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Bor's Folly: Reunion

Tags: Cwen,  Findon,  Menelglir,  Conalmir,  Calenloth,  Lominzil,  Imrakhor,  Immin,  Arathis,  Sirion

Short Summary: At the fords of the Isen, the sons of Sirion Isilrim come upon the camp.
Date (real-life): 2011-06-14
Scene Location: East Bank, Fords of Isen
Time of Day: Night
Weather: Rainy

With winter gone now, Spring has made its mark. That being, with rain. This rainy afternoon has brough relief from the cold and snow but has now created mud and puddles. And whatever snow is left, is beginning to melt faster.

Over by her steed - and it is a mighty steed, tall, proud, a true horse of Rohan, Cwen stands. She wears her cloak to keep her warm as her cold and pain remain in effect. Despite the stiffness she is brushing her horse, a deed she has not done in a while.

Tither, Findon; his approach heralded by cadence of slithering metal rings within the folds of coat and cloak in step, as it were, with his strides. His shape is easy enough to make out in the fading light.

"You ought to rest, Lady. The day has been long."

Cwen is humming as she brushes her horse. Though she does hear the passage of another. Turning her head slightly blue eyes fall upon Findon, and to him, she gives a smile and shrug.

"I am tired of resting. All I've seen is the inside of that and there is only so much time I can play in doing..nothing. Plus my horse needed tending." she turns her head and coughs, covering it with her hand.

"How are you this eve?" asks the Lady.

And, as she stands next to her steed, it may amaze one of how she could ride such a massive animal.

A nod, after a few breath's time.

"I am well," Says Findon, tone thoughtful in the admiring regard of yonder horse; flanks, legs and all assessed in a sweeping glance. But he returns to the present, looking sidelong at Cwen and halting evenly. "None of us should be alone out here."

"That is good. Healing well I assume."%RCwen has returned to brushing her horse, and her horse seems happy to let her do so. Stopping her action the Lady looks around a moment realizing then that there has been no one close by, despite their being a constant watch.

"I did not realize." she says looking back to Findon. "I figured that with the wolves dead it would be safer. Yet, they did come into the camp, I suppose this spot wouldn't make much difference if anything were to attack."

The knight offers a rueful smile and averts his gaze, then. "These are wild lands," He offers, stepping up to the beasts head; a hand raised to the muzzle. "And beasts alone aren't our only concern."

"But aye, so they did. Yet, you were not alone then. Had you been..."

A sigh.

"Pay that no mind."

Her steed leans his head into Findons hand. And Cwen, she had stopped brushing and looks to the Knight with a risen brow, eyes speaking of the curisouty in her mind.

"I hail from Rohan, I've spent most of my life here before moving to Gondor such lands are not uncommon. However, I do not go searching for danger."

Still, her blue eyes watch him. And she asks:

"I recall you being there. Infact, that was the last thing I recall. You..said my name, I think. I saw your sword then all was black. Oh, and you offered your cloak. But, had I been what?" that is her question, tone marked with the curisouty she feels.

"I beg to differ," Findon murmurs, "Why else would you be here? The hospitality of your kin at Edoras cannot be so bland as to deny them your company."

The muzzle is given a gentle pat, the hand lowers and, with it, Findon's glance shifts as well; turning to meet the Lady's levelly. "I was so. If not for that singular fact; if not for Hir Menelglir, you would be dead, Lady." Despite the weight of those words, he ends on a dry tone to the accompaniment of a faint smile:

"It would be sad to see such effort squandered carelessly, that is all."

A touch speachless, Cwen stands there a moment weighing his words.

"Oh?" she begins her sentence with a touch of suprise. "I had not been told that, how is that so?" her question is based from her curisouty.

Though a smile does frame its self upon her face and she shrugs. "I hope I can be compay," she laughs a touch at that. "And no true effort is ever squandered."

Again, that rueful smile crosses the knight's mien.

"'Tis of little concern now," Says Findon, turning his regard back to the horse. "The past is in the past."

"You have a fine mount; may he bear you well. I will leave you to him; though, I'll not be far."

He turns round.

Cwen blinks a few times, shakes her head and then brushes some golden hair from her face after she coughs.

"Wait." she says as he turns. A few steps forward are taken. "It is of little concern? Though, if so why mention it?" she asks with a smirk. "As for horse, we are bonded. Connected."

Once again, Findon halts his stride; turning his glance evenly at the lady's own. He does not answer at once.

"He near well died for you. That is all."

A pause. And then, with a breath drawn through the nose, he turns his face away, indicating a stand of bushes over yonder with a subtle nod; not twenty yards away. "I will be there."

Silence again. Suprised silence. She looks confused, trully confused.

"What?!" she asks taking steps forward her intent to stand before him so he will not move.

"What do you mean he nearly died for me? I -" a pause, she shakes her head totally confused. "I don't get it, why do you think he nearly died for -me-?"

Immin rides up to the camp's perimeter. Behind him, some distance away and moving in a different direction is the small group of riders from which he broke away.

"Is it truly confusing to you that men would rush carelessly to the defense of a woman struck down as you were?"

Again Findon looks away, drawing a breath through the nose and releasing it likewise. "I forget myself," He murmurs, and by chance his glance fixes on the approaching rider, "My apologies, lady."

"Hail, friend!" He calls.

Immin notes the call of the knight and he calls back, "Hail, the camp!" He rides closer as his brethren are lost in the growing darkness behind him, off to patrol the line of the Isen. "How fare the Stoningfolk?"

"No. Not confusing it is just..the -way- you say it." says Cwen thoughtfuly. "That his is nature," she shrugs. "If it were Calenloth or myself I am sure you would see the same reaction." though her eyes watch the Knight curisouly a moment before they turn seeing Immin approach.

"Hail!" she calls out to him, but is then silent eyes falling to the ground.

"Indeed," Findon tells Cwen, on a private note, "The very same. Yet, I would scarce find her by herself grooming the horses."


"The stoninglanders, I deem, are well," uttered in a louder manner, for Immin. "What tidings bring the riders of Rohan?"

Immin calls, "I have told my brethren of the wolves about and they seek for any others who linger about." The rider recognizes Cwen and nods to her from atop his horse. "Lady."

Cwen stares a moment at Findon, she is about to speak but halts her words.

"Perhaps we can finish this conversation another time. I need to get my bandages changed." and with a faint smile she turns, moving to head back into the camp. A nod is given to Immin as she passes and she calls out to both men:

"Good eve to you both." and then she is gone.

Distant for a spell, the knight looks at the retreating lady.

His contemplation is broken with a subtle nod. On what counsel, who can say?

"I fear we may have deprived you of the hunt," He tells Immin then, "We slew many, and have heard not a howl since."

"Yes, I was slightly wounded by the attack. But now the riders of Westfold will be on the lookout should any other wolves venture forth." Immin swings down out of the saddle and asks, "What of the camp? Have you all plans for going on about your errand or is this the extend of your journey across the Mark?"

"Our errand is not done, and thus we go forward; aye."

The knight comes forward, right arm extended in greeting, the other indicating the direction of the camp, yonder. "Come; we've no fire, but what little hospitality we can offer, you shall have. Your mount may wait here with ours."

Immin ties off his horse at the picket and then follows Findon as he asks, "Where are you all headed then?"

"Through the Gap and beyond."

Through the drizzle, their footsteps thread the way through and round gather pools of mud and slippery footing back inside the encampment of the stonelanders, in the gathering dark. "Our present course follows the river westward. I do not know the goal of the journey well enough to disclose it, however. Your name, sir?"

Findon ammends: "I recall your face, but not the introduction."

Oblivious of mud and puddles, Menelglir crosses the camp, boots squelching in the mud as he comes to stand next to Findon. A nod to Immin, then he listens.

"I am Immin son of Eadwine." The man nods in greeting as he walks and then goes on, "The west-march beyond the Isen is my homeland. It is a wild, unsettled land where the writ of the king is often ignored."

A fit of sudden mirth takes hold of Findon then; such that he bends, hands upon his knees, shaking with laughter.

"You find this funny?" Immin looks confused by the man's mirth.

It takes the shaking night some moments to collect himself.

"Aye," Findon sighs after some moments, "More than you know, son of Eadwine. Upon my last visit I did find it most...unsettled," says he, and grows at once quiet, and still; creases setting on his brow: "Unsettled indeed."

A sigh. "I am Findon, Gwethilmir's son. This," With a gesture at the other man of Gondor, "Is Menelglir of Telpekhor."

"No introductions are needed," Menelglir says with a quiet grin. "This marks how many times now, Rider?"

"A few." Immin turns back to Findon. "You have been to the lands between Isen and Adorn before? Already the people of Eorl were few there and my people grow fewer with each year."

"Aye, briefly," Says Findon. "I should wonder Menelglir has not told you; he was there too, as I recall," He continues, turning a level look on the same Telpekhor evenly.

[(#17324)] 'Aye, we did travel through here. Even your King has mentioned it,' Menelglir nods. 'But it is a distant memory now, and the lands seem hardly familiar. And I was but a White Squire...more prone to gawking at the horses than paying attention to anything else.'

Findon's look gets a steady one in reply, and an answer in a quiet tone. "(Sindarin) And since when are we to speak of this journey and willingly give away whither we went and why--even with the Prince now found. I hold our oaths still stand."

Findon turns his glance to Immin then: "His memory serves though." The attempted smile fails near as quick as it appears. He looks to Menelglir, and away.

And he is silent.

Immin frowns as these Stoning-men take their journey lightly. "The half-breeds do not take kindly to outsiders. If your group can barely defend itself against a pack of wolves, going without guidance into the west-march will prove perilous indeed."

"That pack of wolves of which you speak so lightly, sir, I believe were the very ones spiritig away your women," Menelglir answers. "For which you sent out entire patrols."

The smile returns, albeit faintly, to curve Findon's lip, "We will manage, Immin. What owes us the honor of your company?"

Immin turns back to Findon and answers coolly, "I was sent by my superiors to inform the regular patrols of your journey so that they would know of your coming and give aid as needed. I thought word of my own home and my knowledge of its ways would be welcome, but you both seem to have it all decided?"

"We are led by Lord Bragollach, sir," Menelglir answers. "It is to him you must make any offers of aid and guidance. I, for one, would gladly welcome it, but it is not my decision to make."

[Calenloth(#27998)] The mud heavy enough to slow the swiftest of feet it seems, and a pair emerge from the west of the camp. The low ring of a woman's voice is heard as Calenloth and Conalmir near the camp.
"Disappointing, for certain," the girl says, shaking three small rabbits at her side. "I move like a troll in this mud, yet these creatures fly like eagles."

A frown alights on Findon's brow.

Perhaps 'tis the conversation over yonder. Perhaps Immin's answer. In echoing other knight's sentiment, Findon says simply: "It would be welcome indeed."

[Conalmir(#31396)] Conalmir nods, looking up as he hears Menelglir's voice answering someone unknown. "Still you did well, Lady Calenloth," he says, his voice somewhat abstracted.

"I will see this Lord Bragollach, should he ever choose to make an appearance. Good evening to you both." Immin nods in farewell and turns back to find his horse.

"Good evening," Menelglir bids the horseman, then turns his attention toward Squire and Lady. "Evening. Hunting?" He gestures to the rabbits.

A figure of furs prowls westward of the camp, lumping whatever moonlight has snuck through the clouds.

[Calenloth(#27998)] "Hunting." A nod from the Lady.
"I should thank you for the company, Squire," she adds, smiling to Conalmir. "For I did grow tired of sitting in the rain."
"Sir Findon," she greets the other knight, as she watches the Rider depart.

[Conalmir(#31396)] "Yes, sir," Conalmir answers, glancing from Menelglir to Findon - and then to the departing rider.

Brow bowed, gaze averted from the departure of Immin, Findon replies: "Lady."

"Lady, I would think that..." Menelglir starts, not finishing the thought. He frowns, squinting toward the camp's perimeter. "Calenloth...see to the fire--that it burns brightly. Conalmir,," he draws his sword, "come with me." He heads off with determined steps in the direction of the skulking figure in furs.

[Conalmir(#31396)] "Yes, sir," Conalmir says, and as the knight draws sword, he does also - after a brief and swift salute in Sir Findon's direction.

[Calenloth(#27998)] "Brightly?" Calenloth asks, brow raised. She steps towards the fire, a piece of wood taken in hand to throw upon the flames, but the girl instead lights the tip, turning to follow the men.

'Tis Findon's task then, to bring up the rear. He does so, baring no steel yet, a frown alight upon his brow as he gazes onward with curiosity.

"Wolves again, from the glimpse I caught," Menelglir says under his breath to Conalmir. He has not yet noticed those that trail behind them.

The figure of furs haunts yet, striding obliquely to the camp, at once both away from the draw of steel and towards the flap of tent's canvas. It is tall, too tall for a beast; and at its belly a sword floats, held aloft either by the body of the sheath or that of the blade.

Neither word nor howl comes.

[Conalmir(#31396)] Conalmir nods again, and his hand tightens on his sword. "Where... " He squints through the darkening evening. "It looks strange, sir."

[Calenloth(#27998)] Calenloth brandishes the lit branch, bearing its arc towards the bushes. "There," she points forward with the torch. "I will let you approach."

Another shadowed figure drifts near the edges of the firelight at the other side of the camp.

There is movement from a tent. It is the Lady Cwen. She has found no rest and so the noise outside catches her attention. Stiff steps bring her to see the group, and a hand brushes away golden hair as blue eyes mark what is going on before her with curisouty.

"There, yes, but.." Menelglir spares but a sharp, quick glance at the sound of Calenloth's voice. He looks back to the camp perimeter. "But...not wolves...not bear. It is heading for the tents, in fact!" he hisses, starting to run that way.

[Calenloth(#27998)] "Are there two?" Calenloth replies, confusion flashing across her face. She whirls around to follow.

"At least," Confers Findon.

Dishevelled, blue-grey eyes shadowed, Lominzil has found no rest in sleep, and therefore emerges early to his watch. He stands there outside the squires' tent, blinking for a moment.

"Two? More?" Menelglir says without turning his head this time. "Split up! Find them!" he barks an order. Then, running toward the tents where the first figure disappeared toward, he shouts, his voice deep and echoing through the camp. "You there! Halt!!!"

Fîndon says, "Squire."

"Remain with the lady, where ever she goes," Findon ammends, ere rushing headlong into the encampment.

"My lady," comes a voice from the shadow -- this voice is ostensibly originates from the figure on the other side of camp from the larger group. "Have these brave knights of Gondor left you unprotected?" The voice is deep and powerful, yet smooth as silk.

[Conalmir(#31396)] "Yes, sir," Conalmir answers, and reaches out a hand - his injured arm - to catch at Calenloth.

Cwen freezes. The shouting of the Knights can be heard, but the voice, that one is new. Upon her heels she slowly turns, going to face the maker of that voice. Her blue eyes are wide, the face is unseen. A step back is taken, which causes her to stumble over a rope to the tent.

"Who goes there?!" she demands, yet, fear, also is in her voice.

The westward figure heeds the command, blade held yet aloft. There is gleam only to its hilt: it is sheathed; but about it stands a man's length covered in the fleece of a wolf, the beast's head over his, obscuring his features.

His voice slips roughly, carrying however a tongue foreign to hillmen: "(Sindarin) Amroth stands?"

The newly-awake Blue Squire -- or perhaps he is not entirely roused, yet -- strides towards the edge of the camp -- the closest, yet, to that voice. He points unsheathed sword at it, blue gaze aflame with a mad spark.

"Not unprotected," Lominzil says quietly. "Show yourself."

[Calenloth(#27998)] Calenloth trails Conalmir closely, her torch held aloft still. But the other hand holds a small blade as she paces, slowly behind the Squire.

So 'tis that Findon, fast on Menelglir's heel, overtakes his brother, and slows by him. Slows; nay, halts, evenly with the utterance of that alien tongue. His face in that moment, faint though the light is that falls upon it from over yonder, campside; it is ashen grey.

Roughly, his rebuke: "(Sindarin) Amroth stands."

[Conalmir(#31396)] Conalmir holds his sword up as he follows Menelglir, only more slowly, so that he hears only the sound of Sindarin and not the words spoken - but it is enough to check him. He relaxes, but keeps his blade at the ready.

"(Sindarin) Name yourselves," the one hidden in shadows returns to Cwen and the Blue Squire.

The voices of the two strangers are shockingly similar in tone and inflection. Near enough to the same to confuse all but the most trained of ears.

[(#17324)] The question spoken in Sindarin brings Menelglir to a skidding stop, so abrupt that he brings a hand up to the back of Findon's shoulder to stop himself from running into that knight.

"(Sindarin) What is the meaning of this?" he asks sharply of the wolf-pelted man. And then--out of the corner of his eye, spying Conalmir, "(Sindarin) Do not drop your guard!"

Looking puzzled, Cwen passes a glance over to Lominzil. She has -no- idea what the person as said, and her eyes betray that.

"I -," she pauses, frowing, "I don't know what you are saying." she returns to the man in the shadows looking back that way.

[Conalmir(#31396)] "No, sir!" Conalmir replies, his eyes darting about in case there is anyone else, hidden beyond. He raises his blade a little higher, putting an arm up to keep Calenloth from rushing forward, and comes to a stop a little ways from the two knights.

The wolf's head pins between the Swansmen, pausing on Findon: "(Sindarin) And the name of its Prince?"

A palm rises to dissuade their readied steel and dismiss their inquiries.

[(#27998)] Calenloth mutters, "(Sindarin) This is ridiculous. First wolves, now wolf men. What is going on?" to herself. The torch waves toward the direction of one voice, then the other as she turns.

'I asked first,' the Blue Squire returns, harshly. He shudders a little, as if waking, then lowers his sword-arm.

'Fear nothing, Cwen,' Lominzil says to the golden-haired woman, then slips smoothly into the Noble Tongue:

"(Sindarin) I am Lominzil Girithlin, Blue Squire of Dol Amroth. What are you?"

Hand felled from the greatsword's grip, as if the Wolf wields such command with gesture alone, Findon lets fly a sigh; light is its bearing. Simply:

"(Sindarin) Imrahil, Adrahil's son."

A simple nod is given to Lominzil - she takes his word for it. Yet now she realizes how it must of been when the group was emersed in her culture, in her native tounge. So, she just remains silent for the moment. Eyes wonder the camp - seeing the Knights, the Squire, and Calenloth on the other side of the camp, she raises a brow, then looks back to the shadow.

[(#17324)] No such relief is evident in Menelglir's stance, though he affords Findon a glance with eyes narrowed.

"(Sindarin) Anyone can learn this tongue if they so desire it; anyone cn know of the Prince or inquire of his name."

"(Sindarin) Who are you and what is your business?"

"(Sindarin) Who is the Lord of House Girithlin?" the voice from the shadow inquires sharply.

[Conalmir(#31396)] Meanwhile, on the other side of the small camp, Conalmir does not make the same mistake twice - and despite the stranger speaking in Sindarin, and asking for the name of his Prince, he keeps his guard up; blade ready.

"(Sindarin) He is unchanged," answers Lominzil calmly, odd blue-grey eyes gazing steadily into the darkness. "(Sindarin) Tell me his name."

"(Sindarin) Thorondur Edrahil Girithlin," the shadow answers without pause. "(Sindarin) He was boon companion to my father! Well do I know him."

The wolf's head lowers, and soon its wearer lowers to his knees. The fur bunches about his feet, revealing a thinned and harried creature beneath.

"My brothers, my sons, I require rest. I am Arathis of Calembel, and I am ill."

His sheath is pulled inwards, and his belly falls thus into the mud.

"(Sindarin) That is his name," answers Lominzil, warmth entering his voice at last. He puts away his sword.

"(Sindarin) Then you must be a son of Sirion the Young. For I know no other boon companion to my lord, that has been named."

'Come away from the shadows, sir.'

Cwen stands there in silence. She understands little, but her blue eyes are keenly watching.

Tall is the man who emerges from the shadows, but also gaunt. "I am Sirion Turindo Isilrim, Third of my name," he states as his face becomes visible.

Deep in his face have his grey Dunadan eyes sunk, giving him a fey aspect. Those eyes grow wide as they hear the name of the other new arrival. "ARATHIS!" his voice thunders as he begins to rush across the camp.

The two strangers are brothers -- identical twins.

[Menelglir(#17324)] Were it not for the lanyard about his gloved hand, Menelglir's sword would fall to the muddy ground--such is the shock that runs through the young knight. A moment he stands there. Then a moment more. And then he is rushing forward, on his knees besides the man, seeking to help. "Conalmir, Calenloth! Hot water, blankets, my sack with salves!" he calls out to the two.

[Conalmir(#31396)] At last, Conalmir lowers his sword, though he does not sheath it. There may yet be others - enemies - waiting in the darkness. But this man seems no threat. And then a man rushes past him, and Menelglir calls out. The squire puts his sword away, and runs back towards the fire. "Come, Lady Calenloth," he calls as he goes.

[Calenloth(#27998)] A step ahead of the Squire, Calenloth has run to the fire at Menelglir's command. Quickly, the pot upon the fire. The sack, left close from the recent bandage changes ready. "Bring them here," she calls.

Bemused, Lominzil looks to the two men, one like to the other, then to Cwen. "There is nothing to fear, Lady," he says to her. "Go back to sleep."

Swift even as a wolf, Findon springs forth; taking a knee beside the fallen. "Long have men looked for you, Lord," Says he. "Rest you shall have, and all else that you require. But not in this mud."

Subtly, he graps Menelglir by the shoulder, but says naught. He bends and, as if a babe, scoops up Arathis in arms, carrying him thence t'ward the fire; t'ward Sirion.

[Conalmir(#31396)] Blankets are ready, water heating. Conalmir stoops and puts on the fire the wood that Calenloth had refused to add earlier, and the flames leap up, warm and bright. Then he straightens and his eyes go to Lominzil across the way.

"I am sorry I will not be able to rest now." says Cwen with curisouty.

So much has happened it seems that sleep is not an option.

"I will go see what I can do for help."

With that the woman turns and makes her way, somewhat slowly and stiffly, to the fire.

[Menelglir(#17324)] Still Menelglir remains in the mud on his knees, watching, awed. Only slowly does he rouse himself and stand, and then follow slowly after Findon, his face pale as if with some great shock.

Then, the Lord of the Bragollachs.

From his tent, erected since his return to the camp, he emerges. What commotion has disturbed his few hours of rest of is apparent; his eyes are fell and bloodshot, his mood foul. It is call, ARATHIS, which has woken him.

[Arathis(#30050)] The collapsed Isilrim submits to aid's commotion, his gaunt and bearded visage turning softly from the wolf's as if to find comfort amidst the muds.

Whether of daze or pain, displeasure alights him as he is lifted, driving a bellow from his ribs. The sheath fall from his hand, and he reaches even from Findon's shoulder to retrieve it.

Fîndon tells Menelglir: "Sword."

[Menelglir(#17324)] "Lord Arathis has been found, sir," Menelglir tells the Bragollach, stooping, even, to retrieve the fallen sword. He then hurries to ready what healing supplies he might need.

Lominzil shivers, passes a hand before his eyes, as if to banish the vestige of a dream.

Quick, soft steps take him to Imrakhor's side; standing in the rain, waiting, he says nothing.

Never has Sirion the Kindler waited for anything in the long years of his life, and he does not wait now for his brother to be carried to him at camp's center. "Give my brother to me," says the once Lord of Isilrim to Findon. "I will bear him now."

"And Inalantadil," to Menelglir.

"Shall you bear your brother, Sir Sirion?" asks Imrakhor.

"You will be offered horse and rope, but little more."

Grimaces twist the once fair Arathis, tightening with each hand placed upon his back.

"Sirion?" he grates and repeats, his shut eyes unable to verify. "Allow me wine, brother, I have fallen from my horse." His furs, hanging now from him, are stained a deep crimson.

Sirion's demand is not refused.

"Little more, Sir?" Findon asks of Imrakhor, eyes widened. "I think not!"

With a wary glance towards his own Knight, Lominzil stoops by the fire, assisting Menelglir and Calenloth with the laying-out of supplies.

Cwen approaches the fire which makes her golden hair glow. She does what she can to help.

[Conalmir(#31396)] Wine - Conalmir glances around, finding a wineskin, and coming forward - holding it out when Sirion will bring his brother to the fire, where help is waiting.

"We depart at sun's first light. If the Lord Isilrim is not yet prepared to move, there is Rohan to the East who will provide him succor," says Imrakhor. "You may go with him, Findon, if you so wish."

"I do so," says Findon.

With the talk of the men leaving, and Rohan, Cwen looks up from helping where she can a moment, and then goes back to work.

"I require neither horse nor rope," says Sirion to the Bragollach Lord.

"Yea, I recall it," he tells his brother with a ghostly smile. "I warned you against the beast, brother."

Laying the delirious Lord Isilrim down upon the blanket that has been laid out for him, Sirion takes the wine from Conalmir. "I thank you, squire...?" The words trail off, as he waits for a name to be given him.

"Strip these rags off him," he says to whomever is listening. "And stop the bleeding. I will fetch garments that befit his station."

"Gauze," Lominzil is murmuring quietly, scattering an infusion of herbs into the water. "Bandages ... where are the clean ones..."

Lominzil does as he is told, slicing through bloodied cloth with a small, sharp knife. His brow darkens.

[Conalmir(#31396)] "Conalmir Tarikhor, sir," the white squire replies. He kneels beside the man, reaching out to take the tattered clothes as Lominzil cuts them away.

"Then light shall decide whether the Sons of Sirion follow our path."

"For now, I wish only for the darkness of shuttered eye," says the Lord Bragollach, retreating back within his tent.

"I will remember your name," Sirion promises Conalmir, ere he melts once more into the shadows.

Moments later he emerges with a horse in tow, its saddlebags filled with many things. He places Inalantadil -- the sword of Lord Isilrim, with which he once slew a troll -- in a safely beside his own well-worn blade. A pack is untied and set upon the ground at his brother's head.

Whatever is needed, Cwen can fetch. And does so helping out as much as she can.

The awareness of the Isilrim lord fades with his blood, his skin paling beneath the crimson and umber marring him. His strength has passed; he is left to the mercy of his countrymen.

Those that would unwrap him are to find a back scarred with a whip's relentless cruelty; and fresh at his side, the bite of the wolf whose pelt he wore.

The Blue Squire presses upon the wound, his hands reddening to the wrists as he attempts to staunch the life-flow of Lord Isilrim. His lips tighten as he dips cloth in herbal infusion, bathes the marred flesh, the wolf's mark, but he says naught about them.

"Brandy," he utters.

[Conalmir(#31396)] "Thank you, sir," Conal murmurs. He rises to fetch the brandy, met half-way by Cwen, and hurries to return it to Lominzil, along with fresh cloths.

"Whips and wolves," Sirion murmurs as he watches the squires do their work upon his brother.

Long, the gaze that lingers on the Bragollach's tent. 'Tis averted at length, drawn by horse and Sirion; but includes also the others. It's bearer, Findon asks: "Whips and wolves?"

"The wounds," Sirion indicates with a wave of a gloved hand.

"He slew the wolf," he continues, his booted toe poking at the bloody rags.

"I shall find the whip-bearer," he concludes, his eyes aglow with a fey light from within.

"I shall not fail him," Lominzil says quietly, glancing across the lord's prone form to Conalmir. "Not as I did you, Conalmir. Or Er..."

The Blue Squire sighs, and pours spirits over the bite.

[Conalmir(#31396)] "Fail me?" Conalmir asks, puzzled. "Or who.. Oh." He too falls quiet, watching the gurgle of brandy splashed out. "You will not," he affirms at last, barely louder than a whisper.

A nod.

The conference of the squires holds Findon's regard for a time.

And then: "If you do not, I will."

He takes a knee then, and is silent.

Lominzil maintains pressure for a long while, ere he is certain that the danger has passed, for now. The wound is dressed.

"He sleeps, sir," says the Blue, turning to the Knights.

[Conalmir(#31396)] Conalmir leans back on his heels, his gaze moving from the sleeping stranger to Findon, and beyond him to Sirion.

Conalmir senses:
Lominzil only says to Conalmir, so quietly that not even the sleeper may hear, "I dreamt."

Sirion reaches out to place a reassuring hand upon the shoulder of Lominzil. "The sons of Sirion are hearty and strong," he says. "He will recover swiftly."

"You are both squires of Amroth," he says, his fey Dunadan gaze including Conalmir now. "Which knights do you serve?"

[Conalmir(#31396)] Conalmir's gaze returns, his eyes level on the other squire. He gives an almost imperceptible nod, before looking up at the tall man. "None, sir, for myself." Odd perhaps - he is older than Lominzil.

Lominzil washes his red hands in what is left of the water. "That is my hope as well, sir."

"My knight is Imrakhor Bragollach," he answers Sirion's son.

"He has taught you well," says Sirion with a nod.

Shadow falling over his brow, the squire does not respond to that; packing away the last of the herb satchel, he rises. "Sir, if you desire to rest near your brother, I will fetch more blankets. He should not be moved."

A shake of the head from the former Lord Isilrim. "I do not sleep with blankets," he says grimly. "But I thank you for the offer."

"Very well," Lominzil answers. "I am taking the watch, and will come if aught is needed."

He heads away from the fire.

Date added: 2011-06-15 12:45:07    Hits: 76
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