Come Quiet Dawn
Jun 6, 2018 15:17:30 GMT -5
Post by Haldir on Jun 6, 2018 15:17:30 GMT -5
Haldir stood, gazing to the east to watch as the grey light of morning began to seep through the velvet night sky beyond the golden wood. The evening had been quiet, though the patrols had kept to their paces, eyes trained ever outward. The only movement across the fields had been some deer and fawns, a fox, and the silent swoop of the owls.
Their wood had grown to be stiller, despite the darkening days. It had been a call of his own to keep tight the borders; Lady Galadriel had kept Lothlorien filled with life and light, a thing that many of the outside would wish to steal. It was not that he had forgotten those that lived and made their lives beyond the Lady’s realm. Indeed, it seemed that often his mind turned to them. Many cities of men lied between their lands and those that were black as their host, and even so orcs sometimes managed to reach the Marchwarden and his men despite the leagues of earth between.
What carnage did they reap as they came, a black cloud of foul intent? How strong did the shadow grow, hidden behind the jagged fangs of mountains better left untraveled? Galadriel had made little move against Sauron, the Necromancer. There was wisdom in her holding, for never was a deed of Galadriel done without cause or reason. Haldir could not see what it was she did, though; and his thoughts at times wondered why they lingered yet in Arda, when the promise of Aman was waiting.
“It was quiet enough,” he murmured quietly, looking down to the glinting crown of gold that sat upon the edge of the flet, parchment and pen poised in delicate, long fingers. “I hope you were able to pen something.”
Mîrioniel was often a guest of the patrols along the border. Haldir knew not whether it was the elleth yearned yet for her mother’s return, or merely dreamed of lands beyond the borders. In truth, it could have been a combination of both, for if there was one thing that Haldir had learned in his march of years, it was that those who took to word and song often carried deep trenches carved of pain upon their hearts.
There was a small curl to his lips as he peered down upon her, a slight glimmer in his eye. Overall the motion was small, yet even this took the perpetual sternness from his face and for a moment warmed his expression. “Great lays are often penned of battles hard fought, yet I have always felt it wiser to recall that which they defend.”
It was why he stood there upon the border, clad in grey against the dark of the boughs. It was why his bow and quiver were ever with him, his sword upon his hip, dagger at his belt. It was not a lust for blood that drove some of the adan to take up arms; it was the Lady that ruled over this sacred place, the elf blood that did not need to be spilled.
Rivers of the Eldar had already run, marring the great lands Yavanna had crafted, and the beautiful life that Eru Illuvatar had intended for them to live. It was something the captain could endeavor to: death had no place in Lothlorien. Not under his charge.
Their wood had grown to be stiller, despite the darkening days. It had been a call of his own to keep tight the borders; Lady Galadriel had kept Lothlorien filled with life and light, a thing that many of the outside would wish to steal. It was not that he had forgotten those that lived and made their lives beyond the Lady’s realm. Indeed, it seemed that often his mind turned to them. Many cities of men lied between their lands and those that were black as their host, and even so orcs sometimes managed to reach the Marchwarden and his men despite the leagues of earth between.
What carnage did they reap as they came, a black cloud of foul intent? How strong did the shadow grow, hidden behind the jagged fangs of mountains better left untraveled? Galadriel had made little move against Sauron, the Necromancer. There was wisdom in her holding, for never was a deed of Galadriel done without cause or reason. Haldir could not see what it was she did, though; and his thoughts at times wondered why they lingered yet in Arda, when the promise of Aman was waiting.
“It was quiet enough,” he murmured quietly, looking down to the glinting crown of gold that sat upon the edge of the flet, parchment and pen poised in delicate, long fingers. “I hope you were able to pen something.”
Mîrioniel was often a guest of the patrols along the border. Haldir knew not whether it was the elleth yearned yet for her mother’s return, or merely dreamed of lands beyond the borders. In truth, it could have been a combination of both, for if there was one thing that Haldir had learned in his march of years, it was that those who took to word and song often carried deep trenches carved of pain upon their hearts.
There was a small curl to his lips as he peered down upon her, a slight glimmer in his eye. Overall the motion was small, yet even this took the perpetual sternness from his face and for a moment warmed his expression. “Great lays are often penned of battles hard fought, yet I have always felt it wiser to recall that which they defend.”
It was why he stood there upon the border, clad in grey against the dark of the boughs. It was why his bow and quiver were ever with him, his sword upon his hip, dagger at his belt. It was not a lust for blood that drove some of the adan to take up arms; it was the Lady that ruled over this sacred place, the elf blood that did not need to be spilled.
Rivers of the Eldar had already run, marring the great lands Yavanna had crafted, and the beautiful life that Eru Illuvatar had intended for them to live. It was something the captain could endeavor to: death had no place in Lothlorien. Not under his charge.