Tham-en-Gaearon ~ Elves of Lindon | Autumn Banquet

[Farewell]

“In Eriador, Imladris was the chief dwelling of the High Elves; but at the Grey Havens of Lindon there abode also a remnant of the people of Gil-galad the Elvenking. At times they would wander into the lands of Eriador, but for the most part they dwelt near the shores of the sea, building and tending the elven-ships wherein those of the Firstborn who grew weary of the world set sail into the uttermost West, Círdan the Shipwright was lord of the Havens and mighty among the Wise.”
~ Tolkien, Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age, The Silmarillion

"But as for me, my heart is with the Sea, and I will dwell by the grey shores, guarding the Havens until the last ship sails."
~ Círdan to Mithdrandir, Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age, The Silmarillion

“At the Grey Havens dwelt Círdan the Shipwright, and some say he dwells there still, until the Last Ship sets sail into the West. In the days of the Kings most of the High Elves that still lingered in Middle-earth dwelt with Cirdan or in the Seaward lands of Lindon."
~ Tolkien, Eriador, Arnor, and the Heirs of Isildur, Appendix A iii



Upon the highest cliff overlooking the Gulf of Lhûn, is the palace of Lord Círdan the Shipwright, known to the Elves of Middle-earth as the Tham-en-Gaearon - the Hall of the Great Sea.

Its fortified walls are belted with tiers of waterfall fountains and reach to the sapphire sky above the coastland; their height rivaled only by the peaks of their glinting spiral towers. As waves crash upon the rocks of the shore below and the guild members labor in the construction of ships in the local yard, those entrusted with positions of nobility and honorable responsibility gather at the throne of their ruler and influence matters of great importance.

For if the realm by the Sea were to fall in their disregard, the other lands would surely follow…

Welcome to the Tham-en-Gaearon!



Here you may roleplay in the home of Lord Círdan, as a noble, a courtier in his service, or as a guest.

If you would like a position, a roster of available titles can be found in the Imladris Archives: viewtopic.php?f=10&t=192&p=40098#p40098

~*~





Annonbâr, the Gatehouse - gateway fortification constructed of white, unblemished stone that serves as the entry point into the Tham-en-Gaearon. A glinting steel portcullis must be raised and a colossal pair of elaborately carved doors opened before its residents and visitors can make their way into the outdoor courtyard.

Royal Stables - those arriving on horseback may leave their steeds in the care of a Master of the Horses in the deluxe royal stables, where they will be given a variety of food, water, and even groomed upon request.



Thamas, the Great Hall and Archafbar, the Throne Room - the palatial heart of the Tham-en-Gaearon, which serves as both a place of gathering and council. Illuminated during the day by the sunlight streaming in from the wide and decorative glass panels of its dome skylight, and bowls of fire carried in the immaculate hands of its various statues in the evening. Its high ceiling is supported by towering, sculpted pillars and an extensive turquoise textile trimmed and embroidered with golden thread rests across its burnished floor all the way to the throne room where the ruler takes his seat atop a broad dais.



Sammath, the Bedchambers - luxurious living and sleeping quarters available to the courtiers of the Tham-en-Gaearon where they may be afforded rest and domestic privacy, in the comfort of a patio, sitting room, bedroom, and fireplace.



Kitchens - spacious area where meals are prepared and cooked by bakers, sauciers, butchers, milkmaids, and other culinarians in the service of the Chefs of the Tham-en-Gaearon; equipped with every manner of cooking necessity, from utensils to ovens. Adjacent pantries are stocked with a generous supply of food, provisions, and dishes; while joints of meat and game hang from hooks in the ceiling of the neighboring larders; these include insulated containers for ice as well.



Grand Balcony - elevated platform extending from the west-facing wall of the ballroom and railed with balusters; offers its guests a breathtaking view of the Gulf of Lhûn and the proximate Belegaer, the Great Sea.



Ballroom - opulent dance chamber with a polished marble floor and tall, curtained windows; home of the grand fireplace, and an enormous chandelier, that descends from the center of its arched ceiling; where the Masters of Ceremonies have been known to host exquisite masquerade celebrations for every resident and traveler in Lindon.



Royal Library - vast study hall and abundant archive, under the management of the Scribes; murals depicting important events and figures in the history of the Elves adorn its walls. An endless number of tomes and scrolls may be found stacked and organized neatly upon its towering ornate bookshelves carved from oak. Unfortunately, only a few scraps of Khuzdul and Iglishmêk may be found in its inventory, due to the secrecy of the Dwarvish language.



Maensad, the Treasury - secured wing of the Tham-en-Gaearon comprised of various adjoining and locked rooms, sealed with magic and guarded by sentinels of the Lindon Guard; in which coins, jewels, and other priceless valuables may be found spilling out of a multitude of baskets and opened chests. This collection of precious items and gathered wealth is under the management of the Chief of Commerce and Housing.



Maeligsant, the Gardens - verdant eastward acres of orchards and coastal floral paradise of the Tham-en-Gaearon, in the care of the Masters of the Gardens; bordered by roofed colonnades of pale stone. Blossomy hills divided by streams of sweet-tasting water divide the Alfsant, the Flower Garden with arched bridges uniting them in a single utopia.



Topiary gardens surround the high-reaching walls of the Labyrinth of the Maeligsant, where courtiers and guests are advised to exercise caution when undertaking the enchanted maze. It is rumored that beyond the enclosed greenery of the Eithelsant, the Fountain Yard, and wooded sections of the Orchards, the Fû-en-Merillath the Path of Roses may be found.



Constructed in secret by an Elven couple on the eve of their departure with the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, as a testament to their great love. It is believed by the residents of Lindon that after the enamored pair fell to the swords of their enemies in Mordor, their spirits - unwilling to depart the confines of Middle-earth - returned to dwell in the hidden pathway together. Somewhere along the stony path festooned with twisting vines and spellbound roses, it is said that the deceased couple may at times speak to those who have found their hidden route, disclose secrets to them, and even grant them visions of the future.



~*~

Please adhere to all the policies of the Plaza and follow its Roleplaying Code of Conduct.
Keep the spirit of Tolkien in your posts, and above all - have fun.

Feel free to voice any concerns you have, share your ideas, and plan your court intrigue with your fellow roleplayers.

You may use the Imladris Activities General OOC thread here: viewtopic.php?f=10&t=34

If you are a member of the Lindon Guard - you earn points toward promotion if you post as a guard stationed at the Gatehouse and patrolling the palace grounds.



Lord Círdan the Shipwright and his ambassador Galdor of the Havens will be roleplayed by yours truly.

[Farewell]

“And when they had passed from the Shire, going about the south skirts of the White Downs, they came to the Far Downs, and to the Towers, and looked on the distant Sea; and so they rode down at last to Mithlond, to the Grey Havens in the long firth of Lune. As they came to the gates Círdan the Shipwright came forth to greet them. Very tall he was, and his beard was long, and he was grey and old, save that his eyes were keen as stars; and he looked at them and bowed, and said: ‘All is now ready.’
~ Tolkien, Chapter 9: The Grey Havens, The Return of the King

~*~



Lord Círdan the Shipwright, Earl and Ambassador Galdor
and Istíldë of Caras Galadhon
in the Archafbar, the Throne Room

Several Months Ago

Along the northern shores of Harlindon, a group of fishermen had found the adolescent, wrapped in seaweed and caked in sand. She was the sole survivor of a recent disaster at Sea in which a westbound swan-ship bearing a number of Lady Galadriel’s careworn people had found itself in the grip of a terrible storm. This gale had been so fierce, that its violent winds collided the craft against a towering spire of rock. When the news reached the Grey Havens, it was very much believed that all of the passengers on board this vessel had perished and great was the lamentation upon the piers.

“I am truly sorry for your loss mell gweinpen, dear young one,” Círdan said, as tears fell from his starlit eyes. He beheld an Elven teenager standing at the foot of the dais, garbed in borrowed clothing and appearing very ill of health. The chalk-white skin of Istíldë had become a sickly shade of yellow and shadowy patches framed the now dull color of her light-green eyes. Her chapped hands and lips were still wounded from the coarse sea salt that had rubbed against her skin in the open ocean.

As his sovereign mourned for the adolescent and the Galadhrim who had been victims of the unforgiving and unpredictable Belegaer, Galdor looked towards Istíldë with compassion. “His majesty, the Lord of Lindon, wishes to offer you a place here in the Hall of the Great Sea as a ward in his personal care. He would assign you a Lady-in-waiting to be your governess and you would never want for anything. Will you accept this offer, Istíldë of Caras Galadhon?”

Until this moment, Istíldë had not uttered a single word, to her angling rescuers nor to the nobles before her. She appeared neither grief-stricken nor anguished in all that time and (unless they were mistaken) it seemed very much to Círdan and Galdor that Istíldë was disinterested with these formalities currently taking place. “No… no thank you,” she said at last, in a voice low and impartial, “I just want to stay here, on my own accord, as a citizen. I will, however, take some much-needed sleep if that is alright with you kind ruler.”

Círdan returned a sentimental gaze to Istíldë and extended a welcoming hand. “By all means,” he replied, “take all the rest you need.”

Before the Shipwright could call for a steward to guide her to the sammath, the bedchambers, Istíldë had lowered herself down to the turquoise carpet of the great hall and fallen fast asleep. Galdor turned to the Elf-lord with uncertainty and Círdan shared in his advisor's bewilderment. “She does not cry after having lost so much? Forgive me Lord Círdan, but I do not know what to make of this strange Elf-girl,” stated the Earl, and Círdan shook his head gently with a combination of amusement and sympathy. “Different people will mourn in different ways,” he said, addressing his ambassador, “It may be that Istíldë will find her healing privately in a manner we cannot foresee at this time. All the same, it would be best to find her a suitable bed for now.”

Galdor remained skeptical but knew his Lord to be wise in all things. He came to Istíldë, who had now begun to snore quite loudly, and enveloped her in his arms. With a forward inclination to Círdan, he departed the throne room with the raised youth cradled against his robes.

*



Lord Círdan the Shipwright, Earl and Ambassador Galdor
and Jester Istíldë the Merry One
in the Archafbar, the Throne Room

Present Day

“Mariners have also begun to disappear in increasing numbers, Lord Círdan. We have lost every scout we have sent in search of them and those of us in the Lindon Guard stationed at the ports of Harlond and Forlond, fear to lose any more of our comrades.” The Tirno informant lowered his gaze, ashamed of the caution from his fellow soldiers that might be mistaken for cowardice.

Círdan leaned forward in this throne, bringing the tips of his fingers from both hands together. “I feared these reports would increase,” he replied thoughtfully, “but I am unable to wrap my mind around these mystifying accounts. The estimated locations in which the vanishments have taken place vary all too much. It seems that not one group of sailors, fishermen, or mariners has been the target of this unknown predator. Pirates sailing north from Umbar have attempted to board and enslave them in the past, yes, but a single vessel could not enter within range of our coastal borders without making their presence known. I fear that a greater, darker power may be at work here.”

As the light of the early morning descended into the throne room, Galdor thanked the warrior for traveling from his post in the southern harbor to bring them this dire report. “Inform your superiors that his majesty will consult with those in his court in the coming days and that a solution to these matters will be sent with a herald to Harlond soon enough,” he stated, granting the Tirno leave from the archafbar. “This is the third report this week alone, sire. Your court is no longer unaware of this growing threat,” said Galdor, addressing his sovereign respectfully but making his perturbed sentiments known as well.

“Yes, I know,” said Círdan with a deep sigh, “I will speak with the nobles and the courtiers today, before the evening banquet. Privately, if I can. I do not wish to alarm all of the Tham-en-Gaearon on a menace I myself do not yet fully understand.” Galdor laid a hand over his heart and bowed his head, accepting the Shipwright’s decision. “Well then,” continued Círdan, shifting in this throne, “let us now redirect our attention to other more joyful things. Oh Istíldë, where are you Merry One?” He looked for the young jester in the thamas, but she did not come. Then, as Galdor shrugged nonchalantly to himself, a snicker emanated from behind the throne.

Istíldë wore a long tunic made of shimmering velveteen fabric, checkered with navy blue and white rectilinear patches. A ruffled bleached scarf concealed her neck and sheer nylon hose with a similar pattern to her tunic covered the extensive length of her bony legs. Her waist was belted with tassels and silver jingle bells that also hung from the four curling points of her cap and bells. Her curly toe slippers were also blue and had chrome metal bells of their own at the tip of their forward prongs. A mask of deep blue color, dotted with tiny crystals and crested with golden lace adorned the upper half of her adolescent face, tied with satin cobalt ribbons behind her head.

“Here I am my Lord, here I am! Yeeehooo!” she cried, springing cheerfully from behind the ornate chair and landing on Círdan’s lap. She planted a big kiss on one of his cheeks. “Muuah! Did you miss me?” she asked, as she began plaiting his beard. “Istíldë? How long were you hiding back there?” inquired Galdor, having failed to notice the fool. “Who is this Istíldë you speak of?” she replied, then declaring, “I am Gagnas the Spotted Toad!” Istíldë dropped from the ruler’s thighs and began leaping in the manner of a frog around the steps of the dais. Círdan laughed and applauded the act, much to Galdor’s annoyance. “Very well, Gagnas, how long were you hiding behind the throne? And what did you overhear?” the ambassador asked again, more seriously this time.

“Gagnas? Who is this ‘Gagnas’ you speak of?” she responded, toying with the Earl of Mithlond further, “I am Caroline the Mad Hen!” Istíldë rose midway to her full height and folded her arms in the manner of imaginary wings, flapping them forward and back repeatedly. “Buck buck buck buck!” she clucked, pecking imaginary specks of grain off of the turquoise carpet. Círdan could not decide which Elf amused him more, the name-changing Istíldë or his bothered Earl. Galdor’s lips twitched into a smile, but he quickly regained his courtly composure. He had a reputation to uphold after all.

*



Autumn has come to an end in the coastland realm and the courtiers of the Tham-en-Gaearon work tirelessly to prepare for the evening banquet that will bid another bountiful season a celebratory and song-filled farewell.

However, reports of missing ships and vanished passengers have increased over the last several weeks. These troubling accounts have reached the ears of the courtiers in the Tham-en-Gaearon but how Lord Círdan will choose to approach this matter remains unknown.

[Farewell]

Annúnfalas, Chief of Commerce and Housing and Master Shipwright Eärmana
on the Grand Balcony

“Mae g'ovannen. Well met, messenger of the Sea, what brings you here this fine morning?”

Annúnfalas greeted the seagull that had perched itself on the railing of the grand balcony beside her. It opened its beak in muted reply, expanding its wings. “Nogwanwen!” shouted another in the company of the Chief of Commerce and Housing, “Begone you pest!” Eärmana hurled a biscuit at the gull. It squawked after being smitten with the baked good and flew hurriedly away.

“Was that truly necessary?” inquired Annúnfalas of the Master Shipwright, “It was only wanting to befriend us.” Eärmana, who had begrudgingly agreed to have breakfast with the former ship-builder, frowned. “They are rats of the Sea and must be dealt with accordingly, have you not enough friends already?”

Annúnfalas smiled. “Not enough to join me in this morning meal,” she replied, as the light of the rising sun filled the cream-colored shine of her pearl circlet with two swans wrought of precious silver joining together above her brow. She wore a white floral lace dress with translucent cap sleeves and a handkerchief hem. Shimmering chandelier earrings set with diamonds dangled freely from the pale, leaf-shaped ears of Annúnfalas, and heeled sandals covered her feet with crystal embellishments and silk satin ribbons wrapping around her ankles. Her long, silver hair was twisted elegantly behind her neck and set with a mithril brooch.

Eärmana rolled her eyes, wearing very much the same attire she always did whilst working in her Forlindon shipyard: a shapeless gray gown with wide sleeves and thick leather boots. Her matted silver hair had been brushed carelessly with her own fingers and a stormy expression was fixed on her ancient face. Annúnfalas said no more, cutting slowly into her fishermen’s eggs - a breakfast of baked eggs sprinkled with pepper over a bed of sardine meat. Orange juice with honey stirred in them filled the glass cups set upon the white table where they ate. The financier looked to her childhood governess with raised silver brows. Eärmana violently stabbed at the eggs on her plate, two dozen at least, shoving them in her mouth in a series of frustrating grunts. Instead of reaching for her juice-brimming glass, the bitter Nelya-born Elf reached for the pitcher and gulped down its contents.

“I am thinking of asking the Earl to pose for another portrait for me,” mentioned Annúnfalas with an amused grin, “I rather liked the one I had completed previously, but a few days ago, Istíldë painted a pair of spectacles and a mustache on Galdor’s image with red acrylic. It simply will not due.” Eärmana humphed. “Why not ask the bloody Noldo that Lord Círdan was daft enough to make Crown Prince?”

Annúnfalas responded with a disappointed expression. “He earned that title, Eärmana,” she said, in a voice mellow but chiding, “Surely our actions define us more than our blood origin? Telkelion is remarkably upright, both fierce and gentle, and would lay down his life to defend the coastland - what worthier potentate to guard the people of Lindon?” She made an excellent argument, but Eärmana was unconvinced. “I said so years ago and will say it until the End of Time… a Teler Elf-lord should have a Teler heir, Annúnfalas. I would sooner see a crown on your dimwitted head than his.”

Annúnfalas sighed in vexation. “We both know that could never be,” she replied, massaging the faded scars on her wrists, “I am not the same elleth I was before our people’s battles with the Witch-king, and even if I had not been… well, I am far better at managing coins than nobles. I would be far too lenient in situations that would demand restriction. It would be best if you simply accepted these things as they are my oldest friend. He is the Prince, whether you like it or not.”

Eärmana snarled, her right hand reaching for the flatware resting beside her porcelain plate. Annúnfalas gasped and ducked beneath the table just as the sharp ends of a fork cut through the air and darted over her head. It struck a bust of Telkelion Hender, piercing his imitated face dead center. As the utensil vibrated from the impact, Annúnfalas rose again to her seat. “Good aim!” she cried, laughing now. “What do you mean?” snapped Eärmana, glaring daggers at Annúnfalas.

“I missed.”

[Fuin Elda]

Fuin wandered into the halls of Cirdan she had not been there in some time. How she had not been asked to leave the last time was beyond her but she had been on her way out as well. She'd been invited back for a banquet. This time though all would know who she was where the last time she had been there.

Well Lord Cirdan knew who she was when she had been there, that had been enough she was not sure if any others aside from perhaps Rusca knew what she had looked like that night. The younger woman had been the only other elf in confidence with her about her dress make up and perfume. Something that would easily confused almost every other elf she knew.

She slipped off of her horse the massive dark steed tossing his head and prancing knowing full well what fine treatment awaited him at the hands of the Royal stables and she rolled her eyes at him as he followed the hand for oats and brushing. She looked over Cirdans home now in the daylight, and headed for the throne room to see if she could find Cirdan to see what this summons was about. After all she was no member of his court, she had very carefully avoided becoming a true member of any court, whether it be Doraiths, Imladris', Mirkwoods, Lothloriens, or even Cirdans. The closest she had ever come was as the head of the Tingdain in Imladris, and that was more as a business matter than as a person, if she quit being the head of the forge then she would quit being invited to council matters in Imladris. Which suited her fine, and she rarely needed to go to such events reguardless. She felt a strange niggling thought in her mind that perhaps Cirdan had decided she should be barred from his manor as well. After all, she had just about rounded onto him in the Unseen, she'd managed to stop though he was certain he'd felt the force she'd been carrying through right before she had stopped herself.

Whatever it was she was, Lord Elrond himself had told her to go so there was no getting out of it. Elrond and replied that she would be attending this banquet.

[Ercassie]

’By their first year, Elf children can speak, walk, and dance, and their quicker onset of mental maturity makes young Elves seem older than they actually are. Elves' bodies developed slower than those of Men, but their minds developed more swiftly.’

- ‘Morgoth’s Ring : Of Laws and Customs among the Eldar’, JRR Tolkien




Nariel Eregwen, Baroness of Forlond
with her children, Caramirie and Anarondo
Maeligsant (In the Gardens)

Her husband had come to attend his commercial and military commitments. Her own talents and concerns were of another kind. Years spent within the royal court had leant her arts of diplomacy and subtle deviance. Wars she had seen rage around the polished tables of the Great Lords and Ladies, where words were the weapons raised, and vows were the war cries rallied. Allegiances and allowances she had seen afforded, the most strength come from not the loudest shout, but the surest wit. Where it required not the sharpest lance to puncture ignorance to make it’s point. At court, ancient traditions and accepted order have their place, and power; in a place where polite conversation can alter the shape of the world as sure as can the most wrathful of Valar level the landscape with greater flare.

It would do no good to enter such a showground without composure and grace. So Nariel meandered through the gardens before anything, seeking refreshment from the council of nature. Her children flanked her journey through the avenues, following the mystery of footpaths, darting off with cries of wonder as they found new sights and smells to engage them. The prestigious towers and grand chambers of the palace were sights, to be sure. But the elleth was born of both Noldor and Sindar bloodlines, equally as moved by the designs of clever craftsfolk as by the embodiments of earth and sea and sky. All things were a wonder, and her proud, passionate heart was compounded toward music that fell from the unclad instrument of her throat. A song, a song of knowing one’s own small but significant place in this wide, wide world.


“A young man walked through the forest, with his sharp axe and sure bow
He heard a young girl singing and followed the sound below
There he found the maiden who lives in the willow.
He called to her as she listened from a ring of toadstools red,
‘Come with me my maiden, come from thy willow bed’
She looked at him serenely and sadly shook her head.

‘See me now, a ray of light in the moon dance
See me now, I can not leave this place
Hear me now, a strain of song in the forest
Don’t ask me, to follow where you lead’

He stood there under the willow and he gave her a yellow bloom
‘Girl my heart you’ve captured, Oh I would be your groom’.
She said she’d wed him never, not near, not far, nor soon.
The young man then took his axe up, cut down her ancient tree !
The maiden wept as he told her, how he had set her free,
‘Now your willow is fallen, you are safe with me.’

She followed him out of the forest and collapsed upon the earth.
Her feet had walked but a distance from the green land of her birth
She faded into a flower that would bloom for one bright eve,
He could not take from the forest what was never meant to leave ..”***


Drawing to conclusion, Nariel found two small faces peering up at her. The tale had gathered her children close, as though their mother was the vessel of some new thing they should now behold. Cara, last of the pair to enter this world, was as always first to speak her mind upon anything that presented before her.

“The willow girl was rather foolish, I think. I sure would have took up with a handsome man if he offered me pretty flowers.” The smaller redhead exhibited a bouquet of freshly hand-picked blooms which she offered her mother, gleeful at having found such beautiful offerings. Nariel ran a hand through the child’s tresses, moved but waiting for her daughter to have unfolded her thoughts. “He carried an axe and a bow so he must be mighty and able to look after them both, to feed them, and build a home,” Cara continued, elaborating. “He even saved her spirit which was trapped inside the tree. Why did she die though ?” This last, confused question saw the small girl stall in her spirited skipping. Blue eyes frowned.

“She died because the man killed her !” explained her elder (by minutes) brother. “She was not trapped by the tree, you goose ! She was a part of the tree !” He stalled himself then, to point out to Nariel how Cara poked her tongue out at him, but his sister was not swayed by threats of retribution. It was up to Anarondo to wear her down with his own young strands of reason. “She didn’t want to leave and she was weeping because she could not survive without all the willow’s strength and shelter to protect her. That man was an intruder !” The boy’s small blonde head shook sadly as he lamented his sister’s misunderstanding. “He stole her,” the boy leaned into his argument and leapt back to evade a swipe from the girl brandishing a bouquet. “She died of sadness because she did not wish to go with him !” he concluded, once safely beyond her reach.


Nariel tried to still her laughter and her children, as the pair raced and chased around her extensive skirts. It was at the point where Anarondo raised a twig up off the lawn to wound his sister’s fragile assault, and pranced about with it, in poses he had seen his father practice with that Elflord’s fancy falchion, that the mother was pressed to call both her little dears to heel.

“The girl did come from the willow tree, it was her home,” the lady decided, with a sad smile, “her entire world. And she died when she was removed of all that she had ever counted on. But,” A finger found the armpit of Anarondo, and he squirmed free but waited, poised upon the drama of the pointed digit, “it is not always the end and doom. It is possible to take something of somewhere, and encourage it to flourish elsewhere, to find strength and shelter in things she is unaccustomed to.” Nariel was aware of how the tale had turned to her own lessons learned, but did not delay in imparting wisdom, of experience. “What the man ought to have done was listen to what she needed,” the Baroness told Cara “and what the girl ought to have done was learn to evolve,” Rondo was schooled in his turn.


“So … ” her little lad encroached, with a theory and fresh confidence, his small mouth puckered over the thought as he shaped it, stowing his twig’sword’ safely in his belt. “Iiiif you pick a pretty flower, like Cara has just killed … half of Lord Cirdan’s grand gardens … ” he panted out accusations, dodging his sister’s renewed onslaught, and the rotation of little legs pumped fast and dizzying around their mother, until she caught each up by one hand. “She,” Rondo jabbed a finger of allegation where Cara preened beyond his reach, “is taking them from what they need. You are killing flowers, Cara ! Just to have them brighten up your chamber for a day. You rob them of the whole big lifetime they might have had if they stayed where they had started.”

“I made them happy, and everyone who sees them is happy !” his sister pleaded her case, and her own understanding, of the song. “Out in the woods, it must have been lonely for the girl, all hidden by a big old tree. There are people like grandmother, who do not walk in the forest,” she glanced up at her mother, wide-eyed. “Is it really so wrong to take something pretty to her, so that it can be admired and loved before it dies ? Rather than just leave it wilt and wither forever and for no worth at all ? Even Luthien left her gnarled old tree.”

“I should rather live free and unseen than held captive in a strange land, and wither,” the golden-haired boy declared, quite dramatically, and lunged at his flame-haired sprite of a sister, as he proclaimed, with a flourish, emulating Girion, “and DIEEEEE !”


“And what if dwarves came stomping all over the place, or a wicked storm, or a flood ? What then ?!” the girl threw back, shaking her head and tutting at her sibling’s seeming ignorance. “If the wind drew the tree out of the earth like Father drew that splinter from your fat finger, then the flower girl dies. And she is already a captive, of the willow tree. If she can not leave !” she counselled, as though she were teacher and knew all.

Anarondo rolled his eyes in a perfect imitation of Silugnir, as Caramirie threw her chin high, triumphant.


“Sometimes,” Nariel sought for compromise, glancing for first the attention of one twin, then the other, “Sometimes where we start is not where we shall finish,” she advised them, raising a lone finger up to either quieten their arguments, or confide a great secret of the world that they must hear. “Things change, my dears, places that we love are lost, and we must grow in new directions. It can be a boon for flowers to find new places to thrive. For if their habitat is destroyed, then so are they. There are ways to carefully ..” she caught their intrigue, having proclaimed worth in the words each had conjured forth, and led them to a communion together that should suit both raging elements in harmony. “Carefully and very, very consciously introduce something that grows in the one place to flourish in another. So then there are more flowers for more to see, and they are still strong and happy and free. But it must be done carefully. So you are both correct. And you both have much to learn. For now though, let us treat the garden with respect and kindness. Many of the pretty things you see have emigrated from their native lands and found a good home here. Gardeners are the only ones allowed to take flowers from their homes. Because they have learned how to do it correctly. And safely.”


Cara having glanced down at the fading flowers, worse for wear even in her small, soft hand, given the wild objections and war they had endured, silently began to cry. Nariel loosed her daughter’s other hand, and her son, so that she might comfort the little girl, but Rondo found a speed to startle both of them. The small boy wrapped his arm around his sister, led her to the soil close by and proceeded to guide her hand in his, burying the feet of stolen blossoms back into the earth. As their mother watched, with growing pride, the little girl wiped her eyes and assisted the earnest young boy in patting down the soft ground of the stolen flowers, as though they were putting them to bed.


“Will they survive ?” Nariel drowned in the yearning of her daughter’s ocean eyes, little thinking she could ever be more moved, until her son joined the plea as well.

“Mother ?” he sought for clarification. Holding out a hand to each of her dear twins, Nariel curled both closer in toward her, ruining her fine dress with their soiled little fingers that clutched to her, steadfastly.

“With a patient and wise heart to tend them,” the survivor of Gondolin’s fall blinked back her own emotion, and her own experience. “Even the most tiny, frail thing may adapt to a shift in circumstances, and surprise everyone.”


“Flowers must be very patient then, to wait for Cara the calamitous to grow wise,” Rondo remarked, and both his sister and his mother rose from their sedated state of calm, to observe his impish expression. “Cara the Cruel, killer of chrysanthemums !”

“I will plant you deep and water you with tears of laughter !” The smaller redhead leapt up, like a spark erupting from a fading fire, and commenced a new chase to see her brother brought to justice. “Tears and dogwater !!!!” Cara screamed as she sought for Rondo. Their mother sighed. With luck her husband or the children’s nanny would come and help her to herd them back into sight soon. There was much preparation to attend to before the banquet. Besides dressing for that auspicious dinner .. glancing at her muddied gown, there was now firm excuse. Their laughter betrayed the direction of their animated chase. And she had not the heart to curb that sound.

“Do not run through the flowers !” she did send the cry forth though, in a belated attempt to impress upon their lesson. “Or Galdor shall plant us all in the good earth.” Nariel sighed.


****(Lyrics featured are entirely based on and thus credited to 'The Willow Maiden', by Erutan. )

[Eriol]

Tharmáras Isilherven, Baron of Forlindon
with his children, Caramirie and Anarondo,
and his wife, Baroness Nariel (@Ercassie )
Maeligsant (In the Gardens)

The Baron of Forlond spoke with a Linhir market official concerning orange sales. After he concluded his business he came to the Royal Library to collect Girithniel who was studying with her friend Alara. He calmed the anxious young elleth with paternal hugs and mellow comforting assurances. Yes, he would warn Erfaron regarding the wanton desecration of historical tomes. It was the Mole, undoubtedly, who scribbled a false account of Gondolin's destruction in a teacher's guide.

They left the burnished halls to enter the blossomy Gardens of Maeligsant in search of his wife and their children. They walked along white stone trails meandering through the coastal paradise of ornamental trees and wondrous flowers. Once he was enamoured with the sea, and echoes of that longing still remained, but Tharmáras discovered a greater love in Nariel and the two small hearts they ushered into the world. The arms of the ocean and the margins of the land interwined, harmonizing the joys he found in each and deepening his zeal for life.

Untethered from his once sole devotion, the vastness of the sea, Tharmáras appreciated the grandeur of terrestial nature which daily surrounded him. Violet cyclamen, lavender dahlias, and peach hibiscus grew in pleasant thickets around the bend. Groves of cherry and apple further back. A swath of yellow forsythia mingled with white rhododendrons ahead, glistering in the morning light. He could hear his precious babes arguing in the distance. Bickering turned inevitably to laughter in the short span of time it took for Tharmáras and Girithniel to move closer toward the twins, lured through the copse of silver and gold by their playful banter.

Whatever upset them, the cause no longered mattered. A feud escalated yet an armistice had been quickly forged. So it was with all brothers and sisters, twins to boot; the sun never set on their anger.

Tharmáras saw them from where he stood. Cara was leading her brother Rondo in playful chase toward a wonderland of vibrant colors, a forest of elianorn. The massive trees, known to Umbarians as deglupta and rainbow gums to the Gondorians, were the largest in Círdan's garden and reached breathtaking heights of seventy-five meters. Their smooth orange bark shredded in strips, revealing streaks of coral and pale-green, silver and purple. The rainbow trees festooned with cream flowers were endemic to the Harad rainforests. Eilianthel Mordagnir journeyed with Casttûr Camlost and King Aldarion to the southern tropic coasts in the Second Age; they brought seedlings of the rainbow trees to Lindon and planted them in Círdan's garden. The swiftly growing resinous hardwoods were introduced in other realms as well, including Pinneth Gelin and Lebennin fiefdoms of Gondor.

Cara squealed, thrilled by the grandeur of the rainbow trees. The small sprite hopped in place, swaying her shimmering titian hair. Neither Tharmáras nor Girithniel could hear what Cara said but it seemed she compelled her brother into climbing the one. Together they entered the intricate mesh of gigantic stony buttresses woven with mighty roots of neighboring trees.

"They will hurt themselves surely this time, falling apart like fragile teacups!" Girithniel suddenly blurted. Becoming aware of what she had spoken, noticing the fierce glower of Tharmáras, Girithniel covered her mouth though her idle words had ventured forth. She looked at Tharmáras in horror, wishing that she could melt into the trees like one of those Tavari nymphs of Aman she read of. Suddenly his face transformed as he let out a rich, hearty laugh... Girithniel did not think she could reach new tiers of embarrassment.

"Hush now," Tharmáras insisted merrily and lowered the anxious Elf-girl's arms. A shipwreck and close encounter with a vengeful whale, the killer of her parents, made her afraid of the world. "You need time of your own to do what you like. What you learn will benefit my children. They are rambunctious; Nariel and I have difficulty controlling them as well so do not blame yourself. Come with me."

Tharmáras dashed along the winding pathway and veered off the trail to reach Cara and Rondo, sullying his breeches and tunic of burgundy brocade in his purposeful stride into the wilderness. The twins had clambered onto the colossal labyrinth of connected roots which anchored the rainbow tree. They navigated their way upward with sprightly eagerness. Rondo rested, panting, on one enormous buttress and reached out a hand to his grunting sister who was having some climbing trouble. Rondo's chivalrous act widened Tharmáras' smile; the boy could be a little imp but he had his heroic moments.

Cara did not sit, pointing to an adjacent higher root they needed to leap for. Rondo took at tentative peek beyond the intimidating edge and seemed to falter, shaking his head with a fearful countenance. Apparently forgetting her brother's kindness just moments ago, Cara flapped her small arms like a chicken; Tharmáras could hear her silly clucking sounds. Rondo was incensed. He shouted at her for calling him a coward. The tiny redhead poked out her tongue with a proud raise of her chin. She promptly turned around and sprang off. The intrepid Elf-girl whooped in exultation, blissully poised between earth and sky, but her jubilant yell turned into a piercing scream of terror as she plummeted toward the rushing ground.

She fell into the safe nest of her father's strong arms. Giggling Cara seemed like a chirping robin who perched on his broad chest to rest her flailing wings. "When will you learn that Elf-girls can't fly, my love?" He chuckled when Cara stubbornly used Elwing as an example in whining defiance.

"When she lies in pieces like Humpty Dumpty!" shouted Rondo, referencing a Bree nursery rhyme.

Cara hollered at him, declaring herself Caramírië...not an egg person!

Tharmáras looked up at tremulous Rondo whose eyes bulged in horrified astonishment. "I suppose you want me to bring you down, son?" The Elf-lord assumed, masterfully pulling himself up to retrieve his frightened boy. With Rondo clinging to his back and shoulders, Tharmáras descended the tremendous maze of roots. "It would behoove you to tell me where your mother is," he encouraged Rondo with a subtle air of displeasure. "She must have heard Cara wailing and is probably standing petrified where you left her..."

*

Above, sunbeams filtered through the green canopy of the forest. Squirrels hastened across interlaced boughs with their acorns. Trilling Larks swept amid the emerald ceiling, singing melodious hymns to marvelous patches of blue heaven.

Below, Tharmáras walked through flaming beds of effulgent yellow crocus. His wife, a lithe redhead in a verdurous dress, awaited his coming where dew drops sparkled like diamonds on round flowers of pink mountain laurel. Standing haloed in streaming rays with an ardent meeting of eyes, Nariel was a beacon of light and warmth and evergreen love.

"No broken wings today, miruvor," Tharmáras allayed her worries. He told Nariel their nanny had taken the twins inside for their ablutions and to prepare them for the day, notably the banquet. "We will have the chamber to ourselves for quite some time," promised Tharmáras. Sinewy limbs tied like a velvet ribbon around her small waist. "We will need a change of clothes and a warm bath," Tharmáras observed, glancing at the mud now clinging to his damask suit. His finery was further spoilt when he held Nariel whose beautiful dress was marred when the twins hugged her before. "This was one of the handsomest sets you made for my wardrobe, darling. My apologies..."

Passionate hands gained soft purchase in the luxuriant tumble of russet locks, buried in skeins of lustrous auburn bright as the garden's swirling sinoper leaves. His lingering kiss was a rapturous concert of tenderness and desire.

"Since dinner is far off," Tharmáras commented airily in his mellow voice and with a mischievous smile, "perhaps we can tarry here a while? There is a place you may have heard in the whispering gossip of Emlissel, the haunted Path of Roses." He hoped this encounter would prove to be more pleasant than her last ghostly visitation. Nariel, fiery of soul, fought off the shade of Crabanel who forcibly try to possess her. He married a strong woman. "Few have found the road carved in stone, wreathed in twisted vine and enchanted roses. Those who have searched and discovered the spirits of the elven couple were given secrets or visions of the future so the court legends say." A hand slid from the wealth of her ginger tresses to hold her porcelain face with a soul-stirring gentleness. "Will you come with me, my brave baroness?"

[The Good Hunter]

The Royal Library

He arrived early. Normally, he hated arriving to banquets and parties and feasts at all, but tonight was necessary. The trappings of royalty and prestige made Ñarmotar uneasy. He’d been around them all his life, yes, but it was going to take more than six thousand years to get used to used to them. He’d been born to nobility and royalty, but even from his earliest years he’d rebelled against it. It was not the responsibility that bothered him, he knew he was saddled with that, and he even thrived in positions of authority. It was the presentation of unnecessary ostentatiousness that so irked him, the point where functionality was overridden by shiny. Lord Círdan was far less flamboyant than most, in fact by the standards of Gondolin and Eregion he was downright austere. Still, Ñarmotar didn’t like being here. If all things were equal, the ashen-skinned elf would have much rather stayed in his own library, doing research or teaching a class of the newest recruits to the Lindon Anthropology Guild. But things were not equal.

The air outside the palace was crisp, a breeze blew off the water and up along the cliff face until it blew back his hair. It was already disheveled from his lack of preparation (he’d delayed as long as he could doing the required research he’d need) but now, should he look in a mirror, he would likely look as though he hadn’t sleep in a week. He certainly felt as though he hadn’t sleep in a week. A researcher had reached out to him, asked him questions about an island that he and a team of surveyors had researched some time ago. The island had given him an uneasy feeling when he was there, and neither he nor his team had even set foot on the island proper. Still, there was an aura of shadow about the place. They’d finished up a bare bones study of the place and he’d filed it away in a forgotten corner of the guild’s library. He would have been happy to leave it there until the world crumbled. Even the study itself seemed to radiate something foul and uncomfortable. The wood and leather scroll case bounced on his back, almost as if his thoughts had summoned the thing to life. He shifted his shoulder uncomfortably and grimaced. His nerves were on edge. He was jumping at shadows. The scroll wasn’t alive, there was nothing inherently evil about island, and there was nothing wrong with the researcher asking him for it. He took a deep breath, held it, and let it out slowly. If any of that were true, then why did he feel like he was going to jump out of his skin? Some wine would help settle his nerves. He chuckled to himself. Something stronger would be even better. Would Círdan have whisky on hand? Dwarves were within trading distance so it would make sense that the Shipwright would have a better than decent supply. What he’d really like right now, if he was being honest with himself, was a glass of absinthe, but he doubted he’d find such a substance freely available at the court of Lord Círdan. Ñarmotar was simply going to have to make do.

Autumn was setting in. He’d seen more than six thousand autumns now, so many that one might think it impossible to remember them all. But remember them he did. Autumn was his favorite season. In Gondolin, before he’d been saddled with the responsibility of leading an entire clan of Avari elves and keeping them safe, he would watch the leaves change color and fall. He never tired of it. He loved the vibrancy of the season, the shortening days, the nip in the air. He also loved the food and the sweets, but everyone knew that about him. The folklore surrounding this time of year, though, was his greatest love. He’d made it a point to study, research, and compile all the research he could find. From Sindar to Dwarven to Easterling and Hobbit. It had been the reason he started the Lindon Guild of Anthropology in the first place.

Tonight, was sobering though. He couldn’t put a finger on why he was so apprehensive. In his heart of hearts, he knew there was nothing to fear from gaining knowledge and sharing it, it was one of the fundamental functions of the guild after all. “Get a hold yourself.” He chided, keeping his voice low as he entered the library. The fête had yet to begin but in such cavernous rooms as this his voice tended to carry. He inhaled again, autumnal scents filled his lungs, urging and beckoning him into a sense of calm. He closed his eyes, saw his father and mother. He smiled and exhaled. “Come what may,” he said, “come what may.”