4/6/2008

The Gates of Caras Galadhon

You stand now in the narrow corridor between the overlapping arms of the high green wall. Tall and strong and hung with many lamps, the great gates stand before you protecting this sole passage into the great forested city beyond. The eastern sky is ablaze with deep orange and golden yellow waves as a new day begins over the Wood. Atop the wall, sentries patrol their stations armed with bows of yew and shouldering quivers of grey feathered arrows. To the southwest, a white bridge arches across the misty fosse that encircles the walls.

Contents:


The trees grow high here at the gates of Caras Galadhon. Like silver pillars, their boles soar into the roof of the world, ending in bright bursts of golden foliage. Filling the skies with grey anticipation, the sun inches above the eastern horizon.

It is here, in the uncertain shadows, that Maglind enters the city: brisk pace chasing the path, he looks to neither right nor left, avoiding the glances of the sentinels.

With equal vigor as one who enters, the Tailor moves with purpose to leave the city. Looking neither left nor right, and fully on the ground before him, a sudden crash and flop backwards leaves him stunned and confused. "I'm so sorry," Galharth begins as he rolls over onto his knees in an effort to stand. "I wasn't looking where I was going."

He is murmuring to himself, the entering one, and manages a little yelp as he stumbles backwards. "Oh," he mumbles, moving one hand to clutch his nose, and indeed, it might mask the face underneath, and the expression.

"No, no, I'm terribly sorry," Maglind exclaims, speaking in a voice that might not seem his own. The tone is soft, conversational. "Are you well?"

Galharth stiffens slightly at the sound of Maglind's voice. "I've been better. You?" Galharth asks as he rises to his feet. Without looking at the Marchwarden, the Tailor bends slightly to brush off his clothing. Pausing to sweep the dust from his rear, the Clothier glances at Maglind. "Has Nioniel been able to speak with you yet?" He asks flatly.

"Ah? No," says Maglind, looking utterly bemused. He employs his gaze elsewhere, speaking neutrally as he might muster. "I did not remember requesting any clothes from her. Did she ask you? I had returned to the borders."

Bending to inspect a spot of dirt on his trousers, the Tailor does not look up as he speaks. "Nay, nothing like that. She and I were in the Eagles Shelter when visitors arrived." Pausing as he rises up, Galharth continues to avoid eye contact. "I felt it best if she relay the message Mithrandir had about Rangers soon to arrive upon our borders."

"Mithrandir?" Maglind queries uninterestedly, still protecting his sharp nose. "That is a rare guest. But the sentinels had not received word of the rangers' coming. I will send word, then, if it please you."

"It doesn't affect me. The message was at the request of a friend to the Lord and Lady." Galharth says with a shrug. Taking a step soutwards as if to continue on his path, he pauses again. "Oh, and please tell your friends to cease their remarks about our discussion the other day." Finally looking up the Craftsmasters face seems paler than normal. "I have no care for any further lectures about my pride and stubbornness."

"As you wish," replies the marchwarden mildly. Brushing past, making to step away, Maglind adds with a lowered glance, "I would advise them that their lectures are completely unfounded. Doubtless they did not know how well I thought of you; they seem over-eager to defend."

Snorting harshly, in a manner much like a human, Galharth takes the final comment with objection. "How well you thought of me? This from the edhel who told me to forget all that once was, and he who held me in such regard as to not share the welcome news of promotion." The tailor says with no small measure of anger. "Let them defend you, for it only strikes the pain deeper and I certainly deserve that for my assumptions."

"I told no one, master crafter--" Steel tempers his voice for a second, and he forces it down, giving a painfully weak smile.

"Excuse me. I seem to have lost my reputation through merely hesitating. I offer my apologies again, and if the pain of memory is too great, I would gladly be forgotten. Good day."

"Hesitation!" Galharth snaps while wheeling on his heels to face the Marchwarden. "Hesitation?!? How many times during this so called hesitating did I make mention of speaking with someone over a promotion for you, and for that matter, exactly how many opportunities did you have that you could have enlightened me to your newfound ranking?" The pale features of the clothier turn ruddy with color urged on by anger. "Indeed the pain of memory, knowing that one I thought brother made a fool of me for what cause? Where you too shy? Nay.... not possible with one as close as a brother."

"Is everything alright down there?" Calls a voice down from the watch platform.

"Fine!" The Craftsmaster calls back. "Just fine...." he mutters under his breath.

A sharp silence, punctated by incredulous, trembling breaths.

"Then," says Maglind softly, "I will put away my pride. Too many times I had hesitated to tell you. It is I who have wronged. No apology will I add," he continues hastily, shuffling towards the stairway, "for none might be fitting."

"Perhaps not an apology, but maybe some explanation as to why." Galharth snaps towards the retreating figure. "Fine! Run from it, run from explanation, run from friendship. I give up!" Turning himself, the Tailor starts towards the bridge, pausing after two steps to glance over his shoulder.

There is barely the space for thinking before Maglind halts as well, turning and following the tailor's path with uncharacteristic meekness.

"I am used to fleeing," he whispers, more a reprimand to himself than to the other. His eyes, they gleam brightly -- no, a trick of the rising sun -- he raises his voice.

"Such a petty and mindless motive that others drive away with denial and flattery: would you hear it, Galharth?"

"What are you talking about?" Galharth asks as his expression fills with confusion. "Speak plain or you'll lose the point in flowers and fluff. But if that is what I must hear, then speak slow to give me time to sort through to the meanings."

"It is silly even without the flowers," the marchwarden says cautiously, coming within an arm's length of the bridge. He leans furtively closer.

"Though Lord Celeborn and Legarwin made the decision, I felt unworthy of the rank. In arms, perhaps; in maturity, far from it. Instead of making a fool of all marchwardens, as I have done, I would first earn that title, then claim it."

"Now you may sneer," Maglind finishes, turning his face away.

Silence greets the Marchwarden's words, and for an instant it almost seems as if the crickets chirps will be the only reply. "We all underestimate our worth for there is no greater critic of our worth than ourselves." Galharth finally says. Sighing softly, he looks up into the tree canopies above. "Many things combine in the equation of selfworth, and there is no greater estimator than an friend."

Lowering his gaze, the Clothier focuses upon the Marchwarden. "I've learned to value the opinions of a friend in regards to my worth. Perhaps this is something you must learn to do?"

"I dislike disappointing my friends," begins Maglind uneasily, lifting his eyes to meet the Tailor's. This is a timid glance, swiftly lost to the forest floor. "And still they prove the wiser...."

"Fool...." Galharth chirps quickly. "For everyone who seems wise, there are two others who are wiser."

Taking a step closer to the Marchwarden, Galharth tilts his head as he studies the Guard's form. "We all dislike disappointing friends, and if the truth be known, that is low on my list of things I dislike." Taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly, he adds, "And for that matter, things such as Thorhur thinking he's to teach me a lesson in behavior is likely a full score above disappointing friends."

"Did he?" Maglind asks hesitantly, raising an eyebrow. "I did not know my infamy spread so quickly among the Sentinels."

Taking a step closer, he lowers his head. "This is the third time I'll attempt to apologize -- I hope you will forgive me for misleading you."

"The third?" Galharth says with confusion, "I honestly heard none, save demands that I forget good deeds past and the insistence that what might have been a friendship be forgotten." A frown appears upon the clothiers face and he looks up towards to sky. "Friends forgive, and as I've said many times, I thought and think of you as friend. Alas...." The Tailor says, "I've a meeting with the Vintners that can not be delayed." With that the Craftsmaster hurries off, with perhaps a lighter step.