Cold and clean blows the north wind, reaching down from its home in the high Misty Mountains to tease the wooded glens of this wild place. The sigh of wind mingles with the restless mutter of chill Celebrant, pure and blessed. And hard by the river of silver, ensconced upon leaf-strewn banks, is a small encampment. Here have the company of Men, fair Dunedain of the distant South, set forth their bivouac against night and peril. But now the dread of darkness is passed, and morning has dawned bright and full of hope; hope that, no doubt, comes in great part from the nearness of the Galadhrim who have chosen to ride with them on the journey to the Golden Wood.
A little apart from the camp, near the tethered horses of the Dunedain, a tall young man clad in light travelling garments of silvery grey tends to his steed. Arelion Girithlin is this knight's name, and he is counted Elf-friend by the Galadhrim and favoured by The Lady. He is no stranger here, but for all that, the wonder and awe of being so near the most secret of Elvenhomes sits greatly upon him. He is silent in his task, grooming his black mare's tangled mane and singing a soft song.
Rhibi has crept away from the camp to look at the horses. For all that they are so near home, he doesn't dare go far without permission, but the lure of the animals is too strong to resist. Crouching on the branch of a tree, not far from the ground, he watches Arelion with great interest. Sunlight splashes on his clothes, which are mostly green but stained brown with dirt in places. Light green eyes follow every motion the man makes, and eventually, the small boy asks, "What are you doing?"
Glancing over his shoulder at the Elven lad, Arelion smiles warmly. "I am brushing my Hiril," the knight explains patiently, continuing to work the bristles through the tall black horse's mane. "A good horseman tends his steed before he tends himself. And one day, if your life depends upon your steed," he adds, "as it often does in battle, then you will reap the benefits in a strong and faithful friend." Completing his task, Arelion pats the horse's nose. "Would you like to meet her, young master?" the knight asks, a bemused smile upon his features. "She is gentle enough, and she has met your kind before."
And so the blue and silver clad Belegorm, Knight-Captain of Dol Amroth, stands grim and silent upon the river. With one arm wrapped around his body, the hand cupping the elbow, he strikes a thoughtful pose. His grey eyes stare into the river, as if seeking some great answer from within the swift currents.
"I have seen horses before," Rhibi says, a little anxiety lest this man should think him inexperienced creeping into his voice. Then he straightens and slithers from his perch. "But I would like to meet yours." A few steps bring him within reach of the animal and he stops, looking up. "What is her name?"
Still smiling, Arelion takes a step back from his mare. "Her name is Hiril," he says quietly. "She is gentle enough, though her heart is a fire when need requires." Indeed, the horse is tall and elegant, if not powerfully built; she is all speed and spirit. "Her forbears are of the stock of the Rohirrim, the Horse-Lords west of my own country; the finest steeds in the land."
Clearly intrigued by the young Elf, Arelion glances over at Belegorm, then motions toward the child with a subtle movement of his head. "You may pet her if you would like to, my friend," he tells the elf-lad.
"Hiril," Rhibi repeats to himself and then a quick grin crosses his face. "She is a lady." Turning to the horse, he holds his hand towards her nose. "Mae govannen, Lady." Without looking away, he asks, "She is of the H-horse Lords," stumbling a little over the unfamiliar name, "but she lives with you now?"
Ever watchful and unmoving amongst the shadows of the trees, Vinyarod watches curious children at various points through the camp as preparations are made for the crossing. A whisper of cold northern winds blow and catches the folds of the Knight's grey cloak, billowing it gently with the surrounding leaves. Crystal blue eyes follow the movement of one young lad as he makes his way to elf friend and horse.
Though the interaction is harmless enough, the Knight listens to the conversation without expression for several long moments until finally he steps forward from the shadows at the mention of the far off land. "It would be wise not to speak of such lands to these little ones." he says in a husky voice as his eyes lay upon the child with a stern look. "They've gotten themselves into enough trouble of late due to the curiosity born of such tales."
"Verily," Arelion answers, folding his arms and smiling at the lad. "Hiril lives with me now, as did her sire and her dam. But her grandsire and granddam were from the green plains of Calenardhon." The Dunadan reaches into a pouch at his side, retrieving a handful of sweet oats. But at the warning of Vinyarod, he nods curtly.
"As you wish, Master Elf." Arelion turns back to the boy. "Tell me, mellon... have you many horses in your land? And what, pray, is your name?"
Curiosity turns to mortification at the rebuke and Rhibi hangs his head, dropping his hand. "I wasn't doing anything," he mumbles. His cheeks flame and he shuffles his feet, unwilling to lift his eyes again. "My name is Iaurfer, but everyone calls me Rhibi." Gradually the blush fades and he dares a quick glance up. "I have only seen two horses before."
Up from the bank of the river rises the tall figure of Elenion Girithlin. A soft cloth of heavy linen he holds in his hands and with it wipes the drops of Celebrant's water from his fair and beardless face. The Swan Knight smiles to see his kinsman standing by the mare, again engaged in friendly converse with one of the Elf children.
Momentarily, Elenion's eyes slew to where his own great grey charger Mithros wanders unsaddled and untethered nearby, grazing liesurely upon grass that is green still despite the lateness of the year. Satisfied with his mount's welfare, the son of Elendir continues towards the spot where his kit is stowed, wringing the moisture from the linen.
The cloth wrung dry, the Knight folds it and returns it to his saddlebags that lay with the rest of his tack and gear across the bole of a fallen oak. This done he sits and listens to the conversation of Arelion and Elves with a grin of gregarious interest.
"Good morn, cousin," Arelion calls brightly to Elenion. "I trust you passed the night in peace?" He puts his handful of oats to Hiril's hungry mouth, and the horse munches contentedly. The knight glances back to Rhibi. "Well then, Master Rhibi," he says, "I believe she likes you. Perhaps one day you will become a horseman too?"
Bathed in light, the young Dunadan seems almost otherwordly; the effect is magnified by the unearthly beauty of the nearby elves. It is a strange sight and wondrous, to see the two sundered kin conversing so easily.
An abashed look is sent towards Vinyarod, and Rhibi blushes again. "I... probably not." Quickly, he looks around for some more innocuous subject of conversation. One that's less likely to get him in trouble again and his eyes fall on the oats. "Can I give her some?"
Slowly the Knight-Captain of Dol Amroth seats himself near to the edge of the river. Staring down into, he appears to be mesmerized by the flowing of it--
But yet he seems greatly troubled still.
"Aye, Arelion," returns the Knight to his cousin. "I dreamt of home, and fruitful harvest in the vinyards of the Red Hills," he offers, following with a stretch and a pleasant yawn. "The powers grant it was a vision from afar and not merely the fancy of a weary brain," calls Elenion in good humor as he stands and crosses the distance towards where his kinsman stands with the boy. "Now there's a proper horseman," observes Elenion with a chuckle. "His horse shall have it's morning repast ere a morsel of breakfast be set to his own lips," he adds with alloyed mirth and genuine admiration alight in his eyes.
Taudhoron stands with his back pressed to an ancient mallorn, having avoided all other types of tree. Envious are clear blue eyes as they watch Rhibi talk to the human and feed the horse, his chin tucked to his chest. Elenion calls his friend a horseman... and the younger boy spurs his step. He sidles closer and closer to Rhibi, until he is finally near enough to whisper loudly, "Are the human horses any different, mellon?"
"Indeed, cousin!," Arelion says to Elenion. "And certainly you may feed her," he answers Rhibi. The knight extends the pouch of oats to the elf. "Please to keep them in the palm of your hand. Hiril is gentle, but I wouldn't want to tempt her with a finger!" The young Dunadan laughs, but it is not entirely clear if he jests or not. He nods then at the elf Taudhoron in friendly fashion, but says no more.
A gentle laugh floats down from above Arelion and the boys, followed a moment later by a slight rustle of leaves. "Hiril?" The soft soprano of the Banneret wafts out from dense foliage. "You named your horse... Hiril?" This is followed by a faster, more exhuberant chuckle. "Well, now, there is one in Lorien that comes to mind when I hear that name, or title as she wears it. Wouldn't Calriel be delighted to find a steed that shares a name with her!" She parts the leaves and peers down, her eyes alighting an the horses rear end, "Ah! And the spiting image, too!"
"She won't eat my finger." Rhibi sounds very confident as he scoops out a handful of oats; but nonetheless he is careful to keep his hand flat. His eyes stay on the horse, even when his friend edges up next to him. "No, silly. Do they look different?" Mia's voice brings his head up, eyes glowing and he watches her for a minute before turning back to the tall black animal.
"Ah, the Lady Miaulwen," says Arelion, surpised and pleased at the growing convocation of Galadhrim around him and his horse. "Calriel..." repeats the knight. "Oh yes. Calriel, the herald of the Lord of the Wood?" Suddenly the young man pales at the insolence of Mia's jest, and then he bursts into a gale of laughter. "Certainly, lady, the herald would take exception to such a comparison?" he asks, gasping for breath. "Although Hiril -is- a lovely animal, no?"
Even as Mia decends to the group, another figure soon becomes apparant. Tall and yet elegant in his movements, this elf wears a standard cloak of gray, while atop his head rests a cowl of white; so pure that it seems to shimmer. Much of his face is hidden by the shadows of his reignments, but it is clear that his attention is focused for the moment upon Mia, then shifting to take in the others that stand nearby. He is silent for many a moment before his voice escapes, barely above a whisper, "Mae govannen."
Some many steps behind the one in a cowl of white comes the Blood Maiden. Knight Seregwen has followed, perhaps out of curiousity, perhaps out of duty. Either way, she is there, bow held loosely in her hand. The wind whispers word of the visitors, and she listens, letting her eyes rest on those of the returning party and those unknown. She does not approach fully, but stays back, still within earshot.
Taudhoron's eyes grow wide before his grin does, bright orbs cast a fleeting moment on Mia. He edges even closer to Rhibi, his shoulder bumping into the taller boy's arm. "They look a /bit/ different... but not much," he admits as he eyes the steed briefly. His fac upturns toward the other boy, and he speaks low but smug, "Did I tell you? My mother knows mannish tongues! Although..." he casts a glance toward Arelion, "Mannish tongues don't seem very different from what we say." His mouth pops open as the man suddenly laughs so loudly.
From amidst the camp of the Galadhrim, yet another form becomes visible. It moves slowly but steadily. As he enters the light, the form can be identified as Varya o Raavindonserke. Glancing about the area, he espies one of the Gondorians sitting by the edge of the Celebrant. Approaching the Gondorian, the Sindar sits down next to him, staying silent.
"Mae govannen, Mellon," replies the tall Knight to the new-arrived Elf, then turning back towards his cousin, Arelion. Elenion surpresses his amusement at the jest he is sure the Lady Miaulwen makes and instead observes aloud, "Aye, Hiril is a fine figure of a horse, or at least Mithros thinks so." For indeed the great grey stallion has wandered to his master's side and gently noses the black mare with a friendly whicker. The seeming sudden arrival of yet more Eldar causes the Girithlin Knight to raise an eyebrow of interest in Arelion's direction, but no other words does he say for the moment.
"Greetings," says then the dour Belegorm, brining his attention towards the elf that sits beside him. "It is a pretty sight, is it not?" he asks, waving his hand vaguely to the river.
Hiril tickles Rhibi's palm as she lips up the profered oats and he giggles. Taking a half-step sideways as Taudhoron nudges him, he looks down at his friend and whispers, "Cabor, he's talking the same as us."
"Mae govannen, mellon." Varya responds to the Gondorian. "Yes, at times it is a pretty sight, but at others" the Sinda trails off. Suddenly noticing some movement up in the mallyrn above them, the Galadhrim abruptly stands up, peering up so as to discern who it is.
Growing silent and stepping back to watch the Dunadan with the child, the Knight looks to the young lad and shakes his head in wonder. The conversation seems harmless enough, affording Vinyarod the opportunity to sweep his gaze over the humans present. How odd it seemed that some of their party took the time to cater to the interests of a child when it seems as if their minds lay elsewhere. His observation is momentarily distracted when drawn to the arrival of others.
Nodding respectfully to each senior and fellow upon arrival, Vinyarod's gaze returns to the humans to silently observe their words and actions. Crossing his arms lightly over his chest, the silent ellon leans comfortably against a tree. "This gathering is as a river, calm and inviting upon the surface, yet riddled with unseen currents that take an unsuspecting traveler to points unknown." he comments softly to himself as he puts words to his observations.
"Far too fair a creature to be compared with such a beast." Mia responds before swinging down from her perch by her hands, letting herself sway for a moment before dropping to the forest floor. A quick glance at her hands and she begins dusting them on her pants to clean away the tiny bits of bark. A casual glance to the horse from the corner of her eye is all she spares the creature, then turns her ees to the young man, her mouth spread in a generous grin. "Calriel doesn't compare at all, I think. Poor thing." She takes a deep breath and nods to Arelion, her hands falling to her sides. "And yes, likely Calriel would be quite upset with me for saying such things, but she is neither here nor a great concern of mine even when she is around. She chatters too much,' Mia waves her hand about in a dismissive gesture, "Making far too much noise." A gentle change in tone and she then inquires, "But how do you fare today? We have traveled hard and fast, I do hope it has not been too much for you or your mounts."
Abruptly the Knight-Captain of Dol Amroth stands from his position beside the river. He is tall and mighty as he folds his arms across his chest, a true Lord of the Dunedain. "I am Belegorm of the Isilrim," he says at length, bowing his head to the elf that is standing beside him.
"Nay indeed, lady," Arelion answers Mia, still smiling. "Our horses are bred for war, in the distant deserts, on open plains or in wood and glen. And we, too, are of sterner stuff than you might think, for our legacy is that of the West." The knight's expression becomes more sombre then. "But tell me," he says, "how much longer must we linger here? Forgive me, but our errand is of great urgency, and haste is needed. A life hangs in the balance, and I fear that any delay may cost us dear."
Looking up towards Mia fully now, Terridan reaches up to pull the cowl back from his head, showing his helmed features as he looks towards the Banneret, "Were that the Herald to hear such comparisons, Banneret. I am sure that she would quite like to discuss them with you." A faint wink is given to Mia as she decends from the tree, and then he now turns his attention to the horse before her, "But I agree, it is a fine animal." Now sweeping his gaze across the field again, Terridan begins to move off to one side; inclining his head to many of the elves here, while looking at the humans with a faint bit of interest.
Nodding his head at Belegorm, Varya returns the introduction while gazing off at the others, "And I am Varya o Raavindonserke, but I am sorry, for I most go speak with one over there." He indicates with a hand gesture towards the others. Starting off at a brisker pace than before, the Bachelor moves over towards the side that the Knight-Commander is on.
"I /said/ that," Taudhoron mutters with some annoyance, and his little hand reaches up to pet the mare's nose. He giggles when the other horse sidles up and nudges this one. "Let me have some oats. Do you think they will give me some oats, Rhibi? I want to feed the horse, too!"
The Galadhrim Knight's arms are crossed over her chest. The manner of dress of Arelion catches Seregwen's attention quickly, and an expression of surprise is superimposed by an expression of curiosity. She waits to see what Terridan will do, but her gaze remains on the Man's manner of dress, for she too bears a brooch of a nightengale clasping her cloak, though the blue and silver of her house are given over to the grays for camouflage.
Although he is not overly obvious about it, Rhibi's eyes track every movement his idol makes from the time she swings out of the tree. Taudhoron's words bring a hissed, "Shh! I'm listening." And he squats down, looking from face to face. 'Legacy of the West', 'errands of great urgency' - this is fascinating stuff and he listens with all his might.
Mia takes the arrival of the Commander in stride, his jovial wink sign enough that his mood is lighter this day, and so she nods to him and returns his smile. "I am sure she would, Terridan, and it would not be the first time." As Arelion speaks his concern, Mia turns her attention back to him, her eyebros knitted with concern. "In truth, there is nothin stopping our entry into Lothlorien. We are very close, but we needed to keep you here a short while. At least until the Lord and Lady were notified. But had I known your need was so great, I think I may have made exception. Whose life depends on your arrival here? And whatever could we do to help?"
"The life of Lord Arnafel, Hir Isilrim, is that which is held at hazard," answers Elenion. "A wound from a Morgul knife he bears, and though the cursed blade let no fragment therein, the shadow of malevolence that weilded such a fell weapon has left his darkness upon him," explains briefly. "What aid you might render to his succor we know not, but in hope have ridden far to find out."
"Aye, Elenion speaks sooth. The life of our comrade, Arnafel hir Isilrim, my lady," Arelion answers Mia quietly. The Dunadan's eyes are grave, much older than his apparent youthfulness. "We would speak with your healers," he says, "and your sages. And..." The young man's voice hushes, reverent and soft. "...And if The Lady could be troubled, I know that her grace and wisdom could aid us beyond measure. Though I hardly dare ask it."
Listening intently to the Banneret's words, Vinyarod steps away from the tree. 'Did not the Royal Herald Erinstar speak with you of this?' he asks Mia quickly with a furrowed brow. Turning to the Dunadan, the Knight reclines his head, unsure if it was his place to issue the apology for the Heralds failing. Shaking his head, the returns his gaze to Mia. "If I had known that the Herald would not have shared the news then I would have done so immediately upon my return to camp several days past." He says in an ancient language as looks down, obviously uncomfortable to share news when it should have been another to do so. "They spoke of an attack by the Witch-King upon their Lord."
Looking over towards Hyardoel now, Terridan frowns noticeably, and then turns back over to face Mia, "It seems that the Herald has been quite busy of late. I will have to discuss things with him." His voice is deadpan, and he looks over towards Vinyarod as he catches every word spoken, his eyes narrowing sharply under his helm at the words of the Knight. A heavy sigh now escapes his lips, and he shakes his head once, "And soon it seems. Such matters should be brought to immediate attention."
Taudhoron smirks as Rhibi's eyes follow Mia eagerly. "If you leave the Wood again, you're crazy," he hisses. But soon enough, he settles cross-legged on the ground beside his squatting friend, and peers up at the adults, boredly at first. His dark brows lift. "Do you know what a Morgul knife is? How is it different from a normal one?" He leans back, planting his palms in the earth and looking idly over at the lad beside him.
Stopping mid-stride at the words 'morgul blade' and 'witch-king', Varya's gaze turns to look at those that speak the words. After a moment, the gray-cowled Sindar continues his stride towards the Knight-Commander. Pausing at around ten feet from Terridan, his hand rises to his shoulder in a salute, and watches the Dunedain with interest.
About to speak to Arelion, Mia is halted by both the Knight and Commander, her realization of the Herald's mistake apparent on her every feature. "No...no, he did not speak to me of this at all. Had he done so... had he done so I would have made you wait not a moment before taking you to the Lady." She looks at the man, her head tilted slightly, "By the Herald's words you are known to her, why he did not take you himself is also a mystery. Come, the way is still far to the city, yet we may make a fair way before day's end." She looks now to Terridan, an inquisitve tone marking her words, "If you agree, Commander? Let us not waste another moment of their time in idle chatter." She reaches out a hand and places it lightly on Arelion's arm. "I would hear more of this wound, if you do not mind." She includes Elenion in her conversation now, her smile a tad shy. "Protector of Lothlorien is not my only guise in life, as most of my years have been spent as a healer."
Rhibi simply shakes his head, never taking his eyes off of the adults who speak of such important matters. "I am not crazy!" he says and then covers his mouth. Too loud. Anxiously, he looks around to see if anyone has heard him. Then he hears Mia's words and nudges Taudhoron in the ribs. "Did you hear that? We're going home!"
Terridan, possibly to many of the elves' surprise, nods his head once, "Let us make haste, Banneret. Send runners to make announcements to the healers that preperations are to be made. We will not make the city tonight, but we will make the crossroads at least." The Commander's face is set tight, with his eyes alight with more than a little anger. Only now do the elf-stones upon his brow become noticeable, as they begin to shine with an inner light. He turns towards the river, then back to Mia, "Tend to the wound only when we have gone past the river. We should not tarry here."
The Knight Seregwen steps forward now to take instructions from the Knight-Banneret, offering her assistance with a silent salute to both she and the Knight-Commander. No words are needed in this brief exchange.
"My thanks, fair people," Arelion says gratefully to the elves at hand. "I would gladly tell you all I know, as I am sure my comrades will. But we are tired and weary, as are our horses." The Dunadan glances at the elf with the nightingale token, eyeing her strangely. "We will follow where you lead."
"Home!" crows Taudhoron, not caring if anyone hears. He bounces a bit on his bottom in excitement. He giggles to himself, and nudges Rhibi back. Suddenly, his merry face falls ludicrously. "Oh, mellon, we'll be in such trouble." He turns his gaze to his friend. "We're going to spend our next few weeks being lectured, at /least/." He sighs mournfully.
"Indeed," says the son of Elendir, echoing Arelion. Yet I fear our words were less clear than meant, friends," interjects Elenion, with a brief glance at his cousin. "We could not bring Arnafel with us, for he surely would have not survived the journey hither," he explains in a reluctant voice. "Within the tower of guard is he still, though I believe we wish it otherwise if it would aid in his recovery."
"He is not with you? But... how many days ago did he fall ill?" Mia moves towards the river as she speaks, ushering the others to come along. A sharp whistle splits the air and a rope is thrown from the opposite bank, which she catches easily and ties with a conspicuous looking knot to a sturdy tree. "Leave your horses and posessions, they will be tended to I assure you." As she speaks she leaps up onto the rope, standing easily on the thin material as she motions a group of Squires into action who gather both horses and anything not already being carried by another, ready to follow the group to their first camp in Lorien.