The Barrow-Downs Discussion Forum - View Single Post - The Green Dragon Inn #11

Huan · 02-06-2006, 01:32 AM

‘Now where have you been, my dear Emlin?’ Rowan caught up to the Elf as he was walking away from the verandah. ‘An interesting shawl you’ve got there. On your arm.’ She plucked it from him and unfurled it, clutching it about her shoulders. She twirled, letting the ends fly out about her.

‘You are in a most excellent mood, Rowan.’ Emlin stood hands on hips watching her. His eyes slid to where the band were gathered on the stage. ‘Ah! Master Gil, is it?’ He raised his brows at her, nodding toward where Gil stood, about to begin a song. The Hobbit glanced often toward where Rowan stood, his eyes lingering on her. ‘And are you leading him along, little mistress? He seems quite besotted. Where do your affections lie?’

He took back the shawl, folding it neatly over his arm. ‘Take care, Rowan. It is strange, this fair night. You may find yourself reeled in by your own nets.’ Emlin left her standing there, a puzzled look on her face.

----------

She was still sitting on the bench where he’d left her. Emlin stopped in the shadows of the little copse of trees near the edge of the party area. He could barely catch his breath as he looked at her. And why was this so, he wondered? It was not a thing he had looked for.

He had, in fact, considered leaving at the end of this year; once he and his companions had returned to Lindon. Let them continue on their way, playing and singing as they went along. He would scarce be missed with his small talent in playing the flute, his singing. His intention was to take one of the ships that still left from the Havens and sail Westward.

Now those plans seemed all confounded. And he cared not.

Emlin came upon her quietly. She twirled a small fragrant flower in her fingers. And he caught the word she’d murmured quietly, to herself. He plucked the blossom gently from her grip, his own fingers securing it amidst the dark strands of her hair. He wrapped her shawl about her, tying the ends loosely at the front so that it would not slip from her shoulders.

‘Shall we walk?’ he asked, offering his hand to her. Melda . . .?

02-06-2006, 01:32 AM	#2573
Huan Haunting Spirit Join Date: Feb 2005 Location: Halls of Oromë Posts: 54	‘Now where have you been, my dear Emlin?’ Rowan caught up to the Elf as he was walking away from the verandah. ‘An interesting shawl you’ve got there. On your arm.’ She plucked it from him and unfurled it, clutching it about her shoulders. She twirled, letting the ends fly out about her. ‘You are in a most excellent mood, Rowan.’ Emlin stood hands on hips watching her. His eyes slid to where the band were gathered on the stage. ‘Ah! Master Gil, is it?’ He raised his brows at her, nodding toward where Gil stood, about to begin a song. The Hobbit glanced often toward where Rowan stood, his eyes lingering on her. ‘And are you leading him along, little mistress? He seems quite besotted. Where do your affections lie?’ He took back the shawl, folding it neatly over his arm. ‘Take care, Rowan. It is strange, this fair night. You may find yourself reeled in by your own nets.’ Emlin left her standing there, a puzzled look on her face. ---------- She was still sitting on the bench where he’d left her. Emlin stopped in the shadows of the little copse of trees near the edge of the party area. He could barely catch his breath as he looked at her. And why was this so, he wondered? It was not a thing he had looked for. He had, in fact, considered leaving at the end of this year; once he and his companions had returned to Lindon. Let them continue on their way, playing and singing as they went along. He would scarce be missed with his small talent in playing the flute, his singing. His intention was to take one of the ships that still left from the Havens and sail Westward. Now those plans seemed all confounded. And he cared not. Emlin came upon her quietly. She twirled a small fragrant flower in her fingers. And he caught the word she’d murmured quietly, to herself. He plucked the blossom gently from her grip, his own fingers securing it amidst the dark strands of her hair. He wrapped her shawl about her, tying the ends loosely at the front so that it would not slip from her shoulders. ‘Shall we walk?’ he asked, offering his hand to her. Melda . . .? __________________ But Huan the hound was true of heart, and the love of Lúthien had fallen upon him in the first hour of their meeting; and he grieved at her captivity . . .