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Old 09-24-2005, 06:37 AM   #341
Hilde Bracegirdle
Relic of Wandering Days
 
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Join Date: Dec 2002
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Menecin

A thin voice spoke breaking through a rush of thoughts, reminding Menecin how simple it would be to end this suffering, offering a refuge but one viewed only as if at a distance. And Naiore’s words wound through his consciousness. If ever you loved me, strike him down! What right had he to delay, and so hold all of them trapped in this decisive moment, when the days of a man seemed only slightly longer than that of a flower growing wild in the field? Truly what was life but cares unending, and suffering endured? How mercifully short were the sorrows of the Edain!

Yes love her he had, and deeply, but now a much larger burden overshadowed that love. Menecin would not raise his hand against Amandur, but staunchly held fast as Naiore sought to influence him, skillfully bringing to bear a thorough knowledge of his character. And looking with dismay at Amandur, Menecin backed away quickly sheathing his sword, lest he weaken. Standing thus, between Léspheria and her mark, he effectively safeguarded Naiore and his daughter from the threat of her bow. But the dour elf’s blue eyes, glinting under his darkened brow, did not miss Amandur’s subtle advance, even as he stood watching Léspheria. Nor was he all unaware of Naiore. The rustle and sharp intake of breath behind him, betrayed her movements. And he knew that she had shifted, pulling Vanwe even tighter as she slid quite close behind his left shoulder. "This madness must not come to be!" he cried to Léspheria, "For all that she is and was, Naiore is undeniably your kin! I pray you, put aside your bow."

Amandur then spoke to him conciliatory words the elven warrior did not hear, but with one fluid motion Menecin reached over his shoulder and snapped his arm forward again, releasing a long bladed knife. Coming to rest with its tip buried deeply in the ground before Amandur, the weapon’s haft swayed forward lightly touching the ranger’s boot. "I entreat you Amandur, for the sake of us all, come no closer!" the elf warned. An unspoken voice tore at his mind, as he reached over his left shoulder as if to grasp his remaining knife, and he noticed Amandur’s body flex as the ranger prepared to dodge the blade. Now! Do it now, my love! Naiore’s melodious voice urged from within the deep recesses of his thought, almost as though issuing from his very being.

For one final instant, Menecin wavered. Then, abruptly, he spun on his heel and flew toward Naiore. Caught off guard, the Ravenor pulled back, dragging Vanwe with her, but, hampered by the awkwardness of her stunned captive, she could not move quickly enough. Springing forward Menecin threw out a hand and coiled it in Naiore’s long braids, jerking her fair head backward as he sought to upset her footing. Enraged, Naiore loosed her grip on Vanwe and struck wildly back toward Menecin with her dagger. The blade flashed in the moonlight as it sailed wide of its mark.

"Flee now, Vanwe!" ordered the Bard between clenched teeth as he arched his body to avoid Naiore’s murderous attempts to free herself. "Do not look back!" Without a sound, Vanwe did as she was told and slipped free, running blindly toward the safety of Léspheria and her bow. Just then, Naiore brought her dagger around low and struck for Menecin’s leg. An immediate burn informed him that she had succeeded in grazing his knee with the point of her blade. Grabbing for her wrist, Menecin sought to disarm her before she could do him more grievous hurt, but Naiore proved too quick. With a single stroke upwards, the dagger's keen edge severed her braids just above Menecin’s grasp. And as the Ravenor twisted gracefully away from him, Menecin was left with nothing more in his hands than rapidly unwinding ropes of gold silk.

"Do not suppose that you can prevail over me, Menecin," she whispered sternly. I know you far too well. I can show you peace... but you must follow me. "

"You foretold long ago that my passions would prove my defeat. Would you now bring it to pass?" asked Menecin as her plaits he let fall from his fingers. "You have never known peace, Naiore, nor would you acknowledge its worth. But the peace you would promise is only to be found in the Halls of Waiting. For years in Imladris I longed for even such peace, to sit in my shame beneath those of Vaire’s tapestries that proclaim your ignoble deeds, and thus feel closer to you. But even those days you have taken from me.

"Are you then grown greater than those profane of the Ainur after whom your heart follows, that you would hope to avoid their fate?" Menecin raised a scarred hand, as though intending to touch the Ravenor’s lips and coax the words he wanted to hear from them. "Still with a word you and I will leave this place, but do not ask this thing of me again." He looked over his shoulder toward the ranger, "He is but an unfortunate witness to something that should never have been known among the firstborn, and I will not dishonor you by doing what you would have me."

"You have changed very little Menecin," Naiore sighed. "And unfortunately you still allow those you call your friends to divide us! I do not know why you choose to cleave to them when it is plain that they disregard your wishes! Did you not tell Vanwe to leave?"

And turning, Menecin discovered that Vanwe indeed had not left them as he had urged, but stood now at Léspheria’s side. This posed difficult for him, but he could not ponder it long, for quite suddenly Vanwe grew uneasy, and Valaindon’s daughter quickly pulled her bowstring taught, pausing as she searched for a clear shot. For a fleeting moment Menecin felt as if she would slay him, but turning his head he saw in an instant the cause of their alarm. Naiore had raised her own weapon, and leaning into the grip as the arrow took flight, he knocked it off its course, so that the heavy dart, indeed one he recognized as his own, flew hissing among the grasses.

In great anger Menecin turned on Naiore, his eyes smoldering. Meeting his gaze, Naiore lowered her bow. A smile as cold as the morning frost touched her lovely features as she looked at him. Then, putting the bow aside, she drew one of her curved swords from its scabbard. Without hesitation Menecin took a step toward her.

"Whose life would you have, pray tell me?" he asked. "Léspheria’s? Vanwe’s? Or perhaps mine, in time." He watched her with piercing eyes.

Naiore did not respond, but listened impassively, as though indulging the outburst of a froward child.

Menecin continued angrily. "Know, Naiore, that the blood you would now spill is your own! This is the choice you have set before me and at long last I stand ready to accomplish it." Menecin drew his own sword and raised it in challenge to Naiore. Her expression remained untroubled, but Menecin knew that if she felt him incapable of harming her, then that was to serve to his advantage, for he knew her well.

"Menecin, you once held that there exists a deeper strength which fear could not corrupt, yet look at what you have let yourself become," said Naiore coolly, a predatory light growing in her clear eyes as she observed the small droplets of blood the arrow had freed, that were now trailing down his arm.

"I remember it well," he said gruffly. "In those days you preferred to surround yourself with far softer stuff." His war hardened eyes lowered as he searched her perfect frame for a weakness in her armor. "Truly I have never seen one arrayed for battle with such graceful elegance." A sad smile rose to his face, as his gaze returned to meet hers. He felt suddenly weary, and the sweat beaded upon on his brow though the evening was mild.

But Naiore was no longer in the mood to humor the bard, and in one flowing motion stepped forward, swinging her sword level so that Menecin was forced to spring back in order to avoid the blow. Quickly brandishing his own weapon he charged at her recklessly. After a few fruitless attempts it became clear to him that she anticipated his every stroke, countering him so effectively he thought that to overpower her was his sole option, for each feint and thrust was met with one of equal artistry and skill. It was only then that he became aware that his mind had begun to reel strangely. And his reactions slowed as he sought to ensnare her, so that he was forced to change his technique, and discovered that Naiore had only limited success when he moved less intuitively. Finally with great effort was he able to overwhelm her, sending the sword in her hand spinning to the ground. Even as this sudden sickness threatened to overtake him, he seized the opportunity that fate had given him and as she reached for her second sword, bridged the distance between them closing her in his embrace, so that her arms were held behind the quiver at her back, pinned close against his brigandine armor.

There breathless in the night, he dropped his sword clumsily as Naiore sought to free herself in vain, and holding her tight, he reached for the last of his knives, a thin and deadly bodkin. In the darkness he found two ornate arming points at her closely fitted waist. Slipping the bitter edge behind them he snapped their leather cords; so that Naiore’s armor lay open at her side. With trembling hand, he held his arm outstretched prepared to drive the dagger home. "Forgive me Vanwe," he cried glancing up quickly, struggling to focus through tear rimmed eyes, hoping against hope that his daughter had flown free of this unhappiness.

Last edited by Hilde Bracegirdle; 03-18-2006 at 07:10 PM.
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