(Archive) - Lothiriel
From the archives of the Gondorian
In the Princess\'s chambers
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Weather: Clear
Time: Late Night
Season: Winter
Date: Hevensday - February 8, 3021
Real Time: Sat Aug 19 20:35:58 2000
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Dol Amroth: Ost-in-Ernil - Lothiriel\'s Chambers
Lothiriel\'s sitting room is well-appointed, suited to the tastes of the young princess. Carpeting of grey covers the flagstones of the floor, and a large stone fireplace is set into the western wall to warm the room during cold winters. Two large chairs, upholstered in deep blue velvet, sit before the hearth, half-facing one another and the fireplace. A large bay window graces the northern wall, providing a panoramic view of the Dol Amroth countryside. Large chunks of rough-hewn crystal are set at random into the window, spattering rainbows around the room as the sunlight hits. Upon either side of the window, a large tapestry hangs over the stone walls, helping to insulate the room from the effects of the outdoor temperatures. One is a scene of Amroth taking ship from the harbour, while the other depicts Nimrodel singing in the forests. Running beneath the window is a low seat upholstered in deep blue velvet cushions, and heavy blue velvet drapes allow the princess to protect her privacy.
A folding silk screen separates the sitting area from the sleeping area beyond, and you catch a glimpse of a massive bed piled high with blue pillows, the headboard wonderfully carven into the image of a swan. Nearby, a night-table holds a single white candle in a silver candlestick and a few books from the nearby library. A large wardrobe sits snug against the southern wall.
The large windows reveal a silent picture of the darkness of light outside. Elaborate candelabrae and a small, cheery fire crackling in the hearth provide the illumination now, giving the chamber a soft, comfortable glow.
Obvious exits:
Out
The smell of herbs and smoke rests heavily here, left by a table of healing necessities and the bright fire lit in the fireplace. Shadows dance on the thick carpeting and reach up to touch the tapestried and stone walls. Yet that is the extent of movement, of life, in the chambers of Lothiriel, for the Princess herself remains in her bed, silent and unmoving now.
No dawn has come yet, for the hour is late, and not yet early the Citadel is everywhere silent. Like a ghost slips the white knight Thorondur, into the chamber, admitted at long last by Imrahil into this place he would never dare otherwise.
Pale and colourless is his face, this Herald, this Lord Girithlin, as on soft-booted steps he comes about the screen to find the Princess laid -- lifeless, to all appearance -- in her bed. Steeling himself, he looks down on her for a long and solemn moment.
He need not walk far, for it seems the very presence of the Knight-Herald affects the young woman. A long breath covers the soft moan that escapes her, and her head turns to the side -- the other side, away from Thorondur. In the still of the room, only recently vacated by healers in need of rest, such action seems a day\'s excitement.
His eyes close tight against the sight, Lothiriel laid low by some unknown sickness. Finally, Thorondur\'s lips move in quiet speech, a whisper: \"And you lie here undone, by harsh words and arguments I think, in your name. For there are ailments of the body -- and there are ailments of the spirit.\" A pause, then.
Drawing a breath of his own, the Herald sighs. \"Are we not stubborn fools to clash so over thee? For if all of us love thee, might we not all be at peace in it? And I am to blame -- again.\" Burying his face in his hands, here, where no-one can see, Thorondur Girithlin sinks down in a healer\'s chair beside the bed.
Even as the Girithlin seats himself, the Princess speaks again, in her fevered voice. A sharp breath first is drawn, then let out slowly, and another the same, a gasp for frozen breath. Her brow furrows, warm though it is still with fever, and a change come over her, from the deep sleep of the unconsious to the surface rest of those sunk into nightmare.
Thorondur\'s head lifts sharply, and his expression is caught between stubborn hope and stark despair. There is a moment\'s pause -- but with this man, though, the tools of the Shadow will never gain foothold. All trace of sorrow leaves him as he stands again, reaching out to touch her bare forehead, stroke back the dark hair in soft, gentle gesture. \"Lothiriel,\" he calls, his voice quiet yet strong with confidence. \"Lothiriel...!\"
Warm as the room might be, warmer is the Princess\'s face and forhead. She shudders, shivers, at the touch, and appears to return to her former state: her breathing calms, the muscles of her face relax, and she attains a restful appearance. Yet there is a charge to the air about her, a different feel from before, for Lothiriel does not rest now, but gives inward battle to some personal attack.
The change goes not unnoticed. Gritting his teeth, Thorondur maintains the contact -- even taking his other hand, and closing it around one of hers. In a soft whisper still, he speaks to her in a liquid and beautiful language -- the elventongue. \"
\"
Perhaps it is what the Knight says, or the way in which he says it, the tone of his voice, or most likely of all, the language in which it is spoken... But the words of Thorondur bring a greater change over Lothiriel than any herbs or potions brewed by the healers.
The orange light of the fire seeps onto her bed, bending around to break his shadow, and shines off the blue-grey eyes of the Princess.
Encouraged by this small success -- wherever it may come from -- the Herald finds himself nodding once, emphatically, as if urging her on. His hand tightens around hers when he sees her eyes open, seeing or not, and Thorondur calls again, softly but insistently, \"
Though her eyes may be open, the fever has not broken, nor has she become fully aware. Yet progression is there, undoubtably and without room for question, for until this time, there had been no change. The set of the muscles of her face and the heaviness of her breathing show, if nothing else, recouperation from those few seconds of battle, such strength it requires.
And so in hope and solemn perseverance, her sworn defender remains, never letting go her hand nor lifting his touch from her brow. As if he could -will- her his strength by the desire alone, Thorondur sets his muscles as though for a long and bitter struggle, shifting to sit on the edge of her mattress in silent vigil.
And though the sickness yet fights these two, it is clear in his eyes that no further evil shall gain a hold, here.
Once more her eyes close, but only briefly, and they open slowly again backed by the Princess herself. She swallows, rolls her head to the side in experimentation, and visibly relaxes. One word she speaks, a question in a word.
\"Bragollach?\"
Confusion briefly swirls within the Herald\'s blue eyes, their clear deep crystal gone momentarily misted. In his expression, a sudden pain wars with his hope -- but he forces it down. \"Nay, my Princess,\" Thorondur whispers -- for how else can he answer that question.
Squinting now agianst the light of the fire, Lothiriel looks upward at the face of the figure beside her. \"Thorondur.\" No question, that, but comforted statement as her eyes close once again. And again they open, more certain than before, and a sickly smile imposes itself above the fire\'s reflection.
Not long does that comfort last as her brow furrows, \"But did not my father...?\" The question dies unfinished, the answer irrelevant.
Her awakening -- and subsequent recognition -- bring sudden and visible joy to the young lord beside her. The mists of confusion roll back from his eyes, the strange query forgotten -- and he bends briefly to press a fervent kiss to her hand. \"Your father relents,\" Thorondur says in answer.
\"Relax, Lothiriel. Do not tax yourself... your father knows the purity of my heart. The fighting is over.\"
Lothiriel does indeed relax, leaning back completely onto the cusioned matress, closing her eyes once more. Though she conserves and even regenerates strength, she remains conscious. \'The fighting,\' she comments in a voice strained to speak, \'Is far from over, barely begun. But you have sent off the assult... for now.\'
\"
Replying in kind, the Herald watches her fondly, allowing himself a brave smile and saying, \"
Then silent for a moment, a thought comes upon him -- tilting his head, Thorondur fixes the Princess with a look of inquiry. \"Lothiriel,\" he wonders, \"Do you recall when I asked for your token, in the libarary -- before the tourney -- and you said that if you could see... some part of what I had seen... you might better understand?\"
The Princess ignores the inquiry for the moment, and gathers her strength to raise her shoulders some bit off the mattress. \"Is there water here, Thorondur? Or some drink of any kind?\" The request is far from urgent, more tired than anything. A moment\'s silence passes before she has the ability to speak again. \"I remember, Thorondur, I remember well.\"
There is a pitcher of water, in fact, though the bowl of snow it had been left in to chill has long since melted away. Still, it is yet cool enough, and Thorondur says as much when he leaves her momentarily to fetch it.
\"This will help, I think,\" he tells Lothiriel, handing a silver goblet across to her as he returns. \"I was thinking -- there may be a way to show you something of the fair ones -- and aid you, at the same time.\"
Nearly groaning as she raises her shoulders high enough to drink from the goblet without choking on the water therein, Lothiriel concentrates on that alone for a full minute until she has swallowed her fill. Unable to reach the table nearby without exhausting what strength remains, she simply holds the goblet for the time being. \"Is there?\" she questions simply, quietly, but with interest full in her voice.
\"Indeed,\" the Herald replies, sitting back as she takes and keeps the goblet. Thoughtfully, he begins to explain. \"Much of Elven craft is based in their songs. While I cannot pretend to understand the half of it,\" he sighs, \"they have songs for everything they do -- including healing. I learnt a handful of those. I know not if they will help you, but... in them, it may be I might show you the beauty I\'ve only seen, until now.\"
\"A song,\" Lothiriel muses, relaxing fully once more. A smile touches her eyes, yet leaves her face emotionless. \"I would not object, I think.. To see this beauty that touched you so..\" Each word is an effort, yet she speaks anyway.
\"What I would give, to take you to their valley -- my voice will never be as theirs.\" Smiling humbly and warmly, Thorondur gently takes her hand again, this time in both of his. \"I cannot promise,\" he says with a faint blush -- What\'s this? A -blush-? -- \"that it will even be pleasant, with my voice.\" An engaging grin, then, a joke.
With a bit of effort, Lothiriel\'s smile seeps from her eyes to turn the corners of her mouth upward, but the effort required to do so has her speechless for moments more. Finally, \"I would not judge until I have heard it, Thorondur.\"
Looking almost nervous for a moment -- or perhaps it was merely a trick of the light -- Thorondur breaks into a broad smile, and rises from his seat. \"Have you a harp in here, then? I imagine you must have taken lessons at some point...?\"
Raising a weak hand, Lothiriel motions in the general direction of the window, \"Beneath the seat, under the window, Thorondur. Though it has not been touched for years... Not since language became a more enticing music to me.\" Again she falls silent, resting.
Rising, Thorondur follows her direction to the window, having to bend his knees and crouch to find the instrument hidden behind a pillow. Taking it up and running a hand across the strings, he effects a gorgeous ripple of music -- surprisingly on-key! Dark eyebrows rise in mild shock. \"I\'d thought you said it\'s not been touched in years -- and aye, it\'s dusty enough to support that, but...\"
The softest laugh escapes the bedridden Princess, and she shakes her head a little, \"It has been stored since you left, and not touched since. Other things have occupied my time.\"
\"Then this morning we will play at being Elves,\" Thorondur teases, returning to his seat and striking another liquid ripple of sound from the unnaturally harmonic strings. \"Good heavens, Lothiriel,\" he says in astonishment, \"This is a special harp. I cannot believe I never noticed this before.\"
Unfortunately, the young Princess is not terribly responsive this morning, still weak and feverish as she is. \"A special harp?\" she asks weakly, with few words, well content to listen more than speak.
\"It is,\" Thorondur avers, pursing his lips as he strikes a minor chord. Again, another ripple of sound fills the room, seeming to shimmer forth from the gilded harp and echo in pleasant harmonics from the walls and ceiling. A puzzled yet delighted look comes over the Herald.
He sits perched upon the corner of her bed, at her right hand the Princess herself lies back at rest. In Thorondur\'s hands sits a golden harp, and he is preparing to play it, testing the tuning.
Lothiriel lies quietly, speaks no more now, and closes her eyes, content to listen to the beautiful music of the \"special\" harp.
Setting slender fingers to the strings of his harp, the young Dunadan begins. He plays with a subtle skill seldom seen in the mortal race, and then his voice, like a songbird comes....
Telerin, Telerin, elvenships soaring
free over wave-fallen seas rife with foam,
Telerin, Telerin, graceful swans flying
Onward to Eressea! Onward to home!
White-winged couriers elvenfolk bearing
far from this Middle-land\'s sorrows and wrath
Onward to Eressea! There, no despairing!
Raise up the sails and we\'ll strike the Straight Path!
Weep not for Imladris, nor for Lothlorien:
weep not for forests and valleys so sweet!
Onward to Eressea, and the Swan-Haven
tying the ends of our circle complete!
My Father the Woods of the Isle is walking,
Mother enjoying the Gardens so fair-
Someday I\'ll join them and not only singing
will soothe then the longing, for I will go there!
Thorondur strums the harp softly in accompaniment to his sweet-sung words, and the images of a blue sea and the faraway Lonely Isle wash over you.
Still though I feel I have much left in making-
this Land in the Middle to fill with Delight
Centuries still \'til I\'m ready for sailing
o\'er star-shrouded Ilmen and over the Night.
But lo! When the day comes I know I\'ll be trav\'ling
in company fair and amidst those I love
Until then I\'m gladly content with the knowing
of forests and valleys and stars up above.
Treasure these days and their nights, Folk of Elwe!
Loving life dearly and smiles without end
Someday we too shall sail for Alqualonde-
join with our kinfolk and long-distant friends.
For we are the Sindar, who happiness finding
in every forest, each brook, glen and dale
Shall whether in Endor or Aman\'s light blinding
find joy and contentment in lives without fail.
The harpstrings call out softly in a reprise of the first verse\'s melody, joined now by an underlying harmonic strain that calls to mind both the happiness of now, and the Isle away, and even Alqualonde and Valinor in twilit bliss....
Telerin, Telerin, elvenships soaring
Free over wave-fallen seas rife with foam!
Telerin, Telerin, graceful swans flying,
Endor or Eressea... both be our home.
The singer bows his head, and his hand stills upon the harp the song is done.
Lothiriel lies silently, eyes closed as the song paints its wonderful pictures. As the harpstrings are stilled, they open. \"Whether it helped or not is no matter, Thorondur,\" the young Princess nearly smiles. She makes the effort, yet it was this time unsuccessful. \"A beautiful song -- from the elves?\"
\"It was,\" Thorondur tells her, setting the harp down with grave respect for the ornate instrument before looking back to Lothiriel. \"A Grey Elf named Bregedhel taught it to me -- I suppose it was his.\" Smiling softly, he folds his hands together, a guardian angel of sorts as he sits beside her. \"I can only hope that it showed you some part of their wonder?\"
A soft nod is the only response the Lothiriel gives now, eyes closing and opening much more slowly. \"It did... it did indeed.\" Her words are soft, the whisper of one trying to speak as she falls asleep. Stifling a yawn, she tries once more to speak, but no words escape.
\"Then sleep with blessed visions before your eyes. Sleep, my Princess,\" says the Herald, rising, and leaning down to place the chastest of kisses upon her fevered brow, \"and dream the dreams of the innocent.\" So saying, Thorondur too returns to his chair -- and his vigil. There will be no rest for the Girithlin tonight.