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Old 11-19-2008, 07:15 AM   #272
Pilgrim Soul
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Join Date: May 2004
Location: watching the wonga-wonga birds circle...
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Mithalwen is lost in the dark paths of Moria.Mithalwen is lost in the dark paths of Moria.Mithalwen is lost in the dark paths of Moria.Mithalwen is lost in the dark paths of Moria.
Tathren's swift elvish feet carried him swiftly outside into the night. He had not realised that day had turned into evening as he had kept his lone vigil, waiting long and in vain for the Ulfing lords to pay their respects to his master, he would wait no longer. Perhaps it was not their way to do so....uncharitably he wondered if they were so primitive that the death of one was no more noted than if a starling were lost from a flock of thousands.

Nevertheless he managed to procure wood and oil - the glint of silver aiding communication and overcoming any reluctance to deal with the elf. The elves had inspired awe and curiousity in the settlement since their arrival and if Lachrandir's death had shown them to be vulnerable, the fell look in his page's eyes discouraged any notion of treating him with anything other than caution.

He built the pyre alone, outside the walls of the stockade, on the banks of a nearby stream. It took longer than he expected and the stars of Varda flowered as he laboured. They were fading in the first promise of dawn when he bore his master's body to the pyre in his arms - an awkward burden despite the lightness of the long frame .

Tathren wept as he made his slow progress. The guards dared not hinder him and opened the gates wide for him to pass. The boy's tears coursed down his face and onto that of Lachrandir that rested against his chest.

At last Lachrandir lay upon his pyre. Tathren had removed the banner of Caranthir - it would be needed yet if the Ulfings kept to the arrangement- but the elf lord bore still the star of Feanor on his breast. Tathren paused only to remove his master's dagger - the only personal item he had carried about him. He knew Lachrandir had crafted it himself and determined to keep it in his remembrance. He placed a kiss on his master's brow - something that he would not have countenanced in life - Tathren whispered a farewell to his uncle.

Gazing at the familiar face for the last time he took the firkin of oil and poured it over the pyre and with a moments hesitation over Lachrandir also til his hair and garments were soaked and glistened. Tathren stepped back and kneeled by a small pile of kindling. He took out his firestone and with Lachrandir's own blade created the spark that lit the pyre. Tathren stood back and averted his eyes until the flames obscured their task. The elvish body was soon consumed by the fire but the pyre burned on filling the sky with smoke and lighting it red. As he watched Tathren sang a lament for his master and the sound haunted the dreams of many Ulfing villagers though they might understand no word of it. But Tathren stayed until all was ash and the only light was that of morning.

Last edited by Mithalwen; 12-06-2008 at 05:00 PM.
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