(Archive) - As the Swan Turns Part MCM
From the archives of the Gondorian
yes... more melodrama!
Elendor - Thursday, August 17, 2000, 8:52 PM
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Weather: Clear
Time: Mid Morning
Season: Winter
Date: Highday - February 3, 3021
Real Time: Thu Aug 17 21:28:49 2000
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*note - A blending of logs sent by Lothiriel and Drenlyn*
Dol Amroth: Prince\'s Castle - Grand Hall of the Stars
If the eyes of Men are drawn to the heavens, then let them look here into the breathtaking heights and be never dismayed the great dome of the Grand Hall rises far above the earth in all its splendour. Galleries ring the rotunda at every level, and the majesty that is the birthright of Numenor\'s descendants has its heart here, in the vastness of this circular, soaring chamber. It is not so much a hall as it is the nave of a cathedral.
The skylight-windows at the dome\'s distant apex allow the natural light of the day into the hall, yet the marble stonework and polished lebethron of this place retain a chill, untouchable dignity. Grand archways lead east, to the Hall of Armor, and west, ultimately to the throne room, but a man stood at the one side would need shout for his opposite to hear him. A carpeted stair leads upward, and to the galleries that ring the open space high above.
Contents:
Thorondur
Obvious exits:
Carpeted Stairs , Lebethron Door
The morning wears on, as it often does about the citadel, with people hustling back and forth through the halls, and others walking slowly about. All are concerned with their own business, and discuss it with others, whether it be swords or horses, healing, flowers, or wine, or whatever it may be.
From the stairs steps a young woman, one hand upon the railing and the other holding her skirt from beneath her shoes. Yet as she reaches the main floor, she glances upward, and the sun streams down upon her face and strangly stormy features this morning.
Amid the hustle and bustle beneath the dome\'s grandeur, a wide clearance has been given to a group of small boys in court livery. Pages, apparently -- all clad in the royal blue of Dol Amroth, with white belts and identical bowl-shaped haircuts.
They stand in a line, fine porcelain plates balanced on their heads. The familiar figure of the Lord Girithlin grins at them, a dashing young man in burgundy and white. \"On my mark,\" Thorondur instructs them, \"advance four steps, and halt. Ready! One... two...\"
A young squire nervously enters, and peers about himself hoping for a friendly face. His confused face and insecure stance has the appearance of a small fish swimming into new waters.
Obviously paying attention to little around her, young woman halts inches away from a squire with a plate atop his head, her blue and silver skirt swishing against the tiled floor as she stops abruptly -- unfortunately a little to abruptly, for the plate begins to wobble... The poor lad raises a hand to his head to steady it, and in doing so, knocks it to the floor where it shatters with a sharp crash. Shaking her head, Lothiriel sighs.
This of course sets off the expected chain reaction -- only the oldest boys maintaining the concentration necessary to keep their plates in place. One of the smaller boys stares poignantly down at the shattered remnants of his plate, and tears well up in his eyes....
And of course, it brings the Lord Herald up with a quick ruffle of the boy\'s hair. As he makes his bow to the Princess, the lads quickly and raggedly follow suit, a row of tow-headed dominoes paying proper respect to Lothiriel. Telling the lads quietly to clean up, Thorondur looks back to Lothiriel with a wan smile, not yet noticing the white squire across the hall.
\"Good morning, Lothiriel,\" the Herald says quietly.
Drenlyn catching the name of the troubled beauty across the hall, stops in his tracks as he realizes the greatness that he is facing. Imediately he becomes aware of his own humble place as he walks up to the princess and with an emphatic bow, says, \"Good day, my Lady.\"
No smile even touches the young Princess\'s features. Closing her eyes a second, she inclines her head in aknowledgement of the young boys, then looks at the small lad whose plate she has inadvertantly smashed and pauses a moment -- comfort ought be offered here -- but simply turns aside and does nothing. \"A good day, Thorondur,\" her words are drained, almost wooden, though not from malice. Indeed, the Princess appears about ready to collapse, without energy at all.
Her gaze turns upon the squire, and she nods once more, \"Squire...\" she greets, also quietly.
To judge by his expression -- equal parts tolerant and martyred amusement -- Thorondur seems well used to such moments as what the sudden squire provides. Yet any trace of good cheer within his eyes takes immediate flight at the strange mood of the Princess.
Casting a quick, cautionary look at the younger man, concern writ heavily upon his furrowed brow, the Lord Girithlin looks back to the young lady with worry. \"Lothiriel -- what ails you, fair lady?\" And his voice is plainly troubled.
Drenlyn, with a look of surprise realizes the true nobility that surrounds him. Recognizing the name of the Knight-Herald immediately turns, enacts a nervous bow and squeaks, \"Good day to you sir.\" And looks all the more nervous for interrupting the Knight-Heralds conversation.
The lads, meanwhile, take the subtle cue from their instructor. Save the few who remain to clean the floor of shattered porcelain, they disperse almost immediately.
The young Princess does not answer immediately -- indeed, it is a few long, silent moments ere she seems inclined to, or has the energy to do so. \"I am a bit tired, perhaps, Thorondur. \'Tis all.\" A soft, quiet, and worrisome smile touches on her features, and she extends it to the squire as well.
Drenlyn stares at the departing pages, and realizes his insignificance in being singled out with such noble company. In an attempt to fit his new role as squire, Drenlyn stands straight and makes an attempt to look as confident as he may. The dim mood of the Princess takes any confidence that he gains from his pride.
The Herald himself seems far from offended, even flashing the squire a swift, reassuring smile -- though the forced assurance within it must do little to raise poor Drenlyn\'s confidence. Indeed, Thorondur seems little convinced himself by the woman\'s words.
\"Lothiriel,\" the knight says carefully, once more looking to her whom he addresses, \"I pray you, tell me the trouble. I heard... nay. It worries me, to see you thus.\"
Lothiriel smiles once more, softly, and shakes her head. \"No trouble at all, Lord Girithlin. No trouble that is new, at least, and nothing you need be concerned about. Here.\" Once more she falls silent, attention drifting far too quickly, that she leans back against the bannister of the stairs.
Drenlyn absorbs the Knight-Heralds smile, which, though only slightly, makes him feel that he does belong to Dol Amroth. Though still reserved, Drenlyn\'s eyes shine as his heart goes out to the princess, hoping that he may help her in some way. Drenlyn takes a hurried step forward in alarm has he begins to reach to the princess to help steady her. \"My princess, are you truly well? If not I can get a healer to assist your ailment,\" pipes Drenlyn, with some hope that he may do a service.
Clearly, this answer from the Princess only troubles the Herald further. When she leans back -- one might guess, near fainting, and so he does -- Thorondur takes an instinctive step toward her, face going pale. \"Lothiriel, you know that I cannot help but--\" and now he cuts himself off, looking back to the squire.
In his eyes there sits some vague sense of alarm, and terrible concern. \"Squire -- I know you not,\" he addresses the young man, \"but you had best mean those words, and have swift feet I think.\"
Drenlyn answers, \"I do mean my words, my lord. Though I have only since arrived in Dol Amroth, I shall do all that I can to help those in need. And do not doubt my swift feet, my lord, for they have saved me many a beating from my father in my early years.\"
The Princess shakes her head once more. \"Indeed! One would think the two of you were truely worried. Yet worry not, Thorondur, Squire... I am quite well indeed.\" Yet even as she says this, she pushes harder on the railing to balance herself, and her face looks an odd shade paler than it ought.
\"Good,\" says the Herald firmly to Drenlyn, shifting immediately into a comfortable and familiar tone of grave command. \"Then run like the Nine are at your heels, and get me the Lady Kerowyn or the Princess Ivriniel from the Houses of Healing.\" And there is no panic in his voice -- only steady surety, that others might draw strength from.
And now he steps another stride closer, ready to catch her should she fall. \"Go, lad. Swiftly now.\"
Drenlyn pipes, \"Yes my lord. I shall retern with haste and a healer,\" as he flies out the door.
Dol Amroth: Halls of Healing - Sickroom
The cloying scent of herbs--over less pleasant, though no less sweet odors--thickens the air, while gloom cloaks the edges of the walls. Made of the same implacable white stone as the rest of the Prince\'s Citadel, an attempt is made to soften the effect by the flowers placed in the cracked earthenware next to every bed at each sunrise. Six beds in all--for the hall is not large--three east, three west, while a door is set into the dexter of the northern wall, while a hearth rests to its left. Its mate stands to the south, blackwood surrounded by bleached, bone-hued rock. A waist-high, rippled-glass window on either side of the door looks out onto the courtyard beyond.
Wan light trickles in through the age-warped glass of the windows to the north, beyond which the muted shapes of the courtyard can be seen. Even with the daylight, lanterns are placed and glow dimly at the bedside tables--the flames are fed with perfumed lamp-oil that adds much to the heavy, incense-like atmosphere.
Contents:
Ivriniel
Herb Lore(#23310LOVa)
Obvious exits:
Secure room, Inner Door , and Lebethron Door
A hurried White Squire rushes into the house of healing with a look of worry upon his face.
Lady Ivriniel looks up from the patient she is assisting as a White Squire comes rushing into the Halls of Healing. Turning the man over to an assistant the Princess strides across the room, \"Are you in need of assistance?\"
\"Pardon my hasty intrusion my lady, but I was sent by Lord Girithlin. The Princess Lothiriel is not feeling well in the Gran Hall. I am to escort you there with all possible haste,\" pipes the young squire.
The face of the elder Imrazor pales at the mention of her beloved niece being ill. Striding quickly across the room, Ivriniel grabs her ever present tapesty bag of healing supplies and then turns to the squire, \"Lead on....\" stopping suddenly, \"What is your name young man?\" Hurrying towards the door she says, \'Let us make haste\"
Drenlyn says, \"My name, dear lady is Drenlyn, but introductions must wait at this time of need.\"
Lothiriel stands straight, and sways as she does so, calling after the squire, \"No need, good sir!\" And yet, even as she calls out, she closes her eyes and breathes heavily, steadying herself once more. She almost appears to not notice the Herald standing there..
\"If not here, my lady, then somewhere and soon,\" Thorondur says through clenched teeth, visibly distraught as he calmly says, \"Lothiriel, you must sit down. Please.\" He can only mean upon the stairs behind her -- but until she might do so, the young lord stands steady, poised to protect her from a perilous swoon to the stone floor.Drenlyn emerges from the eastern archway.
Drenlyn has arrived.
Ivriniel has arrived.
Drenlyn rushes in. \"My Lord, I bring a healer with all haste.\"
Despite Thorondur\'s urging to sit down, Lothiriel remains standing. \"I MUST do this, and I MUST do that, and I MUST sit down? I MUST beware of Thorondur Girithlin, and I MUST keep my council to myself, and I MUST sit in my chambers and sew all day!\" The Princess obviously is not herself this morning, and despite her outburst, she sits on the carpeted stairs.
A look of worry crosses Drenlyn\'s face as he realizes how out of sorts the Princess Lothiriel is fealing. He stands ready to be called on again, and hopes that the healer that he has brought will give the Princess some comfort.
\"You must do none of it,\" Thorondur whispers, his voice suddenly intense and fraught with new insight. Taking a knee beside her, the knight covers a small hand with one of his own, surely in an attempt at comfort. \"You are the Princess of Dol Amroth, and whatever has set this on you, I... by all that\'s holy, Lothiriel, this isn\'t you!\"
The cheeks of the elder Imrazor are ablaze with colour as she rushes into The Grand Hall, quickly her eyes scan the room for her beloved niece. Taken aback by the strong words of the young Princess, Ivriniel pauses to catch her breath, one hand going to her heaving bosom as she inhales deeply and then says in a soft calming voice, \'Lothiriel.\" The tone of her voice clearly holding a note of concern.
A sudden breath is drawn by the Princess as the Knight\'s hand touches hers, yet immediately her breathing slows and her shoulders visibly relax. Eyes more blue than grey this winter morning turn upward and catch the squire as he arrives with Ivriniel, and a soft smile breaks out on her face. Yet she remains silent.
The Herald dares not remove his hand from Lothiriel\'s. Instead, Thorondur merely remains still, silent, kneeling there beside the seated Princess -- and looking up quickly to the new arrival, and the squire returned. To Drenlyn he says simply, \"Well done, lad.\"
Walking closer to where the beloved youngest child of her brother sits, Ivriniel nods briefly to Thorondur, barely a glance his way as her eyes cut back sharply to Lothiriel. Reaching out one hand to brush back a raven lock of hair, the sister of Imrahil asks softly, \"Is something amiss here my dear?\" Gently continuing in a soothing tone of voice the daughter of Adrahil says, \'I am sorry there was an interuption when you tried to speak to me earlier. Are you feeling well my dear niece?\" Concerned eyes cut back to Thorondur for a moment as Ivriniel questions him with her eyes, eyebrows raising in question.
Lothiriel breathes steadily now, and opens her eyes, looking at her kinswoman yet not looking at anything. \"Nothing amiss at all, Lady,\" she says with a wan smile, eyes still not focusing on anything. \"As I told this Knight and Squire many times. Yet they insisted upon interrupting you.\"
Drenlyn accepts the simple act of gratitude from the Knight-Herald, and then looks with perplextion at this exchange between aunt, niece, and lord. Catching on the relationship between the healer and Lothiriel, Drenlyn realizes that he has brought the Master Healer Ivriniel. Drenlyn indeed stands in noble company.
\"She\'s pale, and was near fainting,\" Thorondur softly tells Ivriniel, though his gaze -- so thick with worry, still -- remains fixed on the Princess. Though he contradicts Lothiriel, he remains steadfast at her side. Yet aside, he wonders, \"Good squire... if I may know your name? You have served your Prince well this morning, and I will recommend you to him.\"
The sister of Imrahil says gently, \"Tis never a bother for you my dear.\" her hand gently squeezes the shoulder of her beloved niece as she looks to Thorondur for explaination. Concern furrows the brows of the elder Imrazor as she bends down to look Lothiriel in the eyes, her hand reaching up to lay gently along her pale cheek. Sea grey eyes look into the eyes of her kinswoman as she inquires softly, \'Perhaps a bit of rest is in order? \" Waving one hand to the Knight-Herald and the White Squire she says, \"Everyone is worried about you my dear and only wish the best.\"
\"My lord, I am Drenlyn, son of Drenelethir,from southern Belfalas. I have only recently come under the service of the Silver Swan and am much gratified in knowing that I may help the lady Lothiriel, and you my lord,\" answers Drenlyn to the Knight-Herald. Drenlyn, still catching his breath after his hastey run to the Houses of Healing, manages to re-enact his pose of attention.
Lothiriel closes her eyes for many moments, breathing steadily, slowly. \"Perhaps, perhaps some rest would be nice indeed.\" Opening her eyes, they focus now, nearly, as though she is working on appearing as if all is in order. \"Yet honestly, such worry is completely unnecessary. I am quite all right, and always have been.\" Even as she speaks, however, her features take on a hardness, and her brow furrows.
\"Be gratified in knowing you can help any man or woman in need, Drenlyn son of Drenelethir,\" the Herald replies to the Squire, though still without taking his eyes from Lothiriel, whom he watches with care. \"Office or station matters not, when you see anyone danger. Remember that.\" His words are not ungentle -- a lesson, not a rebuke.
And despite Lothiriel\'s words, Thorondur does not move an inch from his vigil.
Voices rise and echo to the vaulted ceiling, so high that it seems well nigh lost in a flood of golden light -- down the stairs they descend, and there are few in the Marble Citadel who would not recognise the one who speaks now.
\"Very well, then. A week more will cost us little in the end.\"
And they come into sight then, stepping into the hall from the broad stairway -- the Prince and the Lord of the Isilrim, deep in conversation.
Ivriniel continues to speak softly to her niece, the quality of her voice very soothing and gentle as she says, \'Some colour is returning to your face. Perhaps you are just overly tired. The tourney and the events afterwards have taken a lot from us all.\" A tiny smile curves her lips as she says, \"And a bow and arrow competition can really drain a Princess.\" Looking to Thorondur as he kneels beside the Princess she inquires, \"And your white rose was....unexpected?\"
Drenlyn lost in all the mentions of a tournament, is saddened by his inability to have witnessed it. As the new figures of nobility arive, Drenlyn can only stare in wonder as he bows low to the newcomers and resumes his pose of attention.
Gratitude both old and new wash over the Herald\'s face -- the white rose? He wears it still, slipped through his star-brooch. At its mention by the elder princess, he bows his head humbly to the younger, already knelt beside her. \"I was honored, Your Grace,\" Thorondur whispers in muted reply to Ivriniel, \"and more so, to win the tourney entire in her name.\"
And only now does the Lord Girithlin raise his gaze again, and speak quietly to Lothiriel, so low that no other may fully hear.
Thorondur quietly says, \"Know that I say only Truth, and could never breathe aught else -- nay, and doubly so, if breathed to thee. I pray you, Lothiriel -- take heart, and strength from it. I ache, to see you troubled so.\"
The young Princess remains seated on the carpeted stairs here, silent, as one pausing to rally her strength. \"The competition lost was no drain at all,\" a touch of disgust flows through her voice in reply to her kinswoman\'s comment, yet again she falls silent, as if so few words took what energy she had.
And perhaps more silent now, as she listens to the Herald.
\"So be it, lord. The fleet will be given its duties ere long -- and I will be free to attend to...other duties.\"
Even as he speaks, the Silver Knight\'s gaze comes to rest upon the Princess -- and perhaps he discerns that all is not well, for a low word then, which brings the Prince swiftly around.
Solemnly, the Herald quiets, and bows his head once more.
The elder Imrazor shifts uncomfortably as the Knight Herald leans forth to whisper to the princess and steps one step back and then another, before clearing her throat and folding her hands before her. The arrival of Imrahil brings a gladness to the face of Ivriniel but she says naught as her brother comes to see to the Princess. Finally do the eyes of Ivriniel rest on the White squire and a warm smile and nod of her head is given to the young man standing so intently in this crowd.
Looking to neither side, Lothiriel stares ahead, waging some inward battle with glazed, hardened features. It seems as though she hears words, for she relaxes some bit more at those of the Lord Girithlin, but not sounds, for the sudden silence at the Prince\'s arrival is lost on her.
With inclined head, the Knight-Admiral takes his leave of the Prince, striding swiftly away -- yet no more swiftly than Imrahil as he makes his way to the Princess.
\"Is aught amiss?\" To the Squire his gaze turns, and then the Knight-Herald and Ivriniel -- ere coming to rest upon his daughter.\"
Drenlyn resists the urge to figit, realizing the great importance of a first impression on these people of nobility. Noticing the calming reaction of the new noble upon entrance into the room, Drenlyn bows as the noble\'s gaze moves by him, hoping that he does not turn the fool through his formalities. Returning his focus back to Lothiriel, Drenlyn catches the soft smile of the Princess Ivriniel, which sooths his nerves.
Yet that silence is not lost on Thorondur Edrahil, the Lord Girithlin. So long in the service of Imrahil, he surely must know its meaning -- and if he did not, the voice must confirm it for him. But of his two duties -- to the Prince, and to the same man\'s daughter -- the latter he wins.
Daring not look to the Prince, or tear his gaze or his hand from the fey Lothiriel, Thorondur remains knelt beside her, heedless of protocol. A grave morn indeed, then.
A rush of air sounds as Ivriniel releases a breath held since the arrival of her brother. Silent as Imrahil speaks to his youngest child, the sister of Imrahil looks upon the ragged white rose pinned to the chest of the Knight-Herald and then raises eyes to the face of the Lord Girithlin and shakes her head. Ivriniel again reaches to touch the forehead of her niece, one cool hand gently laying upon the porcelain skin of Lothiriel, a touch of reassurance as well as one testing for fever.
It is the sound of Imrahil\'s voice that brings Lothiriel\'s gaze from the distance to the here and now. She raises her head slowly, inclining it to the side, to better see the small crowd gathered about here. \"As I have told all here, Father, nothing is amiss.\" Her words are quiet, almost believable, save for the paleness of her face and odd glaze to her features.
For his part, the Herald remains motionless, moving not from his place of vigilance. If he believes the faint insistings of Lothiriel upon her health, it does not show.
The hand of Ivriniel brushes back the raven hair of her beloved niece, the moist strands of hair clinging to her fevered skin revealing to all the fever that is now felt upon her forehead. Reaching into the deep pocket of her satin gown, Ivriniel pulls forth a white hankerchief and gently dabs at the sheen upon her skin. Turning her head to look upon Imrahil she says softly, as if -that- will soften the blow of his youngest again being ill, \"my brother...she is once again wracked with fever.\"
Drenlyn noticing the silver circlet upon the unnamed noble, Drenlyn draws a look of astonishment, realizing that this is indeed Prince Imrahil. With a emphatic bow, Drenlyn breaks the solemn air and greats the Prince with sincerity, \"Forgive me my Prince, I did not recognize you. The rumors of your lordly image did not due you justice. I am Drenlyn, Drenelither\'s son, I am at your command.\"
\"Indeed?\"
And that single word is answer enough to his sister -- a step nearer to his daughter Imrahil draws, and grey eyes meet grey -- so akin, and yet different. For what he discerns in her\'s causes a flicker upon his visage, one of...doubt?
\"Does it return?\" And the question is softly asked, meant for none save Lothiriel.
\"This is no natural fever,\" rasps Thorondur, a sudden and improbable anger seeping into his quiet voice. Or not anger, but -- helplessness, perhaps. His hand tightens around the young woman\'s.
\"Lothiriel, you must break it. I can only pray for your strength...\"
A fleeting glance and a strained smile are all the reply that the Squire must content himself with, for the moment -- it is his daughter who holds Imrahil\'s attention, and it is her reply he awaits.
\"No.\" Lothiriel replies softly, eyes closed, breathing faint. \"It wishes to, Father...\" With that said, her brow furrows as one exerting great effort, and perhaps she does. Yet with that also, the young Princess goes limp and begins to fall backward onto the stair behind her.
And the reflexes of the young Lord Girithlin do not fail him -- or Imrahil\'s daughter. Like quicksilver the White Knight catches her in his arms, a stricken look haunting his face.
A flash of irritation passes over the face of the Master healer, for but a second as Imrahil inquires his daughter concerning her own condition. Sighing deeply as her eyes rove over the pale face of her niece, Ivriniel gasps softly as Lothiriel goes limp. Quickly she speaks, her voice filled with helpless rage as she looks to the Lord Girithlin in thanks as his quick actions as they saved her from a fall, \"Carry her to her chambers. I shall see to her myself.\" The mouth of Ivriniel is lined with worry as her fingers reach out to touch the sleeve of her beloved kinsman, \"Oh Lothiriel, my dear\"
But she does not. The Lord Girithlin is there to stay her fall, and by his side, the Prince -- for if he has moved swiftly upon the field of battle, then yet, never swifter than now.
\"Sister!\"
And in that single word is a desperate plea.
And with the aid of her father, the Herald lifts the Princess in his arms -- surprisingly light, and fragile she is -- prepared to carry out Ivriniel\'s bidding. On Thorondur\'s face, that same helpless anger wars with a stolid determination -- and determination wins. \"It will not take her,\" he vows.
Though what good such an oath will do, even he cannot say. Or hope too hard.
Lothiriel remains motionless, though a soft groan escapes her. No other sound or movement does she make, for certainly the fever has sapped what strength she had.
Turning to Imrahil as she hears his desperate plea, Ivriniel offers what reassurance she can, \"I will not leave her side brother. You have my word on it\" Grave is the expression of the elder Imrazor as she says, \"Now come, let us get her to bed so that I may tend to this fever. \" Looking to the Lord Girithlin she says, \"As we go, tell me of her actions this eve, it will help me in seeing to her.\" Rapidly the princess speaks as if in some small measure the words of concern are heard by her niece and return her to consciousness.
\"There is little enough to tell, Your Grace,\" Thorondur softly replies, turning carefully so as not to jar his royal burden. Taking the first step slowly, he says, \"She has been pale, and faint and... distracted.\"
And rising over the Herald\'s oath and his sister\'s words is the Prince\'s voice harsh and strange-sounding indeed, for in it is wrath and -- perhaps most unlooked for from the Son of Adrahil -- fear and many other things. And whether they are meant for Thorondur or for himself, none know.
\"No more of this, Girithlin...no more! Give her to me, and never seek to see her again until she is well!\"
And though he does not defy the Prince, neither does Thorondur obey him -- not yet. Only looking between Imrahil and Ivriniel, he adds his final observation. \"And she only showed any strength,\" he finishes, lips pursed tight before concluding, repeating, \"Her only strength... Highness... when I held her hand, and stood beside her.\"
Drenlyn starts with surprise at this first release of anger between his two lords. Maintaining composure, Drenlyn tries to avoid the glance of either lord.
A pained cry escapes the young Princess at her father\'s sharp words, and her features contort a moment ere they ease again... Yet she does not relax fully.
The voice of the Master Healer rings out sharply in the vastness of the Great hall as she barks out, \"Bicker not about whom shall take Lothiriel to her chambers, please. I beg of you both.\" Looking from the Knight-Herald to her kinsmen she says again, \"Please. Put aside your differences and see to the care of the Princess. Her fever is in danger of unsettling her mental balance. Please! I -beg- of you. Carry her to her chambers with not another word of defiance for her to latch onto in her state and cling to her breast in the darkness of fever.\" A look of censure passes from one man to the other as she draws in a deep breath, \"I hold you both responsible if we lose her.\"
\"I will not argue this matter, Girithlin.\"
And Imrahil\'s gaze flies to the Princess at her cry -- quietly now he speaks, perhaps for her sake -- but no less harshly, and the burden of his hard gaze is not an easy one to bear.
\"I have no difference with my sworn liege, Your Grace,\" Thorondur says to Ivriniel with the barest hint of gentle reproach -- but her exhortations to action fall not on deaf ears. Thus heedless of his own Prince\'s anger, at the words of the healer he begins to carry Lothiriel carefully up the stairs.
\"To her chamber, then\" -- and Imrahil bows his head in silent acceptance of his sister\'s rebuke. \"But never again after that.\"
And he wheels to Drenlyn ere going to the Princess\' side, \"Squire, stay with the Lady Ivriniel and aid her in any way she may require.\"
Drenlyn stares as the Knight-Herald and the ailing Lothirel make their exit up the stairs, not able to withhold the grief that he feels for the severity of Lothiriels troubles. Turning back to the Prince and his sister, Drenlyn nods at the Princes request and replies, \"As you command, I shall do my Lord.\"
And no word of disagreement passes the lips of Thorondur, and his eyes he keeps shaded from view -- for the best, surely. Yet Lothiriel he bears gently upward, and speaks no word against those who persecute him.
Bowing low Drenlyn makes to stand behind Ivriniel, glad to finally be needed by these people of nobility.
As Thorondur passes up the stairs with the fragile body of the Princess gently cradled in his arms, Ivriniel pauses long enough to place her hand upon the sleeve of her brother in gentle reassurance. \"I -shall- give her the best of care Imrahil. Forgive me for speaking harshly, but my concern for her is great, as is my love.\"
Announcement: Lothiriel has changed the GPOLL to: Dig up the Golden Knight!.