(Archive) The Fellowship of the Sword - Prologue

Prologue

Dol Amroth: Prince\'s Castle - Harpers\' Hall

Unlike the relatively subdued style of the rest of the Citadel, here opulence is abundant. The room itself is vast, thirty feet high and twice that long and wide, carpeted in blue--save a circular space at the Hall\'s center for dancing, where instead gleaming wooden planks nestle together. The walls are supported with stone columns and buttresses accented with precious metals and many-colored woods, while high up near the roof a series of bas-relief stone kings look down benignly.

The colors of the Great Houses are placedprominently--drapes of Girithlin burgundy and Imrazor blue, stars and swans picked out in gold and silver thread are arranged upon the walls, while black-upholstered setees and chairs emblazoned with the scarlet Bragollach flame or covered in azure with the white moon and stars of Isilrim are scattered about the room\'s edges. High upon the eastern wall runs a long tapestry telling the tale of Amroth and Nimrodel, from their first meeting to the elf-lord\'s tragic leap into the Bay of Belfalas. Light pours into the room from windows set high in the northern and southernwalls, falling upon the multicolored drapes and carpet, picking out their vibrancy as only the light of day can, while bringing glowing depth to the polished wood accents on pillar, chair, and floor.

Light streams down into the hall, light of many hues and colours, pale, glorious it casts a rainbowed aura to hover about in a variegated haze of shifting radiance. In the midst of the play of light, a lone man sits in the empty hall, bathed in the soft luminescence. In his hands rests a harp, which he plucks idly now and again a fair note shimmers through the vastness of the chamber. It is the Knight-Herald, and he is draped in white: a ghostly harper, alone.

The doors swing open and another enters the room, also clad in white. Morrandir quietly makes his way across the hall, bowing to the Herald and pausing to listen to the sweet strains of music.

Unlike the men, the next arrival wears a deep dark burgundy, and her skirts swish softly as she walks. Meneliel comes to this beautiful room with the calmness of a wandering ghost, whatever her more brightly colored clothing. The lovely young woman walks very slowly, her eyes trained on a small book she holds in her hands, arguably to read, though she seems more caught in thought, in her own world. Drawn by the music, she makes her way slowly towards theharper, a languid smile touching her lips.

Sweet, perhaps -- but barely strains, this music the Herald is playing. Idle pluckings of odd notes, and no more -- no melody to it, no structure, only a tuning perhaps. Yet so vast is the hall, and so poignant the echoes, that each ringing sound fills the chamber with an echo, a distant laugh from heaven....

This is the way of the Lord Girithlin, in his rare moments of ease he plays.

Upon the steps he sits brooding, and plays.

As he listens to the Herald\'s playing, Morrandir turns, noticing Meneliel\'s approach. He nods to her, though says not a word as though not wishing to disturb the eerie stillness. His eyes wander about the hall, finally coming to rest upon the marvelous tapestries that adorn the walls.

It is a long way yet to the Herald, as he plays his random strains of echoing sound upon his harp, and Meneliel tucks her little book away into a little pocket hidden in her deep burgundy skirts as she continues to walk. It is like a slow procession through the hall towards her cousin, and she is silent save for the rhythmic swish of her skirts. Slightly less distracted, she trains hereyes upon the harper, smiling just faintly.

Head bowed, his concentration is bent upon the harpstrings Thorondur Girithlin heeds no observers, no new-comer admirers. A stillness takes him, an absence of sound as the last note dies out, dies and shudders, fades away into silence....

Then a sharp movement, just so, of the right hand almost a strum. Another brilliant note pours forth in majesty, cascading in waves that grow louder, repeating, ere they too slowly fade away....

Studying the tapestries intently, Morrandir slowly makes his way along the wall. The Herald\'s tune is quite appropriate for the mournful tale of Amroth and Nimphrodel, and Morrandir bears a faint smile as he traverses the hall.

Into this symphony of light and sound comes an ungentle addition -- the booming of the great doors as they open and then close again, giving passage to a lone man. Tall and clad all in azure and argent, the Prince of Dol Amroth is a rare sight indeed in the Hall of Harpers -- for the fairest hall of the Citadel is the one which sees its lord the least often.

And all unheeding now, all unheeding of the doors, the notes come in succession: slow, perhaps, but a melody has emerged where there was none before. haunting, evocative of sorrow -- it is an old and ancient folk-hymn. But the words are something new -- at least, they are beneath this roof, as Thorondur lifts a sad and wistful voice:

In scarlet skies the sun went down

Upon the sorrowed Rhudaurrim,

for ever now washed far away

Their sons, in rain on Cameth-Brin....

Cameth Brin? Some fanciful children\'s tale, maybe?

Their shallow beds have been turned out

Elendil\'s words all turned about

The final lantern gutters out

In rain on Cameth-Brin.

Jerked momentarily from her reverie, the girl pauses in her path, standing between the newest arrival and the harper. She looks over at the Prince as he enters, pursing her lips slightly, just staring like a surprised child for a long moment. A bobbed curtsey of greeting to the man, and Meneliel turns againto glide toward Thorondur.

At the booming of the doors, Morrandir spins around on his heels, a look of slight annoyance upon his face. However this immediately dissipates upon recognising the Prince, and is replaced by one of shock. He bows gracefully.

And still the song goes on. Sad, mournful, a dirgelike air were the notes of the harp not so... lovely...

In pride we fall, and ever since

The Downfall it has been like this:

The pride of Men, of lord and prince,

Brought rain to Cameth-Brin.

The words linger in the hall long after they are uttered, in memory if not in sound -- and there is naught to break their flow, for the Prince does not come forth. To the lady and the Squire he inclines his head in greeting, yet he says naught -- a statue even as those of the ancient Sea-Kings which grace the hall, save that they are of stone and he is hewn from living flesh.

A hand left grasping evermuch

Will soon find nothing left to clutch

A lesson learned, or learned too much?

It rains on Cameth-Brin.

Pausing to stand and listen attentively several long lengths from her cousin, Meneliel stands with her head tilted slightly to one side, her hands loosely tucked in the folds of her long full skirt. She is like an artist\'s ideal: abeautiful girl frozen for a moment, listening as if she is painted.

The final note, sad and sounded, leaves its echo in the air, and off the walls

-- and nothing follows. Like a river dammed, stopped mid-flow, the songdissipates, now leaving on silence --

And the Lord Girithlin lifts his head. A distant sorrow haunts his eyes, too old to be his own still, Thorondur Girithlin smiles, and it is the look of the summer still undimmed. \"Cousin,\" he says. \"Squire.\"

And in the wake of these greetings, the Lord of Lond Duilin dips his head --only now seeing the Prince, afar off before the doors.

Morrandir smiles. \"My Lord, I did not know you were a skilled harper. That was...beautiful.\" He looks down at the harp and shakes his head with a grin.

\"Cousin,\" murmurs Meneliel with a broadening smile, dropping him a neat curtsey of greeting like a proper lady. \"You play beautifully. Most enjoyable.\" She reanimates slowly, like a girl drawn from a dream, soft-spoken as always.

\"Skilled?\" The notion pleases the harper, or seems to -- yet he laughs as well, as he would at some grand joke. \"I have little enough skill,\" Thorondur says with a chuckle. \"To your ears, Morrandir, perhaps -- but had you heard the songs I have, and the voices that sing them...\"

He leaves the thought unspoken, but the meaning is clear. A humble smile is turned on Meneliel. \"Must I repeat myself?\" Thorondur laughs again. \"I am passable, maybe. No more.\"

The notes are no more, but their melody remains -- for listen to it now, echoed in the lilting grace of the tongue of the Eldar, \" A lesson learned well, I deem...but the folly of Men unlearns it too often, I fear.\"

And he steps forth then, Imrahil the Fair, and a sudden smile dispels the somberness of the moment, \'It has been long since this Hall has borne witnessto your music.\'

Meneliel tsks softly, smiling fondly at her cousin. \"You are humble, dear Cousin. Even if you are merely passable, I have greatly enjoyed your music. I do not think you merely passable, but I shall not overly laud you if it makes you uncomfortable. Does it matter your skill if I enjoy your playing?\" she murmurs lightly, her tones faintly musical. Her gaze flickers to the suddenly approaching Prince.

Morrandir steps aside, making way for the Prince. His arms tucked behind his back he calmly waits for the pair to speak. Again his eyes wander to the tapestries he seems infatuated with.

\"My prince,\" replies the harper-knight, bowing his head in a courteous moment\'s reverence. \"The music is no more mine than the hall it is played in. The Rains of Cameth Brin... it is an ancient verse, preserved now only in my family, I fear.\" Thorondur chuckles. \"You see? Our fair Meneliel seems to like it well enough, but it is in her blood.\"

\"When you play it Girithlin, you make it yours...if only for a few moments. But I deem it a fair song indeed -- one which should be played at the feast after the great hunt\" -- and the laughter in the Prince\'s eyes flashes merrily for all to see -- \"what say you lady, and you, Squire?\"

The Herald smiles, if a bit more caught in ambivalence at the thought of such performance.

Meneliel considers this a moment, being a thoughtful girl and prone to silence. \"Perhaps if Lord Girithlin is amenable to playing it. I like it, but as he says, it is in my blood. So perhaps I am not the best of judges,\" she murmurs.

\"Then so it shall be -- Thorondur will sing his song at the feast, and we shall see if only those of the Girithlin deem it fair. But ere that, the hunt...will you ride with us on the morrow, lady? And you\" -- the Prince casts a glance to the youth -- \"Squire?\"

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