
by
Terry D » Tue Apr 20, 2004 8:56 am
Oh let me sit between you two and dwell in bliss... <BR><BR><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><img src="http://www.tolkienonline.com/mb/i/expressions/face-icon-small-happy.gif"border=0><BR><BR>Lingering shadows danced dark, cool, shades on the forest's carpet. Ferns, moss, and fallen leaves fashioned a haven of peace for the weary. Beneath one tree, upon a verdant niche of shadows and leafy bed,.. lay the form of a man. Cloaked in grey-green folds his shape was shrouded with the hint of mystery. So was his life, not so his future. For, the musky fragrance of deep-forest breezes had whispered the lounging mystery asleep. And, with its tender, perfumed song the breeze brought a dream. This dream quickly turned to nightmare....<BR><BR>"Elurin,.." the forest whispered in dream. "Lost heir, of the lost heir of Dior Eluchil, come and awaken. Trace your shadow upon the living. Now is your time,.. discover where the roses bloom, awaken the Lost Lady... yet, first, find yourself, open your eyes. Come awaken..."<BR><BR>Shadows stirred into deeper darkness beneath the sleeper's cozy reverie. The Half-elven wanderer had lead a solitary life. His father, Elurin, was lost in the assault on Menegroth. His mother a village maiden, uncommon in her beauty, yet, common-born of gardener's kin. Alas, true to the tragic House of Elwe, this maid was left unwed. She had held her child and sang elven-song to companion his sleep. She whispered tales of Beren Erchamion, the hero strong and fair. She had woven verse of Luthien Tinuviel, to amuse her growing child's wandering mind. There were tales of the Sindar and of the Edain. There were her stories of Greycloak, the Hidden King. All to entertain and soothe her child in love. All to remind him of his dual birth, his common-regal lineage.<BR><BR>The sadness of the woman's heart could not compete with the loss of her love, Elurin. For the elf had promised her redemption and a place among his elven kin. Not to be, for lost was Elurin, forgotten his trysting pledge. <BR><BR>Upon her death bed she had lain and gave the child a name,.. "Trace, from this day ever be. No longer will you be tied to my property. Your father of elven blood desired you to be called Trace. Remember that my child." Then, she had clouded her eyes and emptied her soul into the haven of death. She was released from her great joy and greater sorrow.<BR><BR>Trace, the half-elven, slept fitfully among his dreamy reverie. Hanging branches creaked, as if full of grief. Leafy carpet murmured in fluttering sympathy. Haunting rumors of forgotten fragrances, lifted the elf-man's tormented soul, with a flight of longing and doubt.... <BR><BR><BR>The forest’s dream was a wraithlike song, an embrace of terror and heroic doom, love lost, then, found. Deeper, the tenuous night-memory twisted in echoes of forlorn dispair. Darker, the images hunched as predator seeking prey. Hungry, vicious images, textured with venomous desire, molested Trace’s nauseous sleep, as if feeding upon the starving poor. <BR><BR>Voices, horrible, tormented, sang in a chorus of oblivion,.. resounding in torment in the half-elven soul. Incoherent phrasings,.. disoriented dreamed stutterings,.. "Over the nations of the North,.. whose nobles shread the poor man’s lamb to feed their feasts with hearty fare. Who shut the wanton poor from table fair. Swarm with me, orcan might, thus 'it shall come to pass, that the Hosts of Mordor shall gather once more before the Tower of Darkness. For Barad-Dur shall rise again, its dark and majestic glory brought once again to unholy life, and from its gates shall issue forth...'"<BR><BR>Trace writhed in stagnant passivity. His dreaming soul, rift of sanity, dwelt among the desolate pleasures of maurauding havoc. The pleading voices of children crying for bread,.. a tyrant’s howl roused as a giant from slumberous caverns,.. spectral, beneath these voices, undulating wails rolled in brooding tempests, numerous as the children of blood. The nightmare rushed as a trampling of horse and clanging armour. Then, demon child and devil bride with soulless weeping cried, as thousand lives drink thousand deaths, in toast of vengeance pride! Until ghosts, as wolves on wintry night, prowled greedily on heaths of gore. And, goblin wade sodden feet along a blood-soaked shore!<BR><BR>The clutching terror of the dream strangled the half-elven sleeper, as if, strangulation was what he desired… then, armies stood in balance, within the All Mighty Hand. The skies shook and the seas warred,.. and silence drifted, as dust upon the barren land...<BR><BR>...suddenly the dream emptied into sentient awareness. Trace lept to his feet. Urgency plagued his every move. His demenaour was cold and hard. Leaves crunched beneath his soft boots. Then, the forest breeze, in silence, kissed the droplets of iced perspiration above Trace’s quivering lips….<BR><BR>"Well met, fair lady! We were summoned to escort you. And with trepidation we thought we would be too late." A tall elf gracefully leapt from his dappled mount. His glossy, auburn hair cascaded to his shoulders. Despite his ruby locks, this elf reminded many of Finwe, the dark-haired King. Effortlessly he glided to where the Lady tuile waited. She was cautious. Uncertain, for who could have summoned this escort?<BR><BR>"I am called Tintall, of the Golodhrim, these are my kinsmen and friends. All of the house of Fingolfin, cousin to Feanor. We rode with your sons not yet, Ardour and your youngest son, Ardour's twin, Amiable. For a time, we hunted the wide plains of East Beleriand, so long ago. We six will travel at your will. For whatever service you may need of us."<BR><BR>tuile could detect no duplicity in these words. Tintall was truly of the Noldor. Yet, she had never heard of him before. Not so strange, she considered. Those days were a trouble and much travail had consumed her attention. Cautiously,.. "well met Tintall, whom was it that summoned you to my aid?"<BR><BR>"It was in dream. We were called by one named Trace."<BR><BR>Tintall and his kin took shelter from as the wind and rain began to pelt in a bitter crescendo. The heavy bowers of the willow tree bent, as if offering the elves a comforting embrace. The elven troop were enthralled by this meeting. Talk of the Blessed Realm had never interested these elves. They had been content to traverse Middle-earth as troubadours and adventurers. It had seemed that now, finally, a challenge of courage and worth was inviting them into a nearer reality, than they had experienced in over a century....<BR><BR><BR>"Utúlie'n aurë! Aiya Eldalië ar Atanatári, utúlie'n aurë!" Tintall whispered, and, with a flourish, revealed his dark face from beneath his hood.<BR><BR>Lady tuile could discern a brooding melancholy deep within the elf’s eyes. "That is a curious greeting, Tintall. From where did Fingon's war-cry become a greeting among friends? Quenya too, I hope that the memory of the Fifth Battle, the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, does not still haunt you? Or, do you have some premonition of doom for us?" <BR><BR>"Heavy is the hand of doom. Yet, we, my fellow kinsmen, do not heed the Dark Song. We come from Lindon, what remained of Beleiand after it was broken. We are of the House of Aredhel Ar-Feiniel, of the House of Fingolfin. Much trouble has haunted us, we do not tremble with premonitions of doom."<BR><BR>The exquisite tuile began to understand. "So lovely a flower, Aredhel, the Noble Elf." tuile's eyes misted in a memory, "Ar-Feiniel, the White Lady of the Elves, she was sister of Fingon and Turgon. So, Tintall, your kinsmen walk among the sacred doom of Aredhel."<BR><BR>"Yes, fair Queen, She was so like yourself." Tintall bowed slightly to tuile. "For she was one of the noblest of the Noldor."<BR><BR>Tintall relived his memories of the tragic story. His thoughts visited Turgon's sister, and how she had wandered from Gondolin, only to be snared by Eöl, the Dark Elf. The regret of their union haunted all elven kind. For as his wife, she bore him a son, Maeglin. It was Eöl's vain attempt to slay his son with a poisoned dart, that struck Aredhel. Noble to the last, she had sprung to take the dart and died of its poison. <BR><BR>tuile, empathically, was consumed with Tintall's suffering. "I recall the fair White Lady, Aredhel. Do not linger in the guilt of Thingol's kinsman, Eöl."<BR><BR>"No, fair Queen, we must continue to wander under the dark shadows of that ancient forest, for, as Eol preferred the night to the day, so must we. He was known as the Dark Elf, so are we Dark Elves,.. 'til his curse be lifted from my kinsmen and myself."<BR><BR>"Yours is not Eöl's epithet," tuile almost chanted. "The Sindarin Elves, were of the Moriquendi, the Dark Elves who had never seen the light of the Two Trees..."<BR><BR>"Nay, Lady tuile, the Dark Elf of Nan Elmoth and his doomed son Maeglin, are our burden. Just as traitorous Eöl was slain by Turgon in vengeance, just so, we have pledged to slay the memory of all Elven Traitors. And, so, our greeting remains," Tintall's kinsmen joined in one voice,.. "Utúlie'n aurë! Aiya Eldalië ar Atanatári, utúlie'n aurë!"<BR><BR>In the gentleness of her heart, tuile was stunned with the force of the war cry. tuile's eyes filled with rain. One elegant finger wiped the mist from her eyes....<BR><BR>~~~<BR><BR>With each step Trace began to detect a horrendous urgency. The air was vibrant with heroic possibility. His acute senses apprehended that Time had been disrupted. There was an enormous effort being made by something, or, someone, an effort to change the course of events. And, the Half-elven, recognized that the manipulations were such, that they were challenging the dynamic of peace and prosperity,.. attacking the heart of the realm, which was the legacy of King Ellessar.<BR><BR>Soon, Trace had made his way to an industrious outpost on the Northwest borders of Rohan. At first there was a gateway of several farmhouses equipped with verdant crops and stout barns. Wagons, loaded with barley and wheat, trundled toward a moderate collection of buildings clustered round the mountain-fed river. There was a canal, leading from river to the east. It was a functional waterway. obviously man-made. For, it was crafted with a strict order, which disturbed the landscape, with its artificial intrusion. Large, flat water-wagons, trussed with secured goods and decorated with busy workmen, were edging slowly toward a meeting with the Anduin River. These barges were pulled by several stout farm-horses.<BR><BR>To the West, rock, then, snow and ice, shouldered the landscape. Peaks of spectacular views, snow crowned, leapt in towers to greet the rising dawn. Silver runnels, of multi-fingered streams filtered through the river valley, as if pumping life's blood. The fecund soil bathed in the beautiful, glacier fed streams, running through fields of barley and wheat. Tall stands of poplar and willow trees, lingered among the homesteads. Fanghorn Forest loomed in the distance. <BR><BR>Trace knew this place well. That Old forest had been his nurturer. Fanghorn had been both father and mother to him. It was there he had first dreamed of tuile, yearned for a freedom, that he had taken for granted in more youthful days. Yet, before he could return, he realized that he must visit the bazaar first....<BR><BR><BR>~~~<BR><BR><BR>With elegant fingertips, each painted the most delicate hues of golden yellow, a young woman turned the pages of a leathery book. Reading, reflecting, then, finally, she closed it with a dull thud. Her eyes, gray with introspection, glistened with moist concentration. Her distinctive, elven features were caressed with the hood of her golden robe.<BR><BR>She then walked to a case and with an effort, raised its lid. Inside, an thick manuscript nestled within cobwebs. Her uncertain fingertips brushed aside the eerie, gauze covering. She lifted the leathered book and placed it on her reading table. The lovely woman used a scarf and patiently brushed the book’s cover, as dust, and filmy laces of a spider’s web disappeared. With care she opened it, then, smoothed out the crinkled pages. <BR><BR>A second woman crept silently beside her. Her robes were darker, trimmed with crimson. The young acolyte was startled as the elderly woman sneezed. "What is it, that you are searching for, my child?" As if with apprehension, the elder used weak fingers to turn the pages of the tome. She paused, then pointed a bony finger at the jaundiced parchment. Her voice cracked, as if with strain. "Banalfees?" the mother's voice was more than tinged with age, "those are the fees which a feud lord imposes on his serfs for the use of his mill, oven, wine press, or similar facilities. It some times includes a fish catch or the proceeds from a rabbit warren..." she paused. "Sister Jezzah, you are still not troubling over the freedom? He is imprisoned and will remain safe, while he is so."<BR><BR>"No, Serene Mother, it is not the King’s edict I am concerned about. My father is doomed by a more dangerous curse. The Dark Elves seek him. He carries a burden that reaches far into the past. My father and his brother were responsible for keeping watch. Instead of duty they wrote a song. It was in the night that evil crept and passed through, and slew many kinsmen and captains. The Dark Elves found my uncle. He is no more. They will do the same to my father."<BR><BR>"Peace, child, for longer than an hundred lives, your father dwells in the shame of one misdeed. After the deaths of Aredhel and Eol, Gondolin had peace. Why cannot your family rest?"<BR><BR>"Peace! There is no quiet in my father’s soul, nor mine, evermore. The time of Morgoth destroyed all hope for my family. The doom of the Elves would fall upon my kin with a far heavier hand. One winter's night, Elves of Darkness, took revenge upon my uncle. Soon, they will have my father."<BR><BR>"Jezzah," the old woman placed a withered, velvety touch atop her elven acolyte’s hand. "Jezzah..."<BR><BR>"No, Serene Mother, you do not understand. These Dark Elves have the magic to rob of us. Their bane is not death, it is far worse,.. with their Stroke, they can Separate. Asunder, from all elven kind for evermore, we will be. For, I was there that night. The song was for me. I had brought my father and uncle a meal that night. They wrote, then sang for me. And to their doom, their shame, I am bound. The Dark Elves seek me..." <BR><BR>The elven maiden removed her hand from beneath the Gondorian Healer’s grip. She reached for her neck. Her elegant fingers clasped a locket, their golden nails traced the image of a flower embossed with jewels.<BR><BR><BR>~~~<BR><BR><BR>Trace felt troubled. He could not remove the image of a flower from his mind. Upon the periphery of awareness, he could discern delicately painted fingertips, as if ten suns in a warm horizon. They glimmered, golden, resting upon the bed of a single, jeweled, flower....<BR><BR><BR>~~~<BR><BR><BR>Ringsule trotted down the forest trail. Tintall lead and the Dark Elves, with tuile following. Lady tuile almost sang, "By Ulmo, tell the tale of your Dark Kindred. For surely, your kinsmen are not kin of the same House? Why are you called Dark?"<BR><BR>Down, towards Annuminas, the road beckoned. The slush of sodden turf and hooves became rhythmical. The forest path widened, as scrub brush and occasional shoulders of trees cleared into a scenic valley. The rain continued to pelt the riders and their mounts. <BR><BR>Tintall, whispered to Ringsule and the horse shimmied, then began to canter. He began his story. His words, melodic, patterned an hypnotic echo, companioning the relentless rhythm of the horse’s foot flops. "Out of the womb of the West we came. Elves, westward, led by Elwe and his brother Olwë." Tintall continued in sing-song,.. "I was there. There among those following Thingol. I saw Melian the Maia, exquisite in the wood of Nan Emloth."<BR><BR>"You saw Melian? Still you despair?" tuile inquired<BR><BR>"Yes, I called Doriath, my woodland home. It was idyllic, crafted with the elegant care of Melian,.. and so, Thingol ruled the Sindar for many years. I was faithful, then…." the elven voice trailed into sorrowful drone. The rain whispered in sympathy. "Thingol's doom was as much my fault as any. Beren brought him a Silmaril. Thingol gave a daughter. Morgoth used me to exact his vile revenge." The sad tale emptied into a lonesome landscape.<BR><BR>tuile, prayerfully, spoke, "What do you mean?"<BR><BR>"When I first saw the Silmaril, I broke into song. It was a song of deceit, veiled in frivolous mirth. It was a cursed song, fraught with premonition of Dwarves and the Blue Mountains. I sang of a necklace. My voice designed the name Nauglamir in that song, ere it ever was spoken by elf or dwarf in Thingol’s treasury. Nauglamir, a thing of envy, a talisman of doom. I sang, and, as if in fulfillment, the Dwarves rose as envious thieves and stole Thingol from my kinsmen and the greater world. Thingol, the crown jewel of Sindarin treasury ripped from the living heart as a...." The downpour wept and the words spilled into silence.<BR><BR>"Yet, you did not make the necklace, nor, hold the Silmaril. What guilt is yours?" tuile accompanied the rain’s sympathy.<BR><BR>"No, fair Lady, I sang this song and that very day, Hurin brought the necklace to Thingol in Menegroth. It was my song that first gave Elwe the idea to mount the Silmaril within Nauglamir’s greedy grasp. It was I who was captain of the guard of Thingol’s treasury. I, Tintall Enfalion, who left his post ere the dwarves slew my King! As certain as Morgoth’s hand. I had not perceived the lust in the workmen’s hearts. I had left, abandoned my post, to bring ale to quench dwarven thirst. A celebration, I wanted, a fell doom I brought. My song, my folly, my treachery...."<BR><BR>Relentless, the rain splattered wet cold in a dark shadow. Unforgiving, the downpour submerged the mounted troupe in a muddy path of despair.<BR><BR>~~~<BR><BR><BR>The past ten, or so, decades Trace had not visited the outpost of Ladakeh. Then, it was little more than a guard's posting on the looming ruins of Orthanc. Then, his dreams of the Lady tuile were mere seeds, sleeping in a garden of loneliness. As he entered the main concourse, cluttered with wagons, horses and walkers too concerned with business to even bid the wanderer welcome. In his reclusive fastness of Fanghorn, he had journeyed to the guard's bulwark with a seasonal regularity. The decade following King Ellessar's coronation, he would spend over three months every summer in the military center that would become Ladakeh. He knew the shops that had slowly taken shape too well. He had been there to meet the prosperous merchants, which had flocked in greedy droves to this haven of industry. <BR><BR>Many winters past, on the beaches of the Goa, the canal that connected Ladakeh with the Anduin and the greater world, Trace had befriended one of the town's most prominent merchants. With a focus more concerted than the typical commerce-consumed, he headed toward Escale, his friend. The bustle of the burg was as a sea. <BR><BR>Trace found the wall of buildings in the center of the merchant district. There was the antique shop, nestled in a dingy alley. An open drain neighbored the shop and flushed the city's waste to some foetid locale. The street was embellished with colourful locals and mysterious visitors. Several elves were singing beneath a multi-colored canopy of sheer fabric. Their melodious voices enthralled children and elders. Occasional Westerners and men of Gondor surrounded an open table, conversed in business too dear for common folk. Several dwarves contorted with perspiration, hammer and chisel. As they laboured, an Honour of Stone grew out of the rock. The dwarves had been hired to construct homage to the King. This was going to be a Center! Ladakeh would not remain a mere outpost, if it were up to the merchant's ambition. Clutches of Hobbits scurried to and fro, as if spys concocting a brew of intrigue. It was an almost happy scene. <BR><BR>As Trace entered the antique shop, a tour of Southerners brusquely pushed by him. Herlerich Horrier, a local of apparant status, led them. He was whispering, "Oh, do not trouble yourself. You bring me rumors, not factual representations. There has been no trouble with orcs, since, since, well, you tell me when?" This group continued out of earshot, yet, had to stop and wait at a cornor. They could not pass the procession of several hundred belled donkeys, mules and horses brought down to Ladakeh from the high pastures of eastern Rohan. Ladakeh was a main artery of the kingdom.<BR><BR>Inside, the shoppe was a fragrant embrace of incense and secluded darkness. The atmosphere was murky with shadows, as if, one entered a magical world. A tall, hooded figure was pontificating to his customers, "Ah, yes, I have dwelt with shamans, with oracles, among exorcists, worked with astari and Elven Lord, I have dwelt for a time in Imladris, of old." <BR><BR>Several women nodded in approval. "Yes, you have found the departure of your search. It is I, Escale, merchant of the mysterious. Your very fantasies start and are collected here, in my shop, in Ladakeh." <BR><BR>One lady spoke in tittering query. Escale replied, "In those days Ladakehis all wore theatrical attire. Hats and chubas, ankle length coats with scarves for belts, the women wore flimsy skirts and gauzy parkahs. The headware, oh, the fabulous turquoise headdresses expressly contained the family wealth. It was then, in the elder day, then, schools were held under willow trees and money hardly existed. Then, the Kingdom thrived and Ladakeh arrived. The inhabitants filled the Kingdom's need and out of northern Rohan we brought barley and wheat and hay to feed them."<BR><BR>Trace felt as if he had never left this place. The feeling reminded him as to why he had. Yet, his heart recognized that this pathway was a gateway, leading to tuile.<BR><BR>~~~<BR><BR><BR>Trace had found a corner niche. From a stool, with the haunting image of Lady tuile as company, he listened with an almost glee at the ranting of the shopkeeper. He was amused as Escale serviced the more ethereal needs of his female customers. Dispensing charms, potions and esoteric "readings", as if they were free. <BR><BR>Escale pocketed a heft of coin and escorted the over-satisfied customers with an authoritative manner. Escale declared, "Know that your very essence has been fed! For you have discovered the reward of Escale,.. Escale, the warrior, the harpist, poet, athlete, historian, physician. Escale," the furrowed face winked at an elderly woman who had bought an unreasonable amount of potions and resins and handfuls of amulets, "And, and, Escale, the adept in magic and sorcery."<BR><BR>The merchant bid the women good day and turned to the figure on the stool. He carefully chose an urn. He removed it from a dusty shelf. The curio depicted six birds flanking a sacred fountain, which rested on energy spirals over its outer rings. "Well, sir, you seem to be my only customer. Could I interest you in this urn? Its origins are secured in ancient long-life and fortune-bestowing rituals." Escale paused, "Well, whom is this honorable visitor? It could not be that forest dweller, Trace, could it? For, if it is, these past twenty-one and ninety summers you have not changed. Well, I have an answer to one of my questions. You must have chosen the way of the elf. For you have not aged one day since last we throttled a cask of ale!"<BR><BR>Trace found little humor this morning. His mind fixated on images of a steed, burnished with perspiration, racing with the wind, carrying a lithe maiden toward danger. These images were laden with a musical quality, the lyric of tuile. "I have not come to visit. I have need of one with "the sight"... Will you sojourn with me in an adventure? There will be danger, even death, if you decide to help me?"<BR><BR>So, this is what friendship has become, less than dross. Twenty so years short of a century and you come with a request? So, you desire a favor. Do I presume that old friends make good dupes?"<BR><BR>Trace recognized the prideful display for what it was. "No. I do not asume too much. We are of like kind. Your reclusive choice to fashion a merchant from a Savant, is equally as solitary as mine. I have discovered great need. The Times of Travail have returned. There was no need of our kind for s long. Now, we dwell on a Precipice. Will you remove your mundane charade as a peddler? Will you take up staff to companion my sword?"<BR><BR>Escale considered the gruff queries with distant intent. "So, it has come to this. No, no I am most comfortable. The ladies come to me. I have full table and a restful bed. No, do not come to me speaking riddles of dangers that are merely wisps of rumor."<BR><BR>"Rumor, rumor, Escale," Trace left the stool and stood to look down at the tall merchant. "Escale, I have been having dreams again."<BR><BR>"Hmmm, so, dreams have returned to keep you companion on your lonely vigil. Do they offer warmer conversation than me?"<BR><BR>"Enough of this." The half-elven's anger began to stir.<BR><BR>"So, then, let me see your Token. The one given by your mother as your father's gift."<BR><BR>Hesitant, Trace reached a gloved hand to his collar. His thoughts went to his youthful days, they seemed far removed, less carefree, the burden of Life was palpable now, imminent. Yet, his heart rode with the wild stallions. It sang a song of tuile. With less certainty, he removed a chained mithril amulet. Upon its circular face were engraved the figures of a man, a bird and left and right were a horse and a flower. Four jewels were lodged beneath each crafted figure. A diamond north, beneath the man. To the south a ruby, scarlet, below the bird. East and west were a sapphire and an emerald. These four surrounded a heart entwined in a budded vine pierced with a sword.<BR>Escale took his time and concocted a mixture of dark tea. Casually, he sipped at the cup 'til it was empty. His eyes became glassy his lips began to twitch. Several beads of moisture blossomed around his mouth. His breathing became labored. "Well, Trace, the central icon is an enigma to me. You, may be the Heart, or, it may be something, someone else? No, no, this heart is much more. It is many things. This is a puzzle, this heart? The diamond man, well that is I. How strange this cipher becomes. The horse, we must look for a means of travel, or, a horseman? It is not clear. The bird, well, I think I may help with that one. Follow me..."<BR><BR>The two crossed the wooden planks of the shoppe. Trace whispered, "Perhaps it is a horse woman that calls to you?" <BR><BR>Escale, nodded to this possibility, then opened a back door. "A woman? Perhaps, it is so... that would explain my difficulty at reading the heart. The ladies always confuse me." <BR><BR>"Not that I could ever tell." Trace completed this with a laugh.<BR><BR>Through the back doorway they entered a candlelit room. Inside the small workspace the sounds of chirping danced in the cloistered air. Two large cages, fashioned of twigs, were filled with a various songbirds. A third cage, smaller, housed a single, tiny bird.<BR><BR>"That is a Kirinki. Her named is called Xatia. Well, she appears to be a Kirinki. It is far more..."<BR><BR>Trace examined the tiny scarlet bird. "Yes, these were native of Numenor. How did you come by this treasure?"<BR><BR>"So, as I said, it is an appearance of a Kirinki. In truth this one is a shape-shifter! Yet, let me see, I discovered Xatia nearly the same day I met you. And since then she has been stagnant. Either she refuses to transform, or, she has lost the will? I do not know. I only know that she let herself be taken by me from her frozen nest in Cahadras. Tiny Xatia has dwelt these some one hundred and ten years in this cage. Imprisoned by her lost will."<BR><BR>"How will this aid us? This kirinki is smaller than a wren. Its bright scarlet feathers, and voice is so high that it can hardly be heard by Men?"<BR><BR>"Do not despair; fortune has its way of encouraging the broken-hearted. Come my friend," Escale, the Savant, opened the cage and cautiously placed a hand inside. The tiny red bird, Xatia, skittered atop his extended finger. Then it flew to land on Trace's shoulder.<BR><BR>"See! See, this is a portent! This is your bird, your shape-shifter. Now two are joined, diamond and bird. Your talisman is becoming a living whole. And you said your father gave you nothing! Now, let us find a horse and a flower. Soon, we may know what is in your heart?"<BR><BR>Starlight glimmered with effervescence. The ebony expanse of night sky overspread fulfillment, to oblivion and beyond. Trace had been dream-sleeping, among his half-elven reverie, for some time now. Within a mithril toned haze, the images of two maidens caressed his dreamy senses. "Jezzah,.." he murmured in hushed tones. "tuile..." accompanied in singsong fashion. These dual maidens seemed to press deeper into his psyche. Questions pressed wanton hands onto his heart. "Why are they so far removed? What may I do to unite them?" Then, sudden as a door swinging open in a brisk breeze, the answer rushed in... "They have become separate, these two are the same, yet, apart?"<BR><BR>Escale had let him rest. The wanderer was far older than the Savant, yet, he appeared so much the younger. Escale considered this for a few moments, then his concentration faltered, as it lingered among the stars.<BR><BR>They had come to camp on this grassy hillside of southern Rohan near the setting of day. In twilight they had made a small fire and rested in the cool night air. They had not come here by chance. Escale wanted to visit the "Wishing Stone". Trace had left it to his esoteric companion to discover a way to reach the mysterious figures of horse and flower. Escale intimated that an answer lay hidden in the veil of an ancient stone. And it was...<BR><BR>Escale had meditated for moments on the elegance of starlight. The clear, cool night air invigorated his senses. Under moonlight, the stone, niched in a garden of grass, loomed skyward as a pointing finger. The Savant focused on the dark grooves and smooth patches of the stone. It was very old; it knew things others merely glimpsed.<BR><BR>As Escale's meditations went from star to stone a vision climaxed in his mind's eye. There was a woman, of elven ancestry. A troubled woman, she was standing over a book. Her grey eyes were transfixed with some terror she had failed to deny. The woman traced several golden tipped fingers over her lips. She screamed in silence... the vision disappeared... "So, this is the flower? Wake! Wake, sleepudraughts!"<BR><BR>Trace lurched to an elbow, elven sleep evaporated into intense alertness. "What?"<BR><BR>"We must be of to Gondor. Your flower awaits you there...."<BR><BR><BR>~~~<BR><BR><BR>Breeze, the quixotic fairy, fluttered her wings expectantly. Her dream visits were usually more of a casual, convivial nature, but, tonight she was looking for something. To and fro, fro and to she flitted purposefully. Dodging butterflies, zooming through blossoms,.. straight to fawn and dewy meadow.<BR><BR>Hesitating, she alit on a flower's top, to sip a smidgeon of nectar. <BR>She could find her quest soon enough, in the normally frequented spots. Breeze tingled and sang, the words were edited, the post reformed, less brazen, more acceptable. "We can't have that nonsense, in this dream. Too near the edge it falters." Breeze laughed... a soft rain shimmered, within a tender blue sky, flowers smiled and fleeting clouds sighed, "I will awaken soon...."<BR>