(Archive) The Princess and the Knight Herald

Elendor - Sunday, August 06, 2000, 8:05 PM

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Weather: Clear

Time: Early Morning

Season: Winter

Date: Sunday - Yule 2, 3020

Real Time: Sun Aug 06 20:39:42 2000

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Dol Amroth: Prince\'s Castle - Portico Balcony

Tucked in a handful of feet beneath the roof of the massive eastern portico, this balcony grants a grand view of the eastern half of the Citadel grounds, including the portico itself and the two courtyards that descend in the distance. The spires of battlements are visible far-off, and to the north you catch glimpses of the Bay of Edhellond.

In the daylight, it seems one can see forever, for the ground must be surely some four-hundred feet below. To the north the Bay of Belfalas glistens, its deep azure waters giving way to the Edhellond coast, a green shadow far away past the city the green plains roll on to the east, into the horizon.

Obvious exits:

Glass Doors

Thorondur

A tall man, still vaguely young and notably fair of face. His eyes sparkle with the brilliant blue of sapphires, and his dark, rich hair falls just over the tops of his ears in luxuriant waves. In his delicate features, graceful movements, and in the bright, almost eldritch gleam of his eyes, there is an incredible beauty that is somehow more than normal, and strange for it: fair yet fey. In his face now are the lines of wisdom, though he cannot be far past thirty years of age.

Slender, athletic limbs are hid beneath loose-flowing fabric: a vest of rich navy blue over flared, elegant sleeves cuffed tight at the wrist for the arms, and trousers of midnight-blue satin that he has tucked into polished black boots. A belt of black leather cinches his waist, and the buckle is silver.

About it all the man is cloaked in a flowing, regal cape of the same dark, elegant blue as his trousers its inside is silken-soft, and bluish-silver. Silver is the trim of it, but the star-brooch at his left breast is amber, and the hilt of his sword is of gold.

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 frames her face, accentuating crystal eyes of alternating light blue and grey. 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.

A simple bodice of lavender velvet meets a skirt of similarly colored satin, neither piece showing off decoration. The v-shaped neckline is deep and lined with silver thread, yet suitably modest, and the sleeves reach to her elbows. Nearly hiding from sight her soft brown boots, the skirt is fashionably long.

The sun has dawned across the fair green fields of the Belfalas, though many lie fallow with the winter season. Riding high in the azure heavens, fair Arien sheds her golden light upon the white town of Dol Amroth below, and the walls of the Citadel -- and finally, upon the balcony, and the man who stands there.

His back to the doorway, tall and slender, a Knight of Dol Amroth leans wearily against the railing. Yet his cape is a distinctive white, and not the standard grey.

The bright arrows of sunlight peek over the balcony, heralding the beginning of a cool day. A shuffling sound blends with the stuttered chirping of birds ready to brave the season as a slight figure appears in the doorway. Her raven locks fall in a braid against the royal blue and silver of the cloak held close against the temperature cool enough to match the look which appears on her face when she views the occupant of the balcony. She does not, however, turn to leave.

\"It\'s alright, Cal,\" begins the too-familiar voice, the melody of it, as the young knight begins to turn -- addressing whom he believes to be behind him. \"We\'ll find the old bastard yet, you can get some--\"

And as Thorondur\'s blue eyes fall upon the figure in the doorway, they widen despite the circles shading beneath them. His last word is barely breathed, as if plucked helplessly from his lips by the cool winter breeze. \"...rest.\"

While an amused smile plucks at the corners of her lips, the young Princess gives away no amusement when she speaks. Glancing quickly over her shoulder, she raises her dark brows. \"Cal?\" she calls behind her, as if searching for a spirit. \"No, I fear he must have run off.\"

Almost mocking, she adds, \"And such language, before a woman too, my good Knight. Tsk tsk.\"

Glib, Hirluin the Fair once said of the Lord Girithlin: Quick with the sword, but quicker of wit. And yet for this one, for her mocking words he has no answer. Breath caught in his teeth, his right hand moves swiftly to cover his left breast, cover the telltale amber Star of Elendil in salute.

And he drops to a knee, shutting his eyes and directing them down and away, hiding a stricken look -- though badly. \"My lady,\" he whispers, once.

Giving no directive for the knight to rise, Lothiriel regards the kneeling man carefully. \"Good morning to you as well, Girithlin.\" Her words are slow, drawn out of her when perhaps she would have prefered to remain silent, for speech often takes the mind\'s attention off other matters. \"Though honestly, I had not thought to find you here.\"

Nor does he rise, without permission, though he dares to lift his face again. Writ there now, about the sleepless eyes and the handsome features, a solemn resignation reigns pale. Pursing his lips, Thorondur\'s reply is soft. \"Nor would you have come, had you thought it indeed,\" he guesses. \"Yet duty is a thankless mistress, for me. Only in a place like this can I escape her, for a time.\"

The Princess is again silent for some time, watching the knight with a wary and studying eye. Her eyes mirror the morning\'s sky, reflecting more blue than grey as they regard the man. Finally she speaks, and her words are once more calculated and formal. \"No, I would not have, should the truth be known.\" Little emotion touches her voice, and once more she parts her lips to speak, but nothing else is said.

\"Nor can I blame you for it,\" responds the knight from one knee, without hesitation. The lilting voice, so often strong with joy and laughter, is weak and strained here. A long moment passes, and then with solemn determination he stands, in spite of protocol.

\"If you would send me away, I will go. You know I cannot deny you,\" he whispers.

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Again raising her brows as the knight dares to rise, Lothiriel does naught but watch him regain his feet. Her speech is slow to come this morning, but when the words pass her lips, they are as strong as any she ever speaks. \"If this is the only place in which you can escape the pressing demands of duty, I would not deny it, even to you, Girithlin.\"

Turning once again, returning to the balcony rail, a quiet sigh escapes Thorondur\'s lips. \"Even that grace I do not deserve,\" he says, hands clenching the gilded balustrade before him. \"Your Grace -- no -- Lothiriel,\" he says, regaining at least the purpose in his voice, rising a fraction, \"I wronged you, and well I know it. But this cruelty...\"

Lothiriel\'s manner begins to ease slightly as the knight regains his strength and purpose, but only slightly, and the gleam in her eye is bright like that of a soldier defending himself from danger. \"Cruelty? That is a harsh word..\" she trails off, again mouth open to say something that is once more left unsaid. And yet she moves closer to the rail herself.

\"Perhaps. Yet the slightest bit of venom in a word from you,\" answers Thorondur, clenching his teeth and fixing his gaze away -- somewhere, out there beyond the eastern horizon, \"is multiplied by a hundredfold in my heart. If that is not cruelty...\" His voice trails off into silence. A bird calls.

And then: \"Yet I will ever forgive you. For \'twas I that brought it about, in the end.\"

For once the Princess is silenced, finding no bitter words to spit at the knight. She glides closer to the rail, stands beside it yet does not lean against it, keeping her chin high. Her hands are gently clasped before her, warming each other from the cold weather and her own cool manner. Finally, a single word escapes the lady as she asks the many-faced question, \"Why?\"

\"Why,\" repeats the knight. The single word is mulled, mused, considered -- for truly, it has many meanings. And Thorondur\'s eyes flutter closed, though the wind is still and does not sting them, and he turns his head, slowly, to face her, the Princess Lothiriel. A heartbeat\'s space passes.

The sapphirine eyes open again, without shame, and in their level gaze his honesty is unassailable. \"I have always loved you,\" he says, simply -- and looks away again, to spare her the awkwardness.

You say, \"Have you?\" The idea seems to amuse the Princess, causing a slight smile to touch her face. Yet while her tone, her words, betray only amusement, her eyes flicker with some deeper emotion: pride deep enough to dam the river of forgiveness. \"Even now, Thorondur?\"\"

\"Have you?\" The idea seems to amuse the Princess, causing a slight smile to touch her face. Yet while her tone, her words, betray only amusement, her eyes flicker with some deeper emotion: pride deep enough to dam the river of forgiveness. \"Even now, Thorondur?\"

No words, but merely the most solemn, the gravest, the slowest of nods frames Thorondur\'s reply. He turns back to her again, fully this time, hands clasped before him. A long look passes, the depth of his gaze impossible, and then finally he speaks. \"Even now. And verily, Lothiriel, though I pass the gates of Mordor itself I have loved no other, nor will I.\"

It seems his tongue is loosed, at last, for now he speaks with rising fervence, and his eyes shine with it. \"Even now -- yes. And should you turn and go within, still I will ride in your father\'s Tournament with the new week, for the first time in years. And I will win it, and place the Crown of Beauty at your feet, though you stamp the flowers to putty. Even now, Lothiriel.\"

Even as the knight\'s tongue is loosed, Lothiriel turns more solemn, more reticent. \"You are a changed man indeed, Thorondur.\" Perhaps, for the first time in many years, there is no venom to her tone, no anger when she speaks of changes, only amusement touched with amazement.

\"Long years and longer roads, Lothiriel,\" Thorondur replies, stepping a pace away -- for air, for perspective, for propriety -- and steepling his fingers before his chin. More carefully now his words come, the moment of free-flown emotion past. \"No longer am I a brash young man new-come to knighthood. I have seen... by the Valar,\" he breathes, hushed, and over him comes a look of wonder, almost rapture. \"If I could show you what I have seen!\"

\"Brash is not a label I would give you, indeed, and no longer young.\" Yet these are mere musings, without much substance, as the wheels of her mind turn and she moves her gaze from the knight to the Bay far off. \"Perhaps... Perhaps if only you could, I would understand, yet now, Thorondur, I do not.\"

\"Nor, in good conscience, could I ask you to,\" he admits -- and the old pain returns, and haunts his eyes again, having passed only in that briefest moment of clarity. \"Not without seeing them,\" Thorondur whispers, \"or hearing their voices. Feeling the light. It is my own Doom, isn\'t it? For such a happy thing to come between me, and that which I love most? But grant me one small thing, Lothiriel....\"

Eyes and heart once more strongly guarded, the young Princess turns her head back towards Thorondur. \"Speak it,\" she commands more than requests, \"And then I shall decide whether to grant it or not.\"

And so the knight drops to a knee again -- his left -- and folds his hands together in supplication. Swallowing almost... nervously? The Knight-Herald of Dol Amroth? Thorondur lifts his eyes to hers and asks, firm in his conviction now, \"Lothiriel of Belfalas, Flower-Maiden. I ask only this of thee -- a white rose, a flower such as thou art, that I might wear it when the horns cry the Tourney, and do thee honor.\"

And then he bows his head, nobly, silent and hopeful.

A heavy silence descends upon the Princess as she regards not the man kneeling before her, but his hair. Her eyes turn far away, distancing themselves from the moment at hand as she mulls over the knight\'s request. \"I make no promise, Girithlin.\" Her voice is quiet, with no more emotion than uncertainty. \"Yet seek me out on the morn of the Tourney, and either thou shalt have my flower... Or I shall have none for thee.\"