Singing in the Dark

Crickets sing as the night gathers, pouring out their hearts beneath the newborn stars as if they were tiny elves. Most of the camp is readying to sleep for the night.

Caelwen, at the edge, does not. She is humming a little song while plaiting tiny braids near her temple, and the song somehow goes straight to her hands, as if it were possible to tie soothing music into her hair.

Cordelia sees to her sister first, making sure the child is safely within the light of the campfire for the night and within the area that will be watched by the rangers. Once the girl is asleep--and it takes a bit of comforting and rocking of her on Cordelia's part--she quietly stands up and pulls her own cloak around her, shivering slightly, though the air isn't cold. She looks around the camp,seemingly not quite ready to go to sleep herself.

They have come to a parting of ways. In the morning, the elves will go west to the sea. The rangers have set up a guard, and Giliath seems a little more relaxed - at least, his sword is sheathed, and he is sitting cross-legged near his wife. And no longer does his gaze search the camp, looking for each of those he must protect. But he is still hypernaturally alert and nothing moves that he does not seem aware of. A flicker of eyes towards Cordelia as she rises.

The song ends and Caelwen speaks all at once, as if continuing a conversation from some time previous. "I can see why you like these Secondborn, Meldanya." She speaks in elvish. She always speaks in elvish. "They are very vibrant, aren't they? It is as if they attempt to put yeni worth of living into what short time they have."

The young human woman is restless again tonight, pacing back and forth near the fire, eyes on her sister. But as always seems to be the case, the sound of elven voices draws her attention. She takes a few steps toward Giliath and Caelwen, then hesitates as Caelwen speaks, as if not wanting to interrupt.

Giliath is aware of Cordelia's approach, but he doesn't acknowledge her presence by even so much as another glance. "Yes," he replies, in the same fluid and innately musical tongue. But perhaps the word seems cut off shorter than need be. "I have, perhaps, been too intrigued by them," he adds a little while later.

Tiny braids are joined in an intricate knot at the crown of Caelwen's head. Her clear green eyes glance at Cordelia once, but the lady's attention is then given fully to GIliath. Her hands fall to her lap. "He was confused," she says in a lower voice to her husband. "Something was wrong with his fea. He did not know me when I first approached him that night."

With a small sigh, Cordelia alters her course toward the elves and instead settles down on the ground to lean against a small rock and stare at the campfire and her sister. She's within hearing distance of the elves--but then, they are speaking Sindarin.

Giliath does not care who can hear or understand his words. Did he know Cordelia was listening and knew all that passed, he would still speak exactly the same. 

A brief glance at his wife, dark charcoal eyes meeting gem-bright ones, and there is a question in them. "Perhaps," he says slowly. '"You think he is not whole in himself?"

"He has been in pain since you found him," Caelwen answers, still in her poise as she watches her husband's eyes. "And when I came to cut his bonds he did not know me." There is a brief pause and she reaches to touch the elder elf's knee. "I do not mean to defend his actions, Lothdaimoth, but I would have you less troubled."

Certainly Cordelia is listening, though her face is toward the firelight and not the elves. She toys with her hair, pulling some of it to the front and idly looking at the ends.

Giliath regards her, a little distant, somewhat remote almost, or so it may seem to any watching, but he nods slowly. "He is ill, then," he says. "Within. As when I first came to my memories, and could not find my way?"

"No," Caelwen answers slowly, her head shaking. A coil of bright copper spills before her shoulder. "It is not like how you were then. I don't know. I do not know what happened to Rhifaroth."

�� � � �Among the Rangers, there is no one sleeping at this hour either. It seems they have been discussing what to do with, or about, Rhifaroth. And there is some disagreement among them to that end. Low, they speak together, one comment passed between them now and then. They hold themselves a little apart from all others for the sake of privacy. There is uncertainty among some of them.

�� � � �For his part, Rhifaroth sits alone, quiet, his hands still tied. But he does as he is bid, eats or drinks what he is given, says nothing. No more anger, anguish, nothing. Just empty, elsewhere focus.

Where she sits against a rock, not far from the fire, Cordelia shivers again. It's not from cold, certainly. As they discuss Rhifaroth, she draws her knees up, wraps her hands around her knees and slowly lowers her forehead to her arms--not sleeping. Briefly--if anyone catches it in the firelight, there is a look of shame on her face before she lowers her forehead down.

And now, for the first time, Giliath looks to find the man he had called friend. His eyes pass Cordelia first, and linger there a long moment - perhaps just as she lowered her head. Then he dismisses her for the time being, and studies Rhifaroth. "I think you are right," he says finally. "I had thought he was only in pain, but... there is more." His gaze grows still more intent, and then, decisively, he stands and walks over to where Rhifaroth sits.

Caelwen stands as Giliath does and follows in his wake, silent of course. Her eyes are on her husband and not Rhifaroth.

�

�� � � �One or two of the Rangers glance up as Giliath moves through the small camp. They have been concerned and are not the heartless men some here think them. Strider himself is absent at the moment - likely enough he has traveled ontowards the Shepherding Village or is the one keeping watch on the perimeter.

�� � � �The past few days, Rhifaroth has been walking under his own power and is strong enough now not to require a horse to ride. So long as they continue to move slowly and allow him to rest fairly often. No one seems to be in a pressing hurry.

�� � � �The seated man does not lookup as Giliath arrives near to him. Rhifaroth's eyes are open but looking at nothing. He sits where he was left, legs crossed this time and hands laying in his lap. The evening's fire crackles softly, kept burning incase of stray orcs or trolls here in the Shaws.

The elf stands over Rhifaroth for a time, watching him in silence. Then he sits down beside him, near enough to touch, and reaches out to lay his hand on Rhifaroth's knee.

�� � � �Someone is near him, touching him. It isn't much, but it's enough to gain the barest flicker of the man's eyes. Rhifaroth is not entirely unaware of what goes on around him, not irretrievable, perhaps. But when left undisturbed, the mind slips far from this place and time. Voices are unheard, those around him unseen.

�� � � �Giliath's touch got the barest reaction. But then, nothing more. In his mind, Rhifaroth is far away in some other more pleasant place - open land, fresh with wind blowing from the west. Not here in the Shaws.

Eventually, Cordelia gets up. Carefully skirts ranger and elf to avoid them both, then settles on the ground, curling next to the sleeping form of her sister, arm protectively around her. By all appearances she is asleep.

�

Caelwen stops behind Giliath and slightly to one side. She does not sit when her husband does, and some faint look of disapproval comes over her face as the elder elf touches Rhifaroth.

Giliath looks up once to Caelwen, then back to Rhifaroth, and he shuts his eyes. There is silence. A great still seems to fall over the camp as the elf draws into himself. Perhaps the stars are dimmer - or it could just be a thin layer of cloud that covers them.�

Giliath's face is remote, carven from stone. He sits... and his mind quests outwards now - entirely focused on the man he touches.

�

�� � � �The seated man next to Giliath does not move, does not speak. Rhifaroth sits relaxed but awake, not sleeping. This is what others see if they look.

�� � � �To Giliath however, there is no barrier. No guarded wariness against intrution, no expected flinching away from the touch.

�� � � �Giliath sees a plain. It is late spring time and there is a brisk wind coming from the west, fresh and invigorating. Tall grasses ripple beneath the touch of that wind like the sea, spreading out towards the north and north west as far as the eye can see. There are tall, white mountain peaks rising to the immediate south and west, stretching off in a long march to disapear into the west. From the north comes a distant, great river that winds it's way past in the east, towards the south. More mountains rise up in the east, not too close.

�� � � �Rhifaroth is there. There are no tattos upon his skin, no scars. A youthful young man of maybe 16 or 17 years carrying a bow. A lad out hunting, happy to escape the city, to smell the spring air, to feel the wind. He is alone upon the land in a familiar place, moving through the tall whispering grasses. Home is not far away.

Caelwen stands beside the men, still slightly behind Giliath. To an onlooker, her attitude of warines might reveal an odd situation: Caelwen is behaving almost as if she is guarding Giliath. Her hand hovers near his shoulder but does not touch.

Deeper and deeper. To outward appearances, Giliath is doing nothing. He is sitting, his eyes shut and his head bowed, one hand lying lightly on Rhifaroth's knee. A slight frown creases his forehead...�

Humans. They are so different. But brightly burning cramming a hundred yeni of life into one. The light is dim, nearly absent, and Giliath sends himself deeper into his trance to follow. Light... wind and tall grass...�

A song begins, so subtly that it is part of the night and part of the breeze and part of the stars before one notices and realizes - Giliath has begun to hum. Home, the music whispers. Home...

Something sharp in Caelwen's eyes eases just slightly, and her hand comes to rest on Giliath's shoulder. She watches her husband and stands there, still as if she, too, were carved of white stone.

�

�� � � �The images are difficult to hold onto. Rhifaroth's mind slips away from Giliath, perhaps dimly aware of some other watcher. But there are impressions, brief glimpses.

�� � � �There is a city in the distance, to the east as the boy stops and turns, looking. It lays upon either side of the long, snaking river in the distance. But it is only ruins, an as yet unfamiliar place to the boy.

�� � � �Looking back towards the south though there is another city, closer. White, gleaming in the sunlight, only partly obscured by the mountain. The young man hesitates. Rhifaroth had been going north, heading into the open lands. Always skirting his duties when he could slip away from the city... beautiful, the white city at the foot of those mountains. Standing Guard against the East.

�� � � �There is both a longing for this place, this home, and these memories... and also a flinching away. No, the boy wants to be out on the open plain, to travel! Not to return to the city. Not yet.

�

�� � � �The elf doesn't seem to be doing anything, just sitting next to Rhifaroth. So the Rangers don't bother them.

�� � � �Things in the camp near to the road have quieted for the night. Some slip off to watch, others bed down for a bit of rest.

The music gains strength. Perhaps it is even heard in that sunlit land beside the city. It sings down from the north, bending with the tall grass, flying with the wind. And beckoning. North. North and home.�

Home is an intricate concept different for everyone. But at the base, everyone longs for acceptance, shelter, comfort, warmth.�

A sudden flicker of a family, loving and waiting. But is it an elven family or human? Does it matter?

Caelwen suddenly trembles before dropping to a crouch beside Giliath. Her eyes squeeze shut and her head bows.

�

�� � � �Something shifts... the mountains loom up threateningly and dark in the east, very close, sharp toothed and watching. There are trees, and a cross roads. An ancient statue stands, beheaded and mangled with abuses, vines crawl over it. The head rests in a mossy, grassy place and the setting sun's light catches on tiny, beautiful white flowers that crown the fallen head with kingly glory.

�� � � �Rhifaroth turns his head to glance to the south, then to the west.. the sun is setting. Camp is being broken. There are other men here, also armed with bows and swords. Crisp, sharp edged tattoos are upon his hands, fresh scars only a few years old encircle his wrists. There is a flicker of worry for someone who is not with them. A friend missing that they are searching for, a man lost. The stentch of orcs is near.

�� � � �There is a waif, a hint of ... music? Here in the Deadly Garden? Something calling him north? But the man pushes the thought away. This is home. Where ever he is, whatever his duty that needs doing, this is where he should be. There is a man missing that they must find. It is growing dark.

The music grows - not louder. More compelling. The lost is found, it says. Come. North. There is a hint of light - as if the sun is rising but in the north.�

In the camp, the night seems brighter than before. But it is not time for dawn, not yet. Perhaps a moon? But it shouldn't be full either, not at this time of month.

Friends, comrades, kinsfolk pass in swift procession - life, Giliath's song says, is pain and sorrow - but there is joy also. Come... There is something very precious waiting. Come.

There is a tilting to Caelwen's posture, and she leans just a bit against Giliath's side. Her eyes turn away.

�

�� � � �Still sitting quietly, unmoving, Rhifaroth's head had lowered just a little, his eyes now closed. He is very tired, sleepy.

�� � � �But the Rangers and Scouts have broken camp and are moving out. Someone calls his name. They've found the missing man, or what is left of him. Rhifaroth must go. It's his responsibility to go and see, and then to go back and inform ... the family.

�� � � �Something tugs, a brightness in the northern, western lands. Distracting. There is a reluctance to leave this place. Familiar ground... but he trees give way to plains once more. Wide, open plains with mountains in the eastern distance. Bright, high mountains that are not the dark, brooding Ephel Duath. Hills are in the west, a winding road just to the south that tracks from those mountains to those hills and past them, towards a town.

�� � � �Time has passed, decades. This is not Ithilien or Anorien. This is another place, far from home. Rhifaroth looks towards those hills in the near west. There is an old watch tower on that tall one, furthest south. A familiar place with a dreadful memory attached to it. The man stands holding a bow, mind slipping away from that memory. But that soft, barely heard music insists yet. Is there something past those hills?

�� � � �Back in reality, Rhifaroth shifts a little. The dying fire pops. The night is warm and close with humidity. Somewhere a night bird wails mournfully.

Beyond the hills. Giliath's song is gentle but persistent. Yes... A light grows over the hills, come. Leave the past behind. A glimpse, if Rhifaroth sees it, of a child, tiny and infinitely precious. Or was that two?�

In both mind and present night, there is a wail - real enough that a few heads turn to search the darkness before realizing that it was only the elf, singing. Can't he think of something more comforting to sing about in the night?�

You are needed. Come. You are wanted. The past is gone... come.

Caelwen's head drops to Giliath's shoulder. So peaceful she looks that one might almost assume that the elf sleeps.

�

�� � � �The seated man has shifted. From sitting cross legged to ease over and lie on his right side. Giliath's hand is still on his leg, but Rhifaroth is not aware of it. He is tired, weighted down, but his breathing picks up a little.

�� � � �No, he does not wish to be here... he does, and does not. There is something there, past those hills that Rhifaroth longs for. But he can't go. Can't get there...

�� � � �His bow and sword are gone. His hands are tied cruelly. There is a choking rope around his throat - he can't breath! There is pain, and fatigue. His family is out there some where... but they won't let him go. He fights, struggles, but is so weak. Just wants to rest.

�� � � �The images, the impressions are blurring. Giliath's contact is slipping. Rhifaroth is falling asleep, drifting from waking dreams towards sleeping, less pleasant dreams. So very tired.

Giliath's face takes on a haggard edge of anguish. He shifts as Rhifaroth does, his hand still resting on the man's knee a small warm spot, perhaps. He tips his head back a little, unaware, and opens his mouth. No longer humming, now he is singing. And though it is not loud, it is intense - like a focused beam of light is stronger than a directionless spray. The words are something that sounds like Sindarin, but are not. And images drift in the fire and collapse.�

Air. There is plenty to breath, there is no rope. Your hands are tied, but by your own choice. Come...�

And now the song is soft, a blurring. The pain, the memories, the agony and despair - if Rhifaroth will accept, they can be - not forgotten - but set aside. Behind a door of opaque glass. If one can sing in color, the music is green and blue and golden and it winds through the air, and through the mind, and offers rest. Cessation of pain. Distance. Strength.

�

�� � � �A pulling away, a desire to leave this place. A weariness that sleep can not mend. Pushing away the painful, frightening memories. Lethargy settling in, a longing to fade away and leave this world. But there is yet something here that binds him. Responsibility to others. Someone that yet needs him.

�� � � �Rhifaroth turns his head against the leaf mold where he lays, eyes closed. Why won't they let him rest? Leave it behind even just for a little while. Something though reminds him of another place...

�� � � �A place that in winter but was filled with light and color. A quiet, peaceful place. And there was a woman there with golden hair, laughing. He is chasing her through the snow and there is a snowball in his hand. But she eludes him, disapears... where did she go? Who was she?

�

�� � � � � � � �There is heart pain, loss. Confusion, fatigue.

She is waiting. Golden hair flares in the fire, a smile. The woman laughs again, returns from where she has vanished to. And she is waiting for him, on the edge of the woods, beckoning with her hand and her smile. Come...

Giliath is singing soft and clear a song of comfort, of rest. The words switch to Sindarin, and they tell of a woman who waits, who trusts him. A woman who loves him, and of two children - young, but old enough now to know their father and to reach for him. Someone in whose presence he can find his peace again.�

Beneath the song there is still the reaching, and the elf's face is weary. No more words, but a hand reaching out and a friend who will help. Compassion and soothing for the pain.

�

�� � � �Longing... for a small house with a stone stacked hearth, and a rug. There is a woman there, waiting. And two small children. There is a lute left leaning agains the wall, untouched.

�� � � �Sluggish, Rhifaroth wants to go there. To find these people. But a voice condemns him, scowls into his face and calls him "Murderer!" It is his own face, without the tattoos. The mind flinches, draws back. Rhifaroth doesn't remember it, but he knows ... yes, he did it. There was a man dying upon his blade, a man who had been a prisoner. Someone horrid and deserving far worse than death, but unarmed. People who's opinions count heavily with him are angry. Bind him and speak harsh things.

�� � � �No, he can not go to the woman and the children, to that house in Archet. Rhifaroth has done a dreadful, shameful thing. They will kill him, or they should. Monster.

They will not. They should not. They love him. There is forgiveness and acceptance. He has made a mistake, but all men err.�

And Giliath himself, who was angry, lets his own ire go, and fills his song with his own understanding and forgiveness. Come, he sings. She waits for you, and wants you home, no matter what you have done.�

And beneath this, a more complex thought is layered: the deed was not so shameful as he thinks. It was murder, this is true. But it was also justice. The man was unarmed, but he was not innocent. He, Rhifaroth, has saved countless people from terrible, unspeakable things, at that man's hands. Do not burden yourself with more guilt than is rightly yours.

�

�� � � �So tired... he wants to go. To them. But the choking rope binds him here, a tether. An obligation to people right here. His own blood. Rhifaroth will not run.

�� � � �The man lying on the ground next to Giliath, who's hands are still tied, he is not yet asleep. But his thoughts are drifting, muted. One thing though comes sharply to his mind, something he wishes that woman to know. Something he wants them to tell her.

�� � � �Very softly, voice broken and rough, Rhifaroth says out loud in faint Westron, "Tell her... I'll wait for her." Anyone who hears it might not know what the man mutters in the darkness. But Giliath is still linked to him. Rhifaroth means in death, if he can, he will wait for Muirgheal. He does not expect to ever see her or his children again. So tired, shamed.

�� � � �Still, for all of that, he waits even now. Waits for the Rangers to make their decision. Something in him just can not give up and die. Some small, struggling flicker of light that just won't go out. A dim hope yet that forgiveness is possible.

�� � � �Giliath's presance is felt. Rhifaroth knows now that the elf is near, feels the other close by. But he wishes only to sleep, for now. Rest without dreams, if possible.

Giliath says, softly, "Yes." And he is there, he will not leave while Rhifaroth sleeps. His song changes again, and now it is nothing more than a shield against the evils that ghost in the night. The man will not dream, save of things that bring him pleasure, if he will accept this. And there is another thing - a reassurance. Forgiveness is possible. Don't give up.

�

�� � � �The man does finally slip into sleep, sleep without nightmares for a change. It has been so difficult to get rest when one fights even going to sleep. Does not wish to remember recent events. Draws back, away and within to try and escape pain and shame.

�� � � �Giliath is his only friend here. Whatever happens, Rhifaroth is grateful that the other is here.

�� � � �Much more restful dreams await. Of a boy out hunting on the plain north of the city, going on a first great adventure up into Rohan. A young man's heart filled with wonder for the world and all that awaits out there! The wind is his friend also, calling him. North and west. North and west... but his roots remain deep in the south. Always.