(Archive) The Fellowship of the Sword 18 - Beneath the Golden Boughs

Beneath the Golden Boughs

NOTE: All conversation throughout this log was conducted in Elendor's language-code. As it gets a bit annoying to read an entire log with Sindarin brackets in every utterance, though, we have mercifully edited those out. )

Riverside Pathway along the Celebrant
You stand aside an energetic river, surrounded on all sides by the towering boughs of a winter forest of Mallorns. Although only a few stars show through the occasional opening in the canopy above, the mallorns surrouding you seem to radiate a light of their own, making a few details of the room discernable. Additonally, the path you're on appears to continue alongside the riverbank.
Surrounded as you are, you have the distinct sensation that you are being watched.

Crisp and cold flows the morning air, here beneath the mellyrn swift flows the Celebrant, colder than the air itself, yet never freezing: too, too swift that stream. Not far from the western bank, a small camp has been set, tents dyed white pitched there low beneath the trees.

Men move about them, tall Men and proud. No Beornings these, nor men of the wood, or even the warlike Riders of Rohan, though these have mighty steeds hobbled nearby. No: these Men are more solemn and yet more fair, harder and sterner in a way seldom seen now, in the wild lands.

Hard on the borders of the Dreamwood they come, and they huddle together in whispers, most of them: an expectant hush lies across their party like a shroud. Yet alone among them, one has gone down to the river, looking always across to the eastern bank in his solitary watch. More than any of the others, he is almost elven-fair himself.

The wind from the North makes the trees rustle softy, and few gold leaves float down to land in the river and are carried off to the lands far to the south. Other then that no sounds emerge from the dense woods across the river. Still, it seems that the woods are not deserted. Although you see nothing, you can sence eyes following your every movement.

And still the solitary knight remains by the riverside, gazing across with a wan and wistful expression. Bare-headed, his dark hair falls down limply over his brows, and into his eyes -- sometimes drifting in the breeze. Occasionally, he glances over his shoulder, looking upon his companions' camp with a vague sense of disapproval.

Yet for a moment he tilts his head sharply, suddenly, as if listening.

The grass by the river is long and fresh, untouched by snow or frost dispite the time of the year. Then softly comes a rustle, hardly larger then what a mouse would make.

Of a sudden, now, the knight narrows his eyes -- keen and piercing they are, the sort that see truly, the eyes of Westernesse and the blood of Hador Lorindol passed down across the Ages. Deep, deep blue, they flicker left and right -- yet he makes no move to attract the attention of his comrades.

From the woodline just briefly there seems to be a figure. It seems to be wraped in a cloak that falls to the figures feet. It lingers for just a moment and then is gone.

A deep breath is drawn, by this knight -- a lengthy moment passes, without movement or breath or aught save silence -- and then, slowly, gravely he nods to himself. And with a cautious step toward the fleeting spectre's disappearance, the white-mantled knight starts forward.

There is silence for while and then the figure appears once again, closer this time and able to be made out more clearly. A Quendi, wraped in a long grey cloak with the hood pulled down over it's face. It studies the human lone figure for a moment before one hand slips out of the cloak and beckons once before sliping back into the woods. Making an effort to be seen it slips away to the north.

Without the hesitation one might expect from one of his kind, the white knight follows, a ghostly shadow in the snow-filtered forest.

You walk northwards along the riverbank...

Western Riverbank of the Upper Celebrant
You stand amidst a winter forest. The trees here are of mixed varieties - oaks and elms and even quite a few enormous mallyrn. To the northeast, the Celebrant river rushes by noisily, swift and cold. The underbrush here is fairly light, and you can easily make out a trail following along the river's edge. However, the brush gets really thick in the direction of the river, where more sunlight reaches down to the ground, at least during parts of the day. Across the river you can also see a golden forest, comprised almost exclusively of mighty mallyrn. You feel uncomfortable here, and have the distinct sensation that you are being watched.

As you arrive in this area, you sense a great spirit of Light beyond thebridge to the East. Indeed, you have arrived at the border of Lothlorien.You remeber hearing that the inhabitants of these woods take unkindly touninvited visitors -- you would be wise to tread carefully...

Standing under the the spreading branches of a tree stands the figure, this time with the hood down. She is clearly female, with brown hair and green eyes. Standing tall and straight she studies the human, but no hints of her thoughts cross her face.

Stepping out from the thickness of brush and bramble, the white-mantled Man pauses, a fair distance from the Elf who has lead him thus far. Silent a long moment, he regards her in much the same fashion as she does him, silent and solemn and silent still --

Until at last, he speaks. "Greetings, Maiden of the Eldar. I am Thorondur of the people of Gondor, and the high blood of the ancient Edain. I come in peace."

The Elventongue! The speech of the Grey Elves, if strangely accented! And then he bows, gravely and with the utmost of courtesy.

Althea raises one eyebrow before she returns the bow. "Hail and well met Man of the Southlands. Long has it been since one of your people has traveled this far North. Indeed I was starting to fear that the rumors where true, that your people had set aside their long love of the Eldar."

Rising gracefully, this Thorondur of Gondor offers a beatific smile in answer, and these words: "There are some yet within the South-Kingdom who honor the past, but we grow fewer as the Shadow lengthens," he admits. In his voice, much sorrow hides, drifting just below the surface of the words.

"Even so, all is not forgotten. In Dol Amroth the memory of the Eldar is honoured, though few of my people have ever met them. I and one other of my party have had the fortune to do so -- yet we are alone in this regard."

Althea smiles. "Aye, I remember you Thorondur, you visted us some short time ago, fifteen years ago as you count the time. It saddens me to hear that many of your people have eyes only for the future and fail to give the past any thought. But you are welcome once again."

And now does the sadness in his words become mirrored in his eyes, for here he falters -- yet Thorondur holds his head high. "Say not the future, fair one, but the present -- and we are all shamed by it, yet the Shadow menaces our borders, and pierces them in the night though I rue the failing of my people, I cannot fault them for it. For that... the blame lies as all else: with Mordor."

Here he pauses, and steels himself -- and when the moment has passed he is smiling again. "But let us speak no more of such things. You have welcomed me, and do me honour. I thank you most humbly." Again, he bows, deeper this time.

Althea's eyes darken at the mention of the Shadow that looms over them all. With a sigh she replys "Aye, it troubles us even here although we are protected and it does not haunt our borders. Instead we are troubled by the yrch in the mountians. But yes, let us put it aside. What brings you so far from your homelands?"

"From bad tidings to worse," laughs the Man of Gondor mirthlessly. Sighing wearily, as though a great weight troubled his shoulders, Thorondur explains, "We come seeking aid in our quest to save our Prince's son. He is cursed by the unquiet dead, and taken from us. There are some..."

Here, the knight hesitates ere saying, "There are some among us who would seek the counsel of Her who rules here in Lothlorien -- yet I pray this may yet be avoided, and the fences of Lorien be kept true, for your land is hallowed and no man among us might claim feet worthy to trod there."

Althea frowns and looks away for a moment. "I feel for your king and sorrw for his loss. When was he taken?

"It has been nearly a month now," Thorondur says, his face darkened with the memory. "Amrothos is the lad's name, Prince Imrahil's son -- and thus kin by long and distant relation to Mithrellas the Elfmaid, handmaid to Nimrodel of whom many songs still sing."

Althea smiles slightly and her eyes flicker with something that might be humor "Indeed, the river that we now stand beside bares her name. If you wish I will carry your request to the ear of the Lord and Lady.

"I thank you, fair one," Thorondur says, bowing his head humbly -- and when he lifts his face once more to the sun, it is to reveal a radiant smile. "I could ask no more of you than that. There are those in my party..." he sighs. "If they were to stand before Her gaze -- I would fear for them."

Althea bows once again. "Let it not be said that I failed to help the decendant of Mithrellas." She nods "Aye, it is good for your companions to stay out of the wood. Some of my people are not as friendly as I to the Second Born." She raises a hand in warning "And be warned! Cut not the branch of any living tree in the wood or we will be most wroth."

Now a sparkle lights bright in the eyes of the Dunadan, and standing in a sudden shaft of winter sunlight he seems -- for a moment at least -- an image of his race in its youth, radiant and noble and closer akin to the Firstborn. And the moment will surely pass, but not before he speaks --

And his speech is liquid and lovely, a sense of gratitude writ beneath every word. "Let it not be said either that the Men of Westernesse are all fallen. For no bough has been cut, nor will it be while I share in the leadership of this band. Yet I thank you, maid of Lorien, for you have been kinder, maybe, than you might have been not all Men are Dunedain of Gondor, to speak your tongue and honour your Lady."

Althea laughs and it falls like rain on a dry land. "This I know, not all men of the Southlands come bring fair words and quick tounge. Some little time ago there was a encampent of the Horse Lords where we stand now. They spoke not our tounge, and feared us, calling us evil and untrustworthy."

Now the knight's smile is knowing, almost wry nodding solemnly in agreement, he says, "The Men of Rohan are fast friends and allies of ours, and steadfast in battle -- yet they are like to the forefathers of the Edain ere they crossed into Beleriand, it is said among our scholars, than the Edain themselves. Wild and vainglorious, and with little lore of your people."

Althea looks to the south some of the merriment faiding from her eyes. "Tell me of your travels Man, it has been long since we had word from the South."

Here Thorondur laughs in truth, and there is delight in the sound! "And longer still would you need wait, to hear the tale of all my travels," he cries in jest! "Yet you look for news, I deem, of the southlands, so what I know of them I shall tell you."

"Umbar has woken from her long sleep, and troubles the coasts," Thorondur says, "and yet the Anduin holds firm against the foe. We use this uneasy peace to prepare ourselves, for the Enemy has long been silent -- too silent --- in the east. Yet Gondor stands, and so long as Minas Tirith defies him, the foe will not prevail."

Althea looks at him, her eyes dark. "I know you believe your words, but I fear that the strength of men can not long hold him in, even those decended from Isildur."

"It may even be so," says Thorondur, "but our own valour is all we may yet have faith in. There is no aid to come, save from Rohan -- Arnor has passed into the shadows of time. Lindon is a land of memories and echoed songs sung in hidden groves few know the roads to Imladris, if even the Half-Elven had more than counsel to give. And Lorien, my lady, you know better than I."

Althea nods and there is a glimer of sadness in her face. "Aye, but there is little help we could give you even if we left our woods and marched to war like forefathers of old. We are few compared to the hosts of Men.

"The Elves must fade, or depart over Sea," agrees Thorondur with sadness, "and thus is their Doom separate from that of mortal men. Well I know it, my lady. Yet let us part on a brighter note than this -- for too long it has been since my eyes have alighted upon one of your kindred, and your speech brings a gladness to my heart I had feared to never hear again. Leave me knowing you have restored faith to a troubled heart."

Althea laughs once again and she bows "It gladdens my heart to see that some Men have kept faith with the First Born. I will carry your request swiftly to the Lord and Lady and return with the answer."

"Hail and farewell, then, Maid of Lorien," calls the Knight of Dol Amroth.

Raising a hand, palm outward, in both a wave of farewell and a solemn salute, Thorondur Edrahil hir Girithlin -- Elf-Friend these fifteen long years -- watches the elfwoman depart.

Althea turns and moves to the edge of the river before turning back and calls out, "Should you need something, come the river's edge and call out that you wish to speak to Althea. Someone will carry the message to me." With that she lets out a soft whistle and a single slender rope is thrown across. She quickly ties it and walks across it. It quickly disapears, taken back into the shadows.