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Durelin · 01-09-2006, 07:05 PM

Mithalwen's post

Spring SA 1705

Losrian woke to the now familiar sounds of Imladris but it seemed as if the world had been cast anew. She looked across at the one who slept peacefully next to her and smiled. She had not thought such happiness was possible. It had been hard bought but still she felt it undeserved.

Fifteen years earlier, not yet of age she had left Lindon and her parents and gone to seek what she thought to be her destiny in Ost-in Edhil. The fate was not as expected but, given that she could not return the dead to life, she would not exchange it. She looked up at the carved beams of her ceiling and laughed inwardly to think what Ferin would have said had he known how much of her time had been spent at working wood since the day when the Army of Elrond and the refugees of Eregion had come across the hidden valley of Rivendell. So few of the craftsmen had survived that even an apprentice such as herself had increased status and while she still loved metalwork most, in Imladris it seemed natural to shape the buildings to be in harmony with their environment and even the metal work took organic form.

It would be long before the work would be completed but once the essentials of shelter had been met, the natural inclination of the Eldar and the Noldor in particular to marry beauty with function had surfaced. Naturally Losrian had not neglected her own dwelling. Less affected by the loss of Ost in Edhil itself than many of those who had lived there longer, she approached the task of building the refuge with great enthusiasm, fuelled by her own happiness. Before they had met, Losrian had imagined marriage as somthing that would stifle her but Ondomirë's love had increased her self confidence and her creativity had flowered.She remembered the moment she had first seen the valley, and the rush of joy that had seized her, knowing instantly that their wandering was over, that this would be her home with Ondomirë.

A little time had been spared from essentials in those early days for her to craft with the more expert help of Cainenyo two slender bands of silver and the formal betrothal of Losrian and Ondomirë. was the first celebration held at Imladris. Losrian had worn the dress crafted for her coming of age by Laswen which had somehow survived months in a bag in a cart along with the few non-essential possessions that she had brought out from the ruin of Eregion. It was she thought, probably the first time Ondomirë had seen her in a dress.

The next time was at their wedding a year later. She had joked that the only reason she did not resent the customary delay was the need to sew her wedding gown and had hoped that the other elf women would take pity on her as Laswen had, especially since she worked long hours at forge and lathe in the common good. However to her surprise, with their guidance she found that her needle flew and she realised that as with the osanwë-kenta motivation was all. She wanted the dress to be as fair as possible as an expression of her love for Ondomirë and her will seemed to mould her skill. Though by the time of their wedding, their happiness was tempered by the knowledge that the valley was an isolated island in a sea of evil they trusted in "estel" that it would not always be so. Lying safe in her husband's embrace, their hair mingled raven and silver on the pillow Losrian found it easy to have faith.

In the early days the deepest shadow on Losrian's heart was a bittersweet one. As she had predicted some of the farming folk of Eregion had taken refuge in the foothills of the mountains; scouts had found them and guided them to Imladris. Among them had been Isilmë's maternal grandparents. Although Losrian had always spoken the proviso that she would care for the little girl unless her kin could be found the likelihood that this would happen seemed so remote that she had ceased to think it, and had started to think of the girl as part of her family. Although the child would dwell in Rivendell and she would see her daily, yielding the lass to her own delighted family had caused her an exquisite pain that she managed to conceal from most. Not from Ondomirë in whose tender arms she had wept long in private and not from Elrond who saw many things. He had stood at her side and watched with her as Galmir and Isilmë played together. His voice reached her mind "I think in the long term it will be better that those twain are not raised as brother and sister" . Losrian caught his meaning and was comforted. He added "and you will have more children in your house in time". "But not in time of war" she answered. "Wars do not last forever Losrian" he said before leaving her to her thoughts.

Galmir grew, thrived and treated the valley as a giant playground. While Losrian and Ondomirë worked hard they devoted as much time as they could to him and little boy who had been delighted when he realised that the wedding meant that they would live together "like ada and ammë" and had called Ondomirë, Ada-mirë.

Elrond had been right. Sauron's hold over had been short lived. The king of Numenor had sent a great army to the aid of Middle Earth and in 1701 the Dark Lord had been driven back to Mordor and the Westlands would have peace for many years.

As Galmir grew he began to show more traits in face and personality to his parents and grandparents. While he provided such fair remembrance of her lost kin, Losrian felt an increased yearning for another child, one who would reflect the likeness of her beloved Ondomirë and his kin, mingled with her own. In Coirë a year ago, all three of them had gone for a walk in the woods that lined the valley. Ondomirë and she had sat on a fallen trunk and watched Galmir attempt to climb a beech. Noting his lengthening limbs and increasing confidence, Ondomirë had commented that he would soon teach the lad archery and commented that he wasn't a baby any more. He had been surprised by his wife's wistful sigh at his remark. "What is the matter, melda? " he asked silently " You have seemed restless lately..... do you wish to go to Lindon to see your parents .... now that it is safe? " "No! - I mean yes I would love to see them again but .... that is not it " and she opened her mind to reveal the one thing she had tried to conceal from him since their marriage.

Understanding her he had laughed but asked why she had not spoken before knowing how much he loved Galmir. "I thought you would think we should wait a while longer ... but I do not want to wait any more" she said gazing at her feet.
"If you are ready, I am ready " he said and drew her to him, resting his head against hers in the same gesture he had made when she had accepted him nearly eight years before.

In the spring, Losrian conceived and it seemed to her that the changes in her body mimicked nature as it softened and swelled while the flowers budded and blossomed. The plants however rushed to full ripeness and in the autumn while they yielded their harvest, Losrian felt the first stirring of the new life within herself . Unable to express her joy in craft she took up her lute again and made music as long as she could accomodate the roundness of the intrument's belly against her own. In her happiness she lost her shyness and cared not who heard her as she sang and played. Ondomirë was as loving and attentive as she could wish and Galmir, to her relief was looking forward to the arrival of the child that would link them all. "Would you like it to be a boy or a girl?" she had asked him as he rested his little hands on her feeling for the movement of the unborn child with a rapt expression on his face. "Both " he replied. "Well I am fairly certain there is just one in there - you will have to make do with one or the other and hope we don't get the same again next time" she had answered. "Already you think about next time?" asked Ondomirë, and she had seen no reason not to, her pregnancy had given her much joy and little trouble at least until her labour had started.

Now as she lay back on her pillows, little more than a day later, those memories were already fading, overwhelmed by the love she felt for her firstborn, her husband and Galmir the child of her heart. The baby woke and holding the child against her Losrian wondered at the perfection of its tiny limbs and gazed into grey eyes which were so like Ondomirë's.

As if in answer to the thought he arrived with Galmir and she passed the baby to its father while she embraced the little boy, reassuring him that he was loved no less than the new arrival.

The infant seemed even tinier cradled in Ondomirë's arms and watching them with Galmir at her side, she committed the image to her memory, whatever the future brought, this moment would sustain her trust in days when it was harder to believe in Estel. But this was not the time to think of such things. It was a time for joy, for celebration. She smiled at Ondomirë

"So, have you chosen a name?"

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Envinyatar's post

SA 1712

It had been a six month’s journey, from Imladris to Lórien and return. Lord Elrond, with a number of his counselors, had met with Celeborn and Galadriel. There were matters to discuss concerning Sauron. Though a certain level of peace reigned from Rhovanion to Forlindon, still he was not vanquished totally, only gone to ground for now. And once he had rewoven his foul deceits, they knew he would return again to pursue his schemes.

In order to accompany Lord Elrond on this mission, Ondomirë had taken off his leather apron, the one he used to work on the shelves for the library Elrond desired to be built; put away the hammer, the nails, and the attendant rolls of bandage that often cushioned his unfortunate forays into anything more complicated than nailing one board to another. And pick up his bow and armour once again.

That Ondomirë was a master of the bow was never questioned, but clearly his talents in the art of carpentry and woodworking left much to be learned. Still he persisted at it, to the amusement of the other Elves involved. He liked the feeling of building something, of making even as simple a thing as a shelf. It was worlds away from his long years of war, of killing.

The trip was uneventful, as far as any danger from Orcs or other of Sauron’s creatures left to fend for themselves since his departure. Instead there was a bit of good fortune for Ondomirë on a short patrol he’d gone on with three others of his bowmen.......

---

‘Atya! Atya!’

The chorus of nearing voices grew louder the closer he drew to his dwelling. It was Miril, first, his thin little legs pumping hard as he ran toward his daddy. And Gally, the older brother, holding him up by his tunic shoulder so that he didn’t stumble. Ondomirë smiled at this image of the two boys . . . of his two boys. He leaned down and grabbed them up as they came windmilling to him. They wriggled and squealed against his armour, giving him quick hugs about the neck, and then reaching down to grab at the clasp of the leather pouch strung over one shoulder. He put them down and handed over the pouch, directing Gally to give out the presents that he’d brought from Lórien. ‘The one with the dark blue ribbon is yours,’ he told the boy, ruffling his hair as eager fingers lifted out the prizes. ‘Red for Miril . . . and where’s my girl?’ he asked, looking to where Losrian stood, their two-year old daughter in her arms.

‘Come, Ancalimë, my bright little bird.’ The little girl clutched onto her mother, looking at him suspiciously. ‘Come . . . here, atya will take off his armour, his bow, his sword.’ Her face smoothed out as he spoke softly to her, and once he was down to his breeches and tunic, his weapons and such at his feet, she looked as if she might recognize him.

‘You’re missing out, Anca!’ cried Gally, holding up a pretty, little, soft sewn dolly. ‘Look! She has silver hair, just like you and ammë. And her dress is green, too, just like yours!’

‘Atya?’ she said as Losrian crouched down and nudged her toward her father. He, too, knelt down as she ran toward him. A generous, wet kiss was planted on his cheek and the dolly clutched to her own chest as Gally handed it off. She toddled happily back to her mother to show it off.

‘Don’t worry, atya,’ Gally offered, his hands on his hips as he watched his little sister. ‘She’s a big ammë’s-girl since you left.’ He snorted, already wondering at the ways of females. ‘Me and Miril have built a little fort down by the little stream,’ he went on, turning back. ‘You can come play with us . . . if you want,’ he added hopefully. Ondomirë chuckled at the invitation, saying ‘yes’, but tomorrow, it would have to be. “I want to spend some time with ammë . . .’

Anca had gone off to play with her brothers as Ondomirë stood back up. Losrian’s eyes were on her daughter, a smile of simple delight at the scene lighting up her face. He watched her for a moment, drinking in the familiar grace of her. The breeze picked up a few stray strands of her hair, fanning them out. They shimmered silvery against the evening’s sky.

‘I’ve missed you,’ he said softly, drawing her to his side as he came near.

‘And your supper, too,’ she teased him. ‘Many times over by my reckoning!’ Taking his hand she urged him back to their dwelling, saying the children would be occupied with their toys and the fireflies that would soon be out.

He watched her as she moved easily about the little kitchen area. Filling a bowl for him, offering him bread . . . and would he have wine, or water. She flitted about much as the bright fireflies the children were so fond of catching. ‘Alight for a moment,’ he said grasping her wrist as she placed a mug of wine in front of him. ‘I have news of Skald and his family.’

There had been a brief encounter as they crossed back over the mountains near Lórien, heading back towards Imladris. Ondomirë and several of his bowmen had circled back behind the group of Elves to scout for anyone or anything following them. Skald and several other Dwarves were spotted heading south, back towards Khazad-dum, the Elves supposed. ‘We would have let them pass without knowing we were there, save that I recognized the brooch the lead Dwarf wore on his cloak. It was your gift to him, Losrian. He still has it . . . the garland of flowers and leaves.’ She nodded for him to go on, her eyes bright with anticipation.

‘He looks as . . . well, good as ever. Dwarvishly good. His eyes twinkle with a new happiness.’ He paused for a moment. ‘One we did not see . . . back then. ‘There was sad news . . . his older brother, Riv, died in that last assault from beneath the mountain - when they drew the Orcs and others from us. But Skald and his younger brother, Bror, returned safely to their hall.’ He smiled, recalling the glad news they both had exchanged of wedding and of family. ‘He’s taken a wife, or as he put it – she’s taken him. His brother Riv’s widow. And they have a son themselves. Rauði, he’s called; three years older than our Miril. And Riv’s son and daughter are part of their little brood, of course.’

‘We spoke of some our time together, his and mine. And I joked at my, our, first sighting of you and how glad I was your arrow had not pierced me when first we found you and Gally. It was Skald who slapped me on the back at the recollection and laughed that from where he sat, your arrow had flown straight to my heart.’ Ondomirë reached up to tuck a stray silver hair behind her ear. His finger lingered for a moment, then trailed down the hollow of her neck from earlobe to collarbone. ‘Clever Dwarf!’ He sat back and looked at her face.

‘But I forget myself . . . he taught me a song, as we sat about a little campfire in the evening. Said it was a present for us. An old song, from before the lands sank beneath the sea. There was a small country in the far northwest where the Dwarves had halls once. And he said that when he sang it, he often thought of you and me and wondered what had become of us. You are the lovely Queen and I, apparently, the stricken suitor.’

‘He said he wished that his brother Bror were there with him. He plays the harp it seems and his voice is far better than Skald’s – or so Skald says. But I told him, mine was not much meant for singing, either. So he would be a fine enough teacher for the likes of me.

Losrian clapped her hands and grinned at him, commanding him to sing it. He stood up from the chair, grabbing a clean pan from the counter to use as a drum. With a look of mild apology, he cleared his throat and began . . .

~o~

Gentlemen it is me duty
To inform you of one beauty
Though I'd ask of you a favour
Not to seek her for a while
Though I own she is a creature
Of character and feature
No words can paint the picture
Of the Queen of all Argyll

And if you could have seen her there
Boys, if you had just been there
The swan was in her movements
And the morning in her smile
All the roses in the garden
They bow and ask her pardon
For not one could match the beauty
Of the Queen of all Argyll

On the evening that I mentioned
I passed with light intention
Through a part of our dear country
Known for beauty and for style
In the place of noble thinkers
Of scholars and great drinkers
But above them all for splendour
Shone the Queen of all Argyll

And if you could have seen her there
Boys, if you had just been there
The swan was in her movements
And the morning in her smile
All the roses in the garden
They bow and ask her pardon
For not one could match the beauty
Of the Queen of all Argyll

So my lads I needs must leave you
My intentions no' to grieve you
Nor indeed would I deceive you
Oh I'll see you in a while
I must find some way to gain her
To court her and attain her
I fear my heart's in danger
From the Queen of all Argyll

And if you could have seen her there
Boys, if you had just been there
The swan was in her movements
And the morning in her smile
All the roses in the garden
They bow and ask her pardon
For not one could match the beauty
Of the Queen of all Argyll

And if you could have seen her there
Boys, if you had just been there
The swan was in her movements
And the morning in her smile
All the roses in the garden
They bow and ask her pardon
For not one could match the beauty

Of the Queen of all Argyll . . .

~o~

‘Atya is singing!’ Miril’s eyes were wide with the wonder of it. The trio of little ones stood in the entry way listening.

‘Yes,’ said Gally, his grubby hands holding tight to those of his brother and sister. ‘Come on, Anca . . . Miri . . .’ He looked, smiling, back to where his mother and father now had their arms wrapped about each other. ‘Bring your toys. I think we can get ourselves off to bed . . . don’t you?’

01-09-2006, 07:05 PM	#38
Durelin Estelo dagnir, Melo ring Join Date: Oct 2002 Posts: 3,063	Mithalwen's post Spring SA 1705 Losrian woke to the now familiar sounds of Imladris but it seemed as if the world had been cast anew. She looked across at the one who slept peacefully next to her and smiled. She had not thought such happiness was possible. It had been hard bought but still she felt it undeserved. Fifteen years earlier, not yet of age she had left Lindon and her parents and gone to seek what she thought to be her destiny in Ost-in Edhil. The fate was not as expected but, given that she could not return the dead to life, she would not exchange it. She looked up at the carved beams of her ceiling and laughed inwardly to think what Ferin would have said had he known how much of her time had been spent at working wood since the day when the Army of Elrond and the refugees of Eregion had come across the hidden valley of Rivendell. So few of the craftsmen had survived that even an apprentice such as herself had increased status and while she still loved metalwork most, in Imladris it seemed natural to shape the buildings to be in harmony with their environment and even the metal work took organic form. It would be long before the work would be completed but once the essentials of shelter had been met, the natural inclination of the Eldar and the Noldor in particular to marry beauty with function had surfaced. Naturally Losrian had not neglected her own dwelling. Less affected by the loss of Ost in Edhil itself than many of those who had lived there longer, she approached the task of building the refuge with great enthusiasm, fuelled by her own happiness. Before they had met, Losrian had imagined marriage as somthing that would stifle her but Ondomirë's love had increased her self confidence and her creativity had flowered.She remembered the moment she had first seen the valley, and the rush of joy that had seized her, knowing instantly that their wandering was over, that this would be her home with Ondomirë. A little time had been spared from essentials in those early days for her to craft with the more expert help of Cainenyo two slender bands of silver and the formal betrothal of Losrian and Ondomirë. was the first celebration held at Imladris. Losrian had worn the dress crafted for her coming of age by Laswen which had somehow survived months in a bag in a cart along with the few non-essential possessions that she had brought out from the ruin of Eregion. It was she thought, probably the first time Ondomirë had seen her in a dress. The next time was at their wedding a year later. She had joked that the only reason she did not resent the customary delay was the need to sew her wedding gown and had hoped that the other elf women would take pity on her as Laswen had, especially since she worked long hours at forge and lathe in the common good. However to her surprise, with their guidance she found that her needle flew and she realised that as with the osanwë-kenta motivation was all. She wanted the dress to be as fair as possible as an expression of her love for Ondomirë and her will seemed to mould her skill. Though by the time of their wedding, their happiness was tempered by the knowledge that the valley was an isolated island in a sea of evil they trusted in "estel" that it would not always be so. Lying safe in her husband's embrace, their hair mingled raven and silver on the pillow Losrian found it easy to have faith. In the early days the deepest shadow on Losrian's heart was a bittersweet one. As she had predicted some of the farming folk of Eregion had taken refuge in the foothills of the mountains; scouts had found them and guided them to Imladris. Among them had been Isilmë's maternal grandparents. Although Losrian had always spoken the proviso that she would care for the little girl unless her kin could be found the likelihood that this would happen seemed so remote that she had ceased to think it, and had started to think of the girl as part of her family. Although the child would dwell in Rivendell and she would see her daily, yielding the lass to her own delighted family had caused her an exquisite pain that she managed to conceal from most. Not from Ondomirë in whose tender arms she had wept long in private and not from Elrond who saw many things. He had stood at her side and watched with her as Galmir and Isilmë played together. His voice reached her mind "I think in the long term it will be better that those twain are not raised as brother and sister" . Losrian caught his meaning and was comforted. He added "and you will have more children in your house in time". "But not in time of war" she answered. "Wars do not last forever Losrian" he said before leaving her to her thoughts. Galmir grew, thrived and treated the valley as a giant playground. While Losrian and Ondomirë worked hard they devoted as much time as they could to him and little boy who had been delighted when he realised that the wedding meant that they would live together "like ada and ammë" and had called Ondomirë, Ada-mirë. Elrond had been right. Sauron's hold over had been short lived. The king of Numenor had sent a great army to the aid of Middle Earth and in 1701 the Dark Lord had been driven back to Mordor and the Westlands would have peace for many years. As Galmir grew he began to show more traits in face and personality to his parents and grandparents. While he provided such fair remembrance of her lost kin, Losrian felt an increased yearning for another child, one who would reflect the likeness of her beloved Ondomirë and his kin, mingled with her own. In Coirë a year ago, all three of them had gone for a walk in the woods that lined the valley. Ondomirë and she had sat on a fallen trunk and watched Galmir attempt to climb a beech. Noting his lengthening limbs and increasing confidence, Ondomirë had commented that he would soon teach the lad archery and commented that he wasn't a baby any more. He had been surprised by his wife's wistful sigh at his remark. "What is the matter, melda? " he asked silently " You have seemed restless lately..... do you wish to go to Lindon to see your parents .... now that it is safe? " "No! - I mean yes I would love to see them again but .... that is not it " and she opened her mind to reveal the one thing she had tried to conceal from him since their marriage. Understanding her he had laughed but asked why she had not spoken before knowing how much he loved Galmir. "I thought you would think we should wait a while longer ... but I do not want to wait any more" she said gazing at her feet. "If you are ready, I am ready " he said and drew her to him, resting his head against hers in the same gesture he had made when she had accepted him nearly eight years before. In the spring, Losrian conceived and it seemed to her that the changes in her body mimicked nature as it softened and swelled while the flowers budded and blossomed. The plants however rushed to full ripeness and in the autumn while they yielded their harvest, Losrian felt the first stirring of the new life within herself . Unable to express her joy in craft she took up her lute again and made music as long as she could accomodate the roundness of the intrument's belly against her own. In her happiness she lost her shyness and cared not who heard her as she sang and played. Ondomirë was as loving and attentive as she could wish and Galmir, to her relief was looking forward to the arrival of the child that would link them all. "Would you like it to be a boy or a girl?" she had asked him as he rested his little hands on her feeling for the movement of the unborn child with a rapt expression on his face. "Both " he replied. "Well I am fairly certain there is just one in there - you will have to make do with one or the other and hope we don't get the same again next time" she had answered. "Already you think about next time?" asked Ondomirë, and she had seen no reason not to, her pregnancy had given her much joy and little trouble at least until her labour had started. Now as she lay back on her pillows, little more than a day later, those memories were already fading, overwhelmed by the love she felt for her firstborn, her husband and Galmir the child of her heart. The baby woke and holding the child against her Losrian wondered at the perfection of its tiny limbs and gazed into grey eyes which were so like Ondomirë's. As if in answer to the thought he arrived with Galmir and she passed the baby to its father while she embraced the little boy, reassuring him that he was loved no less than the new arrival. The infant seemed even tinier cradled in Ondomirë's arms and watching them with Galmir at her side, she committed the image to her memory, whatever the future brought, this moment would sustain her trust in days when it was harder to believe in Estel. But this was not the time to think of such things. It was a time for joy, for celebration. She smiled at Ondomirë "So, have you chosen a name?" -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Envinyatar's post *SA 1712* It had been a six month’s journey, from Imladris to Lórien and return. Lord Elrond, with a number of his counselors, had met with Celeborn and Galadriel. There were matters to discuss concerning Sauron. Though a certain level of peace reigned from Rhovanion to Forlindon, still he was not vanquished totally, only gone to ground for now. And once he had rewoven his foul deceits, they knew he would return again to pursue his schemes. In order to accompany Lord Elrond on this mission, Ondomirë had taken off his leather apron, the one he used to work on the shelves for the library Elrond desired to be built; put away the hammer, the nails, and the attendant rolls of bandage that often cushioned his unfortunate forays into anything more complicated than nailing one board to another. And pick up his bow and armour once again. That Ondomirë was a master of the bow was never questioned, but clearly his talents in the art of carpentry and woodworking left much to be learned. Still he persisted at it, to the amusement of the other Elves involved. He liked the feeling of building something, of making even as simple a thing as a shelf. It was worlds away from his long years of war, of killing. The trip was uneventful, as far as any danger from Orcs or other of Sauron’s creatures left to fend for themselves since his departure. Instead there was a bit of good fortune for Ondomirë on a short patrol he’d gone on with three others of his bowmen....... --- ‘Atya! Atya!’ The chorus of nearing voices grew louder the closer he drew to his dwelling. It was Miril, first, his thin little legs pumping hard as he ran toward his daddy. And Gally, the older brother, holding him up by his tunic shoulder so that he didn’t stumble. Ondomirë smiled at this image of the two boys . . . of his two boys. He leaned down and grabbed them up as they came windmilling to him. They wriggled and squealed against his armour, giving him quick hugs about the neck, and then reaching down to grab at the clasp of the leather pouch strung over one shoulder. He put them down and handed over the pouch, directing Gally to give out the presents that he’d brought from Lórien. ‘The one with the dark blue ribbon is yours,’ he told the boy, ruffling his hair as eager fingers lifted out the prizes. ‘Red for Miril . . . and where’s my girl?’ he asked, looking to where Losrian stood, their two-year old daughter in her arms. ‘Come, Ancalimë, my bright little bird.’ The little girl clutched onto her mother, looking at him suspiciously. ‘Come . . . here, atya will take off his armour, his bow, his sword.’ Her face smoothed out as he spoke softly to her, and once he was down to his breeches and tunic, his weapons and such at his feet, she looked as if she might recognize him. ‘You’re missing out, Anca!’ cried Gally, holding up a pretty, little, soft sewn dolly. ‘Look! She has silver hair, just like you and ammë. And her dress is green, too, just like yours!’ ‘Atya?’ she said as Losrian crouched down and nudged her toward her father. He, too, knelt down as she ran toward him. A generous, wet kiss was planted on his cheek and the dolly clutched to her own chest as Gally handed it off. She toddled happily back to her mother to show it off. ‘Don’t worry, atya,’ Gally offered, his hands on his hips as he watched his little sister. ‘She’s a big ammë’s-girl since you left.’ He snorted, already wondering at the ways of females. ‘Me and Miril have built a little fort down by the little stream,’ he went on, turning back. ‘You can come play with us . . . if you want,’ he added hopefully. Ondomirë chuckled at the invitation, saying ‘yes’, but tomorrow, it would have to be. “I want to spend some time with ammë . . .’ Anca had gone off to play with her brothers as Ondomirë stood back up. Losrian’s eyes were on her daughter, a smile of simple delight at the scene lighting up her face. He watched her for a moment, drinking in the familiar grace of her. The breeze picked up a few stray strands of her hair, fanning them out. They shimmered silvery against the evening’s sky. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said softly, drawing her to his side as he came near. ‘And your supper, too,’ she teased him. ‘Many times over by my reckoning!’ Taking his hand she urged him back to their dwelling, saying the children would be occupied with their toys and the fireflies that would soon be out. He watched her as she moved easily about the little kitchen area. Filling a bowl for him, offering him bread . . . and would he have wine, or water. She flitted about much as the bright fireflies the children were so fond of catching. ‘Alight for a moment,’ he said grasping her wrist as she placed a mug of wine in front of him. ‘I have news of Skald and his family.’ There had been a brief encounter as they crossed back over the mountains near Lórien, heading back towards Imladris. Ondomirë and several of his bowmen had circled back behind the group of Elves to scout for anyone or anything following them. Skald and several other Dwarves were spotted heading south, back towards Khazad-dum, the Elves supposed. ‘We would have let them pass without knowing we were there, save that I recognized the brooch the lead Dwarf wore on his cloak. It was your gift to him, Losrian. He still has it . . . the garland of flowers and leaves.’ She nodded for him to go on, her eyes bright with anticipation. ‘He looks as . . . well, good as ever. Dwarvishly good. His eyes twinkle with a new happiness.’ He paused for a moment. ‘One we did not see . . . back then. ‘There was sad news . . . his older brother, Riv, died in that last assault from beneath the mountain - when they drew the Orcs and others from us. But Skald and his younger brother, Bror, returned safely to their hall.’ He smiled, recalling the glad news they both had exchanged of wedding and of family. ‘He’s taken a wife, or as he put it – she’s taken him. His brother Riv’s widow. And they have a son themselves. Rauði, he’s called; three years older than our Miril. And Riv’s son and daughter are part of their little brood, of course.’ ‘We spoke of some our time together, his and mine. And I joked at my, our, first sighting of you and how glad I was your arrow had not pierced me when first we found you and Gally. It was Skald who slapped me on the back at the recollection and laughed that from where he sat, your arrow had flown straight to my heart.’ Ondomirë reached up to tuck a stray silver hair behind her ear. His finger lingered for a moment, then trailed down the hollow of her neck from earlobe to collarbone. ‘Clever Dwarf!’ He sat back and looked at her face. ‘But I forget myself . . . he taught me a song, as we sat about a little campfire in the evening. Said it was a present for us. An old song, from before the lands sank beneath the sea. There was a small country in the far northwest where the Dwarves had halls once. And he said that when he sang it, he often thought of you and me and wondered what had become of us. You are the lovely Queen and I, apparently, the stricken suitor.’ ‘He said he wished that his brother Bror were there with him. He plays the harp it seems and his voice is far better than Skald’s – or so Skald says. But I told him, mine was not much meant for singing, either. So he would be a fine enough teacher for the likes of me. Losrian clapped her hands and grinned at him, commanding him to sing it. He stood up from the chair, grabbing a clean pan from the counter to use as a drum. With a look of mild apology, he cleared his throat and began . . . ~o~ Gentlemen it is me duty To inform you of one beauty Though I'd ask of you a favour Not to seek her for a while Though I own she is a creature Of character and feature No words can paint the picture Of the Queen of all Argyll And if you could have seen her there Boys, if you had just been there The swan was in her movements And the morning in her smile All the roses in the garden They bow and ask her pardon For not one could match the beauty Of the Queen of all Argyll On the evening that I mentioned I passed with light intention Through a part of our dear country Known for beauty and for style In the place of noble thinkers Of scholars and great drinkers But above them all for splendour Shone the Queen of all Argyll And if you could have seen her there Boys, if you had just been there The swan was in her movements And the morning in her smile All the roses in the garden They bow and ask her pardon For not one could match the beauty Of the Queen of all Argyll So my lads I needs must leave you My intentions no' to grieve you Nor indeed would I deceive you Oh I'll see you in a while I must find some way to gain her To court her and attain her I fear my heart's in danger From the Queen of all Argyll And if you could have seen her there Boys, if you had just been there The swan was in her movements And the morning in her smile All the roses in the garden They bow and ask her pardon For not one could match the beauty Of the Queen of all Argyll And if you could have seen her there Boys, if you had just been there The swan was in her movements And the morning in her smile All the roses in the garden They bow and ask her pardon For not one could match the beauty Of the Queen of all Argyll . . . ~o~ ‘Atya is singing!’ Miril’s eyes were wide with the wonder of it. The trio of little ones stood in the entry way listening. ‘Yes,’ said Gally, his grubby hands holding tight to those of his brother and sister. ‘Come on, Anca . . . Miri . . .’ He looked, smiling, back to where his mother and father now had their arms wrapped about each other. ‘Bring your toys. I think we can get ourselves off to bed . . . don’t you?’ Last edited by piosenniel; 01-12-2006 at 04:25 PM.