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Old 03-01-2004, 01:40 PM   #7
mark12_30
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Snowed Inn part 2

Posted by littlemanpoet on 12-22-2003 04:38 PM:

Ædegard dubbed one of the shieldmaidens as the new leader with a pile of snow on her head, and fled before he could be dubbed back again, and made for the inn.

He was cold and wet and needed something hot, and could stand to be dry. He could go home, but a good spiked hot cider seemed more to his liking. The others thought him a lad of perhaps fourteen years or a little less, perhaps, which was fine in the middle of a snow fight. That he still lived at home was his business, and that the fuzz on his face was still quite soft, the same. He was old enough for a stiff one.

He walked past a snow fort three children were building and defending against Felly and others, and somehow managed to escape their notice. He entered the inn and noticed the parents of the kids building the fort, and more of their children. And there was Mellon.

Ædegard waved to Mellon and went up to the barkeep, and orderd a hot spiked cider, and went to sit at Mellon's table.

Posted by mark12_30 on 12-22-2003 06:17 PM:

Mellon peered into Ædegard's mug, and raised an eyebrow, and then leaned forward and gave a sniff. "The Inkeeper sold you that? You're older than you look."

Ædegard took a pull at his mug. "You're not from around here."

"True enough. I'm a blacksmith from Gondor, if you must know, " he said hoping Ædegard would be satisfied with that.

"You said that already. But you look lost."

"Well, " said Mellon, "I suppose I am rather confused."

Ædegard waited.

"I can't remember much, " Mellon said.

Ædegard raised an eyebrow.

"Well, I-- I can't remember anything. Except that I'm a blacksmith, and that I lived in the city."

"Minas Tirith?"

Mellon blinked. "Is-- is that its name?"

"Osgiliath?"

"I-- that sounds familiar, but--"

Ædegard sat back and contemplated Mellon. "It's a good thing you're among friendly folk, " he said. "The elders can send word to Gondor next time someone rides that way. Somebody must be looking for you."

"I suppose that would be wise. But, Ædegard, I'm not sure I want to go back to-- to Gondor. At least, not where I was from. But I don't know why. Do you know a place called Edhellond?"

Ædegard's eyes narrowed. A fugitive? he wondered. "No, I've never heard of Edhellond; where is it? What is it?"

Mellon shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. But I think it might be to the south or to the west; somewhere near the sea. I don't know why."



Posted by Bêthberry on 12-26-2003 05:55 PM:

A voice, hitherto unheard in the game, rang out, strong and clear.

Cold be hand and heart and boneand cold be snow upon the stone.Yet vanish now in bright sunsong:Let orcs melted beand balrogs quenched in that deluge.Thus evil be its own defeat. And now we gamers have a treat.

It was Bethberry, singing and laughing as nonsensically as ever did old Tom. When she was finished, she bent low over Ruthven's cart and picked up a volley of snowballs, releasing them faster than Fatty Bolger could run. And her aim was true.

Then Ruthven gasped in surprise as some of the children tumbled into the wall of their snow fort, tumbling it down and all over the old woman, who fell herself into the snow. She rolled over and over, then spread her arms in the snow, making snow Ainur. It was a theme which unfolded to reveal more, as the children joined in the harmony and created their own melodies.

For her part, Bethberry chuckled watching the old woman, who she had never seen look more spry.

"You will be wanting something to warm you now for sure," she said to her friend, offering a hand to lift her up.

"Mellon, Ædegard, children, everyone, come. There's eggnog and mince tarts, hot cider and chocolate, sweet, exotic oranges, gingerbread cookies and shortbread, waiting for all in the Horse. Warm your bodies a bit and then return to the play, for the snow is soft and light and will last for many a day."

Posted by mark12_30 on 12-28-2003 12:50 PM:

Mellon hefted an orange, and juggled it in his hand; then he carefully sniffed it several times, and closed his eyes.

Ædegard watched him, as Mellon seemed to drift far, far away, leaning his forehead against the fruit.

"What is it?" said Ædegard.

Mellon started out of his reverie. "They name it orange. I remember how it tastes. Betimes Edhellond sent us crates of them, upriver, as a gift."

"At Minas Tirith?"

"Nay, in Lorien. One morning I brought one to Nimrodel." His voice faded to a whisper.

"What?"

"She laughed, and thanked me with her usual sweetness... far sweeter than this, " he mused, glancing at the orange. "And then I sang for her, and she danced by the stream, and then we shared it."

"So Nimrodel is a girl, not a stream?" puzzled Ædegard. "I thought it was a tributary to the Celebrant which flows to the Anduin. And I thought you said you came from Gondor, not Lorien."

Glassy-eyed and breathing hard, Mellon rose to his feet, took a few steps, and gazed at Ædegard. "I'm not.... I am not from Gondor."

"You're not seventeen, either. And it would also seem you're quite a liar," said Ædegard. His newfound friend was rapidly losing appeal.

"Wait, Ædegard, " said the Innkeeper, who had overheard. Ædegard sat back with one raised eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest.

"Sit, Mellon," Bethberry said.

Still breathing hard, and still glassy-eyed, Mellon said, "Lady, I am glad to befriend you, but I need not sit."

"You said 'Mellon' was a nickname. It will do for now. Please, sit down."

Standing straight and tall, he locked eyes with her for several moments. Slowly he turned, looked back at the chair Bethberry was gesturing towards, walked with rigid back and square shoulders to it, lowered himself into the chair, and met Bethberry's eyes.

She smiled reassuringly at him. "You said you sang for Nimrodel. How old are you?"

His eyes grew cold, one eyebrow went up, and his voice hardened. "Fifty centuries. Mortal, why do you mock me?"

She reached forward and laid her hand on his brow. "Fever." Ignoring the flash of anger in his eyes, she called for water. "Ædegard, he is not lying, he is delirious. Do not doubt your friend so."

Posted by mark12_30 on 12-29-2003 02:19 PM:

Felly and Eruvalde both approached with pitchers of water. "Mellon, what's wrong? Don't you feel well?"

Mellon, still straight and tall in the chair, turned slowly towards them, and his face softened. He smiled. "Hello, children. I welcome you and I thank you." Slightly bowing his head, he accepted each pitcher in turn, setting them each on the table. Bethberry paused, and watched him interact with the children.

"Mellon, don't you feel well?" said Felly, and drew close. Mellon stiffened again, and they studied each other.

Ædegard snorted. "He is not himself, to say the least," he warned the children. "Be careful."

The icy glare which Mellon turned on Ædegard made Bethberry more uneasy still, but when Mellon turned back to the children, his smile was warm and his voice was soft. "Such kindness at an early age bodes well, both for you and the world of men. I am pleased, and I thank you and your fathers for your gracious welcome."

Bethberry shot Ædegard a warning glare, and then took a full glass of water and stood before Mellon.

"Please, My Lord, of your courtesy I ask you to drink." Bowing her head, she offered him the water.

He nodded to her without a touch of disdain, took the glass and drank. "I give you thanks, Madam."

"My Lord, " she continued, "would it not please you to rest? Our furnishings are humble, but the rooms are quiet and you should sleep well."

"My weariness does indeed burden me. Madam, I will rest." With a nod, he drained the glass, set it on the table, rose, and waited for Bethberry to lead the way.

Ædegard shook his head in disbelief, Felly's eyes went wide, and Eruvalde reached towards Mellon with deep concern. "Don't you feel well, Mellon?"

"Little friend, " Mellon replied, with a gentle laugh. "I do feel surprisingly weak. But do you not know my name, little one? And yet, since you have so adamantly claimed my friendship--" his eyes sparkled, and he nodded at Felly too-- "I release you from the use of my title. You may call me Amroth. My friends you shall be, and remain."

Ædegard snorted again, and Bethberry turned fiercely on him. "You will treat the Lord of Lorien with honor and respect, " she hissed through chenched teeth. His jaw dropped. Bethberry turned back to Mellon and bowed. Motioning Felly and Eruvalde to take up the pitchers and the glass, she led the way. The feverish young blacksmith from Gondor followed, tall, regal, silent and serene. Felly and Eruvalde brought up the rear carrying their pitchers of water. They went up the stairs.

Ædegard sat back, waves of indignation, disbelief, and laughter washing across his features. He did not leave, but sat watching for Bethberry's return.

Posted by Imladris on 12-29-2003 07:42 PM:

First it was Mellon, the elvish word for friend, and now he was Amroth, an elven king of old. "Do you miss your lovely lady?" Felly asked as she pattered in Mellon's wake, the pitcher of water clenched in her little hands.

He turned, startled, and saw the little girl following; and then he smiled, but replied gravely: "Indeed, Little One, I do miss my lady Nimrodel."

Despite the smile sorrow haunted his eyes, yet nobility there was also, a mien that quite impressed Felly. Whoever would have thought that a blacksmith could look like an elf-lord of Lorien? Yet as the girl stared at him in awe, a sudden change came across his face: bitterness cast his shadow.

"Poor Nimrodel," Felly added, trying to remember the elven maid. "Her voice was like falling silver, a star was bound upon her brows," Felly's voice faltered and she racked her brain. "A light was on her hair," she whispered, "and her shoes were silver grey. Into the mountains she had strayed, and where now she wanders none can tell, for lost of yore was Nimrodel." Fellwyne's voice sank as she stopped. It was all she remembered, besides the fact that Amroth had leaped from the helm of the grey ship into the sea. She closed her eyes, felt the salt spray on her lips, the tug of the wind upon her hair. She was no longer a little girl of Rohan, but an elf upon the grey ships across the sea, watching the grief of Amroth, Lord of Lorien, from afar.

He looked at Fellwyne's sadness, and nodded. "I never should have left her, Little One. And now she is lost. I must find her and I will search ceaselessly until I do."

Fellwyne fell silent as snatches of a distant song whispered to her softly:

From helm to sea they saw him leap,
As arrow from the string,
And dive into water deep,
As mew upon the wing.

Her eyes widening in horror, she started, and dropped the pitcher that shattered before her very feet. She looked from the young man to the shards and back again, and her little face went pale.

Last edited by mark12_30; 03-01-2004 at 01:54 PM.
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