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piosenniel · 03-15-2006, 03:05 PM

Giledhel

The light here was so pure here. She had forgotten just how. And sweet it was . . . it teased the tongue and eyes and nose . . . and even the ears with its movements. Light, unmarred, and beneath it . . . no, suffusing it . . . was the music . . .

Time moved differently. Like a silvered stream that wove in and out of itself . . . now fast . . . now slow . . . now not at all . . . an intricate knot with light . . . and music . . .

Giledhel lingered in the soft cast shadows of the colonnade. She could not tell how long her spirit had hesitated there, nor did she care. And it was not that the light no longer gladdened her that she sighed. Her thoughts were heavy with the assurance she had given. Her spirit was downcast even amidst the splendors and the promise of this place.

Halls of Waiting . . . waiting . . . for my doom. And what is that to be? Shall I be deemed “liar”, a giver of false promises? Surely I cannot be delivered for ill or good until my assurances are deemed fair or found foul . . .

She sighed . . . the little waves of it pushing out from the shadows against the motes of dust sparkling in the air.

Where are you?

03-15-2006, 03:05 PM	#233
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Giledhel The light here was so pure here. She had forgotten just how. And sweet it was . . . it teased the tongue and eyes and nose . . . and even the ears with its movements. Light, unmarred, and beneath it . . . no, suffusing it . . . was the music . . . Time moved differently. Like a silvered stream that wove in and out of itself . . . now fast . . . now slow . . . now not at all . . . an intricate knot with light . . . and music . . . Giledhel lingered in the soft cast shadows of the colonnade. She could not tell how long her spirit had hesitated there, nor did she care. And it was not that the light no longer gladdened her that she sighed. Her thoughts were heavy with the assurance she had given. Her spirit was downcast even amidst the splendors and the promise of this place. Halls of Waiting . . . waiting . . . for my doom. And what is that to be? Shall I be deemed “liar”, a giver of false promises? Surely I cannot be delivered for ill or good until my assurances are deemed fair or found foul . . . She sighed . . . the little waves of it pushing out from the shadows against the motes of dust sparkling in the air. Where are you? Last edited by piosenniel; 03-16-2006 at 07:25 PM.