(Archive) The Fellowship of the Sword 46 - Thorondur and Thranduil

Middle-earth time is:
Nighttime on Highday, Day 5 of April.

Real time is: 20:01:28 MST on Mon Jan 08 2001.

The weather around Amon Thranduil
The rain falls from the dark spring night clouds and
the air seems to carry a creeping darkness from Dol Guldur.
The weather is mild as the rain falls from the night skies.

You enter a warm and inviting room, the infirmary of the Eryn Galen. The floor is covered in thick animal furs, and the aroma of drying herbs fills the room with a comforting fresh scent. Light occasionally glints off the glass doors of several large cabinets and the rows and rows of jars that they hold. There are several large beds in the room, each with a fluffy mattress of goosedown and spread with a light cotton blanket and beautiful quilt to guard patients against the still cool spring nights.

Candles glow brightly from their wall sconces, their flickering light casting restless shadows on the walls. In the center of the room, a low fire burns cheerfully in its stone fireplace, a few kettles of water ever hanging ready over its flames.

Flickering, flickering, flicker and fade: the candles are dying, and the fire grows dim. The midnight hour has fallen on the enchanted forest. Yet still the lodge's lone inhabitant sits awake. In his bed, laid there beneath the warm blankets, the Dunadan from distant Gondor sits.

In his hand is a quill, and a tablet upon his lap, with parchment on the table beside him an inkwell rests. His head is bent over his writing dark bangs, dark as ravens, fall down past his eyes.

The only sound that might give away the entry of this elf into the room is her irrepressible humming, although she keeps it tuned down to an almost inaudible level, long and low a melodic whisper. This sound she takes with her across the room, not to speak, not to intrude, although her gaze is fixed with some curiosity upon the Dunadan. And her first act is to replenish some of the candles, so the light flares up again, builds up all of a sudden, pushing the shadows back a little.

At the flaring of the lights, the Mortal Man pauses in his writing the quill falls still. Slowly, ever slowly, does he raise his eyes and smile -- a wan, weary smile on that pale and tired face, but striking nonetheless. " Thank you," he tells the elfmaid, simply.

Coifea simply stares, unabashed, her own smile growing in response, before crouching down and tending to the fire, also, flames leaping up again almost immediately, her figure thrown into relief by the sudden flaring of the light. And then the humming dwindles, to be replaced by swift, yet quiet speech. "Why, it's no trouble why did you not call? The light is more pleasant than the dark."

"In truth," replies the Dunadan, "I did not notice. I lost the time, in my writing."

Thorondur smiles again, lying the quill down upon the parchment to speak more amiably with the elfmaid. "Truth be told, I have not had such rest since setting out from Gondor months ago. If not for its cause, this bed would be... almost welcome."

Eyes reflect in the firelight as Coifea, not moving from her fireside position, replies merrily, "I fear you would have noticed when your forehead touched the page, and that time was not far off." Arms resting lightly across her knees, she makes the smallest of throwaway gestures with one hand. "I hope you do not begrudge your stay with us, why not make it as welcome as it can be?"

"I do not begrudge the stay, or the treatment," says the Man, smiling still. His voice is melodious, and ringing almost elven in its quality. Strange, among mortals. "They have been without parallel. Rather say I curse the fate that brought me to them, and wish that I might have walked a brighter road hither."

The elfmaid tucks her hands under her knees, a slightly incongruous position, her tone ever-light, perhaps all-too easily mistakable for flippant, as she responds, her interested gaze never leaving the Dunadan's face. "Brighter roads are often the more well-hidden ones, and difficult to fall upon by chance, rather be happy that you are here what's done is done and there is no use in cursing it."

After a silent moment's contemplation, the Dunadan shrugs his shoulders merry, liquid laughter floods the chamber from off his lips. "So be it, then. But forgive me." Setting the tools of the scribner's trade aside, he bows his head. "I am named Thorondur Edrahil, hir Girithlin, Knight of Gondor and Elf-Friend."

Coifea lets her laughter mingle into the room as she rises to her full height, only to sweep the simplest of curtseys, all her movements flowing gracefully one into another, and so quickly she's standing straight again before a heartbeat's over, "Then welcome and well met my titles are simpler, mere harper and healer, and I am called Coifea."

"Then greetings, Coifea, and I warn you against others of my race--"

Here, he laughs again, "for I have myself named only the simplest of my titles, which might seem already overlong to you. Yet I am glad to laugh, for now this letter I write might be merry, and will brighten the heart of her who reads it."

Coifea inquires, irrepressibly, "Do you all write letters in the dark, your race? That also seems unneccessarily complicated, and difficult to write cheerfully in such circumstances. And I am sure it is better to write a letter in good spirits, as well as to recieve one in a like manner." She sinks back to the floor by the hearth again, her first distraction thus far provided by Faenwen's entrance.

The Dunadan, too, glances up again from where he sits: in a bed, upright, the blanket to his waist. Beside him on the small table, there is a quill and parchment, and an inkpot.

A soft creak of wood and the rustle of skirts announce the arrival of the young apprentice, Faenwen. She struggles with a rather large tray, burdened with plates, bowls and cups. All of which rattle quietly when she chooses to shut the door behind her by kicking it. Hefting the tray up a little to get a better grip she makes her way to the bedside of the dunadan but not without flashing a grin to her friend as she passes the reclining maiden. "Good evening, Coifea!"

Thorondur's nose wrinkles a bit at the sudden infusion of delicious scents and odours his eyes narrow, tracking Faenwen and her tray with an insatiable curiosity. Still more slender than even he has any right to be, and pale yet, he surely seems in need of a meal.

Coifea lets her attention be well and truly sidetracked, "Faenwen," she exclaims in return, a look of slight longing given to the food herself, "I would suppose that you're not bringing me food, unless I were perhaps to hide in a bed?" Although she seems quite content to sit by the fire and watch the Dunadan.

Faenwen peers around the large tray, eyeing the small table, cluttered with the accroutements of writing, with a critical eye. An arrangement that seems to meet with her disapproval as she instead sits upon the edge of the bed and balances the tray upon her lap. Coifea's plaintive comment evokes laughter in the young elleth and she replies, "Perhaps our guest could be persuded to share his meal with you, but I'd advise you to ask first, he looks hungry enough to defend his dinner, ferociously." She turns her gaze upon the dunadan, brillant blue and sparkling with mirth. "I had hoped to find you awake, do you remeber me? You were...delirious when we brought you to this lodge."

"I remember you, maiden, if vaguely so," says Thorondur, "but as a dream, and little else. Your face was... mingled, with others. I only recall snatches and shades of the long nightmare before it--"

Now he pales, and briefly shuts his eyes. "But I will not speak of such things not now and not here."

Coifea is up on her feet again, in a flash, "Oh, I'd not steal from a starving man, how could you think such a thing of me, Fae? I can hunt down my own food!" With a grin to both elf and elf-friend, she adds, "So eat, Thorondur Edrahil, and write your letter, and be in good spirits, for here is where wounds are mended." And that's a leave taking, apparently, as she slips away round the door, on that hunt.

Laughing, Thorondur calls after Coifea, "My thanks, lady!" And now he looks to Faenwen, and to the food she brings -- and he cannot keep his attention on one or either, for the sake of the other.

The mirth fades from Faenwen's blue eyes, though their brillance, so startling in her pale face and frame of black hair, remains steady. "You are safe now, and perhaps better memories will be built around my image." She glances at the tray upon her lap, "Do you wish to eat?", she asks, a tentitive smile curling her lips.

Momentarily does the young elleth allow herself to be distracted from the Dunadan, and she smiles at her departing friend and waves. A quick wave only, for the action threatens to unbalance her tray and she swiftly steadys it once more, ere it can spill.

The Dunadan, meanwhile, watches the tray with interest. But when he speaks, it is not of food, nor drink either. "Tell me, maid, if you know it," Thorondur wonders. "When shall I be deemed well enough to leave this grove? My friends and brothers need me."

"I am but an apprentice, mellon. It is not for me to decide these things. The dark wounds of the Ulaire are grave, indeed, but wiser heads than my own know the ways to heal such things. But surely, you will grow stronger more swiftly if you eat." Faenwen smiles and offers a plate, laden with steaming slices of venison, fresh bread and cheese.

Accepting the plate, the knight begins to eat without speech, save a murmured thanks. Mindful of manners at first, soon enough his hunger overtakes him -- the helpings do not last long. And then the questions begin. "If you do not know, maiden," Thorondur wonders, "who can tell me? For I fear that I cannot long remain a powerful geas is upon me, as it lies upon all of my brethren here."

The door opens again and in strides, on long legs, a tall elven man. Royal in bearing and manner, a crown of flowers and leaves upon his golden brow.

Two guards, girded with swords and liviried in blue and silver follow in his wake. They take up discreet stations somewhat behind the King, curious expressions as they gaze upon the man lying within the bed.

Faenwen glances up at the sound, a grin forming upon her face as she expects it to be her friend returning. She greets the King with a soft gasp and the Dunadan's question is forgotten as she picks up the tray with a clatter and stands, only to set the tray down again quickly, upon his bed. She dips into a low curtsey, "My lord!"

In the bed, unable to rise with any dignity, the best courtesy the Mortal Man can manage is a deep bow of his head like a waterfall, dark bangs fall down past his brow, and into his face. So wild has his hair grown that he must lift a hand to remove it, ere addressing the king.

"His Majesty, the King of Eryn Galen, I presume?" There is the faintest of smiles on the Dunadan's lips, and respect in his eyes for the Elvenking and his kindred. His voice has the clear ring of the elf-friends of old.

"I am indeed, Thranduil, Aran of the Greenwood." A fire dwells deep within the grey eyes of the King, ancient within a countenence that is ageless, but no smile graces his noble face, yet he remains courteous and gracious in manner. "I trust the healers have treated you with the utmost care and kindness?"

Faenwen gathers the empty dishes and silverware upon the tray, deftly and swiftly. She picks it up and curtseys once more with a murmered, "My Lord", and makes her way to the door. A gaurd opens it and allows the young maid to slip quietly out of the infirmary.

"My lord, I have never known better," admits the Dunadan, inclining his head once more -- this time in thanks. If there is a fire within the eyes of the Elvenking, the mortal man's own blue eyes are cool, clear seas of an ancient azure: uncommon now among the Men of the West, but well known to an Elf of Doriath.

"And yet the Quest draws me onward I have sworn oaths, and must finish it -- if I am well, or no." And these things he says with gravity, and resignation perhaps.

"Your quest is known to me, for I have granted audience to your kinsman, Lord Indilzar, as you undoubtedly know. A noble cause, and one that I wish I could aide but it is not for that that I have come to you this evening. I wish to hear your tale of how you came to the borders of my realm to be found by my folk. The rumors swell in your wake like a dark lap of a mighty lake. I would know of thier truth or lies and make judgement," says Thranduil.

The sweet whistle of birdsong comes into the room from the entryway to the infirmary. The singing of birds is rare enough on a rainy day such as this, as is the source.

For behold! The tall chieftain of the Erynedhrim appears in the doorway, whistling cheerily as he pokes his head into the room. Soon after he does so, though, the whistling abruptly stops and is replaced with a merry peal of laughter. "The rumors are true, then!" The elf states as he steps through the living archway of the door, bringing the fresh smell of rain with him as he steps within.

Now does a shadow of foreboding fall upon his brow -- yet the eyes of the knight, and their brilliance these things are never veiled. Let him who can read veritas read it therein. And then the man speaks, quiet as the calm before storms by the Sea of his homeland.

"Little enough can I recall of the journey, and I am glad for it," Thorondur says without rancor, glancing toward Rhuarc as the clan-chief joins his king. "Living or dream, it is all a nightmare, and troubling to me. In memory I see things that were, and things that must have been. And not of myself alone. I fled a terror, and it humbled me but it did not defeat me, nor break me."

"The blood of Hador Goldenhead does not yet flow so thin, down all these Ages."

Now indeed, does a smile grace the stern countnence of the King and it greets his advisor and Captain of his soldiers. "Lord Rhuarc, glad I am, to have you here. To hear how this man of the south was able to escape our enemy, even within the fastness of his black fortress."

"Or so rumor informs me," Thranduil casts a wondering look upon the noble Dunadan. "I doubt not the blood of the men of the west and glad I am to see it flow so strong in many of your brothers. We in the Greenwood have been long sundered from the realm of Gondor, but your tale is a troublesome one, for few escape that evil place and the ways of the enemy are as often subtle as they are brutal," he adds.

And a considering look is cast once again towards the Eyrnedhrim chieftain, "Knowing your merry heart, Rhuarc. You speak of rumors other than the shadows that crowd 'round this Knight?"

"I do not doubt that... my foe," says the Knight, grim now and sombre, unwilling to name him who shamed him, "had planned that I might die in my wanderings, of his wounding if not by his henchmen. But I have defied him," Thorondur says, "and so shall it ever be."

Yet now he falls silent, and looks once more to Rhuarc.

Rhuarc nods and laughs, "Although, of course, the tale of this fellow interest me, I was speaking of the rumors of your departure from your fortress, my friend." The elf winks and wags a finger at Thranduil, "Think not that my scouts would miss such an event!"

Closer the flame-haired elf steps towards the king, and he beams his seemingly everpresent smile down upon the man as he states, "Especially since I believe your foe is one I have had contact with too recently." The elf huffs out a laughlet and says, "Though ever meeting with one such as he is a regrettable occurance, even if it may be unavoidable at times."

The Dunadan looks in awe and wonder upon this flame-haired Elf, who can speak so lightly of combat with the fell Lord of Morgul.

The King pulls himself up straighter, "I would not have it said I made a sorely wounded man pull himself from his restbed to stand before me in my throne room." A comment delivered with a stern face and manner but softened by the hint of smile at the corners of his mouth.

A speculative look does Thranduil now cast towards the warrior chieftain, one shadowed by a whisper of sorrow. "He makes light of a battle that nearly fell him, and broke his beloveds heart, she whose task it was to bring him back from the shadows."

Now respect mingles with wonder in those azurine eyes of the Dunadan, and even this Man of the West -- a man who has walked with the mighty among the Firstborn, in days gone by -- looks in silence and approval upon the clan-chief.

Rhuarc sighs and shakes his head, "Yet still she sometimes insists upon following me out on patrol." He shrugs and looks to the man, "Indeed, you should not be too impressed, I believe the sting of my insults aimed at the number of his peers who I have met over time were the greatest injuries he sustained that day. I do not look back upon that battle and not feel a chill."

"I have met them more times than I would like," agrees the knight of distant Gondor, "and yet one time is too many, to face such shadows. Still... it is our lot, who oppose the Shadow." And to the Elves, he bows his head once more ere saying, "I must soon again take up that gauntlet, I think."

"We should not overtax your strength, Lord Thorondur, if you are to take up that guantlet once again. I have seen what I came to see and feel I can pass judgment. You are welcome to remain here until such time you are healed and ready to leave, you will be well provisioned and armed. That small aide I can grant at least, to your quest. But I am not merely a man passing judgement on another but a King with a land and people under my protection. And so I must ask that you not leave Amon Thranduil until you can be brought out by guard and blindfolded, you will recieve arms at our border and guided to Erebor as well, should your men leave before you are able." This pronouncement Thranduil makes, but not without some gentleness and he further grants an explanation for such zealous caution. "I sense no shadow in you, Lord Thorondur, save perhaps what has been greviously inflicted upon you, but my memory is long. And in lands now long drowned, when another dark lord brought war and grief to the Eldar, enscorlled men escaped, only to bring betrayal upon good folk whether they willed it or no."

In thanks does Thorondur bow his head a third time, and in thanks does he speak. "With gratitude do I accept these gifts, King of the Greenwood," says the Man, "and alas that I know them by tradition, these tales you know by memory. I will remain true, my lord this I pledge."

Rhuarc smiles and nods, "I am glad to hear it. Rest well." The elf takes up again the birdsong, and with a nod to the king, he whistles his way out of the room.

And now at last does the elvenking grant the Dunadan a smile and inclines his head in respect, "I accept this pledge, Lord Thorondur."

With little else, he follows the Captain of his gaurd out of the room, his own gaurds falling in behind him.