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mark12_30 · 12-28-2003, 06:50 AM

Mellon hefted an orange, and juggled it in his hand; then he carefully sniffed it several times, and closed his eyes.

Ædegard watched him, as Mellon seemed to drift far, far away, leaning his forehead against the fruit.

"What is it?" said Ædegard.

Mellon started out of his reverie. "They name it orange. I remember how it tastes. Betimes Edhellond sent us crates of them, upriver, as a gift."

"At Minas Tirith?"

"Nay, in Lorien. One morning I brought one to Nimrodel." His voice faded to a whisper.

"What?"

"She laughed, and thanked me with her usual sweetness... far sweeter than this, " he mused, glancing at the orange. "And then I sang for her, and she danced by the stream, and then we shared it."

"So Nimrodel is a girl, not a stream?" puzzled Ædegard. "I thought it was a tributary to the Celebrant which flows to the Anduin. And I thought you said you came from Gondor, not Lorien."

Glassy-eyed and breathing hard, Mellon rose to his feet, took a few steps, and gazed at Ædegard. "I'm not.... I am not from Gondor."

"You're not seventeen, either. And it would also seem you're quite a liar," said Ædegard. His newfound friend was rapidly losing appeal.

"Wait, Ædegard, " said the Innkeeper, who had overheard. Ædegard sat back with one raised eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest.

"Sit, Mellon," Bethberry said.

Still breathing hard, and still glassy-eyed, Mellon said, "Lady, I am glad to befriend you, but I need not sit."

"You said 'Mellon' was a nickname. It will do for now. Please, sit down."

Standing straight and tall, he locked eyes with her for several moments. Slowly he turned, looked back at the chair Bethberry was gesturing towards, walked with rigid back and square shoulders to it, lowered himself into the chair, and met Bethberry's eyes.

She smiled reassuringly at him. "You said you sang for Nimrodel. How old are you?"

His eyes grew cold, one eyebrow went up, and his voice hardened. "Fifty centuries. Mortal, why do you mock me?"

She reached forward and laid her hand on his brow. "Fever." Ignoring the flash of anger in his eyes, she called for water. "Ædegard, he is not lying, he is delirious. Do not doubt your friend so."

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 8:55 AM December 29, 2003: Message edited by: mark12_30 ]

12-28-2003, 06:50 AM	#54
mark12_30 Stormdancer of Doom Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Elvish singing is not a thing to miss, in June under the stars Posts: 4,349	Mellon hefted an orange, and juggled it in his hand; then he carefully sniffed it several times, and closed his eyes. Ædegard watched him, as Mellon seemed to drift far, far away, leaning his forehead against the fruit. "What is it?" said Ædegard. Mellon started out of his reverie. "They name it orange. I remember how it tastes. Betimes Edhellond sent us crates of them, upriver, as a gift." "At Minas Tirith?" "Nay, in Lorien. One morning I brought one to Nimrodel." His voice faded to a whisper. "What?" "She laughed, and thanked me with her usual sweetness... far sweeter than this, " he mused, glancing at the orange. "And then I sang for her, and she danced by the stream, and then we shared it." "So Nimrodel is a girl, not a stream?" puzzled Ædegard. "I thought it was a tributary to the Celebrant which flows to the Anduin. And I thought you said you came from Gondor, not Lorien." Glassy-eyed and breathing hard, Mellon rose to his feet, took a few steps, and gazed at Ædegard. "I'm not.... I am not from Gondor." "You're not seventeen, either. And it would also seem you're quite a liar," said Ædegard. His newfound friend was rapidly losing appeal. "Wait, Ædegard, " said the Innkeeper, who had overheard. Ædegard sat back with one raised eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest. "Sit, Mellon," Bethberry said. Still breathing hard, and still glassy-eyed, Mellon said, "Lady, I am glad to befriend you, but I need not sit." "You said 'Mellon' was a nickname. It will do for now. Please, sit down." Standing straight and tall, he locked eyes with her for several moments. Slowly he turned, looked back at the chair Bethberry was gesturing towards, walked with rigid back and square shoulders to it, lowered himself into the chair, and met Bethberry's eyes. She smiled reassuringly at him. "You said you sang for Nimrodel. How old are you?" His eyes grew cold, one eyebrow went up, and his voice hardened. "Fifty centuries. Mortal, why do you mock me?" She reached forward and laid her hand on his brow. "Fever." Ignoring the flash of anger in his eyes, she called for water. "Ædegard, he is not lying, he is delirious. Do not doubt your friend so." <font size=1 color=339966>[ 8:55 AM December 29, 2003: Message edited by: mark12_30 ] __________________ ...down to the water to see the elves dance and sing upon the midsummer's eve.