AelKennyr Rhiano
Outside the wind gusted, catching up hundreds of leaves off the ground and spinning them upwards, higher and higher, scraping across each other, colliding, twirling upon the wind, only to drop, lifeless, back to the ground. There was a sharp, tangy, chill to the early morning air as Olwe of Alqualonde wearily sank into his desk chair, his thumb and middle finger pinching the bridge of his nose. The chair creaked in protest to his body’s weight, and as it did, the Lord of the Teleri plucked a sheet of vellum off a pile neatly stacked to his left, on the desk. Drawing in a deep breath, he ran a hand gingerly across the surface of the desk, around the edge of the blank page. There was a sharp prick and Olwe looked down to see a thin line of blood across the pad of one finger, where the edge of the vellum sliced the flesh. Turning his palm upward, the Lord of Alqualonde and Tol Eressea watched the blood bead up before running his thumb across the cut, smearing the blood. In the quiet between night and morning, when pink fingers stretch across the indigo sky, and Arien’s vessel prepares for its daily journey, the beat of his own heart was loud to his ears. Slowly he lifted the bloodied hand and placed it over his chest, feeling the pounding as the muscle works to supply his body with the life giving blood.
He bows his head, looking down at the long, tapering fingers. Outside, the sky was growing discernible lighter, and the wind died down, only to pick up again, the swooshing of leaves as they danced upon the air an undercurrent to the heartbeat. Olwe shivered for a moment, the chill of the night air settling into his bones. Or was it the familiar chill of having lost a cherished one? Over in another tower, in a chamber, Elenwe’s body lays cold and still, her soul, her fëa in exile, houseless. Olwe drew in a breath. She cradled his head, more than once, as he lay helpless, trapped by that Voice, that disembodied evil. She tended his wounds, wrapped him in blankets, saw him broken and spent, a husk, a shell. Still, she called him, “my king.” He could see her as she was when first she came of Alqualonde. Her eyes, shining, the first time she took up sword and shield and practiced with him, a fierce joy upon her face. Her quiet shyness the day she spoke to Nole and him by the waterfall. That sweet voice, those bright eyes, that sure and steady hand…now there is but a husk.
I must tell the others, come morning, he thought. The dwarf mother, Aztryd, Nole, Elwing. So weak and still recovering, his neice, how will this affect her? He lowered the hand that rested over his heart and stared at the dried rust colored blood. Then his eyes slowly take in the vellum. There on the edge where he had been cut, there was blood, too.
He reached across the desk and with a flick of his thumb, opened the inkwell. Picking up the quill where it rested upon the desk, he deftly dabbed the tip into the well, and then brought it to bear upon the vellum. The wind outside died down, and in the chamber, the scratching of the tip of the quill upon the vellum carried to every part of the room.
“Unto my fair and most loved Cousin, Queen of Sylvhara, Comet, comes warmest greetings from Olwe of Alqualonde…” he begins, and as he writes, the blood dries to a rusty brown along the edge of the missive.
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He bows his head, looking down at the long, tapering fingers. Outside, the sky was growing discernible lighter, and the wind died down, only to pick up again, the swooshing of leaves as they danced upon the air an undercurrent to the heartbeat. Olwe shivered for a moment, the chill of the night air settling into his bones. Or was it the familiar chill of having lost a cherished one? Over in another tower, in a chamber, Elenwe’s body lays cold and still, her soul, her fëa in exile, houseless. Olwe drew in a breath. She cradled his head, more than once, as he lay helpless, trapped by that Voice, that disembodied evil. She tended his wounds, wrapped him in blankets, saw him broken and spent, a husk, a shell. Still, she called him, “my king.” He could see her as she was when first she came of Alqualonde. Her eyes, shining, the first time she took up sword and shield and practiced with him, a fierce joy upon her face. Her quiet shyness the day she spoke to Nole and him by the waterfall. That sweet voice, those bright eyes, that sure and steady hand…now there is but a husk.
I must tell the others, come morning, he thought. The dwarf mother, Aztryd, Nole, Elwing. So weak and still recovering, his neice, how will this affect her? He lowered the hand that rested over his heart and stared at the dried rust colored blood. Then his eyes slowly take in the vellum. There on the edge where he had been cut, there was blood, too.
He reached across the desk and with a flick of his thumb, opened the inkwell. Picking up the quill where it rested upon the desk, he deftly dabbed the tip into the well, and then brought it to bear upon the vellum. The wind outside died down, and in the chamber, the scratching of the tip of the quill upon the vellum carried to every part of the room.
“Unto my fair and most loved Cousin, Queen of Sylvhara, Comet, comes warmest greetings from Olwe of Alqualonde…” he begins, and as he writes, the blood dries to a rusty brown along the edge of the missive.
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