"Yes, well, that's just what comes from messing with royalty," muttered Stephanos, carefully brushing dragon scale glitter from his very very crushed velvet jacket. "I've really been taken for a ride on this one."
Seeing Estelyn beaming insouciantly at him, he managed a wan smile in return. He hoped no-one had seen his lunch, deposited with the fireworks some minutes earlier. He still felt rather shaken, albeit not stirred. Straining his ears, he found he could no longer discern the Fab Four and he supposed that the REG had cancelled that ill-fated reunion. A pity...they were playing songs that had never been played live before...
He bowed to Sindacuion, his dragon riding Padawan, who was murmuring softly about the need for pastries and muffins. He noticed Rosa Baggins sitting near-by staring blankly into space. Her could not discern what she was staring so fixatedly upon; he shrugged and looked around for other amusements.
Seeing that someone had dared to enter Bee-Dubya's tent, he emitted a low rasping chuckle as the sound of gnawing bones floated through the stiff black canvas opening.
He saw The Frodo Lives clan planning their folly against Mithadan. He adjusted his own badge, given to him in childhood by an older friend, who had clearly predicted the young man he would become with unerring accuracy, proudly and thought of joining them but realised that hugging trees in the 80s and writing faintly anarchial anti-globalisation texts in the 90s probably didin't match up to 60s and 70s student radicalism. Instead he retook his place under the tree, after flourishing an unnecessarily elaborate bow to the radiant Princess Estelyn, and opened a book of poems and other works by Arthur Rimbaud.
Who da poet?
Soon thereafter, zifnab came and sat beside him and Estelyn too. They sat in companionable silence as twinkle, Telchar and Glorfindel crossed the dew-sodden lawns towards them. The sun awoke, sending pink illuminations darting across the impenetrable depth of morning blue-black sky.
They sat and watched as Arien stained the canvas with lights fantastic. Stephanos smiled contentedly; he saw other companions come to sit beneath the canopy of branches. An amalgamation of friends and acquaintances all drawn together by this daily wonder. As he watched a young hobbit girl lower her tousled head into the Princess Tar-Miriel's lap with sleep, a poem came to mind.
He cleared his throat and gently quoted, words from the tortured young lady Emily Dickinson:
’T IS sunrise, little maid, hast thou
No station in the day?
’T was not thy wont to hinder so,—
Retrieve thine industry.
’T is noon, my little maid, alas!
And art thou sleeping yet?
The lily waiting to be wed,
The bee, dost thou forget?
My little maid, ’t is night; alas,
That night should be to thee
Instead of morning! Hadst thou broached
Thy little plan to me,
Dissuade thee if I could not, sweet,
I might have aided thee.
*********************************
The loneliest tear in a thousand years escaped his eye and travelled earthwards. Remembrance fierce within him, he gathered his friends in his sight and blessed them thricely.
Happy Birthday.
[ May 22, 2002: Message edited by: Stephanos ]
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And all the rest is literature
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