Your Sweet and Weary Head (June 3010) - [Celebros]
Apr 13, 2018 12:56:32 GMT -5
Post by Odothel on Apr 13, 2018 12:56:32 GMT -5
The gate closed behind her, the sound heavy and final. Odothel, for just a moment, looked back to the carved, grand door that led into the halls of the Woodland Realm. It was not that she held hesitation; the call of the sea and the lands beyond were far too great and whole for the elf maiden to feel the need to tarry longer amidst a fading wood. Rather, she wished this place to not be forgotten.
Long were to be her count of years, if the Valar were kind in her fate. And this place, this underground labyrinth of tunnels and stone, was the place of her begetting. The place where she had learned and grown, and passed her elfling days in peace. The place where first she had met Calrein, where she had known what it was to feel love in all one’s spirit for another.
Astride a mare of brownish-black, long mane of silver-white she sat. Nenloth waited, dark eyes wise and patient, carrying what little Odothel had deemed a need to pack. A few dresses, a bedroll, the Telerin book of shipbuilding, the model she had not been parted with for many long years, and lastly, wrapped delicately in cloth, a battered helm. There were as well lembas, given her by Amarië to see her off upon her journey.
Nothing else she carried; no great trunk, no great arsenal upon her hip and horse. She was armed with just a simple bow, carved for her by her grandfather in the traditional Teleri style of yew, and a handful of white-fletched arrows in a quiver upon her side. It could have been considered foolish by some to venture forth upon the road with no blade upon her, for the days were dark, and the roads treacherous. And yet, no amount of arming would have aided her in the least. Odothel was of no skill with blade, and while she was a skilled enough bowman, she was far better with voice and song.
A bow would suit her well enough, and she was not going to be travelling alone.
Her golden eyes returned to the familiar face, the one that looked upon her always in smile. “Tolo, mellon,” she murmured to him. Come, friend. It was time to away, to the West.
“Are you certain this is what you wish for, Thilia?” Rhossalas’ smooth words came, low and murmuring like the breeze. He was clad in the armor of the guard, golden like the sunlight that once fell upon the Greenwood of old, and bearing blade and bow alike. There was something in his expression that looked pleading, and even Odothel wondered how greatly Rhossalas wished her to stay.
“I cannot stay,” Odothel answered, voice a gentle hum carrying to him as she heeled Nenloth forward. As graceful as the Eldar the horse moved forward. “It is my chance to leave this land. I know you, mellon. You would not ask me to linger and risk belonging to someone who had not my heart.”
Nenloth’s tread was pleasant and light, as if she carried no rider at all. Steadily she tread forward, step swifter than the horses of men yet easy of pace for those of the elves. The West was calling, the voices of those who had gone before whispering in Odothel’s ear and heart. She sighed, the sound wistful, full suddenly of hope.
From the corner of her eye, she watched as Calrien rode beside her, the light of song in his eye, though he did not sing.
Rhossalas heeled his mount after her. “The road shall be long and dangerous,” he said. His eye, silver in hue, was upon her from behind, his heart already set. “I shall see you cared for, Thilia.” Sparkles. Named for the way her eyes had glistened when first he had seen her under the starlight.
“I do not fear it,” Odothel answered, flicking her golden eyes toward her friend, offering him a small smile that was familiar and easy upon her lips. “Many of our kin have already passed this way. And I am not alone.”
Rossalas felt a warmth well within him as he held for a moment her eyes. “No, Odothel,” he murmured. “You are never alone.” He paused, for a moment the only sound about them the soft tread of the horse hooves as they pressed on toward the Great East Road. “Linno enni, Thilia?” Sing for me? He asked of her.
The dark haired elf-maiden’s golden eye brightened, if only a moment. Song was ever in her heart, and upon her tongue.
'Twas in the Land of Willows where the grass is long and green—
I was fingering my harp-strings, for a wind had crept unseen
And was speaking in the tree-tops, while the voices of the reeds
Were whispering reedy whispers as the sunset touched the meads
Inland musics subtly magic that those reeds alone could weave
'Twas in the Land of Willows that once Ylmir came at eve.
In the twilight by the river on a hollow thing of shell
He made immortal music, till my heart beneath his spell
Was broken in the twilight, and the meadows faded dim
To great grey waters heaving round the rocks where sea-birds swim.
The words of The Horns of Ylmir were set to melody, and as Odothel’s voice lofted, carrying through the rest of the long lay, she did not tire. And as the horses rode along, her Nenloth and Rhossalas’ dappled stallion seemed to step the lighter, and the elf in her company grew all the more ensnared.
--
The song had carried well and long, through all its verses. It was Odothel’s voice alone, though Odothel could feel beside her Calrein’s eyes upon her, and her song rang truer for it. One song melded into two, then three. When she had grown weary of singing, they rode instead in silence.
It was no trouble to Odothel, whose golden eyes sought to watch Calrein forge ahead along the path, dreamt to return him to her perfectly. Together they would pass unto the Grey Havens, then the West beyond—as they both had intended. There was a deep sorrow in her chest, though mingled with it was hope as well. And love.
Soon, hobas nîn, she thought to him. Her safe harbor. I shall sing upon the shores of Valinor, and wait until I can see you again.
The sun was setting low, though neither Odothel nor Rhossalas could see the sun sinking upon his horizon. It was instead that the already darkened forest grew dimmer, the green-gold light filtering from the boughs beginning to fade to black in ribbons of fire.
Nenloth snorted, and Odothel blinked away the vision of Calrein turned to look upon her. “Yes, mellon nîn,” Odothel hummed, bending to run a pale hand along Nenloth’s dark brown neck. “It is time to stop for the night.”
“A fire first,” Rhossalas said into the stillness. His keen ears stretched, listening. Waiting. There was no sound of rustling leaves, though his eyes remained vigilant. This far from the Elvenking’s Hall, dark things lurked amongst the bones of the Greenwood; Mirkwood now and forevermore.
“A rest for the night,” Odothel hummed, slipping gracefully into the soft mosses from the saddle. Nenloth shuddered and began to root amongst the grasses. “There is water enough here for the horses, and I shall see them fed.”
“Thilia?” Rhossalas called to her as the elf maiden turned to reach into her pack of food stores. Odothel paused, casting her eyes back toward her friend. “Do not remove your bow.” His tone was pleading, but the words were not truly a request.
The dark haired elf nodded, eyes brightening in amusement. “I shall not,” she agreed. As she began to unpack, settle things about what was to be their meager camp in the wood, Rhossalas began to seek out dry limb to use to set a fire and she lifted a clear voice in hum, recalling once more the tune she had began her trek with.
Rhossalas glanced over his shoulder, marking her pale skin as it flashed through the shadows as she moved. This was as far as they would need go; after tonight, after he claimed her for his own, they would need not venture to the Havens.