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Old 08-21-2003, 02:21 AM   #153
piosenniel
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Elora's character - Menecin

NAME: Menecin

AGE: 6,729 (at the commencement of the 4th Age)

RACE: Noldor

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS:
Menecin possess the weaponry expected of an Elf who lived through three tumultuous ages. He has a sword and bow and daggers, all of Noldorin make. His amour is typical Noldo, a combination of light steel and leather worn by all who fought in battle. At the opening of the 4th Age, he has all but forgotten weapons and amour.

APPEARANCE:
Menecin is a tall Noldo by their standards. He has the dark hair of his people and their fairness also. His eyes are a piercing blue sapphire and they see far indeed. He is not powerfully built, but is by no means thin or weedy. His hands are long fingered and deft, a mark of his profession and ability. His voice is deep and musical and his smile, when it is seen, is as bright as the lamps of his people.

Menecin’s clothing reflects his Elven heritage, although in latter days he pays it little attention. He wears the natural fabrics favored by his people in deep shades of jewel color. Menecin favors royal blue, and has done since he was a boy. He is no stranger to elaborate court garb, however he prefers more functional clothing by habit. In the times he roamed the land, he went clad as a hunter and warrior, for he was a little of both at that time.

His trademark possessions are his richly carved leather pack, in which he carries his papers and music, his flute made of mithril silver and his lap harp which he carries over his shoulder in a beaten and scuffed hard leather case.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES:
Menecin was born at a time when Elves were discovering Men in Beleriand. He is well acquainted with the Edain, wandered amongst them. He showed his gift for music at an early age, something his parents thought held extraordinary promise. He was a quiet child, peaceful and patient. He learnt quickly. He had little to say, and most of that he said through his craft as a bard. Those around him realized that when he did speak, Menecin was an individual that bore listening to. He had an artist’s insight and perspective. Fostered by Maglor, Menecin attained a first hand understanding of the depth of grief and woe that beset the Noldor, the Sons of Feanor in particular. He is no stranger to sorrow and strife.

Menecin’s solemn nature sometimes seemed fey. He formed few close relationships and was not a man given to whim. What he did, he did with all of his being, possessed as he was of great passion and the strength to feed those passions.

He is a capable fighter, terrifying when battle merges with a passion. He fought in the First Age where necessary and acquitted himself well at such times. He has little interest in such reputations though. He acquired an air about him that resulted in few people wishing to trifle with him. He was quiet, possibly dangerous, and liable to see things exactly as they are no matter how bleak that may be.

He is sometimes seen as taciturn, and is stubborn. He resists being led. In recent years, Menecin is a shell of his former self. He has lost his passion for life, but cannot bring himself to let go of mortal lands. He is dangerously melancholy, given at times to bouts of black rage that consume all around him. Those few whom truly know him see a stranger. Many think him insane, until they see the entirely sane streak of agony in his eyes. There are few who can withstand his glance now, and what little music he puts his mind too is achingly painful.

HISTORY:
Menecin was born in 305 F.A during the time of the “Long Peace” in Beleriand. His birth coincided with the emergence of Men, and so Menecin grew up at a time when the Noldo were discovering the Edain and times were relatively good for the Exiles. His parents were of good standing, although not high born. They discovered his musical promise and he went to be fostered by Maglor to study the craft of the bard. There, Menecin developed a reputation for his musical ability and his love of language.

Menecin also discovered the tragedy of the Noldor. His mentor was bound by the terrible oath that caught all Feanor’s Sons. The Long Peace ended, war fell on Beleriand and the oath claimed Maglor. Menecin fought battle and acquitted himself well in that time. He was habitually quiet and somewhat grim, and had little time for merriment during the First Age. The tragedy of his people touched him deeply, particularly when he turned away from Maglor towards the end of the First Age. In this time, Menecin started to emerge as a gifted composer and musician.

Menecin decided to remain in Middle-earth, restless and unready to go to Valinor with the bulk of his people and his parents. He drifted with the remnant of the Noldor to what is now known as the Bay of Belfalas. For a time, Menecin again knew peace. His reputation grew and he rose in status in the court of Gil-Galad. Menecin largely kept to himself, the merriment of the feasts interesting him little. From time to time he would wander the wild places of the world.

It was as he returned from one such a journey that Menecin first encountered Naiore. She was at that time a maiden. Like him, she had little taste for feasts and had strayed from one on that fateful day to wander in a stand of fir trees by the shore of the ocean. As she danced over the sand to the wind singing in the fir trees, Menecin watched. Beautiful even amongst her own kin, he knew himself lost as he watched her move. He added his voice to the song of the wind, and a courtship was begun.

Menecin found cause to remain in Belfalas and not wander. He found in Naiore a muse of sorts. She fascinated and captivated him, most unlike the other maidens of their people. She was of noble blood, descended from Finarfin, and he harbored little hope of marrying her. Yet, Menecin sought her hand and to his enduring surprise was granted Naiore. They became betrothed in 3262 S.A, the year that Sauron was taken as prisoner to Numenor. Unrest after a long peace was stirring again, and Menecin decided to wait until that unrest had calmed before he wedded Naiore. It proved to be a fateful decision.

Menecin, an experienced warrior from the First Age and now betrothed to a noblewoman, found his responsibilities in this time increased. He was drawn into Gil-Galad’s court and there he felt the winds of war blowing around him. He noticed a change in Naiore too, something he attributed to the growing strife. He knew his love was sensitive to such things. Menecin did not discover that Naiore had vanished until her distraught father came to him seeking his daughter.

Thinking that she had fallen prey to the growing shadow that Numenor was falling rapidly under, Menecin abandoned court in search of her. His search failed, as did that of his kinsmen. Haunted by guilt and grief, for Menecin loves deeply or not at all, he refused to abandon hope. War returned to Middle-earth with Sauron, and he became embroiled in the Last Alliance as did many of his kin for he followed Gil-Galad.

Menecin was not at the battle of Gladden Fields. Word came to him after that terrible battle of Naiore. She was alive, it was said, and she fought with Sauron. Scandal and shame gripped her family. He could not believe it, and did not. Her family renounced her as a traitor, and her parents fled to Valinor in horror. Menecin was outspoken in his denial and it earnt him disfavor. He forsook court and embarked on a series of searches for Naiore.

At the time that Ithilen was abandoned in the year 2901 T. A due to orc incursions from Mordor, it is known that Menecin encountered Naiore. He barely survived. The refuge of Henneth Annun found him all but dead on their doorstep. The Men aided Menecin as best they could. Menecin went north, seeking death, and found instead Lothlorien. Recognized, he was taken in and there held under protections should Naiore return. He was also protected from himself. Menecin sank into hopelessness, depression and rage.

He refused to go West at the end of the 3rd Age without Naiore. Unable to take him out of his madness, he was left at Imladris with those few who remained behind. Menecin barely spoke by that time, and his music lay dormant and silent within him.

_____________________________________________

Elora's post for Menecin

The stars were perhaps their most beautiful in early morning. Menecin had remained sleepless through enough nights to make such assessment with certainty. Imladris was peaceful. He was not. It was an irony that never failed to shred what little grip he had on lucidity. The rage and grief twisted upon itself a little tighter. It never got tight enough to stop.

If he stilled, he could hear the breathing of those that watched. As he studied the clear morning sky, he wondered not for the first time what they watched for. They were waiting for the storm to break loose. He knew it for he saw it in their eyes when they thought he was not watching. He never stopped watching though. To stop would be to surrender to the dark fog that sinuously seeped into every thought and dream.

Beside him lay a lap harp. He had left it out all night, instead of covering it from the cool air. A harp such as this deserved better. This harp had played with Maglor. Maglor himself had overseen its construction, had plucked it's strings. Menecin plucked at a string himself. Maglor had gone mad. He had watched it unfold before him. Another irony that did not escape him. He was following in Maglor's steps, but he had taken no terrible oath other than to love her.

Her face was carved upon his memory, as was her voice and her scent. He could feel her upon his skin still. Menecin's eyes closed, the ache rising. She was there, just beyond his touch. No evil was in her that could be seen. Yet her actions were filled with such malice of intent. The rage sharpened and the grief. She was there but was lost, as was he. Adrift in pain, the world shattered by love, vast gaping wounds in his spirit that did not heal. Neither did he die. Even in her pain there was no mercy.

"Perhaps a song to welcome the day will grant what succor sleep did not this night, Menecin."

He could not keep the bitter smile from his lips as he struggled to keep what raged within him in abeyance. The savagery must have shown in his spahhire eyes. It was a brutal light that was revealed to one of the many who watched over him.

"There is no more music," he snarled in reply. The expression of shock was to be expected. Menecin saw it too often to expect anything less. He drew himself back, sealing off his senses. A few short hours, when night was done and the day not yet begun, he allowed himself. He would awaken within him, undead, unalive, in the transitory hours of each day. He would float. He had been brought to anchor by the Elf who had watched him through the night.

Menecin unfolded his tall frame, clad in the customary finery of a skilled bard who had performed remarkable feats of bravery and courage. Wisdom gleaned from three Ages in Middle-earth blended with his distress, making him dangerous to any and all, including himself. He turned, and walked unhurridley back towards the chambers they alloted him at Imladris. Their comfort was barely noticed by Menecin. All was hell.

Behind him, in the eastern sky, day's blush had begun. The stars winked out, one by one, and he withdrew into himself. The startled Elf trailed him, wary and concerned with the bard's beloved harp cradled carefully in his arms. Menecin closed the door to his bedroom firmly. The Elf found the harp's aged and battered case and gently placed it into it's wardship. He straightened, looking at the wooden door that sealed Menecin away from the world.

As many had done before, he shook his head in sorrow. A hint of the bard's formidible passion and greatness had emerged, only wracked with anger. All of it was brought about by one woman, her name no longer spoken. Her bounty price was the highest ever set. No trace of her though, apart from the trail of ruin she left scattered through the lands. For her, he suffered. The Elf seated himself at a nearby table and inked the quill that waited.

Next to the date, he recorded his observations.

"No change, no glimpse of relief, only rage."

His quill hovered a moment and was then set aside. He did not add the other comments that filled his head. Instead, what he did record was the latest on a page filled with similar comments. Books spanning decades, hundreds and thousands of years, contained the same dreary pattern. How anyone endured such torment, refusing to believe that she was indeed what she was known to be, defied imagination. It would have been better that he did not survive. Sometimes, it is best if the healers fail.

The Elf rose once more and stoked the small fire in the grate to warm the room for the next who would watch Menecin. Within his room, Menecin sat disconsolately with his thoughts and attempted to free himself from madness that always loomed and never swooped to relieve him of self-awareness. He longed for it with a need that shamed him.
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Eldest, that’s what I am . . . I knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless - before the Dark Lord came from Outside.
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