Coming Home

A clatter of hooves on stone the hunt rides home. Some peel off, riding to this destination or that - some continue on. Among these are Conalmir and Farielle, Lominzil, some few others. A rich green cloak of wool and silk with golden trim shields the lady against the cool of the summer evening her hood is up, but her white hands are tense on the reins. Her mare fidgets restlessly under this unaccustomed treatment.

Conalmir is a pace or two behind, a horse away. He looks resolutely around them at the streets and buildings and passersby who move hurriedly out of the way. And if now and then, his eyes stray towards the lady, they do not linger.

Dol Amroth: Men Ernil - Court of the Fountain

It is more or less the same party that set out, minus one Marshall's horse and plus two and a half well-preserved boar. Lominzil rides next to Farielle. "It's cold," he comments.

"It is the wind," Farielle's voice comes from the curve of hood. "I - I am glad we are nearly there." A smile sounds in her tone. "I am glad you said I should go home, though. But I didn't expect to meet you there!" 

The conversation catches Conalmir's attention. "It seems warm and mild to me," he says.

"You may be right," Lominzil says, to Farielle or Conalmir, or both, and shivers. His arm, still bound in a sling, bounces uselessly. "I hadn't expected to hunt in Edhellond, either," he answers with a smile. "Nor go into a forest famed for its hauntedness with one arm and a boar-spear."

Behind this pair, near to Conalmir now, is the Knight Menelglir, nuding his mount ahead and so far, at least, keeping on the course. 

"How does being a Blue suit you, Conalmir?" he says, grinning at the man.

"Very well indeed, sir," Conalmir answers, pulling his gaze away from brother and sister and grinning back. "And I shall be going to sea with Sir Elusul, if I please him. I do not know enough, he says, and am too old, but may pass inspection, none-the-less."

Farielle's hood slips back a little, revealing a curve of cheek and an alarmed eye. "To sea?" she asks. "Not - south?" To Lominzil, taking up the thread of earlier words, "Haunted, truly. By our kinsmen! But alas - they no longer are there to enchant."

"Oh. That is, well." Lominzil looks away, twisting his horse's reins. "He is your Knight, then?"

"Sir Elusul?" Menelglir says, then nods in agreement to Lominzil's question. 

"But what is wrong with going to sea, Lady?"

"I - assume so," Conal answers, sounding slightly uncertain. "He spoke to me while we were yet at your parents' home, Lominzil, and said he would take me on if he found me worthy. I shall serve as his lieutenant." He too looks over at Farielle, curiously, at her comment, giving Lominzil a slight frown in passing. "Oh, that is, well - what?"

"Nothing," Farielle falters. "It is only, well, if one could sail west, that would be nice." Her pale cheek flushes rose in embarrassment.

"I dream of sailing west, sometimes," her brother assents in reply. "But there is no landfall, there." Lominzil rides in silence, his head bent.

"Excellent, then. You have my congratulations." But Menelglir's attention turns to Farielle again--he blinks, first at sister, then at brother.

"West is closed to our kind forever. If I understand you correctly when you say you long for that. But this you well know. So, why yearn for something that we cannot have? Our place in this world--the place where we must prove ourselves--is here."

"Thank you, sir," Conalmir replies without looking away from the Girithlins a faint frown grows on his face - of puzzlement. 

Farielle's cheek flushes further before she turns her face towards Menelglir, and shakes her head. "No, I did not mean that - not to repeat that error. Only - well, I should like so to see the elves and - and the only other way to go is south...."

"Then it must be south," says Lominzil briefly.

"I am to go with you, Conalmir. My Knight has told me."

"I see..." Menelglir, thoughtful, considers Conalmir, but says nothing further. "Is there trouble in the South that you are being sent there?" 

"And where in the south might there be elves?"

"Elves in the south?" is Conalmir's startled reply. "I did not think there were any left anywhere in Middle Earth, much less /there/. His eyes, the color of the sea in a storm, are fixed on the knight. "I have heard of no troubles, sir. Nor do I know where we are bound only that when Sir Elusul sails, I shall go with him. And Lominzil, it appears." He spares a swift, distracted smile for his friend.

But Farielle is shaking her head, though she has turned her face forward again, hiding behind her cloak. "No," comes her soft voice. "I did not mean that there were elves in the south. They - I only meant, I would prefer to sail west, than s-south."

"Perhaps you should stay on land then, Farielle," Lomin says gently. "Or else traverse the northern coast, up to Andrast."

"Agreed--" Menelglir nods to Conalmir once, even though that answer seems directed to Farielle. "Why must you sail at all?"

"I know how to," Farielle says obliquely, aware without looking of the pressure of some pairs of eyes on her. "I will not. I - perhaps Mother will take me to Minas Tirith again, though I wearied of those endless stones." Something shifts in her face at her own words, and hurriedly, randomly, "Perhaps I can go into the country, in the north, somewhere and visit - visit Aunt Belthul."

Conalmir is silent, worry - and something else - in his face.

"Squire?" says Menelglir, catching the look on Conalmir's face. "You are well?If the healers still need to look at you, you can perhaps accompany Lominzil there as well. No doubt that he, too, should be checked."

Elusul rides up from behind Conalmir and looks to him. "You are injured?"

With a long, patient sigh, Lominzil says, "His arm should be well soon, but mine - it is still in two pieces. I suppose it is time for a good prodding, again."

Menelglir's voice catches Conalmir out of his abstraction. "I am well, sir," he answers, and as Elusul comes up from behind, shakes his head. "My ribs barely ache any longer, and the strength in my arm returns swiftly." This answer seems to be both to knights.

Very well," Menelglir says to both Squires at once. And then to Elusul: "Conalmir says you are to take him as Squire? Lieutenant on your ship?"

Elusul nods at his fellow knight. "I have taken him in and pledged to make out of him a hardy knight who can fight on land and sea as long as he puts in the effort I expect of all those who serve under me: nothing but their best at all times."

The worry doesn't fade from Conal's face, but it submerges hidden beneath both joy and resolve. "I shall, sir," he says firmly. "Sir, do we sail south?"

Lominzil falls silent a presence plagued by thought, no more.

And Farielle is silent also, riding beside her brother, though with a peculiar listening quality that sharpens at Conalmir's question.

"I think," Menelglir smiles, "that Squire Conalmir is quite comfortable at sea. Though he has gained much experience on land and horse lately, as well."

"Any particular reason you sail south, Sir Elusul?"

Elusul looks carefully at Conalmir, studying now much the man can take, before he answers, "Our destination is known by those who need know it, though our mission is known by all: take the war to the Southron Corsairs!"

War. The word drops like stone into the air. Conalmir's eyes gain a fierce light. "Yes, sir," he answers, almost exultantly. Ahead a half-pace, Farielle's slender figure, cloaked and hooded, tenses. It is well her mare knows the way, for she has stopped guiding it. Indeed, has stopped seeing the city at all. The squire's voice comes again, in reply to Menelglir. "Yes, sir," he says half-ruefully. "I much prefer the sea."

A frown settles about Menelglir's brow he had been watching Farielle ahead of him, and now he looks thoughtful. "Where will you go, Farielle? Perhaps to the countryside and your family estates? There is peace, quiet, greenery..."

"I do not know. It is too near," Farielle answers, without turning, her voice brittle. "I thought - perhaps my mother's kinsmen in - in Lossarnach." Her hands on the reins tighten, and the mare, confused, jitters sideways, then halts, blocking the way.

Conalmir, looking up at the lady's name, guides his own mount aside to try and come forward and take the mare's reins.

Elusul frowns, but waits.

Menelglir watches the Squire try to move Farielle forward again, but with the road blocked for now, he draws his own horse off to the side, looking back from where they have come. 

"If there is need, or if the Prince orders, I will go south with you," he tells Elusul. "Though it may be that I am needed elsewhere in our realm. For now, sir, good day." Fist to chest in salute, then Menelglir heads back the other direction, as if looking for someone.

And among the horses taking the back of the party, one pushes forward, the palomino mare. Her rider, drifting off to the lulling walk pushes the mare faster, if only for a more jilting pace.

Calenloth joins Menelglir as he hangs back from the middle riders, smiling as she matches his pace.

"Let me, my lady," Conalmir says gently, reaching to take the reins. Farielle says nothing, her head bowed, but she allows him to lead her mare forward, relinquishing her own hold on the mare.

Over his shoulder, the squire speaks to Elusul. "When do we leave, sir?"

"Soon." Elusul is not keen on discussing operational matters in front of others.

"Yes, sir," Conalmir answers, guiding his horse, and Farielle's, around a corner. The look of exaltation hasn't left his face, but rather has deepened. A pause. "I have been staying with Lominzil and his family here in town, sir. Do you wish me elsewhere until that time?"

"There you are," says Menelglir, on seeing Calenloth approach. "I had thought you lost for a moment. Or taken in by the lure of the hunt, perhaps."

"Has it?" 

"The others ride up front there is talk of going into Southern waters soon."

Long distance to Calenloth and Menelglir: Farielle grins.

"If you are both assigned to me, it is important that you stay aboard ship and learn the ways of a large ship." Elusul looks between the two. "She is Gaergwing ('Ocean-spray'). You will find her in Port Town at the harber. There, seek out the master, Galadhechil. He will use you productively for getting us underway all the sooner."

"And you, you would join?" A frown across the young woman's face, but then, an idea, and a sly smile. "And would you need the aid of healers, upon your travels? Or, those who would study the arts?"

"Did you really at first think me lost?" she asks, increduously. "But hunting for boar? Perhaps not my forte."

"Yes, sir. I will move my things on board." Conalmir glances backwards - the lady he leads is still aboard.

"Only if I am called to do so this time around. I have a mind to look into a few things here in Dol Amroth or so. Idle curioustiy," Menelglir says. "I hope -not- to need the services of a healer, and my own arts in that area are adequate enough," he starts--then blinks. 

"Is that the path you have decided on, then? You wish to tned the wounded? I would warn you of such...I have heard its effect.."

"But no," he smiles, "not lost."

A shrug from Calenloth, but the wry look on her face reveals her confusion. "I do not know," she confesses. "But I could, I think, my talents would be suited. But perhaps my desire is misfounded."

The grin shared, she asks, "Are you saddened to return so soon?"

A little ways ahead, silent now, Conalmir leads Lady Farielle's horse. Neither the lady, nor her brother, have had anything to say - they must be lost in their own thoughts.

Elusul nods at Conalmir. "Good. Tell me, Squire, do you know the hard choices we must make out in the fleet far from home?"

A fleeting look over at the knight before Conalmir returns his attention to picking their way through the crowded cobbled streets. "No, sir," he says, somewhat subdued.

Elusul nods, his expression equally subdued. "Listen to this as well, Lominzil. After a long cruise, when there is but hard tack to eat and water runs short, one must learn to choose the lesser of two weevils."

"I am well accustomed to maggoty bread and brackish water, sir, and will not complain," comes Lominzil's voice, drifting amusedly from afar.

Conalmir's head jerks up, startled, and he stares at the knight for a long moment - almost riding over a small boy who skitters out of the way just in time. Then he laughs, a great crashing sound of relief. He is still smiling when he says, "Yes, sir."

"Sad?" Menelglir glances briefly ahead at the others, then back to Calenloth. "From this particular hunt, no. Why the one horse should be singled out and killed...and by whom...It does not sit well with me. No. If you wish to learn what I know of healing, I will teach you. And if you wish a hunt, we can ride north to my family's lands, at least for a brief time."

Elusul is about to laugh at his own joke, but he deftly spurs his own horse forward to bounce up against Conalmir's horse to keep it from trampling the boy. He turns to the squire and frowns. "What was that?"

"I would like that, very much so. And perhaps I should find some sort of more appropriate attire," she recalls, a slight roll to her eyes as she considers the torn dress. "And when, would you think? Before you are called Southward?"

"I wonder why my horse was left behind..." she muses, but for a moment, as she watches the commotion forward.

"What was what, sir?" Conalmir's smile vanishes as he returns his attention to the road ahead - jostled aside, noticing the boy for the first time with a look of horror. But the child is unharmed, safely to the side. 

Moldy bread, weevils to Farielle, grown from babyhood in a family of knights, these are not strangers. A faint smile crosses her face at Elusul's joke before her hands tighten on the pommel of her saddle at the sudden disturbance.

For a moment, Menelglir does not answer his gaze is swiftly turned forward until he judges that nothing is amiss. Then once more he looks to Calenloth.

"I cannot say if the Prince will call us southward or eastward--there is the council to be held and it may be that there is time before then to go."

"And yes..." he grins, looking at the dress, "breeches. Leather. Something that gives you ease of riding and protection as well--for as you see, it can be dangerous." 

"As for the horses, who can say. Perhaps Hir Arathis has ideas on it. No doubt."

Elusul looks as though he wants to backhand Conalmir to bring him to his senses, but instead he replies in a carefully controlled manner. "I will escort this lady to wherever she needs to go. You, Squire, will dismount immediately and lead your horse by the reins to the stables. Is that understood?"

"Breeches." A nod, as she repeats the instruction with a smile. "Perhaps I can borrow some from one of my cousins." And she laughs at the idea.

"This council. Sir Arathis's ideas. The words seem so forboding, and yet still, we wait with no word. Tell me, Menelglir," Calenloth asks, more serious, "Do you worry something to be amiss?"

"Yes, sir," Conalmir answers, his face turning pale beneath its tan, then flushing redder as he turns the reins over to the knight and dismounts, beginning to lead his own mount through the streets towards the stable, not looking back.

Elusul accepts the reins from Conalmir and watches him go for a few moments before turning back forward and leading the lady on at a slow, steady pace that will offer little to jostle her.

"Breeches and ...oh...ne'er mind--you shall figure it out for yourself, no doubt," Menelglir says. He coughs, looks away, a little embarrassed--but as his attention is caught by the orders of Elusul, his demeanor quickly shifts to solemn.

"Aye, there is trouble," he says in a low tone to Calenloth, an incline of his head indicating Elusul and Conalmir. "Perhaps it will work out in the end. But amiss? Nay---or only in what sorcery the Haradrim and the enemy have worked up against us now. And with Hir Bragollach gone, no doubt the seas are frothing with it."

"Oh?" Calenloth replies, an eyebrow raised. "Then we shall see."

"I shall wait the decision of your council, then, but in the meantime, shall plot my own reasons to join you." She smiles, mischeviously, before adding, "Shall we race?" Pressing her knee into the side of her horse," she tugs upon the reins, pulling ahead of the Knight.

"Calenloth!" Menelglir protests, though he is off after her, not so much racing, but shouting at her to slow down in the increasingly busy street. They disappear round a bend.