(Archive) The Fellowship of the Sword 25 - Erchirion and Thorondur

Of Things to Come

Dusk, and word has spread throughout this camp beneath the mellyrn with the swiftness of the wind. Word of their fate, and the end of their wait -- even now, these stolid Men of Gondor speak together in low tones here, or look anxiously there, across the river to the Golden Wood.

The Elves will take them in, so it has been promised. Few here have missed those fortunate visitations that brought such news, long hoped-for, to the companions of the Quest.

Small fires crackle, three of them now, built of dead wood and dry rushes alone. About one gather the squires, and another a more veteran gathering grows -- but to one is drawn one man alone, wrapped like a ghost of the winter in a cloak all of white.

He is Thorondur Girithlin, Elf-Friend of old, and he stoically warms his hands above the flame.

Yet for all the eagerness of the young, those veteran warriors of the south land hold about them a look of trepidation, for all know the tales of the Golden Woods effect upon Men.

Among the camp, apart from the squires and the veterans, himself alone and lost in the thought, the son of Imrahil, brother of Amrothos rest, leaned upon a tree gazing across the way into the woods, his face grim, eyes thoughtful. Long is the time that passes before he shifts, placing his weight once more upon both of his feet, and turning once more towards the camp.

Turning now to regard the Prince's son, the Lord Girithlin -- always fair, sometimes fey, and this night decidedly sombre -- smiles a soft and enigmatic smile. "I think," Thorondur tells Erchirion, "that I would have wished your sister at my side, when next I saw such beauty--

"--had the choice been mine. That is what I think."

But of the fires present, the man Erchirion makes his way to the lone man, the ghost in white, his father's thane, the Knight-Herald. Approaching he says nothing, and much the same can be said as he takes a seat at fireside. Long seconds pass, and then Erchirion speaks, "What think you?" simple and direct is his question.

And silence follows the words of the Lord Girithlin, for Erchirion speaks not for a time, yet the look of sadness within his eyes speaks quite clearly. Yet after a time, he does finally speak, "Lothiriel," he speaks the name of his sister with such delicacy, much the way one would hold a priceless work of crystal or glass, "Long has it been since I was last able to spend more than a moments time with her."

He grows silent once more, then after awhile he speaks again, "How fares she? Not at this moment, but in the time before events took us away from our land?"

Now strangely does the Herald consider this question, and moreso its speaker -- for his gaze falls upon the junior prince, heavy with curiosity and tinged, at the last, with no little sorrow.

Yet when Thorondur speaks -- when he speaks of the Princess of Flowers -- there is a light to his eyes and warmth to his words, even here in the grip of the winter. "Too long?" he asks. "It troubles me, that you are not alone among your brothers in saying so."

"Indeed," Thorondur admits, "neither does she speak often with Elphir. Yet for that, she was well at last when we departed -- and I pray we find her so, on our return."

"Troubled times and duties," Erchirion replies in a hollow voice, "But that is a poor excuse..."

A sigh sounds forth from his lips, even as his eyes lower to the fire, "What think you of this quest?"

"Why, I think it is necessary," Thorondur replies, and swiftly. "Your father's son, your own brother -- and hers," he wonders, brows knitting together, "his life lies in the balance, they say." And now does he look more closely upon his questioner.

"You are troubled, Erchirion," the older man says it is not a question. "Your mind is filled with doubt, I deem, for these queries spring from your lips like water from a fountain, though you know their answers. How else did you fear I might reply, when you asked what I thought?"

"You mistake my meaning my Lord, even if you shed light upon the doubt that grows within my heart and mind," Erchirion replies softly as he looks once more upon the visage of Thorondur, "I question not the necessity of this quest, but the hope it brings, Amrothos, my brother, rest even now within the clutches of some ancient evil while we sit here, chasing legends, grasping at wisp of light that may or may not lead us in the direction we need to go."

He sighs, "I am filled with doubt, my hope wanes my Lord, Thorondur, look about us, the young gaze eagerly at the Golden woods, the Elder fear it as much as they wish to see within it, the Lord Bragollach wishes to head in one direction while you yourself has spoken of another..."

He grows silent, "I fear." The two words come softly, barely a whisper, "and in that fear I see the light of hope beginning to wane. Many are the days that have passed and still we have little to show, many are the hours that Amrothos has been held captive, and still we are unsure... yes my Lord, I am troubled."

Much thought does the Lord Girithlin lend these words of Erchirion's, ere answering at last -- yet if his voice remains calm and well-spoken -- too, within it, there is a strength and support that had not been, ere now.

"You are troubled, and rightly so," Thorondur tells the other, "but I say to you: put these fears aside. I know some small part of such matters, and though your brother is in danger, the passing of time matters little. Where he is held... one day is like to the next. We will free him, in five days or five years, and all that will matter is his freedom."

"Aye," Erchirion replies once more, "He will be freed."

"I have dreamed, Thorondur," the words come slowly at first, unsure, yet grow in strength, "Two separate dreams have I seen every night since we did leave the Tower of the White. In one, I hold a glowing shard of light, and strike out into the darkness and it is vanquished, and the soul held captive is freed, in the other, I stand before the darkness with the shard blazing in my grasp and strike out only to be consumed."

Silence rest about the young Prince for a time, as the fire burns low, crackles and pops, "But what is this? The workings of my mind or some fell prophecy? I do not know, I do not ask to know, but I know this: The sword -- Amrothos' hope, will not be easily found, nay, we will chase the legends, listen to the words of the wind, water and earth, let the fire speak to us, we shall face the challenges before us and be cleansed and ready to receive the blade, and then, only then, when all is right, shall we be able to vanquish this horrid creature, and then, Amrothos will be freed."

Here, then, does Erchirion recount his dreaming, and through the course of his tale the Girithlin listens in silence. Sharp, the crystalline eyes that attend the telling, and sharp they remain as the man's last words fall to echoes, and echoes of their echoes.

Long moments pass, and only the sounds of the darkened forest around them, the crackling fires and the camp of Men, disturb the peace that settles. Like this for some time does Thorondur remain, ere he then turns his gaze to the heavens.

"What can this portend, I wonder?" Thorondur's cry is plaintive, and though not without hope he spreads his arms as he looks to the skies, and the stars above them -- seen only briefly and at intervals, behind the passing ribbons of night-cloud and above the spidering branches of the canopy. "For there is much I do not know, and nay, son of my Prince! I cannot read the dreams of Men."

"Nor do I expect this of you," Erchirion replies. "I speak my doubts, to rid my soul of their poison..."

"Tell me Thorondur," the Prince's son speaks again, "What know you of this place?"

Unsatisfied, maybe, by this answer, still the Lord Thorondur seems disturbed -- disturbed, until this latest question. Now deep within his eyes a light kindles, of mirth and merriment and something more solemn, but no less delightful -- and a grin spreads again across his face. "Too much, and not enough," he confides in the other.

"But this I will tell you, Erchirion of Dol Amroth," the Herald says. "I know that while you sojourn there, these shadows that trouble your heart shall be routed and banished, for no sorrow can long survive in the Light of that Wood."

"Ah," comes the simple reply, "The true danger of the Golden woods, the peace of the woods, that which can forever change a man." Erchirion grows silent at this, eyes lost in thought far away.

The fire crackles and pops, even as a young squire places another dead log upon the blaze and returns to his friends.

"I fear for them," he speaks at last, "They are Young, and still malleable in heart and mind, much will they face on this journey, yet for now, these woods hold the greatest threat."

"They do," agrees the Herald, his own gaze following -- and falling there upon -- the squires by their own fire. "And none of them understand," he says, lips pursed tightly. "Even worse, that Nimothan boy from Anorien -- Faengor. His eyes, when he looks at his own brother..."

"I fear for his very life, Erchirion. Such jealousy oft has a bitter, bitter end."

Nodding is the only reply given to this line of thought, for the son of Imrahil remains silent as his eyes rest upon the young squires. "I will keep the faith with thee, Brother to Brother, through life unto death ..." His words, the ancient oath spoken throughout Gondor echo hauntingly about the fire.

"They will learn, though it may bring them to the doorway of death... they will know once more what it is to be brothers."

"I hope," Thorondur says into the crackle of the fire, and the chill enshrouding silence of night's shadows beyond, "that you have the right of it -- and that I am wrong. I tire of needless deaths."

Rising, Erchirion looks south and east, towards the land from which they hail, towards home, "As do I," he whispers, "Good eve my Lord, and thank thee for thy council. Watch well the Lord Bragollach, for I know little of this place or it's people, I would not have his words bring the wrath of the Lady upon us."

"But till the morrow, good eve."

A wary chuckle is Thorondur's at that. "I think we may trust the Lord Indilzar in that at least," he says, almost wryly. "He may have a tamper, but the man is a doughty knight, and no man's fool. Good night, Erchirion. Sleep well--"

Here, he raises his hand as if in benediction, "And do not dream."