Swan's Song (June 3010) - OPEN
Feb 20, 2018 14:28:16 GMT -5
Post by Odothel on Feb 20, 2018 14:28:16 GMT -5
It did not matter the time, for seconds were as hours, hours, as days, days as months, and months as years. The sun rose, and the sun set, though such oscillations were nothing to those of the dim kingdom of Greenwood the Great, for they lived now in shadow, darkness upon their doorsteps, and forest about them dying from disease not even the presence of the elves could mend.
Odothel’s long, thin fingers reached out, pressing against the cold metal of a helm that sat upon a shelf, gently tracing the contours of the puncture dents upon its crown.
“Alpa nin.”
His voice, like music came to her, and the elf maiden’s eyes in the golden, glittering light of the candles about seemed all the richer, like the very hoardes of Erebor he had passed defending. “I will return,” she promised, as she always did, her voice as gentle and sweeping as the golden harp that sat in the corner of the stone hollow she called her room, and with steps like air, she began to move for the door. Odothel’s dark hair was down in waves, small braids set as a crown to keep it from her face, accenting the paleness of her skin and the fair purple of her dress.
Her hand reached, grasping in gentle fingers the silver-hued flute that was set by the door, and with no sound she slipped into the hall. Today, she was going to walk the perimeter of the great home of the Woodland Realm. Today, she would play their song upon the flute, the one that had brought his eyes to her to begin with. She would walk the path they had trod together, and then she would ascend to King Thranduil’s throne and play until he bid her leave.
The halls were filled with music already, for the elves beneath the mountain often sought to carry light throughout their dark dwelling by use of sweeping, vaulting tunes. None had a voice quite like hers, though, and as she moved, her voice rang out, and many she passed paused to listen.
Ir geil thinner Fíriel tirn-ed:
I fuin thind gwannol.
I orlinn, aew goll, palan-
Nallant gaun lim a maeg.
Gelaidh dhuir, minuial ’ael
In emlin gliriel.
Gwaew athrant, i ring a lain
Trî laiss dhyll reniant.
It was the song she could often recall singing with her grandfather, one he had taught for the mention of water. The river of the forest was a great staple to her people, and yet, grandfather had never been satisfied with what he called a small vein of life. The sea, the swan ships of Alqualondë—those were his loves, and the stories he had painted in her youth had filled Odothel’s mind with dreams and visions of grey glass against blue sky, the laugh of birds that took to salt air and dared not venture to the realm of woods and shadow.
Na chenneth tirn i ’lîn ’alol
Al lû calad and ’ael
Bo talf a lass; bo thâr ennas
I vîdh vith hilivren.
Or phain tail thín fain athranner
A dad bendrath tinner,
Revianner cabel trî thâr
Bân i garel ’wing mîdh.
Her clear voice heralded her movement toward the Great Gates, and for a moment her heart did not feel as if it were drowning. Instead, it felt as if it were gliding, and someone it sorely missed was in step at her side.
Odothel’s long, thin fingers reached out, pressing against the cold metal of a helm that sat upon a shelf, gently tracing the contours of the puncture dents upon its crown.
“Alpa nin.”
His voice, like music came to her, and the elf maiden’s eyes in the golden, glittering light of the candles about seemed all the richer, like the very hoardes of Erebor he had passed defending. “I will return,” she promised, as she always did, her voice as gentle and sweeping as the golden harp that sat in the corner of the stone hollow she called her room, and with steps like air, she began to move for the door. Odothel’s dark hair was down in waves, small braids set as a crown to keep it from her face, accenting the paleness of her skin and the fair purple of her dress.
Her hand reached, grasping in gentle fingers the silver-hued flute that was set by the door, and with no sound she slipped into the hall. Today, she was going to walk the perimeter of the great home of the Woodland Realm. Today, she would play their song upon the flute, the one that had brought his eyes to her to begin with. She would walk the path they had trod together, and then she would ascend to King Thranduil’s throne and play until he bid her leave.
The halls were filled with music already, for the elves beneath the mountain often sought to carry light throughout their dark dwelling by use of sweeping, vaulting tunes. None had a voice quite like hers, though, and as she moved, her voice rang out, and many she passed paused to listen.
Ir geil thinner Fíriel tirn-ed:
I fuin thind gwannol.
I orlinn, aew goll, palan-
Nallant gaun lim a maeg.
Gelaidh dhuir, minuial ’ael
In emlin gliriel.
Gwaew athrant, i ring a lain
Trî laiss dhyll reniant.
It was the song she could often recall singing with her grandfather, one he had taught for the mention of water. The river of the forest was a great staple to her people, and yet, grandfather had never been satisfied with what he called a small vein of life. The sea, the swan ships of Alqualondë—those were his loves, and the stories he had painted in her youth had filled Odothel’s mind with dreams and visions of grey glass against blue sky, the laugh of birds that took to salt air and dared not venture to the realm of woods and shadow.
Na chenneth tirn i ’lîn ’alol
Al lû calad and ’ael
Bo talf a lass; bo thâr ennas
I vîdh vith hilivren.
Or phain tail thín fain athranner
A dad bendrath tinner,
Revianner cabel trî thâr
Bân i garel ’wing mîdh.
Her clear voice heralded her movement toward the Great Gates, and for a moment her heart did not feel as if it were drowning. Instead, it felt as if it were gliding, and someone it sorely missed was in step at her side.