Fate

Just before dawn. An hour between worlds and time, where the mists of the past part only briefly, and what was becomes what is, and what is... what was. Or so the hillfolk whisper. As that haunted time draws to a close, servants in the livery of Ship and Swan float like shadows about the Hall, extinguishing the starlamps as a grey light slowly filters in from above.

Beneath the first dusted rays of sunlight sits Thorondur Girithlin, his fair face wan and his eyes set beneath with shaded circles. Yet there upon a humble stool, he does not nod. Clad all in white and bereft of sword or mail, he keeps unending vigil for Lothiriel, Princess of Dol Amroth.

The guards who hold him back, the ghostlike servants in blue -- they give him respectful, poignant glances, or none at all. In this hour -- of dreams and hopes, bright with all the hues the future holds, or pale and crumbled, leeched of life by the relentless winds of the past -- there are few who walk in the world of waking men of their own will.

Save a few.

And one among them steps through the curtained archway to the East, shadowed in the gloom, save for the gem upon his brow, bright and star-like.

Local legend has it that the eyes of the Girithlins are a deep, crystalline blue from the blood of Lorindol, strong in their line, and not some mixing with lesser Men. Surely it is no glance of the Riddermark that comes to rest upon the approaching Prince -- but that of a high-blooded Dunadan Lord.

Keen, sharp, made brighter by the honing of sleepless hours there is no weariness in Thorondur\'s gaze, though elsewhere his haggard face says otherwise. Lips pressed tight, thin, silent he stands -- doing proper homage, yet no more than is required.

Stirring himself from his half-sleeping state, Drenlyn stands erect as he sees the Prince aproach. Looking to Thorondur, Drenlyn seeks some reasurrance, but finds only the angered look of the Herald. Standing erect, Drenlyn stands ready to due his duty as a White Squire, and temporary guard over Lothiriel\'s health.

The homage -- seen. Its due -- given. An inlined head in the shadows, a flash of light, a glint of grey eyes. No more.

Yet, perhaps, it is not all -- for the Prince\'s course is stayed, and his gaze held by the two before him. And around Imrahil and Thorondur, liege lord and vassal, Lords of Numenor lost both, it is as if a barrier has been built that none other dares broach -- swiftly, swiftly, the Guards look elsewhere, and the servants turn aside.

And though the servants turn aside, Thorondur Edrahil hir Girithlin, Knight of the Stones -- White Knight -- Champion, who has been nearly to hell itself for this man before him, his Prince... he does not falter. Nor does he sit.

Only does he stand, tall and unflinching, daring not to subject himself to the gaze of Imrahil, but even to meet it, and hold it.

\"Sit, Girithlin...Squire.\"

And now in the end, the Prince comes forth into the shimmering light -- forged by Elebereth in the days of Arda\'s youth, the stars -- and they are pitiless to this one the Son of Adrahil for they reveal his visage fully. And what is seen there brings sharp breaths of dismay from the guards who stand watch thither.

For it is as if the daughter\'s fever has found a reflection in the father\'s eyes.

Drenlyn drops his gaze to the cold floor, not wishing to be the focus of either Prince, nor Herald. Resisting the urge to return to the shadows of the gallery, Drenlyn stays his course, and focuses on his duty to stand vigil over the Princess until told to do other wise.

There is a moment\'s breadth of pause between command and its acceptance: a fleeting instant where defiance might be read by those who have never known such Men. But for all the emotions that strive to play upon his taut, controlled face, his handsome champion\'s face, Thorondur Girithlin is a man of honour.

And, save that lost moment\'s hesitation, he sits. His first words are... unlikely. \"The Squire accompanies me out of love for your family, and duty,\" Thorondur dares tell the Prince. \"He is blameless in aught I may do, should this... should she...\"

And he cannot finish.

Drenlyn relaxes as he realizes how the Herald tries to release him of any percieved blame. Drenlyn steps forward, no longer feeling the need to be a shadow, yet remains silent.

But no defiance is read in the Girithlin\'s visage by the Prince -- or if it is, he chooses to ignore it. For there are no words of rebuke, but merely those of acceptance.

\"I know.\"

And to the railing he turns then, thither to lean against its unyielding iron, eyes turned to the distant, unreachable stars, \"And does your vigil aid the Princess yet?\"

The Herald swallows, speaking not for a lengthy passage of time -- or is it but a few seconds? Dawn may have come, and the sun lights the gallery, but time... it seems like to stand still, for these, in this hour of fear.

\"It cannot,\" Thorondur finally whispers, turning to Imrahil and yet not moving forward -- caught, like a prodigal son, between trust and suspicion. \"I cannot see her. I cannot hold her hand, nor sing her what songs of healing I was given to learn,\" he replies, hushed, voice caught in treble with his helplessness.

There is iron in the gaze the Prince turns to his Herald, chill and unyielding, and ice, cold as winter\'s coldest breath. But there is no fire -- the terrible wrath of the past has run its course, it would seem...and lost its mastery over the Son of Adrahil.

\"Do you hold your oath to me higher...or that to her?\"

A sudden question, unlooked for -- one which stills every sound and whisper of movement in the gallery. Yet, it is distant and detached -- as if the Prince knows the answer even as he asks the question, and it holds little interest for him.

Yet there is not a trace of hesitation in the answer. For lo! Listen, to Thorondur\'s voice so quiet:

\"My Prince, you know that to be caught between my oaths is to be forsworn to one or the other.\" The Herald\'s eyelids fall, and a deep breath is drawn before they open again, and he continues.

\"I have sworn to serve and uphold thee, and thou me but verily, to Her my heart... my soul is given, and gladly. It would matter not, even should she deny me -- I have sworn never again to fail her, and lord, I -shall- not. Though Udun and the Fire come between us, I shall aid her if I may -- and even my vows before thy throne will be as nothing, then.\"

And the herald turns, swiftly, so strong until now -- but here, caught and nearly torn asunder. His face cannot be seen, his expression impossible to discern... but a sharp intake of breath, a gasp betrays him.

With the Herald\'s answer, it is as if life comes creeping back into this place of oaths taken and forsworn this place of truths revealed -- and breaths none knew they held are taken again.

There is no surprise upon Imrahil\'s visage, nor ire -- merely weariness etched deep in every line graven upon his brow, \"You know your Doom, Girithlin...it hangs over you like a mantle of darkest night bereft of stars.\"

And there are none save these two men who may discern the true weight of these words -- or their true intent.

\"I know it, and too well,\" comes the reply, and Thorondur\'s lips purse his noble head bows, and for the space of a minute\'s passing does he fall silent.

Then raising his eyes again, out into the space of the rotunda the Herald says, \"Yet I deny it. I must, my lord -- or I am naught to her, or you. I live yet. And until the day comes when I do not, I shall deny it again and again -- for are not the Secondborn Children beyond the Song?\"

And rounding on his Prince... the Girithlin, the Elf-Friend, Thorondur gazes on his liege-lord with determination in his bold blue eyes. \"We are not the Eldar. And we cannot leave our fates to be writ in stone.\"

\"And in its denial, drag others with you into its shadow?\"

There is no reply to such a question, surely -- and the Son of Adrahil does not await one. For he straightens and steps forth -- and thither stands the Prince of Dol Amroth, scion of Numenor, in all his regal glory.

A decision has been made. A path has been chosen. And thus, their Doom is set.

\"Kneel before me, Thorondur Edrahil, Lord of the Girithlin, White Knight. Kneel before me and swear to be my daughter\'s champion and defender -- but never more. Swear it not, and I must exile you from this city, never to return.\"

Such terrible words -- but there is no heat in them, merely a resolve and a surety of oaths kept as truly as Arien awakes from slumber in the East every morn. And regret.

And like a dagger to his heart do the words of Imrahil strike home against the Knight-Herald, and yea, it is like from a physical blow that he recoils. To his Prince can Thorondur say no more than this: \"I can swear to defend her, lord, and ever be her champion -- but in this, nay, I must gainsay thee -- and know thou that it pains me!\"

Quiet, so quiet and awful, the desperation in the Herald\'s tone. Into that terrible draught of silence he adds, \"I will not wear the mantle of Mandos, my Prince! I will not presage mine own Doom!\"

\"Nay, you will not presage your own Doom. But you will set down her\'s with your own hands.\"

And in this moment -- only this never before, and never again -- the unfathomable mask that none may discern the truth of is set aside, to reveal a bitter sorrow.

A moment longer they remain thus, facing each other -- and the Prince wheels then, to stride to the stairs, thither to pause, \"Go within if you wish it. You may stay until she is well again.\"

A last kindness -- whether born of wisdom or mercy or memories of years past, none may say. And then, he is gone -- and with his passing, the wall built between Prince and Herald towers tall in the silence.

And into the silence and stillness echoes the final rejoinder of the Girithlin\'s, and not without sympathy for the Prince who has gone:

\"I will never again bring her sorrow. With the Seven and Seven to witness me, I swear it.\"

And into the morning ring the words, and the guards themselves cannot bear to gaze upon any who should swear so solemn a vow.