Family Meet and Greet

Merenglir and Menelglir meet Lady Laeraelin, and Sirion drops by.
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Minas Tirith
Description: [Laeraelin(#24692)]
The parlour within Cardhon Silithir is quite singular. A collection of comfortable chairs, tables and, writing desks and a settee serve the family for any purpose. What makes it stand out is the exotic rugs of Haradrim origin, silken textiles and other signs of successful campaigns against the south.

This rainy afternoon finds the lady of the house reclined in the manor's parlour reading a book. The gentle patter of rain against the windows sounds clearly in the quiet room, competing only with the crackle of a small fire in the grate. Laeraelin lies stretched out upon the settee, her slippered feet dangling over one edge so as not to spoil the rich green fabric. Idly, she twirls one tight curl in her finger as her eyes gaze distractedly at the pages. She has not turned one in quite some while.

Merenglir makes his way into the room, dripping water from his sodden cloak as he walks. His path is marked by that wet trail, and it will take a person straight outside should they choose to follow it. The youth is soaked to the bone, from his hair to his garments to the gloves on his hands and the boots on his feet. There's a self-amused smile on his face.

A peal of laughter trails behind Merenglir, followed a moment later by his equally sodden twin. "It's just a little water," Menelglir laughs, slapping his brother on the back with a resounding 'thwack.' Like Merenglir, he wears a wet cloak and gloves, too.

At the noisy entrance, Laeraelin peers over the edge of her book at the sodden twins and frowns.

She is no longer a youth, fine lines speak of some modest years of experience but her bloom has not faded. Beauty is still there - once legendary - but marred by worry.

"You two must be Menelglir and Merenglir," she says. Sighing, she sets aside her book and rises from the settee. "Stay off the rugs," she instructs and heads towards the parlor door.

Merenglir stops just before he plants a wet boot onto one of the fine floor coverings. He looks down, considering, then carefully steps to the side. He glances back at his brother once with a lifting of a brow, then focuses his grey gaze upon the woman. "We are... " He offers in affirmation.

"Lady...Laeraelin..?" Menelglir says hesitantly, bumping into his brother's back because he is looking at the woman and not where he is going. A steady drip of water from his cloak falls to the floor, and one lock of dark hair is plastered to his forehead, the water running in rivulets down his nose. He repeatedly swipes at it (uselessly) with a gloved hand.

The door to the parlor opens before the lady even touches the door knob. In bustles a maidservant bearing a pair of thick towels. "I am sorry, m'lady," she says bobbing a quick curtsey, her accent thick from Pinnath Gelin. "I did not think they would come straight here after I admitted them."

Laearelin steps aside to allow the servant entrance, smiling slightly. "It is alright."

The maidservant hurries to the twins, instructing. "Take off your cloaks if you please, young masters. And use this to dry off your clothes." She looks at their feet critically, "And I'll have those boots and socks, too."

Merenglir grins as the woman rushes in with the towels, taking one from her. "Oh.. I don't think we're going to stick around." He says as he wipes his face dry with the towel. "We were looking for Arashen. Is he here?"

A look of relief crosses Menelglir's face at his brother's answer. He hastily reaches for the towel and wipes the rivulets of water off his nose, brushing his hair back with the towel. "We could try the barracks.."

"Give her your cloaks and boots," Laeraelin directs softly. With a rustle of silken skirts she returns to the settee and sits. "You may stand before the fire to dry."

"Evidently you have forgotten you were to see me? Though you are largely under the command of the Order and Arashen will watch over you for the most part, you are nominally my wards."

"I suppose I should begin this interview by asking which of you is which?"

The smile fades from Meren's face now as he sighs, "Always someone's wards..." He mutters under his breath as he reaches to pull off the dripping cloak. It's offered over to the woman, and then he bends down to loosen his boots to tug off as well. His socks are only marginally less sodden. The young man crosses over to the fireplace with the towel, scrubbing his hair with it. "I'm Merenglir. Why is it an interview?"

"Menelglir, ma'am," is the second answer. The youth removes boots, socks, and cloak, wipes dripping hair and clothes with the towel, and briefly fights the the maid for the towel, which he relents after the woman scowls at him. He crosses the floor, barefoot, hands clasped behind his back. "We were wondering how Arashen got to be a knight.."

"Why is it an interview, /my lady/" Laeraelin corrects, frowning. "Your education has been neglected, Merenglir. Severely. Both by your previous guardians and the Order. How long were you in Prince Imrahil's court?"

Her eyes turn to the other twin. "Briefly, Arashen was squired and earned his spurs as all Knights do. If you wish to learn more about the Order, you should ask a Knight."

"Sorry, my lady." Merenglir answers, dropping his gloved hands to his sides now, the towel held bunched in one. "It wasn't neglected, Lady Laeraelin, I've just forgotten my courtesies. We were in court for.. well, I was for a year, Menel longer." He explains in a somewhat chagrinned fashion. "Who was Sir Arashen squired under? He's so young, how did he become a knight so quickly?"

The door opens and lo! it is a knight who strides through, even as the lady calls for one. He seems pleased to see the Lady Laeraelin, but it turns swiftly to DISpleasure upon seeing the two youths from Harlond. It is Sirion Isilrim the Youngest, and Kindler of Caldur. Putting his hands behind his back and clasping them together, he takes long strides and soon draws nigh the Telpekhor lady.

"Yes, my lady," Menelglir echoes his brother, properly chagrined. "A knight. But Arashen is our cousin and we were curious about him specifically. You know...someone we are related to--it makes it seem more attainable to us," he adds.

At first, he does not turn to see who has entered the room, assuming, perhaps, it is the maid again. But when he does spy the Knight entering out of the corner of his eye, Menelglir gives a little jump and a cough. And then he takes a sideways step, placing himself on a slight angle so as to properly speak to Knight and Lady at once.

"Arashen has one and twenty years to him," replies Laeraelin, arching one brow. "In fact, he joined rather late as Squires go. He is not so young, others have been Knighted at younger ages."

When the Isilrim enters the parlour, Laeraelin rises from her settee to greet him, smiling brightly. "Sirion! What a pleasant surprise. Have you met your newest Pages?"

"These are no pages of mine," says Sirion darkly.

"No? Not the youngest? What about battles? Has he done anything noble or .. " Merenglir trails off as he sees Sirion, his brows pinching together faintly, " ...grand?..." He's soaked from the rain outside, standing in wet clothing, gloves, and socks in front of the fireplace. There are stunned words to echo Sirion's, "-His- pages, my lady?!"

"Sir..." Menelglir greets the Knight, though it is with wariness at the man's tone and expression. "We have not been assigned yet to anyone in particular..."

He takes a step to his right, which brings him closer to the fire and also just a touch behind his brother.

"I was knighted at ten and eight," says Sirion with a smile.

"My cousin Belegorm was Knight-Captain of Dol Amroth at twenty."

A sad, solemn smile then - as though some great dark doom sits upon his left shoulder. "But then we Isilrim are usually dead by thirty."

"I meant you are Pages of Order, of which Lord Sirion is a Knight," replies the Telpekhor Steward.

Daughter, sister, wife and mother of Knights all: Laeraelin looks between the Isilrim and the two young Pages. She smiles softly. "You are all soaked from the rain and chilled. I shall order tea and be back in a moment."

In a rustle of skirts, the lady departs the room - leaving the three to conduct their business.

"Ooh.." Meren says with understanding at the clarification. As Laeraelin leaves, the youth looks back at Sirion. "Have you fought together with Sir Arashen? Do you know him very well?"

"Eighteen?" Menelglir stares openly at Sirion as he repeats this. "Is that really possible, sir?" he asks, sounding intrigued by the idea.

"Sir Arashen and I are knights, not foot soldiers," Sirion says with a frown. "There are many more measures of a knight than battle alone. Did you not hear of the Seven Knightly Virtues of the Swan in your time at court?"

"Do you doubt my word?" he asks Menelglir, a dangerous glimmer in his eyes. It is said the Isilrim emerge from the womb with one foot upon the path of insanity - and it is clear to see now in Sirion.

"Oh.. well, sure I have." Merenglir answers glibly with a shrug. "Ah.. sir." He adds after a moment. Perhaps he has been as neglected as Laeraelin proclaimed. He begins to move away from the warmth of the fire towards a chair, but his gaze drops to the expensive rug and he thinks better of it. "I want to know more about my cousin, that is all."

"Loyalty...compassion...hope..." Menelglir mutters behind his brother, trying to help. The attempt is abandoned, though, at the dangerous look in the Isilrim's eyes, which makes the youth turn pale.

"No...no sir, of course not!" he answers. "It is just that I had not heard that before and had not even considered the thought...in terms of my being in the Order, sir. Knighthood..it seems so far away."

As he speaks, Menelglir gestures with his hands, but he quickly tucks them behind his back again.

"It is far away," says Sirion with narrowed eyes. "For you."

"If you wish to know more about Arashen, I would advise you to ask him," he says with a dismissive flicker of his hand. "But Lord Azrabar was his knight, and he and I have been through many adventures together. The squire oft follows the knight, and so I have high hopes for our cousin Arashen."

"Adventures? What kind of adventures?" Merenglir asks quickly, giving Sirion a wide grin. "Surely you have some tales to tell that might motivate us for when we become squires? I'm sure I will be a knight very quickly.. perhaps by the time I am seventeen." The youth muses, turning towards the fire now.

"Four years is a long time," Menelglir replies, trying to sound as casual as his brother, and failing at it, since his voice is a bit choked. He stares at Sirion--meets the man's eyes if he can--then looks away quickly

The door opens to admit the Lady Laeraelin followed by the same maidservant that brought the boys towels. The lady's smile is gracious, but her intelligent eyes sweep quickly between the two Pages and the Knight, assessing. "Tea and mulled wine for Lord Sirion and I," she announces.

The servant sets down a tray and begins to serve, offering the mulled wine to the adults first and then tea for the boys.

"The kind where I avenged my father with fire and blood," says Sirion flatly. "The sort of tales unfit for pages of the Order." Not a storyteller is the eldest son of Sirion the Red, nor much of a motivator either. No, he is a knight of the oldest tradition.

"It is good to set such goals," he says with a nod for Merenglir. Then his stare encompass the both of them. "But be wary of hubris! Else you could be dead, mouldering in the Harondor heat ere the sun passes on your ten and seven."

Merenglir turns back towards the room when he hears the lady and maid returning. His face brightens at the sight of drinks, and now he steps forward onto the rug so that he can collect the tea for himself and his brother. "Thank you, Lady Laeraelin." He says in a respectful tone. "I will be careful of such vices, sir."

"Thank you, Lady," Menelglir says, turning to stand with his back to the fire as the woman enters--hands still behind his back, casually so. "Set my tea down, would you, Meren? I want to let it cool a while." There's a slight pause before he says to Sirion, "And I, sir."

"My thanks, coz," Sirion says with a bow of his head to Laeraelin as he takes the cup of mulled wine. "But remember," he adds with a smile, "Arathis is Lord Isilrim now, not I."

"Arathis is Lord Isilrim," Laeraelin replies, returning her cousin's smile. "But you are still Lord Sirion, yes? Or have you quit your heritage completely?"

She accepts her own cup of mulled wine with both hands. But before she can drink she glances to Menelglir. "You should drink your tea lest you get a chill from the rain," she chides. "It should be cool enough."

Merenglir is returning to stand at his brother's side, just reaching to set the extra cup down when he hears Laeraelin's chiding. He meets Menel's gaze for a brief moment, then looks back with an abashed expression on his face. "Actually, Menelglir doesn't like tea, my lady. He's too polite to refuse." Meren explains, then hurries to take a sip from his own drink. "It is quite good, though. I enjoy it greatly."

"I..uh...apologies, Lady. I did not wish to insult your hospitality to us," Menelglir adds quickly after his brother's explanation. Reddening slightly, he turns to Sirion. "Sir...your offer that the doors to your House are open to us..I _would_ like to learn what I can from you, however informal that might be?"

"Sir Sirion will do," says the Isilrim with a shake of his head. "It will make things simpler if my grandfather should happen to be present also." If simpler is possible - for at present there are three Sirion Isilrims drawing breath in Gondor.

"My door is open to all pages and squires," Sirion continues with a nod for Menelglir. "No matter how petulant and impertinent their tongues. Now for my first lesson."

He sets down the cup of mulled wine untouched upon a nearby table and says gravely. "When a high lady of Gondor sets a cup before you, drink it without complaint. I cannot abide mulled wine, myself."

But all the same, he drinks from his cup without grimacing. "Humility and courage, my young friend. Now you have learned two of the virtues."

Merenglir holds the cup out for his brother, speaking softly, "Humility and courage, Menel." There's almost a sympathetic expression on his face, as if asking his brother to drink something far more horrid than simple tea.

"Yes, sir..." Menelglir answers, sounding resigned to drinking this horrible potion. He looks at Merenglir, frowns, but sighs and takes the cup of tea, fingers clearly stained orange, though he tries to hide that with careful placement of the tea cup--likely unsuccessfully so.

Looking frankly surprised when Merenglir offers excuses for his brother, Laeraelin says nothing but offers a gracious smile.

When Sirion speaks, she laughs lightly. "And I will remember that in the future, Sir Sirion - my cousin. Do /you/ like tea?"

Her eyes stray to the elder of the twins and his fingers. "What is wrong with your hands?"

"I prefer wine straight from the cask," Sirion says to Laeraelin. "But I will not refuse tea."

If he notices the orange, he makes no mention of it. His own wild youth is not so soon forgotten. In fact there is a faint smile upon his lips. "Come, Menelglir," he says with a jerk of his head. "I will show you Inalantadil. It was forged of a falling star in Numenor. And my helm and horn also - relics of the glory of Men. The best knights are often given such relics as reward for service. Did you know my cousin Belegorm wears a blade that is the Sword of Anarion reforged?"

"Now there is a tale long in the telling..." he says as he moves toward the door, apparently not waiting for the young Menelglir to follow.

Merenglir looks down at his own cup of tea that he holds, his own hands still hidden by the damp gloves he wears. He flicks a few glances towards Menel, but says nothing now as Laeraelin questions his brother. Sirion's offer pulls his gaze, and now the youth shows a faint smile. "Go Menelglir, I will catch up with you later." He says. Either he has no interest in going with the knight or isn't going to invite himself along.

"I was...trying different things, Lady," Menelglir answers, flushing a little at this vague explanation. "Nothing that a few days of scrubbing won't fix."

The Islirim's reaction seems to take him by surprise, for he stares open-mouthed for a second or more before he reacts by thrusting the tea cup to his brother. "Excuse me.." he offers to Laeraelin, hastily adding, "and thank you. A pleasure to meet you."

Then he is off after Sirion, rushing to pull on his boots and grab his still-wet cloak from the maid before he follows--and looking briefly toward Merenglir once more with raised brows and a shrug of his shoulder before he follows Sirion.

A pause and turn at the door.

"You also," says Sirion with a look to Merenglir. "I will entreat Belegorm to let you see Celebring. Then the two blades can shine upon each other as they did during the Last Alliance and before. Perhaps he will even let you see his gemstone, though all the magicks are gone from it."

[Laeraelin(#24692)] Inexplicably, the Lady Laeraelin blushes a deep red at the mention of Belegorm's gemstone.

"Good day, boys, Sir Sirion. We will meet again, anon," she says, clearing her throat slightly to speak.

Merenglir looks over at Sirion, then back to Laeraelin. A faint frown grows on his face, but then he goes to collect his own boots after setting down the cup. He stuffs his feet into them and quickly ties the laces, then takes his cloak up and pulls on the sodden garment. "Good day, my lady." He says in a quiet voice before heading after the others.
Players: Merenglir, Menelglir, Laeraelin, Sirion
Located in: Gondorian