[Elora]

Menecin


"Sinome niss! Sinome niss!" (Here in this place is she) cried a voice made hoarse by use after long silence and a great many other things. It cracked and then strengthened, a shadow of it's bardic richness, a ghost like its owner. Menecin thumped at the door, sliding down it this time, moaning the same chorus as he had for days now.

In the journal, his appointed warder wrote "Nightmares" again in a column that had the same entry written three times above it. One entry for each day of Menecin's violent unrest. The bard had not taken food or water, nor slept, since it began. If he was not pounding at the door, he was throwing himself and anything else within his reach at the secured window. On the second day, his warders had heard the dischordant and sorrowful sound of a harp in a case being flung in Menecin's attempt to break free of the darkness that possessed his mind and spirit.

They had not been able to gain entry to his room in order to gague the extent of damage. All they could do was hope that the rare and beautiful instrument that had been given to him by Maglor, having one of the fairest voices in all Middle-earth, had not been ruined. There was silence now, for Menecin sat with his back against the door and his head bowed against his knees, his aching mind in strife and pulsing within him.

The warders glanced at each other. Was it the eye of the storm? Was there anyway to tell with Menecin. The gentle tap at the outter door was nearly lost when the din from within resumed. The outter door opened to admit Elrohir just as the sound of something wooden splintering ripped through the air.

The warders rose, bowing in deference and casting gravely concerned faces at the door.

"No change then," Elrohir said solemnly.
"No, my lord. He has not taken food nor drink nor rest for three days now."

"Sinome niss! Sinome niss!"

Elrohir shifted uneasily at the sound of Menecin's voice cracked and then burst out again.

"Will the door and windows hold," he asked. The warders nodded.
"They have done so in the past. Surely he must tire soon, and any damage can be repaired."

"Would that it was as simple always," Elrohir sighed before he turned and slipped out of the room. Menecin was now crying his mantra out. Elrohir rubbed a hand over his face, attempting to wipe the image of the once great Bard standing in his room, body rigid as he screamed into the emptiness.

His steady tread took him through the peaceful gardens that his father had founded. They gleamed in the half moon, the music of stream and fountain softening the edge of tension in the air. He stood by one smooth, cool pool that gathered water and starlight alike, and pondered. Was she really here? Or was Menecin merely in the grip of another black fugue? With a sigh, Elrohir shook himself from his musings and pushed on. He would take it up with Elladan as soon as his brother returned.