Autumn and Aster (October 251, TA) - [Calrein]
Apr 17, 2018 9:55:38 GMT -5
Post by Odothel on Apr 17, 2018 9:55:38 GMT -5
October 251, TA
Mirkwood
The king’s halls were bright and golden for the light of the lamps that hanged like stars far above, and two pair of large eyes peered up as if entranced toward them. The light swam in her vision, and the edges of her world seemed to blur away, and then deeper. More and more of her sight in the carved dark-stone room disappeared, until nothing but the bright sun-like light remained.
Now instead of a hanging lantern it was atop a large tower, white-bricked, glints of something shiny reflecting off the high walls where birds that laughed with white wings nested and called into the night sky. The stars above were like a blanket, and the young elfling gasped as she peered upward with her eyes that matched the radiating light, spinning about to afford a better view. Grey ships with bird heads and long necks were all about, a sound like sighing thunder steady in beat as water—more water than Odothel had ever seen—broke against the stone.
She followed the shoreline, small feet carrying her swift and silent through. She could see yet the elves of the kingdom, eyeing her as she flit past as if on wings herself. The birds were flying high, higher yet, touching the stars above. She longed to follow, and Odothel cared not that she was but a single year of age, or that the world beyond the walls of this great kingdom were wrought with perils she could not yet comprehend.
Quick she passed through The Great Gate, the wind and sunshine upon her face as she stood at the foot of the bridge giving the dark-haired elfling pause long enough to blink away the visions of night and stars and look instead upon the beams of sun-fire that peeked in through the high boughs of the wood. It fell, pooling warm despite the crispness of autumn, upon her long, dark hair and round, soft cheeks.
Above, so high above, her head the green leaves of the wood were turning to fire from their emerald hues. October seemed a wonderful month, though this was her first one of memory. Her first Begotting Day had dawned, and Odothel now harbored her first year. The flowers of the summer months were beginning to fade, and such a thing filled her fresh heart with both sadness and wonder for the tales she had heard of what replaced them.
Across the bridge, at the base of a tall trunk with deep roots, a purple bloom of many small petals and a center as of gold, almost as bright as the color of her eye.
She began to cross, weightless to the little flower, eyes bright and sparkling as she neared. “Aster,” she murmured, her voice dreamy as she bent to take the stem in hand. A gentle tug, and the flower came free, up into her small fingers. Perfect in color, in shape. Odothel’s eyes lifted once more to the great leaves overhead, listening to the gentle rustling of the wind as it whispered through the forest.
“Come with me,” she said to the bloom, standing and moving away once more. She was small, and she felt eyes upon her even as she passed up the hillside, trekking up and over the caves that the woodland elves called their home. She could hear the ringing and singing of steel as the soldiers, the ones with the armor the color of treasure, trained.
Her little voice lifted in song, finally coming upon the crest of the mound, purple flower yet carried gently in her fingers.
In the other gardens
And all up the vale,
From the autumn bonfires
See the smoke trail!
Pleasant summer over
And all the summer flowers,
The red fire blazes,
The grey smoke towers.
Sing a song of seasons!
Something bright in all!
Flowers in the summer,
Fires in the fall!*
*Autumn Fires by Robert Louis Stevenson
Mirkwood
The king’s halls were bright and golden for the light of the lamps that hanged like stars far above, and two pair of large eyes peered up as if entranced toward them. The light swam in her vision, and the edges of her world seemed to blur away, and then deeper. More and more of her sight in the carved dark-stone room disappeared, until nothing but the bright sun-like light remained.
Now instead of a hanging lantern it was atop a large tower, white-bricked, glints of something shiny reflecting off the high walls where birds that laughed with white wings nested and called into the night sky. The stars above were like a blanket, and the young elfling gasped as she peered upward with her eyes that matched the radiating light, spinning about to afford a better view. Grey ships with bird heads and long necks were all about, a sound like sighing thunder steady in beat as water—more water than Odothel had ever seen—broke against the stone.
She followed the shoreline, small feet carrying her swift and silent through. She could see yet the elves of the kingdom, eyeing her as she flit past as if on wings herself. The birds were flying high, higher yet, touching the stars above. She longed to follow, and Odothel cared not that she was but a single year of age, or that the world beyond the walls of this great kingdom were wrought with perils she could not yet comprehend.
Quick she passed through The Great Gate, the wind and sunshine upon her face as she stood at the foot of the bridge giving the dark-haired elfling pause long enough to blink away the visions of night and stars and look instead upon the beams of sun-fire that peeked in through the high boughs of the wood. It fell, pooling warm despite the crispness of autumn, upon her long, dark hair and round, soft cheeks.
Above, so high above, her head the green leaves of the wood were turning to fire from their emerald hues. October seemed a wonderful month, though this was her first one of memory. Her first Begotting Day had dawned, and Odothel now harbored her first year. The flowers of the summer months were beginning to fade, and such a thing filled her fresh heart with both sadness and wonder for the tales she had heard of what replaced them.
Across the bridge, at the base of a tall trunk with deep roots, a purple bloom of many small petals and a center as of gold, almost as bright as the color of her eye.
She began to cross, weightless to the little flower, eyes bright and sparkling as she neared. “Aster,” she murmured, her voice dreamy as she bent to take the stem in hand. A gentle tug, and the flower came free, up into her small fingers. Perfect in color, in shape. Odothel’s eyes lifted once more to the great leaves overhead, listening to the gentle rustling of the wind as it whispered through the forest.
“Come with me,” she said to the bloom, standing and moving away once more. She was small, and she felt eyes upon her even as she passed up the hillside, trekking up and over the caves that the woodland elves called their home. She could hear the ringing and singing of steel as the soldiers, the ones with the armor the color of treasure, trained.
Her little voice lifted in song, finally coming upon the crest of the mound, purple flower yet carried gently in her fingers.
In the other gardens
And all up the vale,
From the autumn bonfires
See the smoke trail!
Pleasant summer over
And all the summer flowers,
The red fire blazes,
The grey smoke towers.
Sing a song of seasons!
Something bright in all!
Flowers in the summer,
Fires in the fall!*
*Autumn Fires by Robert Louis Stevenson