(Archive) - She is not for Thee, Girithlin — The Red Book of Westmarch

Dol Amroth: Prince\'s Castle - Library(#5470Rn)

Stretching from floor to ceiling, from wall to wall, this room is packed with books. From east to west is a tiled walk, each stone placed meticulously by colour and pattern, giving the walkway as a whole the appearance of a flowing river.

To the left side of the path, a maze of bookcases is sprawled. It appears a chaotic jumble of books, but there is some sense of order to it. To the right of the path, the books are less dense. Most of the area consists of small writing desks, intended for studying and copying. A few plush couches are there also, for more leisurely reading, but they look lonely.

Even though it is daytime, it is hard to tell in this place. A little light drips from around the edges of the double doors, and there are several lanterns set near desks, but windows are absent, for weather poses an unnecessary threat to the books, and the sun\'s light quickly fades their pages. The light sets the color of the walkway into motion, making it flow in tones of pale blue.

Contents:

Thorondur

Imrahil

The Great Codex of the Swan(#25210X)

The Tome of the Bragollach(#1843)

Obvious exits:

Lebethron Door ~~and Oak Doors~~

Exhausted and exhilirated by a day of preparation and exertion, a white-clad mass of weary muscle is situated upon one of several couches near the window bay. Known normally as Thorondur Girithlin, this fellow has his feet propped on a table -- sans boots, at that! -- and a glass of wine held limply in his hand. A heavy text is laid open in his lap.

It would seem that the Girithlin is not alone in seeking refuge after a wearying day, for the doors open softly to admit another -- but no Knight or Squire this. The Son of Adrahil strides within, unaware yet of the Lord-Herald, for his head is bowed as if in deepest thought.

Too tired, perhaps, to note or respond to the opening doors -- aye, perhaps even to know that they open -- the Knight-Herald starts. Setting his glass of wine aside to a nearby table, for he nearly spilled it, Thorondur raises a hand to his mouth, loudly stifling a lazy yawn. Yet believing himself alone.

A swift glance up as the Girithlin\'s weariness overtakes him -- and the Prince\'s gaze falls upon the Knight. A step closer, and then another -- and he stands nigh the table regarding Thorondur with arched brow, his shadow stretching long and wavering upon it.

It is the shadow, and no sound of motion nor footfall that warns him. Glancing up to discover the Prince there before him, the Lord Girithlin at least has the good grace to blush. Doggedly propping himself up by an arm of the couch, Thorondur swiftly begins to stand. \"My Prince--\"

For a moment yet, the Prince allows Thorondur to struggle, his bemused gaze turning from the Herald\'s feet resting upon the table to the rose worn behind his ear.

And they do not leave it.

Waving a hand then, he takes his seat upon a couch across the table -- and yet, no word is spoken.

A bit surprised, surely, Thorondur relaxes back into the cushions -- if relaxing it can truly be called, beneath the riveting stare of his liege. His feet come down from the table, at least, and he sets aside the book in his lap. \"Your Highness?\"

He cannot disguise the inquiry -- nor the slight tremor, at that -- in his tone.

The Herald\'s words linger in the still chamber -- and for answer, they have Imrahil\'s gaze which turns from the rose to the visage of the one who wears it. Clear and bright, his grey eyes glint in the shadows -- for winter dusk sweeps across the land by the sea, and only the pale light of the first twinkling stars fall through the window. And in the end:

\"You wear the rose well.\"

And it is not a question.

Slender fingers lift to touch the flower tucked behind an ear. Suddenly self-conscious, The Herald lowers his eyes humbly. \"My lord, you honor me unduly,\" he murmurs. And pauses, drawing a breath.

Then lifting his gaze to meet Imrahil\'s, Thorondur says in a voice both strong and clear again, \"She gave it me, here, in this very room.\" And slipping the rose, blossom and stem, from where he wears it, the Herald looks upon it with a reverential gaze.

A thing of great beauty indeed is the rose, it\'s alabaster petals glimmering with the silver light of Tirion -- but unnoticed, so small that its wearer has not marked it yet, a thorn remains upon the stem.

Until now.

And a single drop of blood trembles upon the Herald\'s finger in the starlight.

\"It was thus all those years ago\" -- the Prince\'s voice is quiet and low, a part of the very dusk itself.

\"Beautiful? Verily,\" replies the young Herald.

Yet even as his eyes stray to swelling of scarlet, and the miniscule spilling of blood -- he smiles again, and softly. \"But in those days,\" Thorondur says quietly, \"There were no thorns.\"

\"It is better, I think,\" he decides. \"They are... a reminder.\"

But there is no smile upon the Prince\'s visage, nor even a lightening -- for in his eyes linger yet the memories of days long gone.

\"Then bear the reminder well in mind, my Herald. She is a woman grown, and I will not make her choices for her...but she is my daughter yet. And...\" -- forward into Elbereth\'s light the Prince leans, and his gaze is as a keen blade upon the Girithlin.

\"...I will not have her hurt again.\"

And the words are set in stone, as if carved into the mighty mountains of the West by the hammer of Aule himself.

But strangely -- and perhaps, astonishingly so -- the Prince\'s gaze is met, this time, and held. And it is a look of equal determination, and no less courage either, that meets those stormlike orbs.

\"Never again,\" Thorondur avers, voice a whisper in the silence. \"I swore it to her, my Prince. Never again.\"

\"See that it is so\" -- and yet, stern though the Prince\'s tone may well be, it is tinged by...weariness?

And rising with no other word spoken, he strides to the door, thither to pause -- a reminder of Numenor lost, lonely in the glory of his blood in this diminished world -- and cast a last glance to the Lord of the Girithlin, \"There are few I would choose as her champion and friend over you, Thorondur.\"

\"But she is not for you.\"

And he is gone into the shadowed corridor beyond, only the memory of his words lingering -- and they are not unkind.