(Archive) - Borgilas and Lothiriel

Dol Amroth: The Long Bridge(#30116Rn)

This thin ribbon of weathered, ancient stone, upon a time known as the \"Iauran\", in the elvish tongue, connects the citadel of Dol Amroth with Tirith Aear that stands on the furthest west rocky outcropping. Joined to each side at the cliffs\' edge to a pair of tall ramparts, this bridge has no supports beneath--rather, it remains aloft above the thundering waters far below by virtue of the stonecraft of the men of Old Gondor and Numenor before them. So narrow that only a brace of men may stand shoulder-to-shoulder, each side of the stone supports low railings topped with lebethron handholds to ease passage in the wind and wet.

Hooded lanterns are placed along the handrails with the hope of lighting a path, but nighttime means that the Iauran is treacherous and slick, fog-tendrils caught by the wind whipping by and obscuring the bridge\'s sections by turns. Also lost in the fog is the citadel to the east, and all but the Tirith Aear\'s topmost battlements westward. Gusts of wind tug at you, and the waves crash menacingly some distance below.

The Sun is rising glorious red and gold in the east, with birds twittering asthe early risers greet the day. There is not a cloud in the sky..The sky is clear and the air is cool and fresh...

Contents:

Borgilas

Obvious exits:

Door and Landing

Lothiriel

Lovely and proud is this young woman, her features the picture of a beauty from ancient days and noble blood. Long hair the color of the raven\'s feathers that frames her face, accentuating crystal eyes of alternating light blue and grey, is crowned by a circle of white flowers. Her figure is that of a young lady just blossoming into the graceful station of womanhood. Young and innocent she may appear, nevertheless a ray of intelligence shines forth from beneath thick lashes.

Simple yet well tailored is the gown worn by this young woman. Created of the the finest of silks, the bodice is the lightest blue of the early morning sky. A modest V of a neckline is embroidered with flowers and vines in a brilliant royal blue and silver, which then snake out and meander down the elbow-length sleeves to decorate there ends thereof. Spreading out from her waist are skirts of the same royal blue as the embroidery, falling smooth to her ankles, and widening only enough that the toes of simple leather boots peek out from beneath.

Borgilas

A stern visage, a man with darkling eyes nestled beneath stormcloud brows. His skin is weathered and faintly wrinkled round his eyes, his cheeks covered by a thick, curling beard boasting broad streaks of grey. Atop the man\'s head is a shock of raven hair, kept short off ears and neck but otherwise unstyled, showing hoar-frost at both temples.

He wears a wool tunic dyed a deep burgundy, while on the center of his broad chest is picked out a flame in shimmering gilt thread. Black hose cover sturdy legs until they disappear into finely tooled dark leather riding boots.

In his right hand he bears a cane that rises roughly to his waist, made of smoothly polished and gleaming black lebethron, with no carvings or markings the only concession to ornament on the item is the band of silver shoeing the cane\'s base.

Blue-black is the western sky, spangled with the stars that fade before the advance of the Sun--soon to arrive, it would seem, from the glow that suffuses the eastern horizon. Blocked though it may be by the giant form of the citadel hulking on its rocky home eastward, dawn\'s faint glow nevertheless suffuses the air here, tinging the fog of the failing night with hints of rose and porphyry.

Upon the lonely bridge that stretches out westward to the ancient Tower of Tirith Aear, itself splashed on its eastern side with the ruddy glow of the approaching sun, stands a solitary figure clad in a thick winter-cloak, staring disconsolatley into the fog-shrouded whitecaps of the Belegaer stretching southward.

The sun flashes brightly on the horizon. Night gives way to morning.

A soft wind rustles her skirts as a young woman walks silently down the long tongue of stone. The morning sky\'s gleam of red flashes on her heavy cloak of royal blue and silver, changing the colors to a clashing violet and red.

The scuffing of her boots on stone is the only sound to herald her arrival as Lothiriel arrives on the bridge.

A sound not gone unheeded, as the figure in the span\'s center tilts his head. He studies the woman for a moment--for most certainly this is a man, if the thick beard and broad shoulders are any indication--and inclines his head.

\"Good Morning, Princess!\" comes a sudden call, a battle-voice that rises above the ever-present wind and surf to boom off the walls of the citadel and the Tower. He begins making his way along the bridge toward the young woman, his cane emerging from the folds of his cloak to gleam in the morning sun.

The young woman inclines her head, at the same time brushing back wisps of vagrant black hair that the wind returns to obnoxious places moments later. \"A good morning to you, Bragollach,\" she calls out with a smile. Such a loud voice from this one is an unusal thing, yet almost necessary to be heard. \"If a noisy one, here.\"

\"Noise? Tis only nature herself, Highness,\" calls the Bragollach, his voice softening as he approaches. \"And yet, noisy enough at that, I shouldn\'t wonder.\" Sea-grey eyes track over the young woman, a quick once-over, and Borgilas nods faintly in satisfaction to himself.

\"Thou look\'st to be in good health. And it seems that thy passing...\" here he pauses, somewhat uncomfortably licking his lips before pressing on, \"...illness has indeed passed fully?\"

The young Princess\'s smile widens somewhat and she nods, looking away a brief moment at the sea. \"Nature often has much to say, it seems, and vocally at that.\" Once more she tries to tame the wisps of hair that the wind has chosen as its play toys, and once more she fails. \"It has passed indeed, after many foul potions and what have you. But yes, it has passed.\"

A brow arches, then, and the other\'s jocularity seems to vanish into that same wind playing havoc with the Princess\'s tresses. \"Potions indeed...from the High Lady, no doubt.\" His tone is somewhat sour, but he pushes on into other topics.

\"I spoke with the Girithlin recently,\" he says simply, and then eyes the other carefully.

\"My father\'s sister has high interest in my health,\" Lothiriel answers simply, with a shrug. After a moment\'s pause, she raises her chin to look directly at the Bragollach, and tilts her head to the side. A touch of probing playfulness edges into her tone. \"The Girithlin? Is this some new term of friendship and endearment?\"

Again, the brow rises--indeed, if it were to move higher it would be endangered by the wind. There is a moment of no noise save the incessant thrum and howl, and then a soft, \"It is not,\" matter-of-factly. \"I have seen him hurt thee before, Princess. I would not see it again.\"

It is the Princess\'s turn to raise a brow, and she does so, both of them. \"Do elaborate, Bragollach -- ere you begin to sound like my father.\" The smile that turns up the corners of her mouth would imply that such is not a bad thing, and she listens silently, intently, for more from the Knight.

\"Elaborate?\" The man appears dumbfouded for a moment. \"I should not think it necessary--you have known the Girithlin--\" distaste crosses his features and he does little to disguise it, \"--and it seems you know him still. I recall an aphorism from my childhood as caveat to thee, highness: \'Burn me once, shame on thee burn me twice, shame on me.\' I beg watchfulness of you, Highness. The man is dangerous, even if he wears faces of fair \'elvendom\'. The text changeth not even though it might be covered anew and inlaid with gilt and jewels.\"

Lothiriel passes a few long moments in silence. Laying a hand on the rail of the stone bridge, examining it with her fingers, she stares into the water. \"If \'the text changeth not\', Bragollach, is he not then the same who ran off at my father\'s bidding?\" Her question is slow, well thought, and asked with all seriousness as she avoids the Bragollach\'s gaze.

Borgilas nods. \"Verily. And the same who returned, his suit of thee forgotten in his newfound renown.\"

\"I hear no love for him in your voice, Bragollach,\" she notes quietly, finally looking at the Knight.

Borgilas glances at the girl intenly. \"I do not love men that wound those whom I myself care for and protect. What is more to the point, highness--what is it that I hear in thy voice for him?\"

The Princess\'s silence is punctuated by the cry of the birds above as they seek food on this new morning. When finally she speaks, her words are barely above the birds\' calls. \"Forgiveness, Borgilas. Your aphorism perhaps applies in this case. And yet, perhaps it does not. Unless this is a land built on revenge and keeping stern walls about hearts, as it so often seems.\"

Borgilas sighs, and glances southward again. \"It has been said that youth is wasted upon the young,\" he notes. \"For they do not heed the advice of their elders--and often not even the mistakes that they themselves have made.\" Looking once more to the girl, he continues, \"And yet thy life is that--thine. I have said my part--and I tell you now that I have said as much to thy Lord Father as well--not because of revenge or hard-heartnedess. Rather the opposite, in fact. But know thyself, Princess--and know the Girithlin.\"

Smiling softly, and perhaps a bit sadly, Lothiriel nods. \"A rough tongue you may have, Bragollach, yet I\'ve no reason to doubt you, in this or any other thing. I will keep your advice in mind -- yet as your yourself have said, it is my life, and I will make the choices to be made. Even so,\" she adds, smile widening, \"Your concern and wise words are cherished.\"

Borgilas inclines his head. \"Thy grace does thee credit, Princess. I can ask no more. Know this as well, if thou wilt--I hold the Girithlin himself no ill-will true, the man irks me no end, he is a fool at times, but he has served thy father well in matters military. I simply think that a Princess deserves a Prince, and that he is not.\"

He sighs, then, and glances at the newly-risen sun, shielding his eyes from the glare. \"Time marches on,\" he says more loudly. \"And so must I, I fear.\" His gaze drops to the Princess again, a mixture of concern and puzzlement evident for a bare moment before he schools his features to blandness.

The Princess inclines her head in dismissal, \"Again, I will keep your words in consideration, and..\" she pauses, smiles, and allows amusement to show freely on her features, \"I thank you for them. A good day, Bragollach.\"

And with that, she takes up the place of the lone figure, staring silently into the morning waters.

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