(Archive) The Fellowship of the Sword 21 - The Coming of Calriel

Of the Coming of Calriel

Mathollor paces from around the camp towards the fire his cloak draped over one shoulder. As he spots Morrandir he grins and closes up behind him quietly "Are we still playing with those bandages? Am I going to have to replace them again?". With a mutter he unbuckles his sword belt and seats himself across from Morrandir with a grin.

Looking up from the fire, Morrandir smiles grimly. "No." he says flatly. "I have resisted the urge to touch the cursed things." He puts another log on the fire, scattering a cloud of sparks in Mathollor's direction.

Mathollor smirks as he waves the smoke and dust away. "I am so glad that you are in such good cheer my friend. I take it that your wounds are itching ? I have always found that harder to bear than the pain." A light shrug accompanies thse words as he draws his sword and begins to hone the edge. His face light by the firelight before him.

In the cold breath of dawn, the white tents of the Men of Gondor -- Knights and their squires from the warm southern reaches, for the most part -- are slowly stirring to activity. As the two squires chat near the fire, others slowly emerge from their places of rest, here and there beneath the golden leaves.

One who does not emerge -- for rather, he has kept a lonely vigil through the night, and not slept -- is Thorondur Girithlin, the Herald of the Prince. His tent has done without him, for the fair knight has stood solitary by the riverside many a long hour.

Even now, his silhoutte can be seen there, his white cloak lit scarlet in the fire of the sunrise that surmounts the treetops.

Not far from the city of Caras Galadhon, not far from the lands of Eriador, not far from the fallen Eregion or the mines of Khazad-Dum, there whistles sharply the chilly winds of winter upon a clear and seemingly deserted road.

For many miles would it go on towards the west, where a climbing pathway scathes upwards towards the horizon of the world, which pinnacles to rival the heavens and to pierce the coming dawn. Indeed, already morning has lazily stretched its rosy rays across the distant horizon, gracing it with orange hues and crimson layers.

To the east it follows the river deeper into the large forest. Mighty trees loom over the path, silent guardians in the early hours of dawn. Amongst the solitude, amongst the impenetrable loneliness of this mystical forest, they perhaps are the forbode of the soft sounds amongst the wildgrowth. Still distant, yet drawing closer - a tangible sensation of the presence of many eyes...

Mathollor looks over towards the Herald his face clouding as he studies him. "A lonely and sometimes distant man, I do not envy him him his place in this

"Perhaps," says Morrandir thoughtfully, "but there is no doubting that he is a good man. A true knight." He strokes the whiskers upon his chin with his thumb.

There are those who could deny the judgement of Mathollor, as to the Herald of Imrahil even here, there are those who know otherwise. Yet still they sleep this early morn, and for the man himself, the Lord Girithlin, he is still as a statue and beyond hearing, in any event --

No? For now he moves, turns from the riverside. Toward the fire he walks slowly, and to none and to all he says simply, "They are coming." And though his face is a mask of neutrality, in his eyes a radiant light of expectation has kindled.

Mathollor looks hard towards Thorondur before with a start he stands. His face is calm as he buckles on his swordbelt and steps towards his tent to make dress fully. As he does his voice carries back towards the campsite. "I would Prepare yourself My Friend, I believe this will be noteworthy."

"Put your swords away, squires," Thorondur says, taking note of Mathollor's swordbelt as he nears the pair of youths, an enigmatic smile on his lips. "They will do you more harm than good, here."

And then he falls silent, devoid of voice or even motion, cocking his head to the north and -- listening.

Mathollor steps briefly into the his tent. He emerges a few moments later looking more polished and wearing his cloak, though if anything he looks more unsure as he scans the wall of trees.

Sheltered from the wind and the cold is the camp, the camfire flickering playfully. And suddenly it is as if the forest springs to life. The bark of the old trees glim slightly grey in the early hours of day. For years they have stood there, silently, perhaps without purpose - or so it would seem to some.

Aha! It seems that they, too, whisper, as if to announce the group of elves that slowly show themselves. One elf can be seen between the trees, and soon another steps up behind him. There grey cloaks blend with the color of nature, and perhaps they have stood here for a while - it cannot be said.

The elves stand quietly, most with bows hurled over their shoulders, as one, motionless as the nearly palatable air. Of a sudden, however, one rises from the ring of guards. Short, yet fair she is, with glittering golden hair atop a circlet of silver. On her mail of chain is set the symbol of Eglador, an old and by mortals long forgotten realm. And deep were here eyes, white she was, and beautiful beyond enduring. Her voice rings out clearly, and strong, but not so that it jars the ear - fluent in the elven speech " Hail! Who goes there in the lands of Celeborn, Lord of the Golden Wood?"

They have come, even as he guessed -- the Eldar -- and Thorondur Girithlin alone is not overawed. Yet even he, who by rumour and legend even in this lifetime is said to have walked among them, finds his breath caught for a moment's space -- caught and held as he gazes upon these grey-clad guardians of the Golden Wood.

Yet soon enough he speaks, and his own voice is clear and lovely in response, the words of the elventongue rolling from his lips as though born to it -- for they were. " Hail and well met, Lady," he calls out, " and in the name of Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth by the Sea do I greet you, messenger of the Lord of the Wood. I am called Thorondur."

Morrandir gasps as the first-born appear, his fists clenching tightly. with his one eye he stares at the elven lady, his face losing all color. he says nothing for afew moments, before muttering, "How could I have made such a degrading remark about a people so fair..." he then falls silent again, watching the elves graceful movements.

"And these," says Thorondur, reverting to the Westron so that they might understand, "are a pair of our squires: Morrandir and Mathollor." That pair, he indicates with a sweep of his left hand -- and all about them, what Men who have woken stand struck dumb with amazement. No others arise from the tents --

It is as if a spell of dazzlement has fallen upon the camp, and all who slumber remain so.

Mathollor watches quietly his face and posture an outward show of calm, betrayed only by the rigidity of his posture. At Thorondurs words he bows and glances quickly over the assembled company of FirstBorn. He wets his Lips with his tongue before resuming his formal stance.

The fair and chiseled faces of the elves stir not at the words of Thorondur, yet in their eyes flickers the fire of the elven fea - the spirit of the elves that is now almost tangible in the atmosphere of the forest. The eyes of the elven maid are of blue, no less bright for their lack of hue, yet at the same time deep pools of wisdom. In them is written the memories of things happy and sorrowful, of things new and of ages past.

Yea, she was of the race of the Firstborn - those that awoke at the lake Cuivienen, long before men set foot on the world. In the days that few but the elves can still remember, they had lived with the Secondborn, yet in the days of the Third Age of Arda they have not often been seen by those from the southern lands. Yet, not with surprise is the face of the lass at the fluent words in her own tongue. To those that are born with the language, she speaks with an accent. As if her words have somehow become tainted by nature, by the greenness of the forest.

She answers, her sharp eyes now set on the Knight - " We accept your greetings and those of your Lord, speaker of the Elven Tongue! Those of your race that master our language undoubtedly know that these are not the lands of Dol Amroth, nor of Gondor its realms of old - eyes have followed you for some days now..." Her unstirred face looks around the camp briefly as she concludes " what is it you seek here?"

Still silent, Morrandir smiles faintly as the elf maiden speaks. He does not move a muscle but for his smile.

Now does the Lord Girithlin make a deep and formal bow, after the fashion of his own folk and the distant court of their Princes -- who are yet said to have the elven blood, of old. To the squires beside him he glances, once -- a look of consideration, perhaps -- but then the fullness of his gaze is upon the Elf, terrible fair as she is.

" I have spoken with Althea," Thorondur tells her simply, folding his hands before him, " and she knows of our errand. The son of our Prince is in danger grave, and in our need we seek the succour of those who see further and deeper even than the Men of the West."

Mathollor stands quietly his hands gripped together to stop their fidgeting. His glance moves between the two talking as if by the keeness of his glance he may understand the currents that flow around their speech. His eyes constantly flick back towards the silent and intimidating host before shying away.

For a moment, silent falls. The air of morn blows crips in winter despite the beating of the pale sun upon the forest, and a few drops of dew linger in it's wake. The elven maiden seems but small compared to the tall Dunadan, yet no less proud and commanding she seems. Wisdom sits on her brow and it is, as if the world slowly moves itself about her.

There is a slight upcurling in her pale-dry lips. It is but a simple gesture -- no great grin, this -- no laugh, no further outward move. Welcoming? Amused? From her impenetrable face, not much can be read if only perhaps in the depths of her eyes. Slowly, she addresses the knight " You have already spoken with Althea?" She raises her eyebrows briefly and her slender hand reaches up to brush away a lock of long golden hair from her face. She awaits not the answer and resumes " Thorondur of Dol Amroth - from your countenance and speech I can see you are not but a simple traveller passing through. My name is Calriel, and I am the Herald of Celeborn of Doriath, Lord of the Golden Wood. I know not what you know of our people, and I know not if there is much we can do for you."

She pauses a moment and explains, inclining her hand southwards " You travelled from far, yet we may not be able to provide you with answers... if you can explain to me your need, I will plea your case before the Lord, so that he might receive you!"

Glancing quickly at Mathollor, Morrandir breaks his silence, and whispers, "Cursed are we of the Edain not to have been born among their number..." He sighs quietly.

Mathollor shakes his head and glances sideways furtively before whispering out of the corner of his mouth " I would not wish that upon a friend, their Doom is worse than ours in that they have longer to contemplate it, and longer to suffer the loss of their most dear."

The knight Thorondur, long accounted elven-fair among his own people, is shown before these children of the Eldalie themselves to yet be passing fair -- but his own is but a pale reflection of their beauty, or little more. Her words bring him concern, it seems, yet his face remains aglow as he speaks with the Firstborn maiden.

" Then we are like to kin from afar, fair Calriel of the Golden Wood," the knight says, a faint smile now upon his lips, " for as you are Herald to your lord, I am named Herald to my own. Our needs are simple things: food and water, to some. Yet we go not with knowledge of the path before us, and only fools would speak with Celeborn's people and not then ask for their counsel."

Others might, in finally beholding one of the First-born, be stricken with awe or silence, in which their fumbling for words is to no avail surely one of the former is the young Isilrim, the squire Amano, who stays where he stands, unspeaking, eyes bright and intent in his youthful countenance, though well enough does he hold himself in check. Yet restrained in his own attempt at dignity, he keeps himself from staring openly at the elves among them, his profile tilted toward the leaf-covered ground at his feet. Unlovely as what he is used to may seem in comparison to the Firstborn, he gives one the impression of being hesitant in the face of such beauty, unwilling for this to draw to a close.

Ah, yet the words of the other two squires, more free with their tongues, come faintly to his ears, and taking the opportunity, he shifts his steps closer to the two, nodding wordlessly at them, pale with barely veiled excitement.

Calriel's faint smile holds a steady watch over the otherwise daunting intensity of his glance and it breaks not throughout the dunadan's words. And yet her eyes are keen, trained upon him, his clothes, countenance and bearing.

" Very well then," comes her voice again, this time quieter and though her attention is stil aied forward, the words are surely to herself. " I will then plea your behest before the Lord. I cannot think more on it until words comes back, besides."

She raises her small hand, in greeting perhaps. However, as she turns around to leave the camp, it seems the other elven figures have disappeared. Where to? It cannot be said, yet the maiden turns around for a brief moment. " May the stars shine down upon the hour of this meeting, Thorondur!" - polite and fair, for the elves speak only reverently of the light of Varda.

In the hushed silence which shrouds the covering -- one perhaps of wonder and awe, unbroken save by the speech of the elfmaid and the Knight-Herald -- the rustling of bushes and the snapping of twigs sound sudden and overloud.

And through the trees at the edge of the clearing steps the Lord of the Isilrim, brooding and silent -- to stand thither unmoving at the sight of what passes before him.

And as she turns to go, to disappear after her stealthy and subtle kinfolk -- the Dunadan, too, raises a hand. In a voice nearly so melodic as her own, if different, as the sun is to the stars -- Thorondur calls after her, "Anar kaluva tielyanna, Calriel o Laurelindorinan!"

And then there is silence, for the Elves are gone, and the Wood seems less merry for their absence.

The flap to the tent opens and it is Indilzar. He yawns and stretches, "My! What a sleep. Strange dreams. Why it must be nearly noon!"

"Huan!"

Indilzar looks about but the hound is sitting quietly by the hearth as if in peace. It is then that Indilzar notes the others and says, "Well, what are you gaping at?"

"I shall think about what you have...." A shoft voice is carried upon the morning wind, as Tamran follows the Knight back into camp. Yet his words are cut short, as his gaze falls upon the disappearing elfs. Dumbstruck, the guardsman almost looses his footing passing throught the bushes. Only a glimpse did he get of the First-Born, yet no word does he speak until they are lost of sight.

Only when the voice of Indilzar is heard does he finally manage to raise his voice, slightly, "Elves?" is the only word that comes out, his gaze still on the direction where the party vanished from sight.

"Elves?" says Indilzar looking about swiftly. He laughs, "You jest. Why did you not wake me up?"

Disappointment is visible in Amano's face, as he gazes into the wood beyond the river, straining perhaps to see what had, to his mind, passed by far too fleetingly - the memory of days far fairer and older than any he had learned of or seen. A light grief it might be for such a youth, though his eyes are now dark, and what thoughts he may have of his first sight of the elves, he keeps to himself. Turning now at the Lord Bragollach's inquiry, he mumbles, some embarassment to his words.. "I would suppose most of the party were far too amazed to remember to do so, sir.."

On the heels of the fey and immortal maid's departure, and in the face of the voice of Indilzar -- harsh and sudden the Westron sounds, in the wake of the liquid elventongue -- only then and slowly does Thorondur Girithlin raise his head, and turn at last toward his kinsmen once more.

A faint, knowing smile -- almost playful -- dances within the depths of his eyes, if not upon his lips, to hear the converse of his fellows as the reverie is lifted. But for answer, himself he gives nothing -- yet.

Indilzar steps forward and he places his hand on Amano's shoulder, "I have heard such when the Fair Folk are met." He then looks to Thorondur and then says, "Thorondur, what did they have to say?"

And as if with the passing of the elves, the glamour which held the Men of Gondor fast is no more, the encampment begins to stir -- those who were sleeping begin to awake, those who were awake, begin to return from the world of dreams in which they had walked under the sun and the melody of birdsong fills the clearing again.

Yet, little heed does the Isilrim pay to all this -- a hand to steady Tamran, and he makes his way to the little group by the river then.

"We are yet to wait," Thorondur says simply, stepping toward his friends -- and only now does he smile for true, and it blossoms upon his handsome face in all the radiance of unfettered joy. "The Lord of the Wood is not without sympathy to our need, I think, if so kindly does his messenger receive us," he says.

"That is good news," says Indilzar with some relief, "What is the name of the Lord and Lady? Did they say aught of how long? I hunted well two days ago and we can last long, but not so long as that the thought of the stores does not cross my mind."

The Herald reaches out then, and -- how he dares! -- claps the Black Flame of Bragollach stoutly on the shoulder! "You are a practical man indeed, to think so well of stores upon the border of the Dreamwood, Indilzar Bragollach," Thorondur Girithlin says to him, and laughs.

"As to days -- I sometimes wonder if the elvenfolk even heed them," he murmurs, though not unkindly. As if the thought had as swiftly passed from his own mind as well, Thorondur looks now instead to Amano and the other squires, and asks them, "So, lads -- you have seen Elves. Were they all you had wished for?"

Indilzar glances at the hand for a moment and raises a brow, "Somebody has to. I suspect judging by your faces that I will look like you soon enough."

"What tidings did they bring, Thorondur?"

Thus the Isilrim joins the group -- and in his voice is a measure of unquiet rarely, if ever, heard before.

The Blue-Squire's eyes brighten, as though by mere reminder the light in them was rekindled. "I did.. It is said that they are fair beyond our ken, yet.. the truth of it before me, I shall have to say, was far greater than I expected," he answers. "And.. their eyes seem to see far more.. see beyond things, as though they could pierce your soul with a glance. Old and yet, with faces so young..." As though ashamed he had said so much, Amano trails off, reddening. "Forgive me my babbling."

Regaining back his footing, with the help of Arnafel, Tamran slowly follows the knight towards the group at the center. With an unsure look in his eyes, does the guardsman look from when face to the other as they take turns talking about what has happened. A glimmer can be seen within his gaze, as he has just witness the presence of an elf -for a brief moment- witness a being of legend, a First-Born. Few men have had the chance of seing such a sight, yet Tamran, a simple soldier of Gondor, born and raised with the City of Stone has...

Tamran's gaze falls upon Amano, as he is the last to speak, yet no words does he hear from the spoken by the knights or squire. Idly he looks at them, lost in his own thought it seems.

"They are wondrous," admits Thorondur to Indilzar, if aside -- for he watches the squires still, he studies them, "and marvelous fair, I admit. And the maid... I say to you, Indilzar, if I did not love Lothiriel I might have been trapped here forever, from little more than a glimpse of their beauty."

Yet now the Herald looks to Arnafel, and meets the other's gravity with another grin all weights have been lifted from his slender shoulders, it seems. "Little new, Arnafel," he says. "We are to wait, and nothing more would she tell me. It would seem that to them we make a fine curiosity, and little wonder!"

But now Thorondur looks on Amano, and falls silent in the wake of the squire's words with a return of some solemnity, he nods, and smiles beatifically upon the youth. "I doubt you not, Amano," he tells the lad. "They are amazing to behold, and the first time...." He trails off, then -- perhaps into memory.

"That is the danger I fear," says Indilzar gravely, "there is a virtue in this land. I can smell it in the air and not since I left Imrahil's castle by the sea have I found such peace. I wonder now truly what lies within that yonder realm."

"What?" Tamran says suddenly, his voice soft, as he blinks his eyes. He turns to Indilzar first, where the grave voice originated, before glancing at the others... "I saw an...elf." he says, sounding unsure, the words come out alsmost as a whisper, yet enought for all to hear.

"Wait..."

Softly the Isilrim speaks, as if to himself, "Then it is not Nay yet." And with that, he is changed -- lightened, if not wholly gone, is the burden which he has borne ever since the Fellowship came to the shores of the Celebrant and it can be seen in his eyes, and in his sudden laugh.

"More seasoned men have lost themselves upon seeing the beauty of the Firstborn, kinsman. There is no shame in it. And there will be naught in the woods to bring us harm, Bragollach, save if we bear it thither in our hearts."

"The peril of Men is ever themselves," says Indilzar, "or so it is said. Now we come to the test I deem, and I hope we are worthy."

"The Lady is wise beyond our ken, Bragollach. For those who are unworthy, the way within will be barred. And for those who are given passage..."

The Isilrim shrugs faintly, "They will have a chance at least of proving themselves worthy. What else may one hope for in these dark days?"

The reaction of Tamran brings a further smile, and the laughter of Arnafel at long last delights him -- but the exchange that follows -- of Indilzar and Arnafel -- that acts most mightily upon the Lord Girithlin, and it is these that he chooses to answer.

"I would not split this company," Thorondur says simply, "but if some must wait, their names are not ours to choose. Yet there are fates worse -- aye, and better -- for all of us, I deem: what man among us can say he knows the mind of Destiny?"

"If I might speak my mind," says Indilzar, "and this as you know is something that I shall do no matter what. That fate has drawn this Fellowship together and if we are to enter yon wood, then we must go together. Let us not sunder ourselves."

"And if we are given no choice?" This, then, asks Thorondur.

"Not by our hands alone will our Doom be wrought in this", the Isilrim says to the Bragollach, "And there is mercy in the Lady, even if the old tales would have us believe otherwise. For will it not be a kindness to those -- if any -- who must wait here, that they are not given passage?"

And he glances to the dazed Guardsman with a smile then, "And you will see more ere this quest is done, I deem."

Indilzar sighs, "Then let us plead our case to the emmisary of the elves. Surely they may understand our mind in these matters. But if it comes to a point, then we shall see. Destiny shall doom those to enter. But to leave the others outside? If time is such to the elves, then the rest may wait for months ere any news is heard."

"Wait behind?" Tamran now speaks sounding more like his old self, "Aye, I shall wait behind if I am chosen so, for I have seen what most men have not even dreamt of...and maybe faith shall shine upon those who stay behind, if any, and a firstborn will come and talk to us, although this I doubt."

Then looking to Arnafel, Tamran simply nods, a smile still upon his face. "But I must admit, that to witness those woods of legend, I would love." he adds.

"And yet, if all are given leave, I will worry for them," Thorondur says simply, and now the joy sparked so recent in his eyes is replaced by concern. "For while I have warned them, there are yet Men in this company whose spirits will quail before that gaze. Yet I leave you all to your meditations -- for myself, I must go alone to mine."

"And yet Thorondur," says Indilzar at the last, "we should not let the company wait outside with so many perils in the world."

With that Indilzar summons Huan and he says to the company, "I will be riding south for an hour to see what tale the wind may tell."

"And I shall seek the river, that I may hear the tale of the waters," agrees Thorondur. "I say to all of you: look within yourselves." And no more does he say, but again takes his path to the riverside, alone.