With the coming of dawn and the extinguishing of the torches above, the telain among the trees are once again hidden against the canopy. There are no wardens rushing across them, no one shouting orders and attempting to corral the refugees. But for the distant sounds of woods, cracking of branches and the early morning songs of birds, the world would be silent. At first, it may even seem as though the elves have abandoned them, vanished with the night like dreams.
Once Éowyn's word, assurance and instruction alike, spread through the riders in the night the unrest of the caravan was largely quelled. When the wardens departed with the gradual brightening of the sky, heading for the southern border, they passed largely without notice. However, with the rising of the sun and the golden light of dawn, the elves gradually return, picking through the trees with ease and the swiftness of duty.
They travel alone or in pairs each carrying some burden or another, recovered from the fields beyond the border. Many are simple things, packs of food, or belongings, and all are stacked against the trees alongside the makeshift camp. Eventually, though, they are joined by strange companions, by a number of the Rohirrim who were left, by necessity, on the battlefield. It is by no means all of them, for many were well and truly slain, but it is far more than any would have hoped to see again.
The man left dying beneath his fallen horse arrives, eventually, astride it. He carries bundles of weapons bound and hung from his saddle. Both he and his mount are hale and whole as they were the day before. The man who stopped to help him rides at his side, carrying packs of his own. Others trickle in, assisting the elves with equal diligence, but remaining once their burdens are set down.
After a time, the last of them arrives with the twin riders. In the light of day, at a distance, they are so alike as to be impossible to distinguish from one another. One of them walks next to his dark mount and the second, on foot as well, holds the thin grey leads of several horses in his wake. Astride the dark mount, pale and shining as the mallorn, is his grandmother.
Her armor was fashioned long before this forest was planted, and while it remains untouched by time, its age makes it strange to behold. It is all interleaved metal plate, spanning like feathers, gold and white, glimmering in the early light. Her sword is no longer with her, but a grey cloak is now draped over her shoulders. A silver brooch with a bright, shining emerald holds that cloak in place, pinned together at her throat.
All elves are timeless but, even among her kin, there is an ancient quality about her, as though she is a relic that was lost long ages ago. She is beautiful in the distant, grand way that a mountain's peak, or the sea might be. By comparison, her grandsons seem impossibly youthful.
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sforzinda
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Date: 2025-06-20 06:24 am (UTC)Once Éowyn's word, assurance and instruction alike, spread through the riders in the night the unrest of the caravan was largely quelled. When the wardens departed with the gradual brightening of the sky, heading for the southern border, they passed largely without notice. However, with the rising of the sun and the golden light of dawn, the elves gradually return, picking through the trees with ease and the swiftness of duty.
They travel alone or in pairs each carrying some burden or another, recovered from the fields beyond the border. Many are simple things, packs of food, or belongings, and all are stacked against the trees alongside the makeshift camp. Eventually, though, they are joined by strange companions, by a number of the Rohirrim who were left, by necessity, on the battlefield. It is by no means all of them, for many were well and truly slain, but it is far more than any would have hoped to see again.
The man left dying beneath his fallen horse arrives, eventually, astride it. He carries bundles of weapons bound and hung from his saddle. Both he and his mount are hale and whole as they were the day before. The man who stopped to help him rides at his side, carrying packs of his own. Others trickle in, assisting the elves with equal diligence, but remaining once their burdens are set down.
After a time, the last of them arrives with the twin riders. In the light of day, at a distance, they are so alike as to be impossible to distinguish from one another. One of them walks next to his dark mount and the second, on foot as well, holds the thin grey leads of several horses in his wake. Astride the dark mount, pale and shining as the mallorn, is his grandmother.
Her armor was fashioned long before this forest was planted, and while it remains untouched by time, its age makes it strange to behold. It is all interleaved metal plate, spanning like feathers, gold and white, glimmering in the early light. Her sword is no longer with her, but a grey cloak is now draped over her shoulders. A silver brooch with a bright, shining emerald holds that cloak in place, pinned together at her throat.
All elves are timeless but, even among her kin, there is an ancient quality about her, as though she is a relic that was lost long ages ago. She is beautiful in the distant, grand way that a mountain's peak, or the sea might be. By comparison, her grandsons seem impossibly youthful.