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(Archive) The Fellowship of the Sword 68 - The Hall of Fire

Short Summary: Here, Indilzar, Thorondur, and others discuss the happenings of the quest. We actually learn some missing information such as what happened in Esgaroth with Thorondur, we learn that there are still mysterious others claiming to be knights of Dol Amroth, etc. Discussion with Northern Dunedain and Elves.
Date (real-life): 2001-01-29
Scene Location: Rivendell

================== Eldarin Calendar ===================
IC time is: Midnight < About 12:14 AM >
IC day is: Orgaladhad
IC date is: 5 Laer
Moon phase: Waning Crescent
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 142 o Yen 21, Nelandran o Endor
RL time: Mon Jan 29 19:04:54 2001

Hall of Fire
The flickering light of the fire illuminates the room in a warm glow. The firelight plays along the polished wood of the walls, picking out highlights of the carvings of vines and flowers that decorate the Hall, and lining the many comfortable chairs in changing light. The fire burns always in this Hall, crackling from within a large hearth of marble at one end of the room. Songs in this Hall come to life, and dreams seem more real than the waking world.
The firelight gleams from the polished stone of the hearth, and glints of the metallic flecks running through the marble. Wide enough that a tall man couldn't span it with his arms outstretched, and tall enough that he could walk into it without bending. Wood, large and small, is stacked near at hand to feed the flames should the fire grow too low. Fire tools, cunningly wrought by the elven smiths in patterns of vines, are racked on the other side of the hearth. Among the tools are a number of iron mulling rods, meant for heating in the fire and then dunking into one's drink to heat it.
Flanking the great hearth are two pillars, one on either side of the fireplace. Made of the same marble as the fireplace the pillars are carved from base to crown with interlocking patterns of leaves, vines and flowers. Lit by the fire's living light, the flowers reflect back gold and orange and red. Even in deepest winter, the stone flowers bloom like living blossoms.
Songs in this Hall come to life, and dreams seem more real than the waking world.

"Now, Doran, you will hear something special," a clear, ringing voice is saying, underwritten with laughter as a pair of tall Men pass the doors into the Hall of Fire. As they move into the light of the blaze -- the flame from which that chamber takes its name -- the speaker and his companion are revealed.

As Men, and Dunedain -- but not the wanderers of the North. Rather these are lordly folk, proud princelings clad in the brilliant garment of Gondor.

Or one is clad so, at least. The speaker, himself, is dressed strangely -- as one high among the Sindar might robe himself.

There by the fire, where the flames paint the room in cavorting shadow, a woman is crouched by the fire, a mug cradled in her two hands. She rises with an easy grace as the two men enter the room, turning to study them in silence, before she turns to a great and ancient chair pulled before the fire, where just one small foot may be espied tapping to some unvoiced song, and simply, she smiles.

At a narrow table, well laden with wines and glasses, stands a tall elven maid. Her long braid, dark and shining with gold in the fire lit hall, hangs down her back, bobbing slightly with her movements. She pours herself a deep claret from a crystal carafe and takes a sip.

Curiosity causes her to turn, and see the two men of the south, whose voice sound so clearly. She too studies them in silence.

Visibly surprised, for his shining eyes quickly narrow quizically -- perhaps at the lack of song, and story, or perhaps at the quiet that fills its place so queerly -- the first of the southerners comes to an abrupt halt. Pursing his lips, he glances quickly about the room, meeting the glances of those who regard him and his friend--

And then without preamble he laughs, and tells the other, "Or perhaps there will be no singing after all. Will these ladies tell us where the harpers are, I wonder?" The question is left open, awaiting an answer; likely one not from the second man.

The less forthright of the two newcomers, his movements just as fluid if more subtle than the other, stops inside the chamber's doorway. Called Doran, supposedly, the man pauses to glance about the warm, well-lit room. The cozy air of the close Hall seems to uplift the young knight of Gondor yet further. He chooses to remain silent for now, basking in the comforting, quietly festive atmosphere of this fine place.

The tapping foot slows, and its taps become more punctuated as the very loud, very brash seeming southerner makes sound in the hall. Gradually it stops, and dips out of sight, as a reply is summoned up from the deep backed chair, impenetrable to sight. Fingers draped loosely over the backing tick away seconds.

"Where harpers do go, I should imagine." Out the side, a glass is dangled between fingertips, turning light this way and that, particularly upon the face of Tara. "You have your halls as addled as your hem, southerner." The woman's voice teases as surely as one could like.. or dislike, for that matter.

"I can not speak for the harpers, for I am not of that number. But the hall holds other pleasures, at times," the elvish maid adds. "Wine, warmth and at times, quiet meditation." Dineriel spreads her arm to indicate the sidetable behind her. "You are welcome to all three."

Her voice when it comes, rings out in the hall with the lilting accent of the eastern Nandor.

One hand is brought quickly to her mouth, stifling an abrupt noise -- a cough perhaps -- as the indolent speech of the hidden woman falls lazily upon the Hall.

"A cautious answer, my friend," the raven-haired woman murmurs quietly, and it seems she would speak more, but then another voice bids the strangers welcome, and she contents herself with a decorous sip from her mug, eyes light upon the men.

"If my hem is addled, Madam, then the fault lies with Thranduil of Greenwood, and not I," the first knight remarks, light-hearted and light of laughter as he moves to the wine-cart, eyes on the chairs and their keepers. And he reaches it swiftly, smiling his thanks to the elfmaid there--

But saying only as he draws a glass of wine, "Yet for myself, I would not argue with a King." Now the fruit of the vine is gently poured, and he adds:

"Or his tailors."

Austere is her countenance, the brief smile having left no trace upon the woman's lips, but in her eyes, deep in their guarded depths, there dances something, faint and merry.

"Mayhap such deference explains both his manner of dress and his presence in lands so distant from his own," is her observation to her hidden companion.

The elvish maid drinks of her wine, regarding the Dunadan of Gondor over the rim of her glass, mirth sparkling in her eyes. She lowers the glass and comments, "Indeed, one should not argue with a King, nor complain about his costly gifts."

Her eyes trail down the form of the Dunadan. "I have been told you visited my folk but how came you to receive such favor by my Lord?"

The glass raises high, in something of a jaunty mock toast, the fragile yellow liquid sloshing in the vessel dangerously, but spills not, for it is smoothly brought down again. To Tara, a hand gestures in the air a loose loop, and the hidden-one speaks again, "Or perhaps, dear friend, it is that in the south they argue with Princes, not Kings, and Stewards, if at all."

Sitting up, Iselinde the Rude lays her chin upon her hand, which turns down to grip the arm of the chair. The other hand draps loosely over her dark hair, the glass stem dangling to the side of her cheek. "But then, I should wonder after the circumstance of such a gift before I speak, should I not? Now, where were we? Something about a game?"

"Alas," comes a swift reply, suddenly less warm from the tongue of the florid southerner, "for if our errand here were half so frivolous as that, I still might laugh." But no laughter parts his thin lips now, and when the white-clad knight sips his wine, it is a draught both bitter and cold.

Wrapped of a sudden in this new, grim countenance, the kindness of the elfmaid brings light again -- and thankfully. "I received it only in that no humbler garb would fit," he confides in her, now looking away from the chairbound. "Or so the tailors said to me -- but I think that their lord has intentions less trivial."

Her clear eyes fixed upon the mercurial man, the ebon-haired woman studies him at her leisure, easily and without apology. And then, her face yet expressionless, she turns to Iselinde and scolds, "You really are a menace. One wonders why you bother to come down out of the mountains to consort with others, or have you developed a taste for pains not dealt upon sword point?"

The companion of the outspoken man chuckles, his lips parting into a bright smile. But at the words coming from the seated women a somber look steals across his face, his jaw slackening. Drawing away from his friend's side, nearer to the fire, Doran ventures a call at the seated pair. "If, dear ladies, you would wonder aloud at that which you seem to know little of, perhaps you would allow us to make your acquaintance. You speak as one who would know a stranger at a glance, and begrudge him. Yet still, I would know your name, before this conversation is carried further."

Iselinde, however abrasive, is not totally without pity, Iselinde murmurs, "Alas, that no errand so far from home and hearth may yet be frivolous in a world such as this one is and has ever been."

Grey eyes swinging from her drink to her companion, she feigns a hrmph of supreme indignance. "Mayhap I have... or else why would I seek converse with you?"

The second man speaks, and of the two women before the fire, it is the one standing before the dancing flames who replies:

"Good Doran, we ask forgiveness if we have inadvertently broached some obscure protocol of the South, for here in the North, we do not trade names like a child's bauble, free to whomever might fancy it. And what you take for ill manners is not as it would seem, for in our speech, barbed as it might feel, we take your measure, and not by the titles which adorn the names of so many of your companions."

"He can be generous, when the spirit moves him. A fair Lord, but stern." The elvish maid remarks. She smiles then, a smile to banish any shadows, and a smile to rival the fire in warmth "I am Dineriel of Amon Thranduil. I am glad to see you so well cared for by my folk. I am told there is little news to bring from the Greenwood. For that I am grateful, for so little comes east that is good, in these times."

"Ah.. of course," a faint smile begins to rouse the features of the younger man again. "But there it is. You have my name in your keeping, and no bauble. And I know not yours, though it may be of little concern to my friends and I, or anyone North or South."

"Still, I would know it, for it seems that this talk is deeper than would pass amongst mere strangers. I was not aware that I was to be measured by any dwelling within this House. If I had known more of the inhabitants here, and their speech, perhaps I would have approached with greater guard," he adds, though the smile upon his face is growing slowly.

"And yet if news is good or ill, still Gondor hears little of it ever, from the North," or so the first knight assures the elfmaid, Dineriel. "Yet this is not the first time I have walked these empty lands, known once to my fathers -- or met there the people who guard them still," he adds, glancing aside toward the women, and Doran.

Yet it is the Elf who holds his focus, and the Elf to whom he inclines his head in thanks. "I am called Thorondur Edrahil," he tells her, and Edrahil is Elf-friend in her tongue.

An expression of mischief lights upon those pale features then, her blue eyes now dancing, as the woman moves to close the distance between herself and Doran:

"Indeed? Foreknowledge of what and whom you would find here would have made you more cautious?" Turning back to Iselinde, she calls, "My dear friend, did you mark his words?" Without awaiting a response from the tart-tongued one, she turns anew to the Southerner, "So then, you approach with merry abandon those places and peoples not known to you?" Her brow creases, as if in great thought, "In truth, your logic tries me."

Iselinde finishes her glass and here stands, to slowly make her way favoring her left leg faintly, from the other dark haired women to the table by Dineriel. Thereopon she lays the glass in a bin for later washing. Quiet, the glib tongue of before leaving the sport to the other. " And me thou chasten." she shakes her head, smiling faintly as she finds rest again in a chair. " Do stop toying, and be fair, sweet friend, or I shall betray your name for you. You are, afterall, asked."

"An elf-friend? Your mystery is unveiled, Thorondur of Gondor. For I can now see why my Lord would grace you with the garb befitting one of his own." Dineriel stands, one arm laid across her stomach, the elbow of the other resting lightly upon the first and holding aloft her wine.

Her gaze travels to the pair before the fire and the second Gondorian. She leans closer to the elf-friend and whispers behind her glass, "I think your friend is in need of rescue." But mirth flavors her tone, even as she speaks it.

The one named Thorondur allows the elfmaid's words to send his sapphirine eyes straying, to Doran; the younger knight he watches, then, but without wariness.

"He is a Knight of Dol Amroth," the elder knight says at length -- elder indeed, if boyish of visage -- and lets those words rest, as if they are enough. To him, at least, it must be so, for no rescue is set in motion, save that of his wine; it had sat too long in his glass, untouched, ere this sip that he finally gives it.

With a slightly amused glance at his companion, Thorondur, the southern stranger returns. " I had approached this Hall with merry abandon. For here there was to be tales and Elvish song, or so I was promised.. I thought that all the perils of the road were left behind for a time. I had heard that no foul things may find this valley. But mayhap a few sharp-tongued ones could, from time to time," Doran quips.

Her shoulders sag. The woman is disappointed. She stares a moment at the man, exercising a patience not common to the women of the North. Tilting her head in the silence, she eventually ventures, "Have you no more to say, fair Doran?" and upon her face is the disappointment of a child who has accidentally stepped upon a new toy, rendering it capable of naught but a pale squeak.

A change comes over the elvish maid, subtle but perceptable. As if a shadow had passed over her, faint as a flickering candle. "Knights of Dol Amroth?" And her own eyes are drawn to the second man of Gondor, the young knight Doran. She studies him closely, unfolding her arms and touching lightly, with her free hand her shoulder, seemingly unconcious of the act.

Click-clack... click-clack...

The stern fall of Mannish foot fills the southern hallway. Somebody approaches.

Click-clack... click-clack...

Then slowly into vision filling the portal beyond a figure of almost menace stands. Black as the shadows of the hall is he, but perhaps this is only his silouhette, for as he enters, his proud mien reveals a pale face. The face of the kin of the Southern Dunedain.

The seated Iselinde, her eyes heavy with amusement, leans back against the table, turning her head to glance at Thorondur and Dineriel, but most particularly the clacking and clicking newcomer. She tilts her head forward to let her hair eclipse her face. "Alack, for pity, we are overrun. The game is up Tara, we must flee, lest they try to reason us to death."

"We are all of that solemn brotherhood, my lady Dineriel," says Thorondur, quietly to the elfmaid as a slow grin curls his lips: for there is the sound of footsteps, and the appearance of a friend strange but stout. "Even this one," he adds, nodding toward Indilzar as the man comes now to loom upon the threshold, "and I in my turn."

Bright laughter breaks over the hall as the woman, her bauble stolen and tossed into the air for any to claim, turns to her companion, Iselinde the Rude, and smiles:

"In flight, even cowards might be named wise....... shall we?"

And this new man now turns his proud glance to the woman who spoke last and his sea grey eyes look at her. A pause but brief in instant to his fellow knight, but he steps forth and says, "Surely here are those among our northern kin or I am a fool?" He looks at Doran and Thorondur in wonder.

Lost in some unpleasant memory, Dineriel is startled by the noise of the approaching Dunadan, caught, uncharastically off gaurd. Even before he is announced by Thorondur and named friend, she turns as a sudden movement. Her face pales at the sight of Indilzar, clad in black, "I have had dealings with men who claimed to be Knights of Dol Amroth, undoubtedly false ones. Or so I hope for the sake of the south."

A sober expression takes hold of the young knight's features. "Tara, then.." he comments lightly, reverting back to common speech. "If you must take your leave of this place, I shall be the less at ease. For I had enjoyed your game, while it lasted, and had looked forward to what tales it might spark. Such was my only desire this night, approaching the hall, not to drive away any new acquaintances with harsh words. I apologize, Tara," and here the knight bows. A trivial custom from the South, if a bit mocking and playful still.

"I have heard such from Rhuarc of your land," breaks in Indilzar, "but again as before these 'knights' are false ones and are meant to deceive those who have not been to Gondor with her many rivers. Ah! Gondor! Would that I could come back to you and hear the gulls cry by my native home. Dol Amroth nigh the sea!"

A look of worry now Thorondur casts toward Indilzar -- yet his speech is saved for the immortal, to whom he looks with a sudden concern. "Why have I not heard of this, Indilzar?" he wonders aloud. "Say on, lady -- for any man who goes forth falsely under the aegis of the Swan can be no friend to the exiled heirs of Westernesse that is lost."

Iselinde stands, her face no less stern than a cliff face of unmarred but unpolished stone. Her eyes still hard, she gives no worded response to Tara, merely holds out a hand in friendship to her, angling her eyes back to the fireplace, and the chairs thereby, in a sortof of cross between askance and direction-- nay preference. That is it. Limping then slightly, forth she goes to the fire. "Tara, do ask your very young friend to come and talk with us. Surely there are things we may ask... this hall grows drafty near the door."

"My King has his measure of wisdom and deemed them false and thier intent to spread lies, but to see you, dressed so...My apologies. I mean no insult, but I was sorely injured by these false knights and live only through the intervention of the men of Anduin." Slowly, the color returns to the face of Dineriel, as such that would normaly rest upon her pale visage. But it is a healthier shade and she begins to relax. She nods once to Thorondur and sips of her wine before granting his request...

"Indeed, Iselinde," comes Tara's thoughtful reply, each word dropped with care into the quiet air, "I would hear more of how lapdogs might claim kinship with wolves."

Indilzar nods but now it is not quite the elf that hold his interest. Rather he is drawn to the fire. He turns and looks at it in wonder and then at these two women. His grey eyes take them in and he steps forth coming nigh Doran. He bows with his arms crossed across his chest and the incline of his head as one of training and courtesy, "Hail. I know by sight that before me are those of my kindred and I wonder much at that, for it has long been held in my land that the sons and daughters of Arnor were gone. Now I can see with my own eyes that Annuminas the fair lives on yet. I am named Indilzar, and the Bragollach is my kin, of Gondor. Merry Amroth nigh the Sea is my home where ever the waves crash in their beauty. What be your names?"

And though the fair knight all in white lends his ears to the elfmaid, and his clear blue eyes as well, a single comment draws his notice -- like sudden lightning, in a sky that seemed otherwise clear. And so it is that he stands near Dineriel, Thorondur shakes his head sadly; and only can the veiled words of Tara be the source of his dismay.

A wide grin splits the young knight's face now and Doran laughs. "Well asked, Indilzar. Though you may find your answer long and little to the point. I myself have spent what could only be many hours here in biting converse," the young nobleman chuckles, strolling towards the fire now. "I will save you the trouble, by introducing Tara and Iselinde."

Indilzar nods but does not return that grin. He says, "So let fate be cast and the tides of time shall tell their tale."

Iselinde turns to level her gaze evenly upon the dark clad Indilzar, making of her face an expressionless mask of porcelin and pale paints, for to such it could be likened. "Peace, Tara, joke not is such directions, for they shall not grasp our humor, and we may do harm where we speak in jest alone," she says unto her friend, as still looking she sits.

"Dark Sir, I know not who you are, save that your compatriot calls you Indilzar, or why by such names you call us... But we claim to thee no kinship at this time. Pray, essay to call us only by name or indefinate, for there is no sin so severe as claiming what you may not."

"Harm is fair enough if the will be evil of intent," says Indilzar to Iselinde. He pushes back his black cape and says, "I shall abide by your wish Lady, though I know better as my heart dictates. For even if the sons of Gondor were laid low and lived in rude villages among the fisherfolk, still would that noble strain live on as I see in thee. Yet I hold no claim, but come at this notion to know your name and naught else? Is there anything else a man from the South may ask a maid in this fair vale where evil enters not?"

His eyes glitter grey as he looks at Tara, drinking in deep the dregs of her countenance.

"A simple but dark tale, sir Thorondur. My guard and I met a man in Esgaroth who claimed to be upon the business of the Lord of Dol Amroth. He came to take my companion captive. I tracked them and the man's guard, black clad and dour, through the dark wood while I waited for my kin to find us." And here another shadow fills the hazel eyes of the elf maid, she raises them to meet the sapphire ones of the Dunadan while she reveals her tale. "Though thier claims to be of the south remained steady, they bore the baleful eye and tortured my friend with sorcery, plucking out his eye as I watched hidden. It was during his rescue that I was felled by his mace, shining with it's own sorcery. It was the intervention of the Beornings that prevented his fatal blow..or perhaps enslavement. He fled, but not so his men. They lie buried upon the edge of the Old Forest Road."

Levelling her gaze upon the young knight, Tara murmurs, "Only see what you do with my name, so new to you, and yet so quick you are to toss it away."

Straightening now, the raven-haired woman inclines her head to the man given to grand speech, named Indilzar among other names, watching him with the quiet amusement of one who finds a similar delight in the capering magpie, all sound and fury. And the odd feather.

Cocking a mirthful eye at Tara and the other as he steps away from the fire now, Doran remarks, "Not quick or uncautious, lady. Say rather, that I am more used to courtesy and good speech, especially among friends. A strange custom from the South, perhaps." He strolls towards the simple table, to take up a drink.

"Truly though Lady names are dangerous things," says Indilzar with a mirthless smile. He shifts for a moment so that the fiery light catches his face in a red hue, "For you do not know the Bragollach. Yet that is a name I am known by: The Sudden Flame of Gondor indeed."

He snorts almost derisively and lets his tongue flow again with the strange and pleasant accent of the Men of the South, "But there is the heart of the issue: A name is only so much as what is made of it. Why for example should the child in the cradle be named ere their name is truly known? For a name can tell you much of the person if the mind is keen enough."

"There, Iselinde, you see," comes the drawled response, "you need not consult the healers here for the sleep which evades you, for here, in the endless rolling speech of the Sudden Flame, comes the Sudden Slumber." A sudden yawn forces a pause in Tara's speech, but only for a moment, "Tis the truth, I am already halfway to sleep myself."

This elfmaid's tale fills Thorondur with a slow anger, and it grows in the telling; soon even the faintest echoes of his fellows' conversation are lost to him, and upon this story he bends the fullness of his thought.

Folding his hands together, the lordly Man of Gondor turns -- and looks long and far away, toward vistas that he alone can see, west and beyond the walls. Vistas of his own imagining. At length he says softly to Dineriel, "There is one man alone in Dol Amroth who dares wear black, and that is Indilzar before you. Thus indeed we must conclude that these Men were of Mordor."

"I pray for the sake of their counterfeit souls that their trail has run cold, ere we cross the Pass once more," Thorondur concludes, his voice now chill and riven with justice's silent promise.

Indilzar shrugs and looks dourly at Tara, "Then I bid you farewell."

He turns and comes to Thorondur, "Thorondur, I do not know who these Men were but assuredly if they are found they shall pay for their insolence. Never before have any claimed such title falsely and so far away from our home. Little did they wonder perhaps that the servants of the Prince would come hither. Now woe to what shall betide them these emmissaries of deception if they shall fall within the the grasp of Imrahil's fair knights. For are not the greatest of the warriors of Gondor gathered hither?"

Iselinde shields her eyes in the ultimate of discomfort, and says as sweetly as she may in such situations, "No one shall hold you from your bed, Tara, would you but go to it." She looks to Doran and says with an unhappy little grin, "She is delirious-- Has stared at the moon once too many, poor child. You must excuse her. Does she not seem tired to you, Doran of Gondor?"

Watching the pinch-faced Indilzar mince across the room to less challenging conversations, Tara leans down to her companion and whispers, "I see our Southern friends are accustomed to far more gentle play."

"I will make no such claim for myself, my friend," speaks Thorondur to Indilzar then, with a look hard and stern -- not for the sake of his friend, but of those they will hunt. "Yet neither will I shy from the challenge of dark sorcery. We will find these black enchanters, my lady," he promises Dineriel.

Nodding, Indilzar says, "Indeed, but first we must see Lord Elrond. There is the task at hand. Has there been any word yet Lord Herald?"

"Cold indeed. For I have already, in the company of a few rangers of the north, crossed the pass in search of this namless sorcerer. And found nought but the evil that normaly lives beneath the once fair forest of Greenwood. It is in the south you must look for him, where my own folk do not go." Dineriel sips her wine, listening to the sable clad Dunadan. Her eyes hold no shadow but now glitter with cold anger. And to Indilzar she speaks, when he himself has spoken "Or perhaps, it was with hope that the true Knights would come and meet with trouble."

"Nay, but perhaps these games of speech and duelling tongues wear upon her," Doran returns, slowly swirling a tall glass of wine in his hand as he glances over his shoulder. "What of you, Iselinde? Your discomfort is plain enough. Is there anything that you are lacking that this hall would provide? I could return with another flask, for I was about to return to the fire's warmth.." his voice trails off as he turns back about.

"Trouble has already found us many times," replies Indilzar. "Too many times. We are fortunate that none have died yet."

A tall figure enters the hall, at one with the shadow for a breath or two, before he is revealed to be the golden-haired Glorfindel. He pauses, not joining those who speak amongst one another, but moving to a stool to the side of the hall, near the hearth.

"A hope in vain, then," adds Thorondur to Indilzar's words, "if more indeed than mere 'trouble' was sought. For the blood of Westernesse may have thinned, but it has not Faded." Then more softly he confides in his fellow-knight:

"I have not seen him, nor heard aught save that he is busy with these Dwarves. And I am aggrieved by it, for when first I came hither those long years ago, it was Elrond Half-Elven who named me a Friend to his people. I owe him honour."

Iselinde leans close and says in an extremely low and conspiratorial way, "Such a thing you needed flouted before you as a very proof. Tara, for shame! You have seen the box-flowers of Gondor. I have heard it said wildflowers will perish in such keeping. A proverb from somewhere or another."

Iselinde pleasently looks up to Doran and bats her eyelashes, "Oh no," she says, touching a fingertip to her closed eyelid, "I had something in my eye. A glass of water, perhaps-- nay I shall soothe my face later. It must have been a cinder, but see, tis gone." Oh so very cheerful, Iselinde the Rude.

Indilzar nods to Thorondur and says, "Lord Herald, all shall come to fruition so let it trouble you not. I shall go to the others and see what they are doing. Perhaps Maernus Erutirn has found this 'hobbit' called Bobo. Farewell."

A slight arch of the brow, a quick smile for her friend, and Tara moves to the door, murmuring words of greeting and parting to the golden-haired figure by the smaller hearth. This is the only farewell she gives, for already she has passed from the attention of the Southerners, and willingly does she embrace the freedom gifted by the fickle.

Glorfindel nods quietly to the Dunadan woman ere she departs, then he sits with erect posture, fingers laced in his lap and eyes closed lightly.

"The fire burns bright in his heart," Thorondur whispers. "I pray that it does not consume him."

Such as his words, at the departure of Indilzar. Now thoughtfully does he sip once again from the wine he has taken, and only then -- of a sudden -- do his eyes widen, falling as they do upon the form of Glorfindel; widen in wonder, perhaps, and with this Man that is no small thing.

The young knight glances after the sharp-tongued woman as she leaves, seeming a bit disappointed, perhaps. "I was speaking of your leg," Doran says as he returns, setting down a glass of water on the arm of the chair. He takes a step closer to the fire, gazing into its flickering depths. Now the young man of the South falls silent, heeding no longer who might come or go within the hall. He stands there, unspeaking, clasping a half-drained glass, yellow flames flickering, mirrored on the surfaces of his keen eyes.

Glorfindel yet meditates, body still, but very much aware. He seems scarcely to breath, as though he were a statue, but then the spell is broken, and he opens his eyes, cocking his head to the side and unlacing his fingers.

The elvish maid inclines her head, a tight smile for the dark clad Lord upon her lips, for her grief and anger have yet to fully fade. "Farewell."

"He is young, he may yet learn to bank his fire," she observes to Thorondur. Eyes yet on the departing Dunadan.

She picks up the carafe of wine, and refreshes her glass. Letting her own gaze wander until it rests upon the golden haired Glorfindel across the hall. Though less wonder greets the impressive sight of the ancient Noldo, than it does her mortal companion.

Left at last alone by the fire, Iselinde turns into the the side of the chair with her face, and then draws her cloak up over her legs to rest in silence. Hidden by the chair, the viper waits for the foot that will trod upon it in its leisure.

And so it is that when the Dunadan knight -- youthful-seeming, if not young in truth -- speaks in address of the Noldo, it is with anxiety and wonder seldom heard, ere now, in his voice; and it is not at all the speech of a bold, brave champion. More that of a boy, who has seen his hero.

"You are... Glorfindel," Thorondur breathes, quietly. "Once it was that you counselled me, when my brother was held by sorcery -- as was Elrohir Elrond's son."

"Likely it may be, friend," answers Glorfindel, "though one may remember not each leaf that falls each season when season upon season has passed. But, it is true, I mark you as one known to me, and known to the brethren. I trust the hospitality of the house is to your liking, though you've yet to take the counsel you seek?"

A sip of her refreshed glass leaves the lips of Dineriel stained red. But content is she to offer a mere bow of her head to serve as greeting and acknowledgement to the Noldo Hir. And for now she merely listens to the tales hinted at in the Dunadan's reminiscence with silent curiosity.

"The warmth of this House is like a light long-remembered, and after long darkness returned to," Thorondur affirms for the Elflord, inclining his head. "Though alas, it is true that her Master has yet to be found, by our company; though I do not doubt his detention is well-meant, and that he knows our concern."

Glorfindel nods his head, smiling, "Know that for all things there is a time, just as there are seasons for reaping and sowing or songs for joy or grief. Much in the way of counsel has Master Elrond given, in recent times," he pauses," and in years past. Some have heeded him. and others have not. Some did not have the patience to listen, though they might hear. This I say! Be refreshed, and in time, counsel will be forthcoming. Few amongst your folk," he gestures about him, "know this place and fewer know it."

"And while among my people I am said to know it best," Thorondur agrees, a wry smile turning his lips, "I yet insist I know it little after all."

Then gravely, he bows -- from the waist, after the ancient fashion of his folk, lordly among Men -- and rising bids farewell. "Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, and Dineriel of the Greenwood; good night. For Elves may walk in dreams, but Men must sleep for them -- and I feel the sun is rising."

Glorfindel nods his head in silent acknowledgment, then rises to admire the low dancing flames, prodding them into a myriad of sparks.

"Then may your dreams give you peace and inspiration, Thorondur Elf-Friend, and may our paths cross again ere you leave this fair valley." Dineriel smiles again, the warmth of the sun or hearth contained within that simple expression.

Date added: 2009-02-27 10:27:24    Hits: 371
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