountains
Lived a folk tall and fair in thousands.
Once in the fair lands near the dwarven halls,
A people did dwell secure in their call.

Oh, Wind! Hear you, the song of my voice;
Take heed and listen to story of choice,
That brought this fair people of not long ago,
To an end they could not imagine before."

A quiet voice excused itself at the entrance into the verandah. "Human years mean nothing to us. And yet it feels a long while since my heart has felt the pleasure of your soothing voice, my Lady Calemireth."

The lady addressed stopped her singing and playing, and got up to smile at the young elf that had come in and had begun to arrange a dinner table for one. "It does feel like a long while, Narchion, although it has been no more than sixty years since we parted ways. However, two whole centuries is certainly the longest I have been from home!" She seated herself at the table and allowed herself to be served. She had missed the pampering she received only at Imladris. The quiet about her, and the liveliness of the landscape after all the darkness she had seen in the past many years, was like balm to her soul.

Having served her, Narchion took his place a little away. Glancing at him, Calemireth wondered if he had something he wanted to say. He would otherwise have left her to her solitary repast. She lifted an enquiring eyebrow. The young elf blushed and cleared his throat. "It is nothing, my lady. Except, perhaps...I thought you might like to know that Taidron Aigronding and Taidril Tavari are gathering together on a mission with our folk from Lothlorien, Mirkwood and Lindon."

"I see," said the lady thoughtfully. Did she really want to know? She sighed. "Is that all, Narchion?"

"Yes, Lady Calemireth"

She nodded a silent dismissal, and the elf slipped out the room.

Calemireth ate calmly, savouring every morsel she slipped between her lips. She had only just returned. She would take her time to decide.

Once done, she picked up her lyre and began to sing again. Darkness had fallen. Narchion had entered silently and cleared up the remains of dinner. My lady Calemireth continued to sing of old memories into the small hours of the night.

[Androthelm]

Androthelm
With Quill and Laintaen

"Fifteen feet is quite a height, when your heart is dreaming of distant mountains." Androthelm smiled. It seemed he had found an elf after his own heart. "And you do make for quite the image--I can almost imagine the song they would sing, of an Elf and a Book and a tall Mallorn tree."
Turning, as though to bring the wooded hills into the audience of his story, Androthelm launched into a short tale of his own: "I, for one, was taught as a boy of the ancient knowledge and terror of the trees. Fangorn Forest is no wholesome place for children to go a-walking, but nevertheless we did play a game--as foolish young folk, you'll understand--to see who could set foot furthest 'neath the shadows of that wood." After a moment, the Whitemane added: "Not that we ever went deeper than the eaves."

(OOC: Yeah @Laintaen, just since it has been a solid month and a half since the post we're all reacting too, we might want to shoot a ping -- @Dwarrow Elf you've got a bit of a hunting party after you!)

[Rior Laegiel]

Aduial Mar
Rior and Raeru
With Bellethiel and Amaniel

Raeru wasn't going to set a paw into the house while the wolfhound was there. She didn't know his name and didn't care to know it. He was most likely a scruffy, flea-infested beast with dirty paws and he was a growler. He probably liked to bark and chase after cats too. Raeru was content to stay in the stable with the horses having Rior bring her food and water there when he came to feed and water the horses. At night she would sleep with her friend Siolfor in his stall but she hoped to Eru that the wolfhound would leave sooner rather than later so that she could move back into the comfort of the house.

Rior was sitting by the kitchen table with his arms resting on the table and a cup hot water with some honey in it. His grandmother had called it silver tea and had often given it to him as a child. Rior drank it from time to time nowadays as well. He stirred lazily with a teaspoon to help the honey dissolve in the hot water but the ellon was deep in thought and paid no attention to what he was doing. His thoughts went to his daughter as he wondered what she had been through. There was no way to know for sure until she was able to tell the story herself but he had a nagging feeling in his gut, that he couldn't shake, that Galiel had something to do with this. When his granddaughter entered the kitchen he looked up at Bellethiel and gave a tired smile. This had been hard on all of them and he had offered to help care for her mother but Enzo hadn't allowed it, watching Amaniel like a hawk he only let Belle into the room.

"How is your mother?" He asked, it had only been a few days since they came back from the healers so it would be a while yet before she would recover but her canine guardian wouldn't allow him to come see her. Enzo only left the room when Bellethiel forced him to go outside to do his business but even then he was back by Amaniel's side as soon as he was done.

Blowing on his tea to cool it a bit and taking a slow sip he listened to his granddaughter tell of their journey to the valley. "Did she say anything before she left or did she leave a note or anything?" Maybe she hadn't had time for any of that but it couldn't hurt to ask, if she had done so maybe it could give them some hint to where she had been or what she had been through. He couldn't be certain who the father was either even if he had his suspicions but he didn't tell Belle as she was worried enough for her mother as it was and he didn't want to add to her worry.

"No, your mother did not send word that the two of you would be coming here but I too hope she wakes soon so she can tell us." Shaking his head slowly he tried to remember if he had recieved a letter from his daughter recently but the only ones he had recieved was one from Lilith before she came to visit and one from a friend in Lindon. "Even so, I am very happy to see you even if the circumstances are not the best. Smiling gently he noticed the tears in Bellethiel's eyes he went over to her and gave her a warm, comforting hug as much to comfort his granddaughter as to draw comfort from it himself.

"Has your mother said anything when she has had these nightmares? A name or anything?" He asked after a while as a thought crossed his mind and he pulled away from the hug. "I have something for you." Leaving the kitchen for a short moment, Rior entered his study and opened a drawer on the left side of his desk to take out a journal. Olly had loved to keep journals and the one he now held in is hands would have been hers if she had lived. He had planned to give it to her after she returned home after her last mission with the Halcyon Guard but she never returned so Rior had just left it in the drawer ever since. He had never been able to bring himself to write in it himself but maybe his granddaughter would. At least he hoped so.

Returning to the kitchen he held out the journal, bound in green leather with goldish brown etched decorations on it, to Belle. "I bought this for your grandmother some years ago but I never had a chance to give it to her before she was taken away from us." Falling silent, he looked at the wall behind her with blank, unseeing eyes as he was lost in thought. Talking about his wife or even thinking of her, still felt like a knife through the heart sometimes, even if it had been almost ten years.

Snapping back to reality only a moment later he turned to his granddaughter again. "She never got to use it but maybe you will? I know she would want you to have it and I thought now would be as good a time as any to give it to you. I am sure you can find a quill and some ink around here somewhere, but you know me, I do not know where anything is half the time," he smiled. "It is a wonder that I can keep track of myself and know where I am," he joked, it was true that he could be absent-minded but he wasn't as forgetful as he liked to joke about sometimes.

"I will always be here when you need to talk, I hope you know that. Whatever you need to talk about and whatever time of day or night," his expression turning serious to make sure the elleth knew he meant it. "But I also know you are worried about your mother, as am I, and maybe there are things you are not ready to talk about yet so I thought that maybe this journal would help if you feel the need to share but do not feel ready to talk about yet."

[Nen]

Calemireth
(A Private RPG)

Many Summers After

Post 2

It had been late when sleep had taken her unawares, falling upon her as gently as a fallen leaf upon the pond. It was only when she awoke to the glare of the morning rays reflecting off the rocky surface of the mountain across from her verandah, that Calemireth realised she had slept at all. She stretched lazily, her lyre dislodged rather dangerously from her lap, and she whooped like a startled deer, reaching out to snatch at it before it hit the floor below. She flushed and her green eyes sparkled. She gazed outside. How she loved being home! For the first time, in she did not know how long, she felt truly rested, having slept a deep, dreamless, sleep. It was early hours yet, but Calemireth looked forward to going down into the gardens. She had arrived late the previous afternoon, so this was her first morning in Imladris in nearly two centuries.

Quickly running through her morning routine, Calemireth donned on a robe of yellow pastel hues, slipped her circlet over her forehead, and made her way out of her quarters and into the gardens of Elrond. The freshly cut lawn was a scent to be breathed in with much vigour. The elf woman began to stroll down the pathways, touching a flower there and a leaf here -- feeling and listening to the textures and sounds of home.

She sighed softly on that last word - home.

"I must say good-bye," she whispered to a rose-bush. "A little while longer and I must follow the road my mother took all those centuries ago." The soft pink roses appeared to object and Calemireth laughed quietly, and a twinkle sported in her otherwise rather old, wise and tired eyes. "I sojourn here a while longer. But this is my last stop, and then I am for home." She stood up straight and gazed out into the West, as though her eyes could see across and beyond many lands and many waters. "Too long have I delayed. My time here is ended and I can endure now more. I long to be with my beloved again," she whispered. She sighed again withdrawing her gaze, and continuing down the garden path.

*

As Calemireth stepped onto the threshold of her quarters she was greeted with the hustle and bustle of the household. She saw Narchion pass by, precariously balancing two, flat, medium-sized caskets the one wobbling rather dangerously over the other. "I surprised you can carry both Narchion. I know how heavy those boxes are!"

"Nothing a single elf can not handle, m'lady. Don't worry. I'll be fine." His voice sounded muffled from behind the boxes.

"It isn't you I am worried about, Narchion. But I would rather the journals reach my study without suffering a mishap," replied Calemerith with amusement.

And indignant hurumph sounded from behind the boxes before the elf disappeared into the inner rooms.

Calemerith followed him in with slow, measured grace. Narchion turned towards her looking quite winded. "You have grown soft, my squire. What have you been doing to yourself all these years?" Narchion flushed and stammered before quickly regaining his dignity and bowing, "Nothing much, my lady. Is there anything else I might do for you?"

The elf woman had already made her way to her desk to pull out a bunch of keys that would open up the trunks. She glanced up at her butler and smiled. "That will be all, Narchion. You may leave. Wait. I would rather not be disturbed by anyone today for as long as I am in the study." The other elf bowed and left, quietly shutting the door behind him.

Calemerith's gaze fell upon the trunks. She was looking forward to sorting through them. So many memories existed within these caskets and a few more still kept aside. Centuries upon centuries up to a couple of millennia worth of memories. She looked forward to delving into them.

[The Elf Imperishable]

Generous Oak, The Treeish Huorn

Some time had passed, but to the tree the time was short. So for a short time Generous Oak was contented to stand and move with the winds. But then he sensed more beings walk along around the path, heard certain noises that he could not understand. He also realized that the little fungus-like things that were taking nutrients away from him had vanished, as if someone had just plucked them out of the earth. Generous Oak was thankful for this, for whatever force of nature or being (Laintaen) relieving the tree of the nuisance.

But then more noises were uttered, floating through the wind, landing and bouncing back from his bark. Among these noises was one particular repeated word that stood out...

Ent.

That word stirred the tree, causing his branches to slowly sway without narry a wind, and Generous Oak did not particularly know why. But this word, "ent" stirred something within him. It was like feeling something foreign, strange, yet not uncomfortable, at the same time. He wanted to know more about these "ents."

Generous Oak's roots restlessly vibrated once more in the dirt, which could be detected by an astute creature like an elf or a ranger. The top of the oak tree gave the slightest leaning towards the direction of the conversation, as if trying to hear more about it.

(OOC: @Androthelm @Quill @Laintaen : Woops! Completely forgot about this until now! Sorry to keep y'all waiting!)

[Androthelm]

Androthelm Whitemane

Something had changed in the air while they stood and spoke. Androthelm could not entirely place it -- it was just barely beyond his understanding, and just barely within his perception. It was as if the whole of the world had tilted, ever so slightly. It was as if the wind had taken an interest in their conversation.
"Firstborn was he, and eldest she," the Whitemane murmured, turning to scan the lightly shaded wood which grew along the road down into Rivendell. "Who blossomed young among the trees..." It was the beginning of a Lay--a Lay of his own composition, it was true, but a Lay nevertheless. Perhaps he would perform it for their quarry, if their quarry truly...
Well, "truly walked" was what the Whitemane had been going to think, but that was the question, wasn't it?
Turning back to his companions (Quill and Laintaen), Androthelm frowned slightly. "My friends--there are signs here, though I cannot quite see them. There is a trail, but I cannot read it. Can your elven-ears hear what my aging eyes miss?"

[Ercassie]

Erfaron Silugnir and Igneous 'Iggy' Steeljaw
'Home'

It would have been entirely too easy to walk by and never notice it at all; which was the design of the thing, truth be told. There was no sure evidence of any garden to suggest devotion toward upkeep, and most certainly no path to advertise the hall to guests. Even the most humble dirt track to showcase a steady passage in and out … no. Not for this residence. Those who had set foot beyond the entrance numbered less than twenty souls, for the halls had been but only recently completed, and the resident unwilling to admit even that many. Still it was 'home', as much as any undressed pit or lair could be termed so.

Long years had Erfaron Silugnir rested on occasion within Rivendell, and in all that time had courted no thoughts of a permanent dwelling. Not until the more esteemed hosts of the Homely House had tired of his behaviour and refused to grant him lodgings underneath their roof. Faced with either relying on the kindness of a few very estranged allies, or establishing his own hole where to lay his head, the nomad had resigned in the end to the latter. The place had no official title, but that (and the lack of clear address or site) discouraged all but the most tolerant of his friends to come pay calls. Many would tire of the hunt for his home as soon as ever they would recognise small allure in the destination. They would be most fortunate to even find their host at home regardless.

The draw of a retreat which was literally carved out of the foothills came from not only the strength of it’s foundations. Deep beneath the surface of the cloven valley, one could tap into deep channels roused out of the nearby river Bruinen. So it was that the lowest level of the residence was completely underwater. This airless vault was the secret cache of hidden treasures, accessed by a hard stone staircase which simply descended without warning to it’s base at the bed of the flooded chamber. A narrow stone shelf encircled the dank walls just above the pool’s reach, and from this height shone an orbit of torches, their glare blurring to an almost eerie glow, but enough for Elvish eyes to accomplish what they would.

Only the eyes of Erfaron himself had observed what lurked where the air went not. He could not spend near as long down in the depths as he should like, which was the failsafe. For if he had been able to breathe for hours uncounted .. under the water, he might never have emerged to recall there was world above. Such was the appeal of the secret prize. An array of carefully chiselled stone faces collected like limpets along the submerged wall, testament to their maker’s great skill in carving masks of those he’d known. An education in Aman had been cruelly cut short by the Flight of the Noldor, and so the sculptor’s son had never completed his training. Erfaron would not consider any other mentor than his late father, and could not therefore, for all the long years that he had tried since, re-create the full anatomy he could envisage in hard rock. The body, the limbs, the posture, all were passable and recognisable, yet none touched upon Sarnir Erondo’s skill. So it was faces and faces alone that Erfaron ever fashioned. Those whom he had known and wished to lay his eyes upon once more, they all sat in the small tide-less sea of stony-faced spectators. Most had more than one tribute established in the watery catacomb, to capture the altered emotions of memory still in their treasured countenance. There was of course one face which had been awarded most attention, most examples and assuredly most time. Not Sarnir, but Feapoldie. Of course. Here, although her body had long fallen to naught in the devastation of Gondolin’s fall; here she laughed and teased and dared in a temple of private but undisguised worship.

Here, beneath the water, behind many layered rock, lay the heart of Erfaron Silugnir.



This day, the Elf himself was at work in his most exclusive sanctum. Caught somewhere between obtaining a perfection in his craft, and fighting his brain’s call to obtain more air, Silugnir was struck out of his obsession by a surprising storm. A fist-sized thump of rock ripped through the water beside him, followed by a second .. smaller. Then a third, far larger. Erfaron cursed in a stream of bubbles at the assault on his time, and surfaced; to behold a Dwarf poised in the motion of hurling another rock into the pool. A familiar regret at tolerating the squatter rolled eyes so pale blue that they existed as scarcely only the thought of colour. It was unwise to regard them overlong, regardless.

“Somebody in your house,” Iggy Steeljaw explained, dropping the remaining stone none too subtly behind him, under the cold glare of the Immortal.

“And how did they get inside, I wonder ?” the question was half response, half accusation. The Dwarf shrugged, nonchalant.

“Thought it was who we were expecting,” the Firebeard justified his ‘crime’ in opening the front door. “Isn’t,” he clarified, sheepishly, and sped up to chase the Elf, now cursing without the aid of bubbles, up the winding staircase.

[Laintaen]

Laintaen
Wandering the Valley with Androthelm and Quill

Androthelm spoke of growing up near the edges of Fangorn Forest and the games he played as a child. “Ah, the follies of youth,” she mused with a smile. “Did the passing of years afford you chance to venture further into her depths, or meet one of their famed inhabitants? Or have you remained on the borders? Myself, I have never seen that formidable forest. Few journeys have I made beyond the safety of Imladris, as it seems there lie enemies in every direction.”

As they wandered on, their footsteps turned in no particular direction, Androthelm started to hum a tune she had not heard before. Perhaps it was his own words. Before she had the chance to ask, Laintaen felt the air change, a pressure building. It appeared being the source of such artistic inspiration roused their Ent to life once more as again, a trembling began in the ground. She grabbed Androthelm’s arm in excitement. “It heard us!” she cried. “It calls again.”

Her Elven senses were perhaps more attuned than those of the Man beside her, and she realised the shaking in the ground seemed to roll past them. So Laintaen turned to face the direction in which it had originated. There, among the multitude of other trees that dominated the Hidden Vale, stood a mighty Oak. Though not much distinguished it from those that surrounded it, her sharp eyes discerned it seemed to bend in their direction, as if it were listening.

“It’s that one, the mighty Oak barely a stone’s throw from us now!”

In her excitement, she made to run towards it. But Androthelm’s tales of daring the dangers of that legendary southern forest was still fresh in her mind and she checked her step. “Do you believe it safe to approach?” she asked her companion. “It may prove more Huorn than Shepherd.”

Summoning what courage she could, Laintaen remained a safe distance from the tree and called out.

“Noble creature, born of the thoughts of Ivon in the beginning of days, we know you have taken the first step and woken. I entreat you, whisper your thoughts to more than just the wind, and discover voice. Let the child of Yavanna speak with First and Secondborn of the Children of Ilúvatar.”

[Androthelm]

Androthelm Whitemane
Walking with Laintaen and Quill

Laintaen was kind enough to ask some small questions about the distant days of Androthelm's youth, and he smiled as he recalled the foolishness of those earliest days. How close minded they had been, in Rohan, knowing little (besides legend) of the world to the west and or the north and hardly, it seemed to him now, caring to wonder. "No," he answered "I'm afraid that the wood on the north of Rohan was too formidable indeed for most common folk, and the tree-guardians... Well, the legends which come down to us did not encourage investigation. It was not until I first came to Imladris, many years ago, that I learned the sad history of the wood called Fangorn, and I have not since returned to my homeland, to sing his songs and improve his reputation," Androthelm hoped he had done enough to match the easy grace of the elven-manners, but could not help but feel that he sounded foolish, babbling on about the small-minded folk of the Riddermark.

Laintaen, though, was nearly as excited as the Whitemane by the sudden change in the air, and more--she tracked it back to whence the shift came. "That oak?" asked Androthelm "You are sure? I thought the Tree-shepherds were formed as men are--Or, excuse me, as elves and men are, with arms and legs and such. That, though, looks like a tree--albeit a mighty one. A Huorn, then... We must be careful. There are perilous stories of the trees which have been woken. They were the villains, always, in our tales of the Riddermark--snatching up children who went looking for elf-princes and that sort of thing, you understand."

Androthelm listened carefully to the words as Laintaen spoke them. He had heard it said that it was the elves who taught the tree-herds to speak--was this how? True elf-magic? The old man inclined his head respectfully, as he might when listening for a fair musical refrain... But could not resist watching the Oak out of the corner of his eye.

[Moriel]

Oblivion
SA 1697.
(Private with Aig)

TW: Self harm, suicidal ideation, suicide attempt.

When she awoke, it was to a world that was senseless and dull. Tavari stared at the white-quartz ceiling above her, blind to the dazzling sunlight that reflected from its veins to her eyes. The softness of the bed beneath her might have been straw or stone for all it registered in her bones, and her skin felt only a hint of the weight of the sheets and blankets, nothing more. Even her physical pain was pointless, and the rawness of her throat was the dimmest of feelings. In the back of her mind, behind the blank beigeness of unreality, she was still screaming. Someone had seen she was awake and run to fetch her brother. Her remaining brother. Aigronding had come, then Edan, and Valion; and others, ushered away almost as quickly as they had come. Tavari did not speak. She could not at first, the damage to her throat was so great, but even had she been physically capable, she would have been unable, or unwilling. Silence was not a refuge, but it was easier than speech. It was nothing. She stared in silence, and the words of those who sat at her bedside and spoke reached her only faintly, as through deep water. No smell was tempting enough, nor the distant sensation of hunger urgent enough, to make her eat. No discomfort compared to the grinding stone in her gut, in her heart, in her head, in her every pore, that bore Arasoron’s name. On one occasion -days? weeks?- after she had woken, Aigronding had come to visit, and left something on the bedside table, before departing. She could not see what it was, but for the first time, something in the room changed.

At length, Tavari sat up. How her body moved, she did not know. But her legs swung over the side of the bed and her torso came upright. Her head swam, and the arms that somehow still existed splayed out to support her. When her vision settled, she looked to the bedside table. There on the polished surface sat a sheathed blade, smaller than a sword but longer than a dagger, just about the length of her forearm, with its crystal pommel catching the light. Telperil. Without conscious thought Tavari reached out, and her fingers crawled around the hilt, the firm leather of the dirk’s grip the first sensation that felt real. With the greatest of efforts, she pulled the weapon into her lap, and her other hand curled about the sheath. It was there that Edan found her, some time later. Her friend hurried around the bed and fell to his knees before her, questioning the silent nís and imploring her to speak. Still she did not, but at last raised her head to meet his eyes. As she did so, something hot touched her face. At the same time, she became aware of the dampness on her hands: as she had stared unseeing down at Telperil, the tears had dripped unnoticed from her eyes, but now that she tilted her chin to look up at Edan, they ran down her cheeks. His face came into focus, anxious and wan, desperate and devoted. He placed his hand on hers, and Telperil’s pommel pressed into her palm. Tavari drew a deep breath. It shuddered into her and her face crumpled, and somehow her arms were over Edan’s shoulders and she had collapsed against him and he supported her body as it surrendered to grief and sobbed into his neck. Dimly she was aware of the slight shake of his head over her shoulder even as his arms tightened around her. Tavari did not know who stood in the doorway, nor did she care.

Slowly, she began to emerge from catatonia. She sat. She stood. She took nourishment, allowing cups and dishes to be placed into her hands and conveying their contents to her mouth without thought. She occupied the chair next to the window of her room for hours on end, staring through the glass. Eventually, she emerged from the room and moved through hallways that were suspiciously empty of anyone else, along a clear path to the quiet outdoors. Her body healed. The seasons changed. Clad in the same light, robelike garments she had worn since awakening, Tavari stood barefoot in the snow on the edge of the lake, contemplating its icy-black depths. She walked without ceasing through endless nights, leaving aimless tracks throughout the grounds of Linyamiril, and trails of damp footprints on its floors before dawn. When at last she spoke, it was in listless monosyllables, hoarse from long disuse. Not even Valion could draw out Tavari’s usual lively discourse, though he tried- walking at her side for hours at a time during the day, keeping up a flow of one-sided conversation. His presence was one of the few she could bear. Aigronding never mentioned it, but from the sudden vacantness that most always preceded her in Linyamiril’s corridors, she was sure he had given orders that she was not to be crowded, by anyone. She was grateful. Arasoron and Indilë followed her everywhere, and she could suffer no more company. The snows began to melt, and she began to return from her outings with hands bloody and bruised, knuckles split and tainted with fragments of bark. Groundskeepers reported hearing strange cries among the trees, and rage came to Tavari as winter waned. But even that could not penetrate the veil of wretchedness that wrapped and suffocated her.

She was empty. She was broken. She was half- less than half of herself. She had thought when fate and oaths had forced her hand to take Caranthir’s life there could be no greater pain in life, that nothing could surpass the devastation of that act and its consequences. But Arasoron had been there, the only being who had shared her secret, the rock that pulled her back from the deadly spiral of grief, guilt, and shame. Without Arasoron, who was she? It felt as though her fëa had been ripped apart, but unlike Fëanor she had not been granted the peace of a fiery death, only the continuous emptiness and terror of his absence; her twin, her one constant, the other half of her whole. All of the sorrow wouldn’t fit in her chest, it just burned like a heavy cold fire in the pit of her chest, and the constant refrain of how long, how long, how long? droned in the back of her mind, and the answer: forever, eternity, immortality. No rescue. No relief. No revelation, only the yawning void of deathless days of solitude and grinding pain. Pain, and yet, she still couldn’t seem to feel anything. The heat of the sun, the cold of water when she immersed herself in it until lack of air forced her to emerge, and even when she set Telperil’s keen edge to her own flesh to see if she was still there, it stung and for a moment a surge of adrenaline filled her- then that too faded, and the blood dripped to the floor in crimson mockery. She had tried it again and again, with the same result. A brief flare of sensation and hope, the sense that her existence was real, followed by nothingness.

Why?

Tavari rolled up her sleeve and contemplated her arm. She stood before her window with Telperil held loosely in her hand, and gazed down at the meat of the inside of her forearm, criss-crossed with the echoes of the dirk’s passage, thin lines, some healed, some not. Beneath the skin, criss-crossed the vessels which carried her lifeblood, and it seemed that she could hear it rushing there, one pump of her heart at a time. If she moved down to the wrist, and changed the angle of her cut… how long would it take? How much longer would she have to suffer? What would it feel like? She imagined it would be like slipping away, maybe even like falling asleep. And then, how long before she found herself in the Halls of Awaiting? How long until she would meet Arasoron again, and Indilë, and Carnistir, and her father, and everyone else she had ever loved who had been released from the torment of this life? Would that be atonement enough? She raised the dirk, and set it across her arm, just below the elbow. With the lightest of pressure, its edge split her skin. She pressed harder, and slowly drew the blade’s full length towards her body, scoring a new line in the flesh. Pain surged in her center, shooting up her spine to flash behind her eyes. So keen was Telperil’s edge that it took several seconds for the cut to separate, and when its edges parted, the sensation of air striking surfaces that should never have been exposed to it sent new bolts of pain through her. Slowly the blood welled from deep within the cut. By the time it had surged enough to break its surface tension, the pain had begun to fade. Tavari lowered her arm, and it hung loosely at her side, mirroring the other which held Telperil. The blood broke and ran, tracing rivulets down her arm as it continued to flow, catching briefly against the folds of her palm, then like the braids of a river finding ways down her fingers. By the time it began to spatter to the floor, Tavari felt nothing.

Why?

Aigronding took her to visit Elrond, her first sojourn beyond Linyamiril’s grounds. The peredhel showed her the progress that had been made on his newly established realm, the haven of Imladris. Elrond’s house had grown up out of the river valley rapidly and in tune with the landscape, and Tavari wished she was able to care. Behind his wise grey eyes she could see the child she had known in Sirion, and the trepidation of a child seeing weakness in a responsible adult for the first time. Elrond’s face did not betray him, but it was too late for him to hide. She managed the wan echo of a smile, and to mouth a few compliments as he led her about the halls of his new home, pointing out everything of interest and outlining his plans. Eventually they came to a large set of doors, and Elrond explained that beyond was the first room to be fully completed: the Hall of Fire. He swung the doors open, and they entered the chamber beyond. It was wide and welcoming, with an enormous fireplace along one wall, and many comfortable looking places to sit before it. It was easy to see that the room could have many purposes, but that it was to be above all things the heart of the house. Elrond ushered Tavari and Aigronding to the fire, and excused himself. After a time, her brother mentioned that Yestarë was approaching. That was all he said, but there were myriad layers and questions to the words. She merely looked at him, then back to the fire. After some time, he stood to return to Linyamiril, and she said she would stay for a while. She was still there the following morning when Elrond entered the chamber, staring into the faintly glowing embers of the previous night’s fire. At the rustling of his robes she arose, and paced towards the door. Tavari halted at Elrond’s side. She raised her hand, and allowed it to rest on his shoulder. Their eyes met, and mutely she departed.

Why?

On the final night of the year, Tavari climbed to Linyamiril’s highest tower. Roina had designed the manse to be a beautiful, flowing, magnificent home, rising up from the ground and amongst the trees, a gleaming edifice of quartz, snowy against the lush backdrop it occupied. It had gabled roofs, buttresses, domes, and several towers stretching into the sky. The greatest of these housed Linyamiril’s bell, a subtle and silver-voiced thing that rang out to sound hallmarks of each day, and clamored for celebration days, filling the grounds with its music. The top of the tower above the belfry was flat and wide enough for several people, and many times she and Arasoron had hidden here to shirk responsibility; Indilë too, and more raucously tipsy conversations had been had there than Tavari could remember. But it had also been a place she and her onóna could retreat to be alone, and speak as they always had, candidly and as one. Arasoron had teased her that the bell ringing beneath them was like her shouting, for Tavari’s voice was often likened to silver- and he had laughed uproariously even while defending himself from her retaliation. And many’s the Yestarë night they had sneaked up here to share a bottle of rare wine and celebrate the day of their begetting and birth as the night and the year turned over, the bell sounding its salutation below. Tonight, she ascended alone. Tavari pulled herself up over the eaves and onto the top of the tower, rolling silently onto the flat roof, inside the low wall which ran around its edge. She paused there to catch her breath, and the night’s silence pressed in on her. The stars were bright overhead and the air was fragrant with the coming of spring, but it felt heavy against her skin. Slowly she stood, and gazed over Linyamiril, and the grounds over which Aigronding had taken such pains. There was nowhere she could look that she did not see Arasoron, or hear the bark of Indilë’s laugh. Nowhere the shade of her twin did not follow her. Nowhere she could not feel him, like a phantom limb. At last, for the first time since Eregion fell, Tavari spoke to Arasoron.

“I can’t do it, háno,” she choked, and he did not reply. The oppressive silence of his absence nearly drove her to her knees, and she swayed, reaching out to support herself against the wall. Blindly she groped her way along it to the far side of the tower, where Linyamiril backed up to wilder trees. Her fingers clenched, gouging at the stone, ripping at the pads of her fingers and splintering the nails. “I can’t do it without you.” She raised one leg, and set one foot on top of the wall. With a heave, she stepped up and stood atop it, above the valley and alone against the night. Its breezes whispered silently around her, but not in the voice she was desperate to hear. For a long time she stood, balanced and unaware of the passage of time, until the slightest of noises broke her reverie. Below, someone was climbing the final few steps into the belltower. Midnight had come, and the new year. A moment more of silence, then the bell began to ring. Its voice built in volume and resonance, and she could feel it in her bones, in her soul, and everything she was, was not, and could never be again. Tavari cast her gaze to the nightblack sky, and the stars glittered in her despairing eyes. Her bare foot lifted, the chill air skimming its sole, and as she stepped off the edge she breathed,

“Wait for me.”

When Yestarë dawn broke over Linyamiril, its brilliance shone off the white-quartz walls of the manse and gilded the leaves of the orchard gold. The Fëanorian lamps paled in the sun’s magnificence, in an echo of the mingling of the lights. The waters of the grounds rushed and the leaves of its many trees rustled; a peaceful, idyllic morning in this sanctuary corner of Imladris. But in the boughs of a great tree below the tallest tower of Linyamiril, its limbs caught by branches at unnatural angles like some giant child’s discarded doll, hung the shattered, twisted body of Tavari Mordagnir. Swaying in the morning breeze, tangled skeins of her wheaten hair dripped through the leaves, and one arm hung down, its limp hand stretching towards the ground.

[Moriel]

Yestarë Night
One year ago

(Private)
(Elrond used with permission from Aig)

“King of silver, king of gold
And everything glittering
Under the ground;
Moryo is king of pine and stone
And the riches that flow
Where those rivers are found…”

The song wasn’t finished yet. He hadn’t expected to be done with it in time for tomorrow, but still it niggled at Gellam like a loose eyelash, constantly demanding his attention. His fingers plucked idly at the lute as he sang softly, spinning the latest batch of words into being, turning them over and over on his tongue. He was seated on an out of the way balustrade along a breezeway in the Last Homely House, away from most of the kerfuffle, one leg drawn up to his chest atop the flat rail, the other dangling down towards the floor. All of Imladris was in an uproar: it was the day before Yestarë, and many revels were planned to welcome the new year. And more than that, this was the first year since her return that Tavari had allowed any kind of celebration to be planned for the day of her begetting and birth. Both Aigronding and Elrond had jumped at the chance, and the vale was wild with excitement over the increased merriment that was to be had. The full might of Alagon’s cellars were being leveraged to provide the drinks for the festivities, and even Gellam dared not trespass upon the kitchens as they roared day and night to prepare the food. His part in the entertainments were but a trifle for a seasoned Fool such as he, requiring no further rehearsal, and so he retreated to his work.

“Hiding, Gellam? That’s not like you.”

Absorbed in his song and his thoughts, the Fool had not noticed the approach of Elrond, who strode towards him along the breezeway, smiling. Gellam sprang from his perch and sketched a leggy bow.

“Me? Never, my Lord! Merely attempting not to make a nuisance of myself, as I’m so often scolded to do.” Elrond laughed.

“Plenty of time for that tomorrow, I suppose?” Gellam winked, and spun the lute in his hands before slinging it about his body.

“That would be telling! Have you seen Lady M of late?”

“I believe she is also hiding. She was here early this morning, and muttered something about retreating to Linyamiril.”

“Every good retreat needs a rearguard! Many thanks, my Lord!” Gellam tossed an elaborate salute, and skipped off down the breezeway, Elrond’s chuckles trailing in his wake.

The Fool did not proceed directly to Linyamiril, but made his roundabout way in that direction, pausing along his way to dance with a group of merry young ellyth and ellyn who were strewing the halls with spring garlands, playing a sprightly jig upon his lute; ducking into the kitchens to hail the cooks, and ducking his head as a pastry was winged at his face- the joke was on them though, for Gellam with reflexes born of thievery caught it before it could drop from the wall to the ground, and scooped it into his mouth. With the mixed laughs and curses of the kitchen denizens following his flight, Gellam took to his heels and skipped from the house, down a back staircase and out into the wilder gardens that rambled there. He whistled along with the song of a robin, and in no time at all saw his uncle emerge from around a corner of the winding path, Gliri on his shoulder, doing his best to sing away Alagon’s harried expression. Gellam greeted the flame-haired Sinda effusively, and Alagon looked up from the list that trailed from his hand, a broad grin breaking the furrow of his brow. They exchanged pleasantries and Alagon shook his head, cleaming his relief when this was all over. The Fool rolled his eyes, for he knew that deep down his uncle loved providing for such festivities, but nevertheless clapped the publican on the back and expressed his sympathies, before he was off again at a swift trot with a final careless wave.

When next Gellam whistled, it was a high and ululating note, and was returned almost at once by a similar shrill sound from the distance. He continued his run, and it was not long before his soft footfalls were joined by those of hooves, and glimpses of white became visible through the foliage as the gardens gave way to tree and brush and the wider vale. Then, Hwinnien burst onto the path in front of him, and prancing and dancing on light legs circled her master, nickering and tossing her head, lipping at his hair and finally pulling the long soft cap from his head. Gellam laughed and, as he knew she wanted, jumped and reached, snatching at the cap. Eminently pleased with herself, the mare tossed her head higher and half-reared, pirouetting on her hindlegs to keep out of his reach. At last the Fool threw up his hands in defeat, and Hwinnien returned smugly to the ground. She dropped her head and held out the cap, dropping it into Gellam’s outstretched hand. He caught it, whipped it back onto his head, and scratched Hwinnien under her chin. She snorted and returned to her prancing, anxious to be off. Obliginly, the Fool leapt up onto a nearby stump and thence to the mare’s back, where his backside scarcely had a chance to settle before she was away, loam spurting from her heels as she ran.

Gellam let her run where she would for a time; golden hour was come to Imladris and the light and warm, rushing air filled him up with unparalleled joy. Elf and horse alike were gleeful as they ran, Gellam’s bursts of song causing Hwinnien’s ears to flick back and forth in listening. They were greeted with equal cheerfulness by the various vale-elves they ran across in their travels, all of whom were well used to the Fool by now, and embraced him as a kindred spirit in frolic. But at length, the shadows began to lengthen and the heavy purple-blue fingers of night to creep up from the horizon; the sun had set, night was falling, and the cooling air turned to Fool towards his final destination. Hwinnien too sensed the change, and turned her nose along a new path, where Gellam’s shifting seat had directed her. They moved at a walk now, brisk and purposeful, Hwinnien’s head nodding along with her stride. They trod the path that led to that corner of the valley where the Mordagnir family home stood, until they broke from the trees’ edge and Linyamiril came into view. Here Gellam dismounted and, patting Hwinnien’s neck, bade her goodnight. With a final lipping and tug of his hair she was gone, trotting back into the woods to be about her own devices.

It was fully dark then, and when Gellam turned back from Hwinnien’s departure to look at Linyamiril, the light of the Fëanorian lamps bloomed faintly, from where he knew the bridge to the manor to be. As he began his trek across the grounds, the Fool thought not for the first time that when it had been built, Linyamiril must have looked like a scar upon the land, a rending of ground and brush and tree to make way for the monumental white-quartz manse, the orchards, and the sprawling grounds. But the more he studied it, the more he had come to realize the respect with which Roina and Aigronding had planned their family home, and truly, it had been there long enough now that it seemed a part of the landscape, like a bright-polished stone studding the valley floor. And he had come to enjoy, when in this quarter of the vale, the silver-soft ringing of Linyamiril’s bell. It was the belltower that was his goal now, but again, Gellam did not make his way there directly. He tripped across the bridge calling greetings to the lamplighters as they retired from their duties, and then set off along a path that led toward the house in a roundabout sort of way, through the grounds and into a copse of trees. Their branches largely blotted out the moon and stars above, but here and there scattered lamps provided a faint illumination. A creature of the forest, Gellam hardly needed it, but the artistry of Linyamiril was not to be denied.

He wandered at a leisurely pace, until at length the trees changed, and the air began to smell sweetly of apple. Even when the trees were not in fruit, the scent permeated the area with a heady fragrance, and enveloped the small clearing into which Gellam now stepped. It was a precise circle of grassy sward within the trees, standing like guardians around its border. As the center of the circle stood a small building of white marble, but without the pink veins that highlighted the house; it was a pure beacon of white, reflecting the glow of Tilion’s vessel as it shone from above. The Fool turned his face up to the moonlight, and thought of the maia steering his ship across the sky in an endless chase with Arien, the fiery spirit who piloted the sun. Among the many tales that had trickled out from Tavari regarding her past in the years of their acquaintance, and those he had heard of her from others, were many of Tilion. He had been a friend and mentor of Tavari’s youth in Aman, and they had hunted together in the host of Oromë, before the moon had ever been thought of. What must it be like to have been- to be- friends with someone who now tarried across the sky, ever-present but unreachable? Smiling at his own fancy, Gellam lifted an arm and waved to Tilion, before making his way up the steps and into the building.

It was a small and circular place, with an arched and open portal, and a crystal skylight in its roof that allowed the moonlight to seep through and illuminated the stone within. This was the Mordagnir family mausoleum, and as he passed through the portal, the faint sounds of whispering breeze and leave faded to soft silence. At the center of the floor, upon a plinth and gazing down at the entrance stood a statue of Erindan Mordagnir, father of Tavari, Arasoron, and Aigronding. Gellam looked up at his face, and where some sculptor had taken the care to inscribe crinkles at the corners of his eyes, he could see Erindan’s daughter. The wood-elf straightened and bowed his head to the patriarch, before moving on. Though the faint odor of apples made its way inside the mausoleum, it was at the moment overpowered by that of honey. Two rough beeswax candles set up an amber glow amidst the moonlight and dark edges of the room, and like a moth to their flames, Gellam moved. Several sarcophagi lined the walls, and one of the candles was set at the head of one, upon which two effigies lay carved, hand in hand. On the side further from the candle Gellam paused, smiling, to look at the figure there: Indilë, she who had been Tavari’s best friend and Arasoron’s wife, the legendary spearmaid with the flashing vulpine eyes, her sharp face full of wry humor even in stone. He so wished he could have known her. Circling the foot of sarcophagus, he came to the head where the candle stood alight, at Arasoron’s shoulder. Before first seeing this effigy, or any portrait of Arasoron, Gellam had known he and Tavari were twins, but the similarity in their faces still shocked him. Why, when he ran about with Elladan and Elrohir, who were identical? Perhaps because he had never known Arasoron, or perhaps because he was so long dead, a reminder of the death that had been visited on this family. Gellam could imagine Arasoron’s stone face breaking into mirrors of the many expression he knew so well from his sister’s, and wished he could have seen them in life. Next to the candle sat a peach, the significance of which was lost on the Fool. He pressed his hand to his heart and bowed slightly, silently wishing Arasoron a blessed new year. Yestarë was his day, too.

Turning away, Gellam trod to the far side of the mausoleum, where something like an altar was set into the wall; two levels, one about head height, the other at waist level. On the lower of these in the corner the second candle burned, and next to it a rectangular object. The Fool crouched down next to the stone shelf, and he saw that it was a simple picture frame, within which was housed a portrait, a sketch rendered in fine lines of ink, and he did not have to be told who it was. From beyond the many millennia since his death, Caranthir the Dark, King of Thargelion, son of Fëanor, stared back at Gellam, the angles of his face and the slightly unkempt tail of his hair rendered in loving detail; the slight furrow of his brow offset by the slight upturn of his mouth, and his eyes gazed out from the page, over his shoulder as if he had just turned, in an expression the Fool could not quite fathom. He could imagine Tavari’s hands brushing dust from the stone and settling this portrait here in quiet defiance, and he wondered if those same hands had drawn it. For a long time Gellam crouched there, contemplating Caranthir in the flickering light of the candle. Suddenly he jumped up, and hurried from the mausoleum. Just as quickly he returned, and strode back to the altar. Again he departed, and when he did so, a small pinecone had joined the candle.

Now Gellam proceeded with purpose, for time was passing, and he had a task to perform. The lawns of Linyamiril flew away beneath his feet as he ran, a shadow on the grounds, towards the belltower. The exterior door was unlocked, easing his passage, and he ran up the circular steps until they ran out at the threshold of the belfry, then threaded his lean frame through a window to ascend the rest of the way. It was a daring feat, to cling to the stone and pull oneself over the eaves and onto the broad flat roof above, but Tavari had accomplished it with such practice ease when first she had brought him here that the wood-elf, used to performing such escapades among trees, hadn’t even thought to be afraid of the fall. She had brought him here to see the view of the vale from this, the highest point of Linyamiril, and had told him of the Yestarë nights spent here with Arasroron in years gone by. She had said that Aigronding would probably have feared to see her here and when he asked why, she had told him of the terrible choice she had made atop this very tower, following Arasoron’s death and prior to her exile. He had not known how to respond to that, other than to take her hand.

Gellam hoisted himself over the eaves and rolled over the top of the low wall that ran around the roof onto the flat surface below, catching himself spiderlike with bended knees, then straightened and walked towards Tavari, who sat on the far side of the roof, her back against the wall.

“Hello,” she said with a smile, “No bells tonight?”

“I didn’t want to attract attention,” Gellam replied glibly, patting his distended pocket, where he had stuffed his soft cap with the bells sewn to its pointed end. “Rather, I didn’t think you’d probably want to be set upon by whoever might follow me.”

“Considerate of you,” Tavari laughed as Gellam halted next to her and unslung both lute and a small satchel from about his torso, and set them on the ground.

“Elrond told me I might find you here.”

“Here?”

“Well, not here, precisely,” Gellam agreed, dropping down to sit beside her, “But he suggested that you had beaten a hasty retreat to the family fortress ahead of tomorrow’s looming frivolity.” She snorted.

“Well, he wasn’t wrong.” From his satchel, Gellam pulled a crusty bottle, pilfered from Elrond’s cellars in his day’s peregrinations, and nodded to Tavari’s other side.

“I brought this to share, but I see you’re ahead of me.” Again Tavari laughed, and lifted the two goblets that sat upon the roof on her other side, accompanied by a second bottle of wine. “Yes, but if you’ve robbed that from the Last Homely House, it’s bound to be finer than this. Come, decant.” Obligingly, the Fool produced a corkscrew and opened the bottle with a rush of spirited perfume, deep and rich. He filled each goblet before them with a generous measure of the dark liquid, and Tavari took them up.

“I had thought to share a glass with my brother, but this is better.” Gellam knew she did not mean Aigronding, and swallowed the lump in his throat.

“It would be my honor, my Lady.” They lifted the glasses to one another and drank deeply. Tavari exclaimed at the quality of the wine, and their conversation turned to Alagon and his preparations for the morrow, and thence to nights of merriment at Adab Gelir, and so on and so forth. For a long time they talked and laughed and drank, enjoying each other’s company and the freedom from care that came with hiding away from duty. The moon and stars moved overhead, their backdrop deepening yet further as night progressed, until Gellam judged that midnight had nearly come. He set aside his glass.

“I have a gift for you.”

“Oh Gellam, you needn’t.”

“I know, I know, but I wanted to.” He shifted over and folded his legs beneath himself, rocking back to sit upon his heels. Gellam took up the satchel and put his hand into it again, but paused before removing it. “I had this idea, which then became a compulsion, and I hope you won’t find it too presumptuous.” Tavari raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. Gellam drew out the object, wrapped in dark green fabric in tied with black twine, and held it out to her. She took it, her fingers wrapping curiously. It was a familiar shape, but did not have the hardness or heft of a blade. Her interest piqued, Tavari pulled the end of the twine and the wrapping fell open. In her hands lay the scabbard he had created in Mirkwood, its body of black lebethron, surrounded by a lattice of silver; but not just silver- its chasing strands were in the form and faces of gryphons rampant: Arasoron’s sigil.

“Oh, Gellam,” Tavari repeated, but this time it was scarcely a breath, and her eyes were wide with wonder. She set the fabric aside and took her scabbard in her hands, and it seemed that a faint tingling came from the silver beneath her skin, and the faintest melodic whisper in her ears as she held it. It died away quickly, but she was sure her perception had not been mistaken. “Did you..?” she questioned, and he nodded. Tavari beamed, and from its habitual place on her right hip, drew Glamor, the dirk which had once belonged to Arasoron as Telperil, and had been her constant companion in exile and since. Its crystal pommel shone in the moonlight, and its brightly polished blade reflected her face as she turned it over, and set its point to the opening of the scabbard, before sliding it home. It fitted perfectly, and as hilt touched scabbard, the bell below began to ring, its ringer’s approach all unnoticed, to sound midnight and the new year. The bell’s silver voice mingled with Tavari’s as for a third time she repeated,

“Oh, Gellam!” This time it was a delighted cry, and she flung her arms about his neck. He returned the embrace in kind, wrapping his arms about her waist as she thew herself against him, and they were as one for a long moment amid the ringing of the bell, echoing out over Linyamiril in celebration. When at last they broke apart, the bell still singing, Tavari’s face was elated, and the starlight of Yestarë glittered in her joyful eyes. Gellam smiled.

“Happy birthday, my Lady.”

(verse adapted from Epic II, Hadestown)

[Ercassie]

Nariel Eregwen and her daughter, Caramírië
Frolicking through the Valley, for a visit.
Also featuring ’Iggy’ Steeljaw

‘Home’ – Part 2

The muted fingers of a rose-flavoured dawn were beginning to stretch all across the valley, when hidden song birds broke into melodious refrain, a prelude to the slovenly sun. A single voice upon the breeze contested with their chorus, seeking out not wakefulness, but something rather more of a dream. The mother and her daughter, cavorting through long grass, with no more care for the hour than for whom may witness their performance.

“I wandered alone to the forest one night, led by a music strange to hear,
And followed the glow of a shimmering light that seemed to grow distant as I grew near.”

Nariel threaded her fingers at the small of her back, and sashayed left, then right to convey a proper girlish charm. Her dove-blue cloak rippled in wake of the subtle movement, showcasing mere promise of the darker navy skirts that it sheltered. Glancing back over one shoulder, the She-Elf’s blue-grey eyes incited a wordless prompt to her child. Who leapt at the opportunity, and splayed her small golden dress as she leapt to keep up with rather less long legs.


“When I closed my eyes to the shimmering light, all memory faded and I could see
That a mushroom circle of red and white and a flurry of spirits surrounded me ..”

Cara stalled there, expecting her parent to pick up what she put down. She did not have to wait long, and their lyrical game proceeded with Nariel’s new prompt.

“Beyond all space and beyond all time, on gossamer wings did the spirits fly.
With a joy unknown to a music sublime, the spirits danced, and so danced I”


So the musical conversation carried forth, as did those who propelled it earnestly into the world. Together they brandished twin heads of bright flame, like a pair of vivacious torches ushering in day’s light to guide their meandering path. Dew hemmed their gowns, and gladness streamed their faces. To have come upon the hidden valley within such an hour truly did feel akin to stepping into a secret, unbidden world. Cara leapt and romped about her mother, an agile, skittering, butterfly attending to the warm glow of the rose she adored. Taking up Nariel’s hand, she skipped beneath the limb she thereby raised, and entangled a new phase of her dance around her chosen maypole, as she took her turn to add to their composition.

“Come and play as the fair spirits play in a magical circle, a fairy ring
You won't want to leave and forever you'll stay where the vision is bright as spring.
Come and dance the fair spirit dance, spin in a circle as fast as light
Once you begin you are caught in a trance and the world can grow old in a single night.”


Her mother, it has to be said, basked in her child’s frivolity a little longer this time, allowing more verse before she bent low to meet the smaller maid, stooping effortlessly upon bent knees. Her voice then interjected, a staccato whisper, but still words that stole the impetus of the song from the girl, who halted, and leant in, keen to receive each note upon her ear.

"Those who seek us surely find us. See the trail we leave behind us !
Some bewildered, some enlightened, some are brave, some are frightened ..
Are we kind or are we vicious? Nectar poison or delicious?
That, my sweet, you will discover; Be we foe, or be we lover"


Rising at this last debate, Nariel cast a nod to Cara that she was done with her turn. Undaunted, the young maid took up with her play anew, reviewing their earlier lyrics, but this time bouncing in place, waving her mother’s nearest hand in both her smaller grasps.

“Come and play as the fair spirits play, spin in a circle as fast as light
Once you begin you are caught in a trance and the world can grow old in a single night.
I wandered alone to the forest one night, led by a music strange to hear.
If you happen to pass when the moon is bright and the veils are thin you will find me here ..”**

“If the veils are thin, you will find me here.” her claim was echoed back to her with a dwindling conclusion that ebbed away before the two fell apart from their amusement. Cara pranced apart, almost immediately seeking for new entertainment. With a merry burst of mirth she found it, frolicking provocatively, just beyond her parent’s reach. She paused only upon finding a cliff face here at the valley's base, and ran small fingers along it, like she might play a song of the cool stone.


“If I have a question will you answer it ?” the small girl rose up on her toes, there teetered, and was saved from an almost spill by her mothers swift hand catching hold of her.

“Of course,” she was bid, and carefully balanced back to stand with more sense.

“Is this .. where we were intending to be ?”

“It is”.

“That is two answers, two questions !” Cara grinned, triumphantly, but was robbed of a reaction, to her mischief. Nariel was already biting down on her lower lip, having rolled back her velveteen sleeve. Wriggling her left arm into a most unalluring crevice of the rockface, she hoped it was the right one. She had done this twice before and brought out snakes before she found the third and proper crevice, tugging down hard on what proved a cord of knotted rope, rather than a third snake. No sound emanated in the world where they stood, waiting. But she waited nonetheless, for down in the deeps, if she had managed it, some thing would be summoned to respond to her rally.

“Mother !” the small girl gasped eventually, and leaned from where her mother held her back, to better see where a fissure in the rock was slowly fracturing into existence. They each dared to peer into the darkness, Nariel warily adjusting the satchel that swung from one shoulder. She pulled her loose hair all over the other shoulder, expecting cobwebs and blind to her daughter’s mimicking the same. Only the parent had been here before, and knew that so few others did the door was surely bedecked in the same small spindle nets she had faced last time. “Stay close to me.” she rustled, readying, and was still left unprepared.



“Grandfather ! Grandfather !” Cara ran excitedly inside as soon as she were able, and with no call from her parent to desist, either her race or her exclamations. If anything were likely to draw their host from this deliberately hostile welcome, it was any opportunity for an argument.

Caras mouth dropped only upon spying the lone dwarf, drinking up every inch of the astounding sight. He stared back, and she narrowed her eyes with intensity. There were Dwarves in Lindon of course, her father worked with some of them. But it was the who rather than the what which inspired wonder.

“Iggy !!” the small girl finally flew at the Dwarf, rather than lose her staring contest, and plunged her small face headlong into the birdsnest of his beard. Slowly she disentangled herself. “It is me,” she explained, as though warranting some better reaction in turn.


“He’s not expecting … you,” the Dwarf shook his head, quite typically underwhelmed.

“If he had been, he would not be here,” Nariel supposed, her brows crowding together toward some exasperation. Not merely from the Firebeard's indifference. The condemnation and the accusations were flung from her previous state of peace, as though she had been holding onto them, and could not wait to be free of the angst. Even Iggy stared some to see how swift she could fly from calm to outcry. “Three years, Steeljaw. Years !! Just wanders off to Tol Noldare and .. no word … let us all think he was dead ! Did you know ?” The question came off something like a threat he dared not approach. “When did he return here, hmm ?! His mother didn’t even know !! Whatever he and that .. that ..” Words did not come close to adequately describing who the She-Elf held to blame.

“You came all the way here to tell him he isn’t dead ?” the Dwarf translated, in a mumble like a grandfather himself now.

“I came to demand some explanation why he never .. gave an explanation !” the mother concluded, more haughtily than she had intended, and a little annoyed at the Dwarf’s continued amusement. Her daughter nodded, pointedly, to be considered involved, if for no other reason. “Why, for instance, he stole my husband’s boat in order to perform this disappearing trick ?! Also,” Nariel reached into her satchel with both hands to retrieve what she had safeguarded their journey long. “I came to deliver this,” she gave up, veering on the dramatic.


Steeljaw glanced warily at the conch which the She-Elf produced, and held out now before her as though it stood a shield. The Dwarf indeed though shrank some at the sight of it, as though it were in fact some rancid thing. He knew what it meant. He had stood as witness to the delivery of it once before. And knew the likely repercussions.

“He’s not going to be happy about this,” he warned her, shaking his head anew.

“He’s never happy,” Nariel retorted with a sniff. This was not exactly true, but the few times she had seen a smile light the jaw of Erfaron, those few times when it was not the cause of smug amusement at another’s cost, it had been evoked by things she did not fully comprehend, nor wish to.

Cara fed her small hand into Nariels, burrowing warmth with the simple meant support.”We’re not afraid, Dwarf. We will see him, and he will like it.” she declared, lifting her chin imperiously.


“Wait. Here.” Silent shudders of laughter overcame Iggy in his quest to find his skulking friend. He was, despite the peril he was placing his life in, quite looking forward to this reunion. So, apparently, was Cara, who after humming idly to herself for a few minutes, sprang off into the inhospitable labyrinth, unwilling to wait and quite sure she might find her quarry sooner than the Dwarf who lived here.

She found something. A single, lasting scream escaped an unseen room mere seconds later, and would bring all the parties together, sooner even than they expected.


***Lyrics amended ever so slightly, but still credited to 'Dance of the Wild Fairies', by Wendy Rule***

[Moriel]

Take A Break
Part 1
(Private)

It had been some months now since Thranduil had appointed Gellam as the new head of the Mirkwood Guard, and the position was starting to feel decidedly less interim. He had anticipated that the Elvenking would quickly find someone else to fill the post, someone who wasn’t spending the majority of their time in Imladris these days (having been dispatched there years before by said Elvenking himself), and who was more constitutionally suited to a life of military leadership. But no such word had come, and so the Fool persevered as best he could. He was surprised to learn that he did, in fact, know what he was doing, and that the Guard was flourishing under his leadership. What he had truly not anticipated from the position, however, was the paperwork. The volume of correspondence was astonishing, and at times Gellam felt buried beneath the papers that scattered over and piled up on his desk, previously employed primarily as a receptacle for used wine goblets and half-composed ballads. Now he found himself spending what seemed like ever-increasing amounts of time in the chair, hunched over his desk in a way that would make Alagon groan for his posture, alternately with his tongue between his teeth or chewing on the end of a quill. This, more than anything else, made Gellam wish Thranduil would hurry up and replace him. Perhaps his king was simply having him on, making bets on how long he would last? Gellam wouldn’t put it past him.

It was one particularly beautiful afternoon, the first truly hot day of the year, with the sun bouncing mockingly bright on the stones of the terrace outside the Fool’s rooms, when a most intriguing letter crossed his desk. Rapid footsteps approached from the corridor outside, then knuckles rapped on his door, and Gellam leapt from his chair, glad for any excuse. He pulled open the door, and a messenger held out a letter to him wordlessly, departing as soon as he took it. Gellam looked down, and saw a dirty scroll, bound with a crimson ribbon, the sign of an urgent message. Inwardly groaning and wondering what could possibly be wrong now, he retreated to the desk and slumped down in his chair. Turning over the scroll in his hands, Gellam paused. It was dirty, as he had noted, but looked dirtier than it would have been from normal travel, as if it had been handled carelessly. That was odd, and did not tally with the ribbon that bound it. Then, there was the scrawl across the back of the scroll: Gellam someone had written- not Arphen, nor yet Arphen Gellam, or even Gellam the Fool. Clearly it had been written in haste, but Gellam through he recognized the hand beneath the scrawl. His interest well and truly piqued now, he pulled at the ribbon and flattened the scroll upon his desk.

Take a break, it began, and the Fool’s mouth twitched as the neater hand within confirmed his guess. But he was not about to tattle to the Lord of the Vale or the Tar-Taidron that their message priority system was being blatantly abused. He could hear Tavari’s voice in the words as he read on, full of persuasion and mischief.

Take a break, the letter read, Run away with me for the summer. Let’s get away. We can go stay deep in the valley. There’s a place I know, with a view of the stars, you and I can go when the night gets dark.

Gellam needed no further enticement. In a gesture of drama he knew he would regret upon his (eventual?) return, he cleared all the papers from his desk to the floor with a sweep of one long arm, and pausing only to throw the barest essentials into a satchel, bounded from the room. He was out of the house and among the trees in moments, bursting with the energy of the heat of the sun and the freedom of throwing off responsibility, and though he enthusiastically returned the greetings of all he passed, he did not pause to chat with any. His pace began to quicken, and his arms rose and fell with the rhythm of his stride, the scroll clutched in one hand. It told of the way to go, down what paths and by what landmarks to a remote corner of the vale, where he would find his quarry. It had been late afternoon when he departed the Last Homely House, and evening was well established by the time Gellam neared his destination, with dusk beginning to make itself known on the horizon. He heard it first, coming to a halt on top of a rise in the path: the distant sound of music through the trees, drums and strings and the sound of voices filtering through the branches. A grin split his face and he plunged on, down the narrow, winding path, the trees and brush so thick there was scarcely space for even an elf of his lean stature to squeeze. At first the sounds receded, the vegetation was so dense, but at length it began to thin, and the noise returned in full force, growing louder as he ran towards it.

All at once the path dropped away, as did the trees, and he skidded to a halt at the edge of a clearing. The land dipped sharply to form a kind of basin below, at the far side of which he could see what seemed to be the edge of a village, but far more compelling was the gathering within: elves of the vale, reclusive and jolly, gathered in wild revels as the first lancing fingers of sunset fell upon them. The music was raucous and the dancing unbridled, churning the more sparsely mossed portions of the clearing floor into mud beneath the feet of the elves who danced upon it. He could smell delicious food and the wafting odor of wine, and his grin broadened until it it became an open-mouthed leer of delight, and Gellam jumped into the air with a whoop, thrusting his fist into the air. Despite the commotion, his entrance seemed to have attracted some attention, and cries of greeting and welcome came from those nearest to him. Though he had never seen the village in such a state as this, the Fool dimly remembered coming here once before, though by a different path, with Tavari, shortly after her return to Imladris. He had been astounded when the villagers, reclusive even by the standards of the vale, had recognized and welcomed her. In what would be one of his first glimpses of the less than regal side of Lady Mordagnir, she had smirked and reminded him that her family had lived in this corner of the world since long before Elrond’s house was built.

A ripple seemed to run through the gyrating crowd below, and undulation that both parted them like the sea, and drew Gellam down the slope towards them at a trot. It was a riotous gathering so like those of the Greenwood that he might have thought himself home were it not for the differing flora, and he yearned to be part of it. Even as he neared the edge of the crowd, the ripple reached it, and from the depths of the revelers it disgorged a nís, tall and lean, clad in the briefest of bark-brown frocks, her skin already beginning to brown from many hours spent under the early-summer sun. Her feet were bare and covered in the same mud that splattered her legs, and the mane of her wheat-gold hair was unbound, running past the length of her back. Tavari emerged from the crowd like the forest creatures for which she had been named, as if she had sprung from the very earth itself, and her eyes shone with a rebellious light. Gellam was quite lost for words, and stood at the edge of the crowd, his jaw slack as she paced towards him.

“You’re late,” she said as she walked, and the Fool spluttered.

“I came as soon as I got your letter.” Tavari ignored this, and halted before him, so close they were practically nose to nose.

“You’re overdressed.” Her hand fell upon the lacing at the throat of his tunic and pulled it loose to open the collar, while the other crept under underneath its hem. Obligingly Gellam shrugged his shoulders to allow both satchel and lute to slide down his arms, catching their straps in one hand to lower them to the ground, before raising his arms over his head. No sooner had Tavari pulled the saffron-linen garment over his head than Gellam found her hands buried in his hair, and she had pulled him into an ardent embrace, her kiss full of the same feral energy as her eyes. His arms wrapped about her waist and puller her tight to his bare chest as he returned the gesture in kind, shifting their balance until her moss-stained toes left the ground. Dimly Gellam was aware of cheers and catcalls from among the shouting, singing crowd above the music, and broke the kiss with a slight gasp, returning Tavari to earth.

“Did you have a wager with them or something? If you needed my help to win a bet my Lady you need only have asked.” Tavari’s grin flashed out, and their palms smacked together as she seized his hand.

“Shut up and dance with me.”

To the accompaniment of further yells, the nís led the wood-elf into the crowd, and a pair of boots went flying over the heads of those at the edge as he somehow managed to pull them off amid her commanding lead. The mass of bodies closed around them, and they were one with the revelers and the gathering dusk.

[Moriel]

Take A Break
Part 2
(Private)

Dawn broke golden and dazzling, but none of the revelers were awake to see it. The festivities had gone on until the last moments of blue-black night, with the final beds (or barns, or comfortable patches of moss, or whatever surface was convenient) being fallen into even as the horizon began to lighten in the east. The village was scattered throughout this patch of forest in the valley, houses dotted here and there on the ground and amidst the trees, and after such a celebration as the previous eve, all slept wherever they could find a place. When Gellam awoke, it was to find himself facedown on a pile of furs beside a hearth, its embers glowing faintly. He started, before remembering where he was- then groaned, as the faint pounding in his head asserted itself. How much had he drunk last night? It must have been a truly extraordinary amount, to give a champion wine-drinker such as he any kind of a hangover. A giggle made him start again, and he pushed himself up on his hands, looking around blearily. An elleth he did not recognize had come into the room from a door on its far side, wrapped in a blanket.

“Tavari wasn’t lying,” she laughed, covering her mouth in a vain attempt to disguise her mirth, “She said you could hold your drink.”

“Er,” Gellam replied, for his condition would seem to indicate the opposite, but the elleth went on.

“I think any of us would have just died if we’d consumed as much as you. But here you are, not dead! Congratulations.”

“Er,” Gellam repeated, now pushing himself back to sit upon his heels, and becoming aware of his state of undress. At some point during the night’s entertainments his breeches had been shorn off at the knees, and the new shorter version appeared to be all he was wearing. Shrugging internally, he directed his attention back to the elleth, his focus sharpening, “Right. Not dead, that’s something. Uh, thank you for your hospitality, I suppose, and your floor. Wasn’t Tavari here?” He scratched his head, looking about. An indent on the furs next to him did seem to show someone else had lain there, and both his satchel and his lute were present. The elleth rolled her eyes.

“Yes of course. She’s up and gone to wash off the night already. I don’t know where she gets her tolerance from, she drank nearly as much as you. She woke me up to tell me she was going, I’ll tell you where to find her.”

Having received his instructions and seeing no real reason to find any more clothes, Gellam slung his lute about his torso and made his way from the house with a wave to his hostess, striding out with perhaps less spring in his step than usual. But what now presented itself as late morning, or perhaps even early afternoon, he thought as he squinted up at the sun through the trees, was fine and warm and sunny, and his wits gathered themselves with alacrity. The headache receded, and he found himself whistling softly as he walked, the sunlight on his skin, renewing the Fool’s boundless energy and good humor. It seemed that, late as the hour was, he was one of the earlier risers, for the village and its surrounding paths were still and quiet. At length, the sound of a stream reached him, then the louder sounds of a waterfall, and he hastened towards them. Much like the approach to the village itself, the trees grew denser here, and then suddenly thinned to reveal a clearing. Or rather, a glade, with a mossy sward surrounding a large deep pool, from which the stream ran, and which was fed by the water falling from cliffs above it. At the far side, by and on top of the cliffs, the trees became thick again, and roped with vines. To the side of the waterfall, and about half as tall, rose a plateau. As he watched, Tavari appeared at a run and dove off the edge of this, disappearing beneath the surface of the pool with scarcely a ripple.

Setting his lute on the bank, Gellam hastened to the water’s edge and splashed his way in. It was cold; not so cold as to be shocking, but cool enough to make his skin contract and banish any semblance of thickheadedness that remained in him. Tavari broke the surface just as he stepped off into deep water, and she turned to face him, smiling, as he pulled himself through the water toward her.

“Good morning,” she greeted, and he laughed.

“Close enough! What a party! What a night! You’ve been holding out on me.” It was Tavari’s turn to laugh, and she propelled herself to Gellam’s side with a strong sculling motion, and swirled about in the water to lace her arms lazily across over his shoulders.

“I didn’t want to scare you off.”

“And you needed to trust me.”

“That too. You know there are different kinds of trust, Gellam.”

“Oh, yes. I don’t imagine you would ever bring Lord M here, for instance.” Tavari guffawed and pushed off from Gellam’s chest to float on her back in the water.

“Oh, no. Not his kind of party, I think,” her hair fanned about her as stretched out on the surface, “Indilë loved it here. And Arasoron- well, he loved Indilë loving it here. It’s wasn’t his sort of party either, no party really was,” she snorted, “but he was our rearguard and fielded any awkward questions about where we might be.” Their names fell from her lips with a new kind of ease to Gellam’s ears. “I’ve never brought anyone else here.”

“Well, it’s my honor to be the first.”

“And likely last!”

In a flurry of limbs, Tavari spun herself about in the water and ducked Gellam by the shoulders, forcing his head below the water before swimming off, laughing. He surfaced sputtering and pursued her at once, kicking off what would become an absolutely epic water fight. Anyone passing by would surely have thought there were far more than two elves at war, and anyone who stopped to observe would see two fully grown elves, one who qualified in most circles and as ancient, going at it like a pair of juvenile hooligans. Soon the range of the game expanded, and they used both land and water to their advantage, chasing each other about the glade with abandon. Gellam considered that he was holding his own, but Tavari was the fleetest nís alive, and he was hard-pressed in their mock-battle. He burst through the tree edge from which she had emerged when first he came to the glade and, seizing a vine, swung out over the pool. Immediately behind him came Tavari who, without hesitation, launched herself into open space behind him. Instinctively, Gellam flung out an arm to her, and she took hold of it with with a viselike grip of hand on forearm.

As they soared through the air and Gellam looked down at her, he was struck by the chain she always wore about her neck, more obvious in her current garb, and the small lump it led to on her chest beneath the brief frock, clearly outlined beneath the saturated fabric. What he missed in his distraction was the triumph in her eyes, and just as they reached the peak of their swung, Tavari contorted her body in a great upward arch, whipping the force along Gellam’s arm and through the rest of his body, effectively disengaging his hand from the vine and sending them both plunging into the water below, their yells a mix of victory and shock. One mighty splash later, a truce was declared. Together they climbed the rock face to the side of the waterfall, and hauled themselves over the edge of the plateau to flop upon its moss-covered surface. Tavari declared that it was high time for a nap and, beneath the hot sun with a bed of soft moss beneath him and his body full of not weariness but the satisfaction of their playful rigors, Gellam was not about to argue. It was no time at all before both elves had dropped off into slumber beside the tumbling falls.

Afternoon had been wearing on when the feud concluded, and when Gellam awoke it was to the last dying rays of the sun setting the glade afire in a saturated glow of crimson light. With his head upon his arms as he lay stretched on his stomach, the Fool opened his eyes. Filling most of his field of vision was Tavari’s face, not quite in profile, tilted slightly towards him as she slept upon her back. The sun and air had long since dried her clothes and hair, which now in tendrils whispered about her face in the breeze. Her features were relaxed as only sleep could make them, and in the soft semi-light she looked young. Of course, all their kind appeared young for their ages, but there was an eternity in Tavari’s eyes that could never fully recede- and here, in slumber and content, Gellam could well imagine her in her youth, before the cares of the jewels had imposed themselves upon her. In the long, long ago, when all the eyes about her had shone with Tree-light and she had walked among the Valar, what ease must she have known? As if she could hear him pondering her, Tavari opened her eyes.

“Good evening,” she smiled, turning her head further to the side to better look at Gellam, “I fear we may have completely ruined our night’s rest.”

“What is time to an elf?” Tavari laughed.

“I’ve often asked myself the same question!”

They talked of nonsense in the sunset; of the exploits of the previous evening, of their cheeky hostess, of how the villagers might have gotten hold of Alagon’s blackberry wine, for Gellam was certain he had tasted some the previous evening. Of how Aigronding might react if he knew where they were and what they had been up do, and how irresponsible they were being- which was a subject of great hilarity. Gellam speculated about simply setting fire to his desk when he returned, and Tavari did not discourage him. They talked of everything and nothing until the sky was fully blue-black and the moon was out, near full, and the sky fully carpeted with shining motes. “A place you know with a view of the stars, eh?” Gellam commented, and Tavari grinned. They lapsed into silence, gazing up at the stars and their patterns and the silvery illumination of Tilion’s vessel. For some time they lay in peaceable silence, until the thought that had been itching at the back of Gellam’s mind for so long finally burst from him in a quiet question.

“Tavari, what is on that chain you wear?”

A frisson seemed to run through the air; she hesitated, and Gellam almost retracted his words. Almost. Instead he waited, and Tavari moved, slowly curling her fingers under the chain at her neck, and drawing forth its full length, until it and its passengers dangled from her hand. In the moonlight shone a pair of rings, clearly mates, silver and mithril; one, with a broad, beaten face, and other, smaller, two intertwining lines of metal. They were old, Gellam could tell that at once; very old, far older than he, and created by hands of greatest skill. The Eldar had a great deal many more laws and customs than his own people, but at once upon seeing the silver-sheen of the rings, the Fool’s mind raced through his studies to those customs relating to marital unions, and arrived at the conclusion even as Tavari began to speak.

“They’re ours. Mine, and Carnistir’s.” She paused. “The night the siege of Angband was broken and Thangorodrim laid waste to Ard-galen, we were at revels in Thargelion, and Carnistir was about to ask me to marry him. But then hellfire broke loose, and it wasn’t until the next day as we evacuated the city that he told me what he had been trying to say.” Tavari swallowed, closing her eyes as she recalled. “I told him to bring these rings to me when we had won the day and could be united before all, and swore to wed him when all was done. But that’s not how it happened.” The hand holding the chain fell to her chest, where it puddled with the rings, and her hand lay over them. “After the fall of Thargelion, we parted ways. But first we were betrothed- in secret, with only Herugon and Finnbarr as witnesses. Whether he told any of his brothers I knew not for the longest time, but later found that Makalaurë knew. I told only Arasoron, after Carnistir died.” This last phrase changed something in Tavari; an unconscious tension gripped her, and her eyes opened, staring up at the starlit sky. “I have come to terms with many things. But I am afraid, Gellam. I am so afraid. I am afraid I can’t give you what you want, what you deserve, what I- what I want to give you,” her voice had become an anguished whisper, and a silent tear slid from the corner of her eye, down into the hair at her temple. “I am afraid of not being enough. I told you I had to believe he would want me to be happy. And that’s true, but- I still love him. I don’t think I’ll ever stop.”

Gellam propped himself up on one elbow, rising up to look down at Tavari where she lay, and his other hand came down softly on top of hers on her chest, above the rings.

“I would never ask you to,” he murmured, and squeezed her hand gently. “All I would ever ask is that you be here, now, with me. And love me, too. You should have been queen of Thargelion and I a visiting minstrel to your court, but fate had other plans. Who dares to say you should forget or put aside your love for Carnistir is a greater fool than I. My love is not fragile, nor so selfish it cannot rejoice in what came before.”

The words came to him easy and calm, though his heart was beating like a hummingbird’s wing. To speak so openly of his love for Tavari wold have been unthinkable not so long ago, and yet here he was. His dark eyes flicked up to her face, and saw that the corners of her lips had turned up in a wan smile.

“Why do they call you a fool, when you are so wise?” She had asked him that once before, and Gellam chuckled, giving the same reply he had then.

“Perils of the occupation, I suppose.” He made to shift his hand from hers, but her fingers tensed beneath it, holding him in place as effectively as any vise.

“I need to tell you something else.”

“What is it?”

“Carnistir’s death. What do you know from history and tales?”

“He fell at the Ruin of Doriath, did he not?” Gellam’s lips pursed as his nimble brain again leafed rapidly through its catalogues. “Under unknown circumstances.” He recalled a passage from a lay of Doriath he had studied, and recited,

”He, a perilous archer slew;
A bow amidst the wrack and flame,
Whose winging shaft flew home and true,
And stilled Caranthir’s darkened heart.”

“It was me.”

Tavari was staring up at the sky now, avoiding Gellam’s gaze, forcing herself to speak the horror she had confessed to but one other person since Arasoron, to say what she must before her nerve failed her.

“I lived in Doriath following the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and was pledged to Dior’s protection. I guarded him from his early boyhood until that day in Menegroth. I tried to warn Dior that Fëanor’s sons would stop at nothing to take the Nauglamír’s jewel, but he was certain we were safe there. He was wrong. In the battle, he slew Celegorm, and Carnistir in his rage made for Dior to kill him. And I-,” she closed her eyes, and the silence was absolute; even the breeze seemed to have paused to listen. “I didn’t think. I couldn’t think. I could only draw my bow and do my duty, and fulfil my oaths. It was my arrow that killed Carnistir, and I held him in my arms as the life left his body.” Tavari’s hand shifted beneath Gellam’s, manipulating the rings in her fingers until the larger protruded between her index finger and thumb, and she rotated her hand to show it. “I pulled this from his finger. Then I snapped the fletching from the arrow to hide my deed. In the retreat from Doriath I burned it, but Maitimo had seen. I sought him out after the battle to throw myself on his justice, and he cast me out. Only Makalaurë’s pity saved my life- at least, I thought then that it was pity.” Tavari’s hand closed over the ring again, and pressed it to her chest along with her own. “Carnistir was true to me to the end. His end, at my hand.” At least the flow of her voice ceased, a confessional flood exhausted. The silence stretched out in its aftermath, until she spoke again, tentatively.

“Gellam?”

[Tharmáras]

GM Non-IC Update. Changes to the OP, instituting new rules regarding posting content, have been made 06/15/21. Everything posted before this announcement is not considered (nor will it ever be considered) a breach of thread guidelines.

[Moriel]

Take A Break
Part 3
(Private)

“Gellam?”

She spoke his name with such fear that it nearly broke the Fool’s heart. Her fear, as she had confessed, of not being enough, now translated into something deeper after this latest admission, a lightning bolt through the story he had come to understand was Tavari Mordagnir. The tapestry of her life had slowly begun to weave together since she had returned to Imladris, its patterns becoming rapidly more complex these last few years. But there was still so much that remained incomplete- and here was a jarring discord, a theme that did not seem to fit with the whole. But, no, Gellam thought, even as his mind whirred to process this astonishing and, yes, disturbing piece of information; it was but a fugue. He had not realized that his head had dropped, his forehead now touching his own knuckles, which moved with the light breaths of Tavari’s chest beneath their hands. Slowly he lifted his head, and with it her hand. He pressed one of his hands to either side of hers, so that the pair of rings were pressed between her palm and his, and laces his fingers together through hers, capturing her hand there. He tilted his head to look at her, resting his cheek on the back of his hand, and he could see the fear he had heard in her voice flickering in her eyes. Gellam took a deep breath, and spoke softly.

“You have done terrible things.” He gave the barest shake of his head, otherwise unmoving, to forestall the tension he could feel growing in her. “I know that. I’ve known that for a long time. Who that fought in those days did not? That is a trial of your life, Rávnissë. You are one of the few who remains on this side of the sea to tell of it and know its pain. But this… this is more than terrible. I cannot imagine your suffering. You did a thing so terrible, and it wasn’t your fault. Not really. Oaths are unforgiving and fate can be unkind. Even you were overpowered by them, and that is not your fault.” A ripple ran through Tavari; her face broke and cracked, and the next breath she drew was a great shuddering sob. Gellam disentangled the hand upon which he had been resting his face and reached out to stroke the hair away from her forehead. His cheek came back to rest against the back of her hand, her fingertips at last relaxed to touch his skin, and for a long time he stroked her hair as she wept, until both grief and relief had run their course.

It wasn’t your fault.

How long had she needed someone to say those words? How long had she denied they could possibly be true, when it was her hand that drew the bow? How long had she tormented herself over a black deed committed in war, driven by conflicting oaths, where the fate of all and the world itself were at stake? How long had she grieved a life that might have been? Even after her pilgrimage to the remnants of Thargelion-that-was, where she had found a sense of closure and farewell, a bolstering of her renewed sense of purpose and place, there still had lingered the guilt and shame of the secret of what she had done. And the growing compulsion and knowledge that she must tell Gellam at some point, that she could not keep this secret from him forever. And the fear, bald and unchallenged by logic, that he might judge her as harshly as Maitimo and never speak to her again; that he might leave for Mirkwood and never return. She had not meant to tell him here, now, but the moment had come unexpectedly and she had known she must do it. And he had… not forgiven her, nor absolved her, but held up a mirror by which she could at last absolve herself, and offered no judgement. When at last she quietened, it was to the sense of his clever hand gently moving over her hair, patient and strong. Her fingers tightened about his, and when she spoke her voice was soft and bare, in words she had never said aloud.

“Gellam, I love you.”

He wanted to leap into the air, to sing, to crow to the sky. But he merely returned the pressure of her hand, the smile that crept across his face so broad his merry dark eyes all but disappeared into the crinkles of their joy.

“I know.”

[Moriel]

Take A Break
Part 4
(Private)

The days passed both slow and swift. Calendolen was a haven outside of time, or so it seemed to Tavari- as ever it had. When she was there, nothing else seemed to matter, and the timeless nature of the place, along with its residents’ casual disregard for the normal hours to do anything, seemed to suspend it in its own realm. But time did pass, and the time spent there always came to an end too quickly. Tavari knew they must return to Elrond’s house and their duties soon, but was unwilling to let her thoughts linger on when. She spent the days in the company of the villagers, and Gellam, working at their tasks and participating in their revels and games, with plenty of hunting and chasing through the woods of the vale for variety, and bathing in its lakes and streams. Many evenings -most, if truth were told- were spent carousing around fires, singing and storytelling. And the nights she passed either in the homes of various friendly hosts, or with her Fool, in a little house built at the top of a tree. It had but half a roof, of design: one could lay beneath the open sky and gaze up at the stars at night in comfort, or retreat beneath the shelter in rain or foul weather. It was an idyllic spot, one of many such dwellings scattered throughout Calendolen.

“A place you know, with a view of the stars?” Gellam had commented again, wryly, the first night they had come there, but Tavari only laughed, and flung herself down upon the furs.

“It reminds me of Thargelion,” she sighed, settling in contentedly as Gellam clambered down beside her, “There were many treetops like this there. In fact this whole village reminds me of Thargelion. That’s probably why I like it so much.”

“No surprises there!” Gellam laced his fingers together and propped them behind his head, gazing up at the star-strewn sky. “I wish I could have seen it.”

“You’d have loved it there.” Tavari’s voice was warm and rich with memory. Now that all she had feared to say was in the open, there was a new kind of ease between them- and a new openness when it came to her past. She had told Gellam many tales already of Thargelion and Caranthir, but now there was no hesitation, and no reticence in the joy with which she recalled them, and the pride of her lost home, the kingdom of pines.

“What was it like in the beginning?” Gellam asked, “When you all first came there?”

“I couldn’t tell you firsthand,” Tavari answered, and when she laced her hands together, they fell upon her stomach. “I wasn’t there. I came a bit later. When Carnistir and his brothers set out to claim their kingdoms, it was not long after the Dagor-nuin-Giliath; after Fëanor had perished, after Maitimo had been taken and returned to us; after the rising of the sun and moon. This world was so new to us and I... I wasn’t ready. I loved Carnistir, but I had to find my own way.”

“I say again, no surprises there.” Tavari snorted.

“True enough. But these were the first years of the sun, and no one knew what was to come. All I knew for certain was that I had to see as much of the world as I could, and figure out where I really belonged. I didn’t see Carnistir again until the Dagor Aglareb, where I joined Maitimo’s host and met him on the field of battle.” Gellam whistled softly.

“A long time apart.”

“Yes. And even after that, I came and went for another fifty years or so- until my family went to Gondolin. After that, Thargelion was truly my home. I think… I think Carnistir had to find his way, too.” Tavari paused, and Gellam glanced over at her. Her smile was still there, if wistful. “I think the time apart was good for us both, before I settled in to stay. He had to find himself too, to build something, and figure out what he wanted. It turned out that part of that was me, but he worried I might not want what he did, once he had built his home. As it happened, I did. We were so happy there, Gellam,” she sighed again, and reached out to take his hand. Their fingers twined together as she lowered their hands down to her chest. “It was our Imladris, though its foundation was unspoiled by war. I wish you could have seen it.”

“Well, my Lady,” Gellam replied, a hint of archness in his tone, rolling over to prop himself on his elbow as he looked at her, “My only consolation is that, if I had been in Thargelion, we should not be here.”

Tavari had laughed then, and kissed him in the warm summer night. They had talked until dawn, Gellam’s tales of Greenwood the Great old, and more revelations of the times she had spent in Thargelion, until at last they fell asleep together to the song of blackbirds and robins.

It was early dawn, after a night spent gossiping and playing at cards with a group of ellyth by the fire in one of their homes. They had drunk some very fine red wine and a crusty old bottle of mead and consumed rather more chocolate than was good for them, and the party had broken up in an extremely satisfied manner just before the sky began to lighten. Two of the ellyth remained in the house, and the rest of them streamed out into the darkness, laughing and calling farewells. Slowly they scattered, each to their beds as the group moved along, until finally only Tavari was left. Still cloaked in an aura of warm contentment, she made her way to the base of the tree that held the little house she had been sharing with Gellam. She fully expected him to be asleep, or absent, either bedded down elsewhere or still away on his own night’s adventures, but as she climbed upwards she began to hear the strains of a lute, and the distant lilting of a tenor voice. Tavari smiled, and quickened her pace.

Her thoughts were still spinning with the night’s revels and the unexpected presence that awaited her at the top of the tree, so it was not until she had nearly reached the sturdy platform built there that she registered the melody; or perhaps he had only then begun to sing it? Gellam’s voice lilted in the refrain she had sung for him in Mirkwood; the song Caranthir had sung to her beneath Laurelin’s spreading boughs.

“La la la la la la la…”

Tavari slowed her rush, climbing the last few branches methodically, until she gained the ladder and her head emerged through the hole used to access the dwelling. Gellam glanced over to her, smiling.

“Hello,” he said, “I’ve been writing a song.”

“Have you?’ she asked. He had said he was going to, and she had believed him, but since then Gellam had spoke not a word about it. Tavari pulled herself up through the hole and crawled across the floor, folding her legs beneath her to sit a few feet away from the Fool upon a cushion, beneath the open air.

“I think it’s finished. I didn’t want to show it to you until it was. But I also didn’t want to sing it for anyone else without your approval.” Gellam’s fingers plucked at the lute strings with a hint of nervous energy. “May I sing it?” Tavari shifted into a cross-legged position, and clasped her hands upon her ankles.

“Please.”

Gellam cleared his throat, and strummed a cascading chord. When he sang, it was in a high, clear voice, unadorned and ringing.

“King of shadows
King of shades
Moryo was called the Dark, harshest son,
But he fell in love with a beautiful lady
Who ran in the light
In Oromë’s green field
He fell in love with Tavari
Who was dancing with Nessa in Laurelin’s light
And he took her home to become his queen
Before the sun ever shone
On anyone.

And I know how it was because
He was like me
A man in love with a woman
And he didn't know how
And he didn't know why
But he knew that he wanted to take her home
He saw her alone there, against the sky
It was like she was someone he'd always known
It was like he was holding the world when he held her
Like his were the arms that the whole world was in
And there were no words for the way that he felt
So he opened his mouth and he started to sing:
La la la la la la la...
La la la la la la la...
La la la la la la la...
La la la la la la la...”

Tavari had ceased to breathe, and she felt her heart might burst. Gellam had taken the simple melody and from that foundation spun a lay of her long-ago long-lost love such as she could never have imagined. She knew that her name appeared in many accounts, tales, and songs of the Elder days; as a warrior, as a member of great hosts, as a companion of the Fëanorions, as a traitor; as a footnote in the history of Middle-earth. But a song such as this? An epic of romance that told not just her story, but Caranthir’s- their story, secret and forgotten? This, she could never have dreamed. So recently she had said to Finnbarr that they had no control: who lives, who dies, who tells your story. And that she would tell the story of those days, of Thargelion and its people. But this story… Gellam had taken the stories she had told him from the deepest corners of her heart, and made them into something greater, something proud to be shared. Her eyes stung.

“The lady loved him and the life that they shared
But with the sun up above, the world was too large
So then Moryo agreed they should part for a time
He would go with his people, to the land of pines
But his other half, she would walk in the sun
And the sun in turn, burned twice as bright
Which is where the seasons come from
And with them, the cycle
Of the seed and the sickle
And the lives of the people
And the birds in their flight
Singing,
La la la la la la la...
La la la la la la la...
La la la la la la la...
La la la la la la la...”

Neither of them had noticed the clouds rolling in with the fingers of dawn, and both were caught by surprise in a shower of sudden rain. The music broke off as Gellam shuffled back beneath the roof, and Tavari jerked from her rapture as the chill water struck her, scrambling to join him. For a moment they were occupied with creating a nest of cushion, quilt, and fur; then as both settled back into it and Gellam again took up his lute, he paused, watching her as she dashed the tears from her eyes.

“Is it too much? Should I stop?”

“No,” Tavari answered at once, shaking her head. “No, it’s… it’s-” she couldn’t find the words, but gestured inwardly at her chest as she drew a deep breath. Gellam reached out and squeezed her hand.

“I understand.” Tavari returned the pressure of his hand and exhaled, relaxing back against a cushion with a great release of tension.

“Go on. Please.”

“Very well.” But Gellam didn’t begin again right away. He strummed thoughtfully for a moment. “I know you asked me to make it a happy song. And I think it is, really. But… I want to tell the truth, and you told me some things about Carnistir that became words of… not exactly sorrow, but I think the uncertainty that must haunt someone in the situations he was in. I’ve written quite a lot about him really. And he’s not here to tell me if I’m right, but I think I am. I hope you’ll tell me if you disagree. But I wanted to tell his side of the story too, and I hope you won’t be disappointed.”

“I could never.” Gellam laughed.

“Don’t say that until you’ve heard it.”

“Go on. Please.” With a nod, his fingers repeated the opening chord, and he sang, to the backdrop of the thrumming rain on the roof, and the whispering of the trees.

“King of silver
King of gold
And everything glittering
Under the ground
Moryo is king
Of pine and stone
And the riches that flow
Where those rivers are found
But for so many years with his Huntress gone
His loneliness moves in him cruel and Dark
He thinks of his love in the arms of the sun
And loneliness fuels him and feeds him and fills him
With doubt that she'll never come
Dread that she'll never come
Doubt that his lover
Will ever come back.

King of mortar
King of bricks
Mighty Gelion is a river of stones
And Moryo lays them high and thick
With a thousand hands alongside his own
With a thousand hands, he builds a hall
Around all the riches he digs from the Earth
The pickaxe flashes
The hammer falls
And crashing and pounding
As rivers surround him
And drown out the sound of the song he once heard:
La la la la la la la...
La la la la la la la...
La la la la la la la...
La la la la la la la...

And what then became of the heart of that man
When that the man was King?
What then became of the heart of that man
When he had everything?
The more he had, the more he held
The greater the weight of the world on his shoulders
See how he labored beneath that load
Afraid to look up, and afraid to let go
Where is the treasure inside of your chest?
Where is your pleasure? Where is your youth?
Where is the man with his arms outstretched?
To the woman he loves
With nothing to lose
Singing,
La la la la la la la...
La la la la la la la...
La la la la la la la...
La la la la la la la...”

She wept, but they were a peaceful sort of tears, that rolled down from her eyes without restraint or tension, and her breathing was easy again, unlabored and free. Her tears were a gentle acknowledgement of the truth Gellam sang, of the story he told, so long unrecognized. He gave voice to the silenced, and she could not have loved him more. On and on he sang; of her coming to Thargelion and her return to say; of all the happy times that followed, and at length of Thargelion’s fall. She wondered how far he might go, but the lay spun to an end on the eve of the fall of Doriath, though the Tavari and Caranthir of the song were not to know it, as they danced one final time in secret, amid the pines of Nan Elmoth.

When at last the song came to its end and Gellam’s voice fell away, followed by the strings of the lute, they sat in silence for a long moment. The sky had lightened, but only to a misty grey, and they could see one another clearly as he looked at her, and she looked at him. There was a question in his look, but no answer in hers, until at last her face split into a wide grin.

“Shall we dance?”

Gellam was on his feet in a trice, lute cast aside, and though Tavari was the slower to rise, it was she who seized the Fool’s hand and pulled him out from beneath the roof. In turn, Gellam took Tavari by the waist and drew her to him as the rain, which had not slackened but increased, drenched them both. The hair plastered down to their heads and necks, they grinned at each other and, with the bard’s unerring skill, Gellam began to hum a tune. It was a lighter, brighter, more sprightly variation of the melody to which he had sung the lay, and at the pressure of his hand on her back, they began to dance. The Lioness and the Fool waltzed about the surface of the treehouse as the rain came down and the sun breathed against the clouds, coming daringly close to its edges, but never in danger to fall.

(Song adapted from Epic I, II, & III from Hadestown)

[Fane Mordagnir]

Fanecu Mordagnir

The Valley’s Edge

Rarely do elves feet feel weary and yet Fanecu had wandered over harsh terrain for many years through wind and rain with little relief so he felt it fair that on this occasion they ached. He longed for a soft bed and proper elven food and none of the wild rations he had been depending on for such a great amount of time. Scavenged berrys and the generous gifts of passers could only sustain a soul for so long and Fane was looking forward to a feast of the like of Elrond's hall. Even with the long life of elves Fane trusted that he still had a place in Rivendell and hoped that some of his adoptive family remained and were unharmed. They deserved an explanation as to why he had disappeared especially as he left them as he was due to set out on an expedition leading on the orders of Elrond.

The path over the Bruinen was without doubt the easiest and busiest into the Hidden Valley but Fane had come up from the south and therefore had trekked through the moorlands and the foothills of the Misty Mountain coming to the edge of the Vale through one of the many narrow paths that only those knowledgable of the valley would have been able to find. He had come this way for the added secrecy - he did not know who may have been following him. For some time he had been trailing orcs and been hunted by orcs in return so he had switched back often, set false trails and set many a trap for them before coming by the true route.

Slowly the path widened and after a few more minutes Fane saw the valley below open up and a steep cliff before him. The path snaked backwards and forwards across the face of the wall of rock and led down to the floor of the Hidden Valley. Before following the path Fane sat and let his legs dangle over the cliff. There was a freedom in being home in the Valley which many would find odd seen as Fane could by many have been described as free ever since he had left but to be able to just sit and not have to be constantly looking over your shoulder was where true freedom lay.

Taking his pack off and setting it next to him Fane pulled off the rags that covered the silver gauntlets revealing the embossed crest of the House of the Fountain. It had been many months since it had been wise to remove the rags and to be able to look at them again ignited joy deep in Fane's soul. These were one of the few luxuries from his relative youth that he allowed himself when wandering on his own - it was not worth bringing the attention to himself. The only other relics of Gondolin that he took with him was his sword which reached far from himself during battle and the flute that had been with him for most of his life. Surprisingly it was often the flute that created more fear from his quarry than the glittering blade but even Orc filth knew their history and the fall of many of their kind the last time a battalion of elves marched into battle to the sounds of the flute.

After an hour watching the sun pass across the sky and letting his feet recover Fanecu brought himself up from his perch and began the long descent towards the floor of the valley. As he walked he began to unwrap the scraps of cloth from the metal pieces on himself - there to silence any clinking while out in the world. The further down the path the more he announced himself to the world and the louder each step became compared to his initial steps into the valley. Finally he pulled the cloth cover from the leather sheath of his sword Mirmacil, finally he felt himself again.

Eventually he reached the lush green grass of the valley floor and finally felt as if he had never left. Eagerly he pulled off his leather boots and felt the blades of grass on his feet. He quickly strode through the woods and wildflower fields towards his small home near the Last Homely House. Opening the door he saw fresh fruit in a bowl on the table - someone at least was hoping for his return. He quickly bathed in fresh, cool water collected from the small stream a short distance from the house and then clothed himself in a soft tunic to soothe his beaten and battered body, before strapping his sword onto his hip again and made to set out. He took a few pieces of fruit and headed back out into the valley in search of some familiar faces and maybe one of the Mordagnir's who remained in the Vale.

[Raisins]

Near the Valleys edges @Fane Mordagnir

Fuin had the task of checking on the fruit and water today, though rot was slow to come to the valley it did always eventually come and Aigronding had been busy so she had offered to do it this time. She had cleaned the dust from the house and wiped down the dishes and cleared away the old fruit that had been set out days before now that it had become soft and about to spoil. She gave it to the birds that flitted outside happy for the treat every few days. The Mordagnir line had once when she thought of it almost been her own, and it made sense, for they were very akin to her and did wander the wilds yet. They tended to seek something though it was different for every one. She too still sought some peace outside the Valley though she was slowly finding it though she did doubt if Elrond or Cirdan would call what she was finding peace.

Setting out fresh fruit on the table she gave a nod at the work she had done in the small house and headed back towards the Valley enjoying a leisurely walk on the less used path. Indeed it was nice to not have the bustle of other elves. She had to commend Fane on a most excellent choice of locations for his home, there were far less merry singing elves in this area of the Valley than by the bridge and the white stone path. And the birds that sang were quite delightful. She did not have much to do this particular day, the forge was not terribly busy, and there was little to do in the Abad Nestor and the Host was not marching today so she slipped off of the path where the trees widened away from it and sat down leaning back against a tree and shut her eyes her face tilted up towards Arien as her rays reached through the dappling of the lush trees canopy dancing on her face.

It was good to slow down sometimes and it was not something that she did often and decided on a nap and was about to fall asleep when she heard the soft footsteps coming down the path and she was awake in a blink. Had Fane actually returned to the Valley safely? She was certain the footsteps belonged to no orc or man, perhaps a hobbit? With that she stood slowly hidden by the large tree that she had been leaning against from the person approaching.

"You've found a little used path to tread on today friend." Figuring that she would make noise before stepping out simply because she did not want to frighten him, in the wilds one must be on edge at all times she knew that well enough from her own experience.

[Fane Mordagnir]

Near the Valley’s edge @Fuin Elda

Fane walked slowly along the path from his house further into the Valley and listened to the birds singing. Fane had somehow ended up with a prime plot in Imladris out of the way of the main paths which made it even more astounding that someone or someones had been looking after his house even still after he had been gone for so long. He slowly made his way through the fruit he had picked up from the bowl and meandered along the path until he had a collection of cores, skins and stalks.

He dipped to the side of the path and laid down the remains of his meal in the grass for the Hidden Vale's wildlife to feast on. As he was returning to the path he saw the faint imprint of elven feet in the grass. Clearly someone had been this way recently - the person who had left the fruit? More likely an errant elf walking an oft forgotten path rediscovering lost memories of a busier time when more elves lived in Middle Earth. No need to worry about the old foot prints of elves.

He continued further along the path and all of a sudden heard a voice from behind a great, old tree beckoning to him. The sudden, unexpected shock of the voice kicked Fane's muscle memory into overdrive and before he knew it his sword was half out of its sheath before he saw the face appearing form behind the trunk. It was a face he knew from his days in the valley, one he had seen in the dark forges of the Tingdain.

"Fuin Elda, I would say you were lucky that my blade didn't make it all the way out but I think I would have been on the backfoot!" He chuckled but knew that she was a dangerous warrior and rarely was put in a position where she is in trouble. "Has it been you keeping an eye on my house? Or is there a secret group that has been eagerly awaiting my return?" To be playful was not something that Fane had been able to be for a long time but it came back to him quickly. He returned Mirmacil to its place at his side and was finally truly glad to be home.

[Raisins]

Near the Valley’s edge @Fane Mordagnir

She poked her head out to see Fane with his sword half drawn and couldn't help but laugh as even the birds seemed to hold their breath their song stilling, indeed she did not even bother to draw her dagger, he laughed and greeted her. "I don't suppose it would have gone well for you had you drawn fully and attacked." She stepped out entirely from behind the tree before he had even slid his sword home to it's scabbard and with it the song of the birds returned. She had to admit that it was good to see another familiar face after so many years of him being in the wilds. He appeared to have, grown some, perhaps not physically but certainly of his mind and disposition as he spoke and how he reacted. Her smile was small and kind and she nodded.

"It has been the last while - when I can, there are other Mordagnirs about and they do it when I am not around or busy and I take care of it when they are busy as well in hopes that you'd return" She said calmly. "It is good to know that you'll be able to keep your own house under your own eye." A grin pulling on her lips as she said it. Indeed she had heard rumors of an elf in the wilds fighting and destroying orcs and other evil foes but she knew what that need was. She did it as well for a long time endlessly, she still on occasion did it though not as often as she had once upon a time.

"Aigronding is still about somewhere as are many others, I hope you'll be staying for a little while at least?" She said turning to continue the slow leisurely walk that Fane had been taking down the lane. "I am certain there would be many that would happy to see you and hear of your safe return to the valley." Even if it is not permanent. She did not say those last words - the wander lust and the blood lust of vengeance could be inescapable. k And Knowing full well that many elves worried about their kin that travelled into the wilds to fight, she knew it took a toll on Elrond when his sons did such for there was always a risk of their lives being ended. Perhaps Fane would be home permanently, perhaps he had eased the ache and torment in his heart at the loss of his family, or he had found something - those were questions for another time though.

[Fane Mordagnir]

Near the Valley’s Edge @Fuin Elda

Fuin stepped out and joined him on the path continuing the pace down the path and Fane kept up his step so that we was level with her. "I'll have you remember I was trained in Goldolin under the House of the Fountain - I'd have given you a run before dying at the very least." He laughed knowing that they were both teasing each other after such a long absence on his part. The birds had returned to their chirping and he took a deep breath as she spoke of his family.

"It's good to know that at least some of the Mordagnirs remain in the vale - it seems so empty compared to when I was last here." It was true, there was a time when one couldn't get anywhere near the valley without someone appearing round a corner or out of the boughs of an ancient tree. No however the valley seemed quieter a sign of changing times and the slow migration of the elves westwards. "However I don't know if I won't keep some of you on as my cleaners, you seem to have done a fine job and I'm not sure I want that bother!" Although joking and holding in a chortle Fane wasn't altogether lying, cleaning had never been his favorite activity. The verbal lashings he used to get from his mother never really helped much.

He could almost hear a hesitation in her voice as she truly welcomed him back to the valley, there was no doubt that although he would be greeted like an old lost friend there would be many questions as to where he had been and why he had so suddenly disappeared. Likely there would be whispers as to how long he was staying this time before he disappeared off with him. "I'm glad to hear that the old man is still about - I'm not surprised, he won't be gone until all of the rest of our kind has gone and even then I don't know if he could leave this place now." Aigronding had been a staple among the Noldor for as long as he could remember never far from the action but always held in high esteem by his people.

"I know many of you will be curious as to why I left but I must speak with Aigronding for some advice before too many hear about it. He has the favour of Elrond and may be able to provide some insight but to give you some insight I left because I heard fell rumors that my father is alive and alone." He knew that of all the elves Fuin could be relied upon to be discrete so felt no danger in letting her know. "If you can keep that between us for now I'll give you more information as soon as I can."

He hoped to find Aigronding soon and get good council from one he trusted implicitly but knew that he had been a busy figure in the valley and likely still was. His mood had dropped a notch as a light cloud had passed across the sun but he felt the world lighten again as he looked up and fell the rays of light hit his face again. He would once more find allies and friends here. He knew it.