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Bêthberry · 09-29-2002, 06:02 PM

. . . as if seemingly beaten. Then, charred branch and limb and bleeding stump stood quiet, letting the cleansing rain douse the fire and settle the ash deeply into the blackened earth, where its richness bore fruit in successive seasons. But the Old Forest has never forgotten. And none has ever apologized.

Bethberry stopped the mesmerizing tale, fearful that it would inflame unquiet spirits and uneasy guests. Would any take umbrage? Would any be inspired to atone?

As she looked around at embarassed, guilty eyes and hesitant,waving limb, she thought she felt a groundswell of frustration build, but suddenly the overcast sky thundered with pelting fury. A hard rain fell, stinging cold pellets which blocked sight and ripped leaf. Wind gusted in violent whorls, flinging hair and cloak and branch, even soil skywards. Goldberry's equinoctial storm forced passions into retreat. The trees hunkered down, branches wrapped tightly around trunks. The guests, sodden and chilled, huddled bare and cold in the full brunt of the storm until finally they were buffeted right into the trees. Yet branch upon branch then opened to shelter them.

As the grey dawn rose, the storm dissipated and the bedraggled guests unwound themselves from the trees' embrace. Stunned and subdued with a palpable sense of responsibility, they observed the Old Forest with new eyes and then slowly began to disperse to their various paths and trails, hoping to find the quickest way home. Just as most were leaving, Gandalf cried out,

Look, look to the hill in the west.

Tree trunks straightened and backs stiffened to follow Gandalf's gaze. There, at the top of the hill some claimed they could faintly make out Goldberry.

The Glade emptied to all but Bethberry and Lassiël, who stood, side by side, disheveled and wet, hair plastered around their faces, clothes drenched.

Well, said Bethberry to Lassiël, with polite deference but little ceremony, at least now you know why Dad always wears those outlandish yellow boots.

[ September 29, 2002: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

09-29-2002, 06:02 PM	#152
Bêthberry Cryptic Aura Join Date: May 2002 Posts: 5,977	. . . as if seemingly beaten. Then, charred branch and limb and bleeding stump stood quiet, letting the cleansing rain douse the fire and settle the ash deeply into the blackened earth, where its richness bore fruit in successive seasons. But the Old Forest has never forgotten. And none has ever apologized. Bethberry stopped the mesmerizing tale, fearful that it would inflame unquiet spirits and uneasy guests. Would any take umbrage? Would any be inspired to atone? As she looked around at embarassed, guilty eyes and hesitant,waving limb, she thought she felt a groundswell of frustration build, but suddenly the overcast sky thundered with pelting fury. A hard rain fell, stinging cold pellets which blocked sight and ripped leaf. Wind gusted in violent whorls, flinging hair and cloak and branch, even soil skywards. Goldberry's equinoctial storm forced passions into retreat. The trees hunkered down, branches wrapped tightly around trunks. The guests, sodden and chilled, huddled bare and cold in the full brunt of the storm until finally they were buffeted right into the trees. Yet branch upon branch then opened to shelter them. As the grey dawn rose, the storm dissipated and the bedraggled guests unwound themselves from the trees' embrace. Stunned and subdued with a palpable sense of responsibility, they observed the Old Forest with new eyes and then slowly began to disperse to their various paths and trails, hoping to find the quickest way home. Just as most were leaving, Gandalf cried out, Look, look to the hill in the west. Tree trunks straightened and backs stiffened to follow Gandalf's gaze. There, at the top of the hill some claimed they could faintly make out Goldberry. The Glade emptied to all but Bethberry and Lassiël, who stood, side by side, disheveled and wet, hair plastered around their faces, clothes drenched. Well, said Bethberry to Lassiël, with polite deference but little ceremony, at least now you know why Dad always wears those outlandish yellow boots. [ September 29, 2002: Message edited by: Bethberry ] __________________ I’ll sing his roots off. I’ll sing a wind up and blow leaf and branch away.