Seven Devils (Spring, TA 3010) [Mithrellas]

« Prev
1
Next »

Mîrioniel
Ghosts of the Third Age

Posts: 89

Seven Devils (Spring, TA 3010) [Mithrellas] Mar 19, 2018 10:36:58 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Mîrioniel on Mar 19, 2018 10:36:58 GMT -5

The day had started as any other, a dawn chorus joined by the crisp rays of the sun slanting between the branches of the trees of Lothlórien. An ethereal figure, clothed in pale green and silver and hooded, was passing between the boughs of the trees that made up the woodland realm. For any avid observer, they'd know this was a well-trodden path, walked every morning by this particular elf. And she was being watched. Though the crude eyes of men and dwarves would not spot them, there was sentinels and watchers in the trees. Guardians of Lórien. They would see her passing, though none disturbed her. Meanwhile she took in all that was around her, each day there were differences in these lands, subtle and yet tangible. The turning of the seasons were always enjoyed by Mîrioniel, as she catalogued the changing colours of the leaves, the emergence of saplings, the new spring flowers erupting from the fertile soil, the fresh buds on the branches. Occasionally, in passing, she might stop at a cluster of snowdrops or bluebells or crocus, gently cupping the blooms, and feeling the velvety smoothness of their petals. As much as these walks provided her inspiration for her written works, that was not the purpose of them. It was a means of soothing her soul, of connecting with the natural beauty of the woodland that her mother loved so dear. Oftentimes she would enter a meditative state during her steady progress through Lórien.

By the time her path returned her to Caras Galadhon, there was a stately movement of elves commencing upon their daily lives. This harmony further deepened the calming of her inner most self. However, today there was no such tranquillity, replaced with a muted flurry of activity. Her initial reaction was to retire from the scene, and withdraw to her room. Instead she remained, her curiosity piqued by the whisperings of those collected around, and in fact, edged closer to the periphery of the action where she could hear clearly what was being discussed. It seemed stories were spreading of an elf maiden living in Minas Tirith! No one present seemed to know exactly who this elf was, merely that reports were abroad of a lady having not aged in her thirty years residing in the city.

Scant hope was kindled in Mîrioniel's soul.

After the death of Amroth and the disappearance of Nimrodel, the daughter of the union went in search for mother, and the cavalcade she had travelled with. The route taking had been scoured, clues had been sought and the stories people of the land were heard; though not directly. Mîrioniel had travelled ravelled the very same path her mother had taken, and searched the lands around Belfalas, avoiding at all costs the men that lived within the city walls.

This commotion was noticed not just by Mîrioniel, the guardians of the Golden Wood had also been alerted. Galadriel and Celeborn, hand in hand, entered. Their stately progress silenced all those hushed voices, and all bowed their heads to the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien, including Mîrioniel. Galadriel's intelligent, and knowing eyes, scanned the faces of those there assembled, and when she spoke,

"What news?" The Sindarin words passed amongst them, as if she had whispered in their ears. No one would dare defy her, or try to hide anything from her, she possessed powers beyond them all. A Silvan elf, scout for Lórien stepped forward, bowing once more, before he raised his eyes to speak to his ruler. Galadriel cast her benevolent bright eyes upon him, giving him her full attention. Mironiel was also watching him close, to her more succinctly the report he had to share.

"My lady, it appears that one of our kind is living in the realm of men. At Minas Tirith, it has been noted that a lady fair has shown no sign of aging in thirty years. None know more than that."

Silence fell, each weighing up the words that had passed between them all. It was highly irregular for an elf to live amongst the men of Middle Earth, casting off their own kind in favour of mortals. There was only one known elf to do that, Lúthien, and she had married a mortal man. Since then, not even the race of half-Elven had chosen to leave their woodland realms. This raised an interesting question as to who it could be living in Minas Tirith, and why. No elves had exiled themselves from Lórien in thirty years, and she had not heard of any deserting Mirkwood or Lindon or Rivendell. That meant this elf must have left their homeland many years ago.

And if that was the case... Mîrioniel could think of one who had vanished without a trace, and as unlikely as it would be, she had to find out, she had to know if there was any connection to Nimrodel.

"I will go, my lady." Mîrioniel said without hesitation, for a moment she appeared so strikingly like her father. The question of investigating this unusual report hadn't even arisen, Galadriel had asked for no volunteers, and so her pensive gaze fell to the younger elf.

"The quest for your mother goes on, Mîrioniel." She said to Mîrioniel, who bowed her head once more. The elf maiden placed her hand over her heart, acknowledging what Galadriel was truly saying: you still retain hope, even after all this time. It was a suggestion so clear and implicit, Mîrioniel felt as if the words had been spoken directly into her mind. There was no accusation within, or mockery, for both elves were too respectful for such banal comments.

"It does, my lady Galadriel, and I would not be put from such a task." She said, again, sounding so much like her father, despite the similarity to her mother. There was another silent pause, in which Galadriel witnessed the determination, and that nothing would prevent Mîrioniel from venturing out. Like Nimrodel before her, Mîrioniel had no qualms about venturing from Lórien, travelling grea distances, the young elf maiden before the ruler of Lórien was known to wander, and there would be no stopping her now her mind was made up. It would be a folly to try.

"Then go, seek out the truth you crave." She said, and with a gracious nod, Galadriel and Celeborn left the assembly. Few heads didn't turn to Mîrioniel at that point, and she received their looks with great forbearance before turning on her heel and immediately making ready to leave. The road would not be a long one, a matter of a week, and yet she wanted to be thoroughly prepared. The orcs were becoming more brazen, despite only venturing from the dark and evil lairs at night. There were cut-throats and thieves on the road, minions of the Dark Lord to name but a few dangers. Mîrioniel armed herself with her bow, and with twin daggers.

By the time the day was passing to afternoon, Mîrioniel was cantering out of the realm of Lórien on Glaurroch, her own horse. He was name 'golden horse' after his exquisite gold colouring, with a mane and tail of brilliant white. This horse was a descendent of Rhelar, a stallion she owned three hundred years before, a gift from Galadriel. It took eight days to get to the Fields of Pelennor from her home, she had been waylaid one night by a small patrol of orcs. Mîrioniel had fled from them in the depth of night, Glaurroch's swiftness saving them both from harm. That had been the only danger she had come near to, having studiously avoided the realms of men and enemies alike.

On the dawn of the eighth day, a figure, wearing a long crystal blue cloack, trimmed in gold, and hooded, skirted the edge of the field. Her elven eyes scanned the land before her, and the great white walls of Minas Tirith beyond it. There, to the east, a lone figure was working to mend a fence. Her eyesight and instincts told her immediately that the labourer was an elf, one of her own. However, there was no elation, as the she-elf had long, raven hair. It was not Nimrodel. That did not mean she could turn and leave, retracing her steps back to Lórien. Now she was here, it was beholden on her to investigate who this outcast was. Slowly, she approached, every sense on high alert.

Mithrellas
Ghosts of the Third Age

"I have nothing left, and all I feel is this cruel wanting"

Posts: 9

Application: https://s8.postimg.cc/xpvzw8h1x/q_Gog_D.jpg

Seven Devils (Spring, TA 3010) [Mithrellas] Mar 19, 2018 18:50:43 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Mithrellas on Mar 19, 2018 18:50:43 GMT -5

It was the same thing, day after day, year after year, decade after decade. Ever since she had been brought to Minas Tirith, since she had been appointed to a position as an apprentice at a local workshop, not a day went by where something was out of the ordinary, not even the man she worked for.

Belen didn’t like her. That much was as plain as the nose on his face. The only reason he had agreed to take her under his wing was because his sister had been tending to her at the Houses of the Healing and insisted on sourcing work for her in the city so that she could monitor her recovery. Burns could be a tricky thing, and Cardis had been left badly burned after the assault. She was longer recovering than expected, she was so accustomed to her wounds healing at a faster rate. By the time she could move, twist and turn her body without flinching, she could only speculate that what remained of her crew after the attack, had long since moved on.

They were finally rid of her, she thought to herself, finally rid of that woman, she felt. She wasn’t going to die of old age, and few among them were any real match for her, not with the time she had on her side, and the skills it had allowed her to perfect. Centuries under her thumb, this had been their chance, the only chance they had been presented with, and they had taken it. She had no doubt that was what they did. Cardis had no ship, and she had no crew, and without either, she was of little value to them. So, when Beleth discovered her fashioning some arrows, she sought out her brother, and he reluctantly agreed to take her on.

After a thousand years, she had come to expect as much of them. Her crew had endured her, and now so was he. Still, every day, she was up at dawn. She didn’t wake up. She didn’t sleep. She was simply ready for work. In the first ten years, her day began with the furnishings that were requested of her master, which she was already halfway through by the time he rose. Shelves, chairs, tables and bed frames. Sometimes, the odd doll house, or toy horse, were asked of him. For ten years, that was how it was. Cardis could make her way through three dining rooms a day, and throw in a children’s room for good measure, and Belen would stand there, either mumbling under his breath or silently judging her.

It never mattered how low he grumbled, she always heard him. Then, he died, and his workshop was left in her hands, and she was left to work alone. It was hardly out of the ordinary, death being so common an occurrence among their ilk, but it was a change, and a change for the better. An increase in her workload soon followed, as a result of growing numbers of orcs to the north, and for the last twenty years, furniture was replaced with weaponry. Now, every day, Cardis was up at dawn, working her way through a wide range of bows and crossbows, aiding in the assembly of catapults to be stationed along the tower walls, and riding out toward the river to help in the crafting of shipping materials to be sent downstream. All of this she did, under his watchful gaze.

Cardis could see him through the clouds that gathered, the smoke that swirled in the east, his eye, wrought in flames, flickering within the shadows. Not many could stop, stand and stare at the amber ring that regarded them, but she could, she did. Every day as she stood on the shore of the Anduin, she looked to the east, listened to the rumblings, felt the tremors in the ground beneath her feet. He was coming. He was coming for all of them, to wipe them out, to end them, to end it all. It wouldn’t be long now, she could see it, hear it, feel it. The orcs to the north were but one sign of his growing strength, and it was only a matter of time before more followed them. The Dunlendings would soon join their ranks, she predicted, as would those from Harad, further south.

The realms of men, of Rohan, of Gondor, were surrounded. They were trapped. All that was left for Cardis to decide was if she would remain trapped with them, whether she was finally prepared to give up, or forge another path ahead once more, but she wasn’t sure she even had the strength for the latter anymore. It had been too long. She had lived for too long. The stronger he grew, the weaker she did in turn. Already, she could feel the effects of living under his wandering eye. Just last night, she’d slept, and slept passed dawn, through the morning. She’d never slept a day in her life before, and she was forced to scramble out to attend to her morning duties.

Cardis was late getting to work on the latest range of bows and crossbows, but neither the catapults, nor the shipping material required her attention today, so she was fortunate that she could take the morning at her leisure. However, that there had been a skirmish last night on the Pelennor Fields wasn’t long reaching her keen ears. Attempts had been made to seize control of Osgiliath from the east for years, given its advantageous positioning over the Anduin, but its budding invaders were quickly sent on their way, fleeing across the plains that had been reserved for farming. They had been felled in their escape, but had taken a great deal of vegetation with them. As a result, there were a great many fences that required her attention.

Trudging through the fields, Cardis was easily able to identify those responsible. They weren’t orcs, but men. She had expected orcs, but they would not have been so aware of the value in securing Osgiliath as a garrison, not as aware as the Corsairs further south, she was just surprised that they’d made it so far up the Anduin. No doubt, the Gondorian soldiers quickly saw to their vessels, and once they were forced onto dryland, that was it. She still struggled on solid ground. Belen frequently put it to her that she was drunk in the hopes of terminating her employment, considering how frequently she staggered about his workshop, just as she staggered now, through the farmlands.

This kind of work had been her least favourite to carry out. She wasn’t fashioning anything, she wasn’t even repairing anything she had fashioned in the first place, merely fixing what she could, and replacing what she couldn’t. There was no sense of accomplishment, and Cardis was only too eager to get it over and done with, but as she brought her hammer to the post, nailing it in place, she heard something. The breeze that brushed through the blades of grass was suddenly replaced, and instead of a bristle, there was a rush, indicative of footfall. However, it wasn’t the footfall of any man, nor woman, not even a child. It wasn’t heavy enough. It was much too light.

“What brings your kind so far south?” Cardis questioned, as she stopped what she was doing, and continued to listen in an effort to determine whether the footfall belonged to that of an ellon or an elleth, but unable to do so, eventually turned to peer over her shoulder. “Your kind, especially” she added. Silvan elf, or so she assumed, the most reclusive among their kin, and she should know. However, the longer her head remained turned, and the longer her stormy eyes remained fixed on this she-elf, the more familiar the features of her face became. “Who are you?” she questioned, suspicion creeping into her voice, stealing into her words, as she finally turned to face her. Her hammer remained in her grasp.

Mîrioniel

Mîrioniel
Ghosts of the Third Age

Posts: 89

Seven Devils (Spring, TA 3010) [Mithrellas] Mar 20, 2018 18:48:59 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Mîrioniel on Mar 20, 2018 18:48:59 GMT -5

Mîrioniel dismounted her horse, knowing Glaurroch wouldn't stray far, and if required, he'd be near at hand. The elf maiden closed the distance between the elf before her and herself. Clearly, her approach was heard, as the raven haired elf slowed in her actions, evidently wary. To be so long from her own people, and in the company of men, there was no way to tell how she would react to one of her own appearing to question her. The appearance lent no clue to who this elf was, or why she had resided in Minas Tirith for three decades. Mîrioniel was beyond curious, she could not imagine herself leaving the safe haven of the Golden Wood for anything, except a ship to Valinor.

“What brings your kind so far south?”

The slow movements halted completely, as did Mîrioniel, remaining where she stood, beyond the reach of this feral elf. The blonde she-elf was no warrior, although she was able to protect herself, regardless of that fact, it would not do to be reckless. It also seemed being stationary was cause enough for the elf to glance over her shoulder at Mîrioniel. The blonde elf did not stir, watching with glacial blue eyes. She did not want to be seen as a threat, Mîrioniel had not come here to fight, merely to learn of her quarry. However, it was easy to see why this elf would be on her guard, it was true, elves rarely strayed far from their woodland homes. It would soon become apparent as to why Mîrioniel was stood in the Fields of Pelennor, which may lead to confrontation, which she wished to avoid at all reasonable costs.

“Your kind, especially”

There was resentment in her tone, Mîrioniel was sensitive to it. It was wise to remain silent for the moment, and when the time approached that they had a degree of mutual respect for each other, then she would reveal her purpose, if it were not already grasped. Surely the irregular lifestyle of this elf had to draw attention sooner or later, she must have realised this day was coming.

Now they were both taking the measure of each other, and the elf maiden was able to take in more details than the obvious exterior of her fellow elf. Firstly, the mutilated ears, which pervaded Mîrioniel's soul with a deep sense of woe. She couldn't begin to imagine how such injuries were gained. Her skin was not as ethereal as the rest of their kind, it was deeply sun kissed and weathered, much like the race of men. The hand she held the hammer in was work roughed, whoever this was, had no had the easiest of lives. Yet, she still possessed the beauty and elegance of the Eldar despite this.

“Who are you?”

There was an abundance of mistrust in her tone, as well as body language. It hadn't escaped Mîrioniel's notice that this dark haired elf was still clutching at the hammer in her hand, a brutal and savage weapon if the feral elf chose to use it as such. The former princess of Lorien wasn't going to give the elf before her a reason to do so, at least not if the feral remained reasonable.

Mîrioniel threw back her hood, revealing her face as her hair fell down her shoulders in a stream of glittering gold where it was touched by the sun's first rays. If she were to earn some degree of trust, it would not be done by concealing herself from this dark haired elf.

"I am Mîrioniel of Lórien." She replied in Sindarin, her voice as tranquil as a calm summer day. Though her voice was quiet, it carried in the air between them with a muted assertiveness. Though elves secreted themselves away from the other races in the Arda, they were well known among each other, even the Eldar of different woodland realms were known to one another. It came from their immortality.

There was something familiar about this elf, though she was hard pressed to say what it was. Something about her defined cheek bones, and stormy eyes. The curly, raven hair was unusual, and Mîrioniel was convinced she had seen this elf before, but it was hard to say given the evident toll this land had taken on her.

"I know you." Mîrioniel stated, her words seeming to mingle with the air about them. Though she could not put a name or title to this stranger, the elf maiden knew of a surety that she had come across the carpenter before her. As she had revealed her identity, she would say nothing further until the raven haired elf returned the gesture in kind.

Mithrellas
Ghosts of the Third Age

"I have nothing left, and all I feel is this cruel wanting"

Posts: 9

Application: https://s8.postimg.cc/xpvzw8h1x/q_Gog_D.jpg

Seven Devils (Spring, TA 3010) [Mithrellas] Mar 22, 2018 17:23:05 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Mithrellas on Mar 22, 2018 17:23:05 GMT -5

Cardis had expected this day would come. Though she had resided in Belfalas for over twenty years, she had been little more than a prisoner within the walls of Imrazôr’s palace. That had been their agreement. If she remained, he would have a ship built for her, and so she remained, until that same ship went down in flames. She fled, kept moving north, along the western shore, for fifty years. Once her feet had exchanged solid ground for an unstable deck, she didn’t remain anywhere, she didn’t remain still for too long again, until now. For the last thirty years, she had remained, she had been still, and it seemed that was enough time to be found. She, unlike them, was immune to the passage of time, and that was sure to attract some attention amidst the backdrop of the Kingdom of Men.

But had she been found, or had she been caught? Cardis was struggling to determine, as her fingers remained locked around the implement in her grasp. People had searched for her mistress, of that she was certain. She was the closest thing to a queen the Woodland Realm had, and once they’d stopped searching for her, other avenues would have opened up, such as the travelling party they’d ventured west with. It had been of a respectable size, and if they found but one of its members, it could have led them to her, and she could have been found. That was certainly what she’d told herself. It was why she had kept to the west for fifty long years before conceding.

They would have conceded too, and when they had made their peace with her mistress’ disappearance, resolving that she was either dead or had sailed into the west, they would have stopped searching. That left only one other explanation for a she-elf’s appearance in Minas Tirith, and with that, her grip intensified, and she wasn’t long determining that she would not be so easily taken. Cardis watched her as she watched Cardis, and noted the way in which her eyes flitted, from the ears that were no longer there, to the face that wasn’t either. Gathering information, or so she was left to surmise, and she wasn’t comfortable with it. Staying still was no longer an option.

So, Cardis made to move, staggering away from the fence, and around the she-elf. Grey flints for eyes didn’t flit about her, they observed her, surveyed her, and did so in a predatorial fashion. Fortunately, she was stationed behind the golden haired elleth when she introduced herself, and did so in a manner that struck the raven-haired elf like a distant memory, long forgotten. Everything, every inch of her frozen face, every hardened muscle in her body, immediately warmed, immediately softened. They gave way, if only for a minute, if only for a second, and the hammer in her hand almost gave way too. It almost slipped, right from between her slackened fingers, and it was a struggle for her to regain control of it, of herself.

She knew a Mîrioniel. She knew only one, for there was only ever one. The naming traditions among the Eldar dictated as much, that no two elves would ever share the same name. There was only one Mîrioniel. She knew her, she remembered her. Then, still standing behind the golden-haired she-elf, Cardis’ lips parted, and from them the lyrics thrummed in the Sindarin dialect. No tongue was more befitting of her beloved mistress. “Where now she wanders none can tell, in sunlight or in shade; For lost of yore was Nimrodel, and in the mountains strayed” she softly, sadly, sang. Try as she might, she tried to remain impassive, but ultimately, failed. Nothing was quite so capable of tearing into her, and cutting her open as Nimrodel.

“That is who you seek, is it not? You won’t find her, not here, nor anywhere in Ennorath. Believe me, I have tried” Mithrellas added. “I cannot help you” I cannot help myself.

Mîrioniel

Mîrioniel
Ghosts of the Third Age

Posts: 89

Seven Devils (Spring, TA 3010) [Mithrellas] Mar 26, 2018 17:28:03 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Mîrioniel on Mar 26, 2018 17:28:03 GMT -5

The feral circled around her like a wildcat, and the golden haired elf was aware of it, and showed no signs of moving. She would bear up to the scrutiny, holding herself regally, as was her birthright had her parents joined together in matrimony. As it was, Mîrioniel was illegitimate, and though a princess by blood, she was not by law. Nor would her kind accept her dominion after she had fled, regardless of the need to search for her mother. Mîrioniel was once again prepared to flee if any attack sprung up from her interaction with this stranger. Mîrioniel was hoping that such a course of action would not be required, she had no desire to come to blows with one of her own kind.

“Where now she wanders none can tell, in sunlight or in shade; For lost of yore was Nimrodel, and in the mountains strayed”

The tune and the words struck her like lightning, stinging through every nerve like they were exposed wires, vulnerable to the overwhelming electricity hearing that song sung to her had caused. Granted, a lifetime ago she had constructed the verse, putting the words to music, however, she had composed the piece at the height of her grief, and sung it a scant few times herself. She had wanted to ensure that her mother lived on in the memories of those who would live without her, and capture the imagination of those who never knew her, such was the way of songs.

Hearing the outcast speak had revealed something the raven haired elf did not, an identity. Each and every voice was as unique and individual as thumb prints, and having heard the stranger sing, she knew she had heard that voice before. It had been so long ago, days of yore that Mîrioniel seldom let her thoughts rove back to. The golden age of Amroth and Nimrodel, where their child would recite songs she had composed, or they would dance to music, or they would all sing lamentations. Lothlórien had been alive with such things, and in that chapel of creation, this voice had rung out clearly.

“That is who you seek, is it not? You won’t find her, not here, nor anywhere in Ennorath. Believe me, I have tried. I cannot help you."

There was no question this outcast knew exactly who Mîrioniel was, and the relation she bore to the elf queen she had moments ago sung of. It was by far easier verbally acknowledging the lineage of Mîrioniel, so to hear the song being sung meant that Nimrodel meant something to this elf, and that could only mean the elf was originally from Lothlórien, one of her own. The fact she had admitted the stranger had sought out Nimrodel confirmed loyalty to the realm and queen-that-never-was.

It looked as if the elf would depart, leaving the fence unfinished, and Mîrioniel's journey for nothing. That could not be allowed, not now, not after the first real trace of a witness to her mother's disappearance after all these years.

"Mithrellas." Her voice was naught but a whisper, a flickering breeze through reeds, and yet Mîrioniel knew the elven ears would hear distinctly what she had said. Mîrioniel let the name hang in the air, wondering if the owner of it would claim it, or discard it.

"You were in her retinue. What became of them all?" Mîrioniel asked. She was compelled from within to question her, because none of those elves had returned, they had all disappeared. Mîrioniel had assumed they were all lost one way or another. She had wondered if they resided in the Halls of Mandos, or else had they reached the Grey Havens. Clearly one of their number had not, nor had she returned to Lorien, choosing instead the world of men. Mîrioniel couldn't begin to understand the path that had brought one of her kinswoman to this place. She wanted to learn though. She had to.

Mithrellas had left Lorien with Nimrodel, at some point their paths separated, and Mîrioniel had to get to the bottom of the story, for there might be a clue that could tell her where her mother had gone. The golden haired elf could not wander this world without some direction, she needed to be aimed at a specific target, or given some certainty that would preclude her from searching altogether. The mystery was too much to bear, and yet it kept her anchored to Middle Earth, even when her thoughts strayed to the and beyond the sea.

Mithrellas
Ghosts of the Third Age

"I have nothing left, and all I feel is this cruel wanting"

Posts: 9

Application: https://s8.postimg.cc/xpvzw8h1x/q_Gog_D.jpg

Seven Devils (Spring, TA 3010) [Mithrellas] Apr 1, 2018 17:06:04 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Mithrellas on Apr 1, 2018 17:06:04 GMT -5

There were a great many things Cardis could no longer recall. The way the light filtered through trees, the silence that could only be found in the forests. All she knew now was dark, and loud. It had been years, thousands of years, since she had last seen an insect flit about, last heard the gentle trickle of a stream. These places blinded her, deafened her to them. The stillness she had once known was gone, replaced by movement. Everyone and everything moved here, and she had moved with them, but while they could stop, she couldn’t. Death stopped them. Life meant she would carry on, and she had, but much too far, and for far too long.

She couldn’t remember her mistress either, only her golden hair. Mîrioniel has the same hair, but did she have anything else belonging to her mother within her possession? Cardis couldn’t remember. Did Nimrodel have that same heart shaped face? She couldn’t remember. Did Nimrodel have that same button nose? She couldn’t remember. Did Nimrodel have that same rounded chin? She couldn’t remember. Did Nimrodel have those same bow lips? She couldn’t remember. And those eyes? Cardis didn’t know. She couldn’t remember. Those features could have very well belonged to Nimrodel, or they could have belonged to Amroth, and at that realisation, the grip on the hammer in her hand returned.

But in the process, her grey eyes became clouded, glazed with tears, as she battled with her memories. Cardis tried to find her mistress there, but couldn’t. Everything was shrouded, obscured by a veil of suffering, a thousand years’ worth, too much for one such as her. Their kind were not born for the sufferings of this world. That was why Nimrodel had choose to leave it. She had tried, but whether or not she succeeded none knew. Mithrellas certainly thought so, it was why she tried too, and when she ultimately failed, she spent centuries in despair. She was still in despair. She had not stopped. Not for one year, one day, one minute, one second.

“Mithrellas” no one had called her that, not since Imrazôr. He had been the last. There were times when her old name became a memory, lost like so many other things, like the trees and streams, like Nimrodel. But then she’d hear it, hear it on her lips, as she called out to her, or as she hoped with every passing day. With that, she’d remember, she’d always remember, and she’d never stop hoping. That was what kept her here, bound to the circles of this world. Hope. “I…” she hesitated at Mîrioniel’s question, “I… don’t know. I can’t remember” her brow furrowed, and her eyes wandered as she tried, once again, to recall.

“We were on the borders of Fangorn. Your father was there. Then he was not, then… there were mountains. I remember the mountains. We parted there. We got lost, or I… I got lost. I do not know…” Mithrellas started to shake her head, and shake it vigorously at her clouded recollections, at her inability to see through and into them. They were beyond her grasp, just as her control, and her composure began to slip beyond her grasp too. “They lied to me. The men of Belfalas. They lied” that she remembered and remembered as clear as day.

“They did not tell me what became of Amroth. They did not tell me that they could not find Nimrodel. They kept it from me. They told me they would build me a ship so I could be reunited with her. Then it burned, and then… I ran… I… ran for a long time. Still, I could not find her” Mithrellas started to mumble, more to herself at this point, as she continued to struggle, to try and make sense of her recollections. They had become so muddled by fear, by anger, and by hatred, hatred that was reserved for them. Had they told her the truth, she could have set out then, could have found her mistress, but instead she had been forced to wait. “I waited too long…”

Mîrioniel

Mîrioniel
Ghosts of the Third Age

Posts: 89

Seven Devils (Spring, TA 3010) [Mithrellas] Apr 11, 2018 18:26:08 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Mîrioniel on Apr 11, 2018 18:26:08 GMT -5

The elf before her seemed to be struggling internally, and Mîrioniel waited patiently for the answer that had to be forthcoming. She held up to the scrutiny, waiting, ever waiting for news of Nimrodel, of her mother and where she could be found. Her heart was beating slightly faster, her arms and fingers tingled with expectation that she might learn of Nimrodel’s fate.

”I… I… don’t know. I can’t remember”

The words did not immediately sink in, as she watched Mithrellas. So long had she expected to find something, and instead she was met with more obstacles. It wasn’t like an elf to not recall the past...

Not remember?

How could she not remember? Was all this for nought? And why had Mithrellas not returned to Lorien to pass along what had happened sooner? This trip had created more questions than it answered and Mîrioniel didn’t know where to even begin unravelling this web.

”We were on the borders of Fangorn. Your father was there. Then he was not, then… there were mountains. I remember the mountains. We parted there. We got lost, or I… I got lost. I do not know…”

Mîrioniel listened, her breath seemed impossible to get, her heart seemed to have stopped. She knew the fate of her father, it’s daily remembrance was a lance to her soul, a gaping wound that never healed. She barely managed to console herself with the knowledge he may one day return to her, or she would be reunited with him. For now there was but one place he still existed is some form...

Dol Amroth.

A paltry tribute to her father, and merely a place on a map that marked where he had perished. She had never visited the city, however, now she was so close, it would be a waste not to venture there. Perhaps some solace existed there, perhaps she would feel closer to him. Though, it seemed impossible, that she feel closer to him at his place of death than she did within the woods where he’d lived. Still, time had long since passed that she ought to make the journey there.

Her bottom lip parted, her eyes bereft as she gazed at Mithrellas. It had been a forlorn hope that some of the mystery of her mother might be disspelled, yet she couldn’t give up hope, it was all she had left.

The elf before her became suddenly more agitated, her misery plain to see, and so tangible it could almost be felt.

”They lied to me. The men of Belfalas. They lied”

Her brows came together as she watched the dark haired elf, the story had diverged so far from that of her mother, it was now entirely Mithrellas’ story. Mîrioniel listened with empathy and sincerity. No one should have to suffer or be deceived, not when the one in question had been so devoted to her mistress.

”They did not tell me what became of Amroth. They did not tell me that they could not find Nimrodel. They kept it from me. They told me they would build me a ship so I could be reunited with her. Then it burned, and then… I ran… I… ran for a long time. Still, I could not find her”

They had searched for Nimrodel? It surprised her. During that time Mîrioniel has been so engulfed within her own search for Nimrodel, she had not considered that others might have sought her out too. Those early days, so soon after her disappearance, Galadriel had urged Mîrioniel to be accompanied by Haldir, that the pair might cover more ground and swifter than a large party. Though she did not deluded herself that the Marchwarden hadn’t been there to protect her too.

Yet, to hear the distress that her kinswoman had been out through, it was an agonising tale, that left a bitter taste in her mouth.

“Rainë.” Mîrioniel said gently to Mithrellas in Sindarin, urging her to quiet her thoughts, to not let them stray to grounds that would cause irreparable harm. Mîrioniel had not come here to rip open old wounds. At least not for Mithrellas.

”I waited too long…”

The torment flowed from her like an incoming tide, leaving Mîrioniel bewildered as to how to comfort her kinswoman. Nor could help with the burden of grief, she’d lived with her own grief for so long, she did not have a clear path to help Mithrellas with hers. And grief was so potent that it never fully left, in lingered and weakened from within, especially at the most vulnerable of moments. She could not understand the elf’s pain, and yet there was no doubt that she was in pain, it was as tangible as the ground beneath their feet.

“Gornil.” She said, softly. Using a title that Nimrodel would have approved for one of her retinue. Valiant one, indeed, for facing up to the challenges Mithrellas clearly had, and surviving without diminishing. Though, Mîrioniel could not help her eyes travelling to the deformed ears of the elf, and wondering at what cost those grievous wounds had borne.

“Why did you not return?” She asked, genuinely puzzled. Her mother had not been one to mix with other races, and had even struggled with different races of men, and would never have stayed in Minas Tirith. Her father was far more open minded, a trait he passed on to her, as well as speaking the language of men. Still, she could not fathom why Mithrellas would prefer to stay away from the company of her own people.

Then her crystalline eyes traveled over the Fields of Pelennor to the bulking white city, erupting from the earth. It was ugly and ungainly, and no match for the Golden Woods. The blonde elf would not even consider staying in that city for a day, let alone decades. It truly made no sense to Mîrioniel.

Shoutbox

Join our Men of the West Site Discord! ---> https://discord.gg/BNbhDY5

DENNY: Test May 7, 2020 21:52:35 GMT -5

Harador: Is this site dead? Oct 31, 2023 18:33:58 GMT -5