Trembling music sweet would weave [September 3010]{Mirdanel}
Sept 19, 2018 11:45:22 GMT -5
Post by Daeron on Sept 19, 2018 11:45:22 GMT -5
The road was long and wearing, but walking was no new feat for the elf whom had wandered year upon year. Daeron had gathered no map, but he took the path along the western side of the Misty Mountains northward, for he had heard speech in the north of an elven haven, though little information had he and he had not wished to delve in the presence of mortals who could then turn to question him. The elf had traveled thus for some time. The hills and mountains had spoken to him, the further he traveled north, collective memories of the past. Elves had walked, and lived, and even did he pass by the ruins of ancient kingdoms; though how ancient Daeron did not know. He had traveled once across the Misty Mountains on his venture to the eastern lands, and none of these had existed.
Had cities grown and then crumbled in his time? Were the songs of their inhabitants recorded in any script or language? It became apparent upon the first crumbling pillar where the Cirth was evident; that it was truly so, for the script he had crafted was used outside Menegroth after his leave-taking. War upon war had scraped this land barren. The rocks mourned the fates of the hands which had carved these; and Daeron felt sorrowful in his heart that even those who had survived the downfall of Menegroth and the drowning of Beleriand did not survive what had happened thereafter.
But someone had survived, for he had heard tell of the haven afterall, and Daeron would seek it, traveling up the River Bruinen as he had been told, until the high moors on either side had become arching cliffs overhead, and he walked into the space between them; into the valley, where the road was well worn and well used, where here not only the rocks, but the trees and even the young grasses spoke of Elvenesse, and Daeron’s heart quickened. None halted his travel; and he found no fence to bid him turn back, but a lingering in the crisp air of some charm or enchantment. He could feel it in his bones as he had once felt the charms of Melian within Doriath. Weaker, much weaker, but it was a feeling which had not been given to his senses in thousands of years, and he knew this land was protected. He was near.
Daylight melted into evening, and the minstrel thought that he would walk a space further as the river was singing from upstream and Daeron knew in his heart something awaited near the roots of the mountains. Though as time passed, his pace had slowed to a crawl, as time was fluid for the minstrel, and he soon found himself leaning against the trunk of a mighty beech as he watched lace winged moths fluttered in the evening air. The spell and life in the land here caused his flute to come into hand, and his songs soon began to weave between the branches and the ferns with fringes of their leaves curling and browning in the late summer air which touched upon autumn. Music from his silver flute came thin and clear, which caused the leaves overhead to tremble and dance, and the powder winged insects to rise and twirl in succession. Even the tender breezes seem to shiver back on the edges of the grassy glade where he found himself and finch and mavis ruffled their wings and trilled out in song with him as if it were morning, though light was fading into shadow and they should be resting their feathered heads and preparing for southward travels.
It seemed to Daeron that shadow bleak and cold were departed, and in the woven wood beyond the glade his keen ears caught upon a sound, a tune, which rose and fell, and drifted over bracing breeze. A song which was familiar to him. So familiar that his piping quieted, and then diminished completely, though the birds still sang bright as morning at the end of day in high notes of the tune, the Bruinen carried out the low choruses of his song, the leaves rustled in staccatos. A fawn of spring, half grown broke into the clearing, running beneath forest shadows into the light, looking beyond from where came the singing, before departing back into the dusk and Daeron’s grey eyes watched.
Had cities grown and then crumbled in his time? Were the songs of their inhabitants recorded in any script or language? It became apparent upon the first crumbling pillar where the Cirth was evident; that it was truly so, for the script he had crafted was used outside Menegroth after his leave-taking. War upon war had scraped this land barren. The rocks mourned the fates of the hands which had carved these; and Daeron felt sorrowful in his heart that even those who had survived the downfall of Menegroth and the drowning of Beleriand did not survive what had happened thereafter.
But someone had survived, for he had heard tell of the haven afterall, and Daeron would seek it, traveling up the River Bruinen as he had been told, until the high moors on either side had become arching cliffs overhead, and he walked into the space between them; into the valley, where the road was well worn and well used, where here not only the rocks, but the trees and even the young grasses spoke of Elvenesse, and Daeron’s heart quickened. None halted his travel; and he found no fence to bid him turn back, but a lingering in the crisp air of some charm or enchantment. He could feel it in his bones as he had once felt the charms of Melian within Doriath. Weaker, much weaker, but it was a feeling which had not been given to his senses in thousands of years, and he knew this land was protected. He was near.
Daylight melted into evening, and the minstrel thought that he would walk a space further as the river was singing from upstream and Daeron knew in his heart something awaited near the roots of the mountains. Though as time passed, his pace had slowed to a crawl, as time was fluid for the minstrel, and he soon found himself leaning against the trunk of a mighty beech as he watched lace winged moths fluttered in the evening air. The spell and life in the land here caused his flute to come into hand, and his songs soon began to weave between the branches and the ferns with fringes of their leaves curling and browning in the late summer air which touched upon autumn. Music from his silver flute came thin and clear, which caused the leaves overhead to tremble and dance, and the powder winged insects to rise and twirl in succession. Even the tender breezes seem to shiver back on the edges of the grassy glade where he found himself and finch and mavis ruffled their wings and trilled out in song with him as if it were morning, though light was fading into shadow and they should be resting their feathered heads and preparing for southward travels.
It seemed to Daeron that shadow bleak and cold were departed, and in the woven wood beyond the glade his keen ears caught upon a sound, a tune, which rose and fell, and drifted over bracing breeze. A song which was familiar to him. So familiar that his piping quieted, and then diminished completely, though the birds still sang bright as morning at the end of day in high notes of the tune, the Bruinen carried out the low choruses of his song, the leaves rustled in staccatos. A fawn of spring, half grown broke into the clearing, running beneath forest shadows into the light, looking beyond from where came the singing, before departing back into the dusk and Daeron’s grey eyes watched.