Mornië utúlië (August T.A. 2710) [Arwen]
Mar 16, 2018 17:54:46 GMT -5
Post by Mîrioniel on Mar 16, 2018 17:54:46 GMT -5
On the bank of the river Nimrodel sat a lone figure in calm repose, a mantle of fine silk, the colour of mist, edged in silver spread about her like a shroud. Her golden hair fell about her shoulders, but was pinned from her face by a white gold headdress, intricately shaped and crafted. Upon her knee was a sheet of crisp parchment, unmarked by the quill held loosely in her fingers, the ink on the nib long since dried. The stream burbled over rocks, leaving a slight turbulence as it flowed its course, eventually and indirectly toward the Bay of Belfalas. The elf was stared at its passing, and expression of longing upon her features, that seeped into her eyes, making them appear unhappy to the utmost.
Mîrioniel had been partaking in a game she hadn't played since the days her parents ruled Lothlorien. She was attempting to listen and transcribe the stories and songs of the river, though her parchment remained virginal and clean. It wasn't that the waters were silent, more that she had been so enraptured by the sound, she had fallen in to a near trance like state. Legends abounded about Amroth and Nimrodel, people still claimed they heard the late King of Lorien calling out across the sea for his beloved, and her sorrowful reply. The daughter had yet to hear such a thing, despite straining her keen elven ears for such a thing.
It had been many a long hour since the rising sun had kissed the treeline farewell, to continue it's journey through the sky, until it fell once more, greeting the awaiting boughs, to bid goodnight to end another endless day. Mîrioniel, lifted her chin, following the flow of the water downstream, her mind travelling further than her sharp eyes could go, to a place beyond the seas; The Halls of Mandos, there her parents were surely reunited. The she-elf would be a liar if she denied having thoughts about travelling to the Grey Havens, however, her calling to Middle Earth was still strong. Her instincts told her that she still had a part to play in these lands.
Of which, she needed to return to Lorien, an old friend was visiting the realm and would soon be arriving. The thought roused her, and she gracefully stood, collecting her things, and placing them reverently into her saddle bag. Her horse, Rhelar, had not wandered far, and mounting up with ease, she took up the reins, so well made the leather had the feel of gossamer. She turned her steed homeward, and they were soon home.
A quick change of garments was required, from her riding clothes to something befitting the meeting of a dear friend. From thence she made awaited Arwen at Caras Galadhon. The elf stood, elegant and graceful like the princess she used to be, her hands folded over one another in front of her. Mîrioniel's head was slightly bowed, and there she remained, statuesque.