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Logs

(Archive) The Fellowship of the Sword 64 - The Waterfall


Short Summary: The Fellowship continues its long stay in Rivendell.
Date (real-life): 2001-01-25
Scene Location: Rivendell
 

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At the Waterfall
The river is moving more rapidly here. The sound of the water tumbling and crashing off the valley floor into the gorge is amazing. There is a significant drop before it hits the bed of the gorge and disappears from sight. The noise level is quite high here, and you must raise your voice to be heard. To the north, almost overhead, loom steep cliffs, dark against the cloudy sky. A few trees are within your light, but there are not many, as the soil is getting rather rocky. A pleasant wood covers the near shore further upstream. The far side of the river is only visible as a dark mass. The new growth here is a little sparse, but still a vibrant green. The breeze off the river is warm, though a little damp, quite pleasant after the winter. A few flowers poke through the grass, bright spots of white and pink in the soil.
Contents:
Rowaen
Morrandir
Monument
Obvious exits:
East leads to Among the Birches.

Silver light, how it sparkles at this hour, so near crystal clear water, a whirling stream falling down in a cascade of silver flow. Such grace and magnificence is part of the valley of Imladris, dark it is amongst the trees, and so light near the waterfall itself. The stars and moon seem to find pleasure in trusting their silver lights to the waters of the Bruinen. In such display of nature, peace and balance, only a single figure seems amiss. A sharp glance betrays a presence, near the banks of the river. Raven-hair, clad in white and blue, eyes glancing silently at the glimmering depths of the thundering stream. It is Rowaen who sits here, one of the Men of Gondor, having recently arrived in the valley, them now enjoying the hospitality of Elrond's people.

Still Rowaen does not seem to care for converse or companionship, alone he sits, and how tired those eyes stand... Limp his left arm lays silent, and so does his right leg. Next to the Blue Squire a crutch lays within the soft grass, one left untouched. No light this man of Gondor has brought along, finding enough guidance in the lights of star and moon, or so it seems...

The footsteps of another are drowned out by the thunderous roar of the falls. It is another Man of Gondor who makes his way hither, garbed all in black, near invisible in the gloom. He slowly wanders up to the other, pausing afew yards behind him. Silently he watches him, his expression unreadable in the darkness.

"Rowaen."

Morrandir speaks, and then walks up to the huddled figure, sitting down beside him, afew feet away.

Insignificant, may a voice of men seem in regard to the roars of the water, fierce in it's way, yet Rowaen fails naught in hearing the other speak. So he stirrs... Captivation leaves his eyes and immediate is the returning of the seal of calmth within his vision. Coolly he now glances about, in end granting Morrandir a short nod.

"Morrandir."

Speaks Rowaen in the same manner as spoken to. Then once more he turns back to the water, yet not before raising his head sky-wards, glimmering blue in search for stars and moon.

Morrandir elects to remain silent for the present, watching the waters with a feigned interest. At length he glances at the other squire, and speaks thus, "How are your wounds? I take it the healers here are taking excellent care of you?"

No apparent reaction seems to come from the other, though after moments of silence passes, sudden is the raising of Rowaen's voice, seeking to overcome the noises of the falling water.

"Aye, when I let them heal me, then indeed the care is of great quality... though I wish t'would not be needed anylonger..."

Slightly the youth shakes his head, raven-hair brushed out of place by a nightly soft breeze. There the lad's eyes move from the sky to his own leg, bitterness returning, fierce it lightens within the blue, as Rowaen watches the bloodstenched cloth.

"Well you are lucky to be alive," Morrandir says, looking at Rowaen's leg. "You owe it to Sir Arnafel. I only wish I had been there to fight..." He pauses, gazing up at the sky. "Though the reason for my absence was the reason you were taken. Because despite my love of battle I can't wield a blade to save myself. Let alone save my comrades..."

"Correction, Morrandir, t'was not only Sir Arnafel to have saved me... more people were involved in that same effort, ones I am eternally gratefull to... or perhaps was... For really, Morrandir, am I so lucky then? See how it went, I was ready to recover, walki... staggering about without a crutch. Only then, two days back, that cursed knee gave in again. And so I stagger around once more with a crutch!"

First the words speak not unkind, mere calmly spoken and without emotion, yet as Rowaen speaks of his injuries, fierce and bitter turn his words. And a cloud comes to cast a dark shadow upon the so seemingly serene peace which rested upon the Nimothan's features. All vanishes then, silver light forgotten, almost retreating from his fair complexion. Yet the bitter goes away aswell, the near water apparently providing means to change mood swiftly, as if casting all, water swiping moods away, all carried off within the stream.

"Feel no remorse for not being present, Morrandir, there is no doubt in my mind in the intensions of my brethren. More the doubt in mind lies with other matters..."

"Other matters?" says Morrandir, his expression grim. "Pray tell what these matters be?" His voice is calm, though there is a slight edge to his words. Anger or concern? He reaches into his cloak and produces a small hip-flask. Removing the cork he takes a sip, and offers it to the Nimothan.

Freezing cold is that glance, one directed at the other, still it seems not caused by Morrandir's person, more by the Nimothan's own darkened mind. Faint is the smile then, as his right hand declines the offer made. "Worry not, thirst is not one of the matters..." and silence is his part, though not long... for as Rowaen utters a sigh, he glances away from the other squire, gaze resting heavy upon the stirred surface of the water.

"Weary, I am weary, Morrandir. Remember when near Lorien, the talks of the peril that lays in beauty, all men needing to be wary of the goals set and not be captivated by the joys of the Golden Wood... Then I could not understand why one would forsake that what he promised, to be ignorant to the waking world, hurling himself in dreams... How ironical it is then, to find myself in such a position, though in another elven realm..."

Confusion crosses Morrandir's face, and he shakes his head. "I don't understand. What is it you yearn for? You miss the Golden Wood? Or is it something else?" The squire surely has absolutely no idea what the other is talking about. "I myself miss Amon Thranduil, though the whole region was wonderful...such nice folk they were." He smiles, as though thinking of some fond memory. "But it does not drive me to madness."

Indeed weary is that glance, now turning it's burden away from the water, and it seems to ease at that removal... How it is then placed in fully upon the figure of Morrandir, eyes hollow, and bitter is the smile...

"You understand naught, Morrandir? And I can not blame you... for t'is a mystery to me aswell. How can I do of that what I spoke against, to long to stay and drown myself with peace, silence and... rest. Such weariness my injuries have caused me, foolish is it naught?" A brow is raised in support of the question made, though the lad does not really seem to care for a given answer, "What ill-fortune haunts me still... even after my return, still it dost not end! Why did the leg had to give in, while the recovery went swift, I even became more cheerfull, charished more hope with the day... How it now changed into weariness and more dark thoughts... The mind of a human, t'is a complex one indeed, strange in it's thinking ways, for I do not seek to forsake the oath I have sworn, yet why then rests such weary upon me?" Sad Rowaen shakes his head, face turning skywards, engulfing himself in the silver light.

"Questions, always the questions..." soft mutterints, those are added as Rowaen sighs.

Another sip is taken from the tiny flask of liquor. Morrandir swills it about in his mouth for a moment, savouring the bittersweet taste. He then looks at Rowaen intently, and smiles without mirth. "So you believe that you enjoy our moments of rest a little too much? Fear not! You shall heal under the care of the elves, and then the strength and vigour will return to your limbs. After that there will be no holding you back..." he sighs and replaces the cork in his flask. "Dania will be so proud of all that you have achieved when you return. Think of that, and let your love for her guide you." The look upon his face is sad as he says this, and he looks away.

"So... you start to understand, Morrandir..." muses the youth in reply, though his glances leaves naught the surface of the water, instead he speaks more words, "For am I not wary of all that? I think of her every day, never an hour goes by without her name crossing my mind. Thus my concern is great, for it dost not find the outcome I apparently now so desperately seek. As for healing under the care of elves... was it not here the leg gave in? Pushing me back to stagger round like an old man, not able to do without his crutch!" Words, they raise in volume, Rowaen for once openly speaking his mind, one so commonly held secretive towards others...

"And Morrandir, indeed should I recover, I would not held back... yet such a fact grieves me. Imagine what it would do when we come across those being our enemies... this experience, t'will feed my hatred, ruthless I could become, unaware of certain actions. I seek no such thing, for t'is sense I prefer above meaningless actions. See this not as an insult, Morrandir, though I would ask of you, how you dealt when seriously injured... where such thoughts your part aswell?"

"When I was wounded," Morrandir says sternly, "all I could think about was getting well again so that I could go out onto the field and make the enemy pay for what they did in blood. When my eye was lost, and I realised it was gone forever I concealed a burning rage. Just knowing that one of the beasts had scarred me for life, made me forever something hideous to look upon, it made me so angry..." his words are almost a snarl, as though reliving the aforementioned rage.

"Must I spend the rest of my days wearing this accursed patch? Even if I am fortuitous enough to meet another lady, I will always have to cover my eye. When my face is against hers in an embrace, that little bit of leather will always be there. And if she ever sees it removed, I will find myself alone once more. For it is truly an awful sight." He reaches up and snatches away the eyepatch. In the moonlight a horrid scar is revealed, a deep jagged line from his eyebrow down onto his cheek. Where the eye should be is just an ugly gash. The shadows sink into the scar, making it far more prominent. Though even by day it would not be nice to look upon.

"But despite all this, now I just want to go home."

Bitter is the grin...

"So you grew weary aswell Morrandir, see what the quest achieved with us... Men of Gondor charishing a burning desire for revenge... hatred is our part and it grows. Still, I beseech you, Morrandir, let us not give in to such emotions, no good can come of it. If I would not know better, then surely I could swear it is the Dark one himself causing such darkness within our fellowship, spreading his seeds of hatred, anger, weariness, to see the proud men of Gondor fail in their efforts... And /that/ we will not allow to happen, for I have sworn not to return before Amrothos is freed... Strong words, ones that need to be strengthened with even stronger deeds..." Silent is the shifting of glance, silver light shining more on the Nimothan's face, and for a moment his spirit seems brightened.

"So, Morrandir, it is good we can share darkest thoughts, to speak of our fears, in a way it helps to understand one another. Thus I offer you my sincerest apology," a stirr here, as Rowaen extends his right hand, offering it to his fellow squire, "I was dark and sullen, bitterness caused by my injuries, so reminding me of a dreaded past. T'was fear that drove me to provoke those that are my friends, words I regret to have spoken. I was many times harsh in regard to you... though believe me when I say none of it was intented... see it as a weakness of this Nimothan, perhaps having felt quite sorry for himself. I was wrong and freely admit it..."

"Well, I said some rather foolish things aswell." says Morrandir, now smiling. He replaces the eyepatch. "If it is indeed the Enemy who has caused us to behave like this, then that is all the more reasons for us to slay his servants without pity. But let us not kill for our own satisfaction. All death we cause must be for Gondor! Not for revenge. I realise now that I have been fighting for me, not in the name of our Prince or Gondor. That must change." His words are stern, though he smiles as he utters them. Shaking the proffered hand, he adds "for if it does not, I shall surely stray from the path to Knighthood."

And lo! How now a smile breaks through all the cold and dark, conquered by words of trust, sincerely spoken!

"You speak wise here, Morrandir, for it is as you say. We serve another and not ourselves, serving ourselves in way of vengeance, t'will only bring dishonor in the end. For in battle many time choices have to be made, and one can not make such choices when clouded with hatred and anger... So reason should always be our ally in combat, making our deeds indeed glorious, done for a greater good, reaching further then our own..." Almost silver the blue turns now, eyes holding Morrandir in a grave glance. The shake of hand is one firm, before Rowaen releashes the other's grip and turns once more to the surface of the water, where he softly muses, "Dark the one may be, yet stronger the light is that shines within those men of Gondor, aided with the silver rays granted by the carrier Tilion, bringer of peace and light..."

"The light shall prevail." Morrandir stands, and looks about him. "Though for now it is darkness I wish for. The darkness of my dreams, for I am tired. It has been good to speak with you this night, and I look forward to fighting alongside you for Gondor." He makse to leave, but he turns, and adds "And this time your aid will not be unwelcome." There is a gleam of mirth in his eye, despite the grave incident upon the fringes of Mirkwood that he refers to.

Laughter... how it seems out of place amidst all the graveness and dark words spoken. Still it is merriment that rises from the lips of the Nimothan, who follows Morrandir in his track, and Rowaen smiles as he replies strongly...

"A promise I shall make you keep, Morrandir! And honored I shall be to fight on your side! Yet let us pay heed to wise words from others, and let the past be past, unless lessons can be learned. Lesson, I deem, we spoke of just now, so charish those and let them serve for example..." Seconds Rowaen is silent, Morrandir moving further. Yet final words leave his lips, as the Nimothan speaks some more.

"A peacefull night then, my friend, still speak not of darkness in dreams, for ist the night not already dark enough? Let your dreams be one of light, hope and joy... Sleep will be my part aswell, though in a few more minutes, and then I shall dream of my Lady love, and let us see then what gloom remains in my mind.... Sleep well, Morrandir..." Words of Dania, they fill the eyes of the Nimothan with a hopefull glimmering, spirit brightened by memories alone. And such a glance he lets fall on the sky and waters...


Date added: 2009-02-27 10:15:43    Hits: 29
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