Nin

Homecoming

Front Yard

A few trees stand here, just in front of the Last Homely House. An open meadow stretches off to the north and west. The thick mat of the previous year's growth lies on the ground, dormant now, but obviously ready to renew when the season allows. Not far behind the house the trees close in to form a pleasant wood. The mat of grass near the house is not very thick, perhaps because of being trodden on so often, but some higher tufts grow around the nearby trees. Leaves of many sorts can be dimly made out, thoroughly trodden into the mat of grass. Two paths lead away from the house, one southwest and one north. Down the steep bank to the south is the shore of the Bruinen.

Fingers of gold and pink paint gentle shafts of light across a clear predawn sky, and in this between moment of time, not yet dwan, no longer night, the light of Anar mingles and touches the now fading light of the stars. And it is a crystaline dance, made the more so by the cold, crips air, the snow that blankets the ground in the valley of Imladris, and the golden light that twinkles and sends its own shafts of promise out from the windows of Eldrond's Hall.

Into this golden promise of peaceful predawn wend a line of weary, broken travelers. The Imladhrim long missing, long overdue, long, too long from the Valley. And among them, a party of naugrim. Some of these travelers, slump shouldered and holding on for balance, ride on horses led by members of the Rochonnath. And many, many others, a long line of them, are born on litters. Wounded, bandaged.

They cross the bridge form the forest shore and wend their way slowly up to the Front Yard. There is an errie silence to this group. Upon a litter at the back, most silent of all, grey eyes trained upon the light that spills from Elrond's Hall, rests the Hirdan Gondramind.

The shadows to frame the front porch fall from the eaves in the colors of dawn, even against the greys that color the valley in winter. It is amongst these painted shadows that the Lady of Imladris stands, holding her silent - almost expectant - vigil over the snow-crested lands of her father's vale. Her argent eyes are still alight with the last twinkle of the fading stars, strengthened even as her search of the wide horizon falls across a line of figures. They break the stillness of this winter scene from yet afar, but already Arwen descends the first step. Grace remains inherent in her movements, but there is aught else to line her fair features, even if lost upon her solitude - worry.

One of those laying upon a litter is Duinlas, the once-fair Glirion is unmoving save for his eyes. His face is covered in once-white bandages, stained pink by the slow flow of blood. Similar bandages cover his right arm and torso.

Though he has begun to heal partly in spirit, the pain of his injuries keeps him off his legs, and his eyes watch the others as they make their final walk home. Too long, indeed, has he been away, and what may have been a happy return to planNing a wedding has instead turned to a thankful return and a hope for healing.

Weary, weary, the mists of the latter part of day enveloping him this hour, Gwamdir sets down his packages and pulls back the hood of his cloak. The smells of a time one known enter him, and fill his head with memories past. The memories are now, the time has come at last; he has returned. He feels the scar gashing from his right eye to his chin, and the eye itself, closed from injury, and a tear emerges from it. "Home, " he says simply, "We have returned..."

Among this party of weary travellers is Silothiel. Here and there she moves from traveller to traveller, making sure all the wounded are not in discomfort. Strangely, she does not feel overjoyed to reach her home, as she expected, but only relieved that it is over and she can finally rest in peace in her gardens and trees. She feels as though a great burden has been lifted from her shoudlers as she corsses the bridge and takes in the familiar sights of the house, the familiar sounds of the birds, and the familiar smells in the air. This is where she belongs.

The first few members of this slow procession of returNing Imladhirm set foot onto the Front Yard and make their way steadily toward the house. Do hearts skip a beat? Does weariness begin to fall from their tread? Perhaps. For home at last they are. Litter bearers smile and speak words of comfort to their charges. The horses of the Rochonnath prick their ears forward, well aware of where they are, but aware too of their fragile passengers. The air smells of home. The breeze speaks of home....

Swiftness overtakes Idhrendae's movements, steps quickeNing of their own volition as the Herunnur's silvered eyes fall upon the House. His eyes widen, joy alighting within, akin to the pale light that even now breaks upon the horizon, shadows chased effortlessly from their depths. And not only in the cook's gaze is such a dawn, for at last a smile breaks lightly upon his lips, the weariness of many months soothed in an instant. "Gondramind!" Excitement enters even his voice, as he turns to look upon his friend. "Home, we have made it." Not long do his eyes lie upon the Hirdan, however, so alluring are the House and Valley.

Edenriel , her arms wrapped around herself against the morNing chill, hesitates near the porch. She hoped to meet the returned travellers with joy, to hear their stories of adventure and the unknown beyond Imladris, but their faces are drawn, silently belying her hopes. As they approach and grow less somber, she looks anxiously at the wounded, wondering what must have happened and how she might help. She is content to wait, listen, and help as she may.

A gentle voice reaches out in defiance of the crisp chill of winter's breath. "So you have," the Lady Arwen echoes to Gwamdir, and to Idhrendae. "And not unlooked for. ...And I would guess not at all too soon." The last is added almost as an afterthought, for already the Heryn's attentions drift along the line of travelers, pausing longest on those bent by so more than discernable weariness.

A whisper-thin smile she has for each wintered face in turn, but it holds as much hope for encouragement in the face of sadness as it does happiness to see these Imladhrim again walking the grounds of their home. Arwen affords this arrival the proper solemnity, but also urgency. Her pace quickens faintly to the base of the porch stairs, where she pauses fleetingly to beckon Edenriel forward with her. "Will you assist? It is likely to be needed."

Rising from his seat on the steps of the porch, Tinnulanthir watches as the travelers finally return. His studying green gaze flicks among the figures as they approach, noting injuries and conditions even from a distance. Face awash with both relief and concern, he remains still, awaiting orders.

The horse that bears Alothiell, the Nethordur, slowly rides along with the others. She speeks softly to the injured close to her, speaking words of hope to them; telling them that they were near to home. She looks up and finds, to her surprise, that the House is nearing them. She gave a small gasp when she saw just how near to her home she was. She pulled her horse to a halt as she sat and stared at the beautiful scene in front of her. "Home." she silently whispers and continues to ride closer.

Edenriel moves forward eagerly, glad to be put to use. "I should be glad to assist as best I can," she replies.

"Aye," nods Gondramind to Idhrendae and a thin smile pulls his lips at the Bathron's excitment. He tries as bes he may to push himself up on his elbows as he and his litter bearers, the awardn Nirnaeth and the habaron Dihenatir, enter the front yard. And he sees, illumined by the light of the house and the glowing air of predawn, the Hiril Arwen. Her voice is balm and welcome... "My pardons, Lady Arwen," the Arphedor Gondramind says to her, hand over heart "We have been... overdue." His grey eyes take in the state of his companions and he says no more.

Grin and Bear it. It is exactly what Duinlas does. For as he is set down, he knows he is home, and a smile of contentment comes to his face, "Ah, truly we have come full circle, and to be greeted by the fair voice of the Heryn is to be healed more than a hundred days' rest in another land." He turns his head to see the exchange between Arwen and Gondramind and he smiles, speaking again, "But for the Artellenistron, we would surely have failed in our return." But he soon stops smiling and rests his head straight again, the movement having aggravated his cut.

With much rapidity does the face of Gwamdir contort into a painful smile, slightly stretching his war-scar. It is of joy, though, and not to be mistaken as a falsehood of happiness. He fully removes the cloak as more tears of elation fill his eyes and he leaps into the air and clicks his heels, something he seldom does. "Ha ha! I suppose my fingers shall grow once more rugged with my weavings! Oh, to be back, to work with the knowledge gained in journy!" He runs to hug the closest edhel to him, in this case, Idhrendae, laughing the whole time as the tears sting his facial mark.

The front yard begins to fill now with the wounded. Horses are pulled up short. Litter bearers stop and gently rest their living burdens on the ground. Grizzled naugrim warriors, bandaged and bloody, grumble at the fuss made over them, though many look with clear appreciation and wonder at the light and glory both of the Evenstar and the halls of Rivendell. Long had they heard of this place, and never imagined the beauty now before them. Nor, for some, the kindness. And these wounded dwarves lie side by side with wounded edhil - many Ethiriath, some artisans, and a few, a far far too few wounded Cunir.

Such shows of joy as the Nathron's serve to hearten many around them. And to the Lady they bring a brighter smile, if fleetingly. As Undomiel looks between Gondramind and Duinlas, both fair face and crystalline voice are awash with serenity and reassurance, as soft as a healing touch with need of little more than words. "You need not worry of it now. The Hirvaethor Thileithel brought what word he could. There are more to be shared later, of this I am sure." Her last words bear a weightier tone, as the briefest scan of the party would tell that fewer of the Firstborn return than had left. But for now, she affords a quiet aside for Edenriel. "I would ask that you and the Nethordur," she pauses, a brief indication of Tinnulanthir on the porch steps, "to send for some materials from Harchdolas."

Edenriel nods and turns back to the house, pausing to wait for the Nethordur before slipping quietly to ask Harchdolas for clean linens to staunch the wounds of the injured.

Idhrendae’s argent orbs quickly fly across those gathering, the first hints of disappointment shaping his features. A moment is spared to bow shortly for the Heryn, and the smile, though diminished, turns upon her. Yet it is only a moment, and the cook again turns to Gondramind, concern lightly lacing his every word. "Artellenistron, I beg leave of this gathering." The gaze flicks quickly to the House. "There is one that I seek."

At the Heryn's words, Tinnulanthir nods and disappears into the house, moving quickly to retrieve the needed supplies. He allows a small smile to climb onto his face for he knows that all has been prepared prior to the arrival and lays waiting in the infirmary.

Calm and healing, indeed, seem to flow from music of the Evenstar's voice, and the old furrow of Gondramind's brow goes smooth, and the nigh bitter smile which threatens to quirk his lips at Duinlas' words... fades. But he cannot hold the gaze of the Evenstar, compassionate as it is, when she speaks of the words that must yet be spoken, the account that must be given. He watches the nethorir leave as commanded, then turns to Idhrendae. "Mellon, you need beg no leave of me. You are home, friend. Find her."

Idhrendae nods quietly, a fleeting gaze afforded the Hirdan and those gathered before it fixes firmly upon the doorway. With swift nod his companions of so many months, long, purposeful strides lead him into the foyer, with nary a glance behind.

Now into his joy, the one known as Gwamdir is now truly, once again, a songful spirit as he picks his baggage from the ground and looks around, wondering what to do with it. "Good Gondramind, good Hirdan Gondramind, what is to be done with the quartz? Is there a certain place you request it be?"

A gentle smile remains for Gondramind and Duinlas, who still lay prone. But the former's flight from the weight of her gaze does not go unnoticed, and Arwen too looks away at length, seeking those who stand nearest - who might also be able to speak for the wearied Hirdan. She finds Alothiell, still atop her mount. "Are there many borne upon litters, as are these two edhil?" From where she now kneels between Gondramind and Duinlas, Arwen must look up; thus is the earnest focus in her eyes more apparent from behind the strength and peace of her mien.

Only a few moments after the two edhil had left, they return, arms laden with supplies. Linen, water, herbs, and ointments are carefully balanced in tall stacks. Both Tinnulanthir and Edenriel move with a quick fluid grace as they approach the others. "Mellon, let us place these over here," Tinnulanthir instructs, unloading his armful onto the edge of the porch. For the next few minutes, the nethrodur looks over the supplies, insuring all the necessities are present.

Duinlas watches as others move freely, and a deep pain of regret wells inside him, for his own injuries, while inflicted by evil forces, were within his own avoidance... yet he knows his reasons, and the sight of his beloved moving freely is enough evidence his choice was well made.

Alothiell 's gaze soon turns to Arwen. "Yes, there are many too wounded to walk." She says, quietly. Alothiell than dismounts and turns to Arwen. "But I, thankfully, am not harmed. I am now going to go tend to those who may need my help." She took off her pack, filled with herbs and headed off in the direction of the litters.

A nod of farewell is given the Bathron, and Gondramind watches with the ghost of a fond smile as his young friend ascends the porch stair intent upon a long awaited reunion.

This reverie, however, is broken by Gwamdir's effusive question. The Hirdan closes his eyes a moment and feels the pressure upon his shattered sternum increase and restricting the flow of air to his lungs. But few, very very few, would ever notice the difficulty. All most would see is his closed eyes and firmly impassive expression, the hardened jaw. "Not now Gwamdir. Mellon. We shall deal with the quartz later. And the wounded first."

The stonecutter then shifts his gaze to the Lady Arwen as she kneels betwen him and Duinlas. "My lady, there were losses. 12 Ethiriath are wounded as badly, or worse than we. 4 of the Cuthalion. Many of the Naugrim, perhaps 20. My lady, they fought bravely..." His labored breathing cuts his words short and his colorless gaze travels out to the lawn as more of the litter borne are laid softly to the ground.

With nothing more to do, the nathron takes it upon himself to set his baggage on the porch and make himself readily available for assistance, should it be necessary. The scar upon his face shall fade, but always shall there be the memories of how it came to be...

The Lady affords but a nod for Alothiell, a passing gesture of unspoken gratitude for the Nethordur's attentiveness, before her own focus falls again upon the Hirdan. As strained as are his efforts, and the words borne upon each hard-fought breath, Arwen's crystalline mid-soprano rises and falls with the same easy melody - easy but for the faraway sadness to color its edges at Gondramind's account of the wounded.

"They too shall be tended. But in these, your first hours home... I would not have you worry." Undomiel's words are further softened as one moonlit pale hand lifts to the edhel's face. It brushes lightly across his forehead before falling slowly and easily to the labored rise and fall of his chest. "Rest, Gondramind, much though it may pain you now." This she breathes faintly, a quiet urging furrowing the fair skin of her brow.

Deciding that all is accounted for, Tinnulanthir gathers a small amount of the supplies in a bag and approaches Arwen where she kneels. "Pardon my intrusion, Heryn, but I thought that these might be of some assistance," he says softly, offering the bag.

Despite the morNing light creeping over the eastern mountains, Duinlas' eyes feel heavy and he closes them for a while, still listeNing as he takes Undomiel's advice, albeit meant for Gondramind. Good advice is the same regardless. But sleep does not come; Excitement, gratitude, and pain all keep the young singer awake.

Edenriel furrows her brow as she folds linen into square bandages. The sight of so many wounded overwhelms her, but she is pained most by the grievous injury of the Hirdan Gondramind, whose workshop she haunted as a child. She redoubles her efforts, turNing to sort the herbs into useful poultices.

Like a child under the hands of his mother, Gondramind closes his eyes under the Heryn's cool touch. "Yes my lady," comes his simple reply, but the deep basso of his voice is tight and strained even in repose. "Rest aye. But there are many here more injured than I. Duinlas, Braldor..." he stops himself from reciting a long litany of names. He flicks his gaze toward Tinnulathir and Edenriel, and then a thought rises to his mind as he looks upon the Nethordyr. "Heryn, Glasiell left me earlier upon the rim, saying she would prepare supplies in the infirmary. Where is she?"

"My thanks, Nethordur. There are many we must see to." Arwen murmurs in quiet aside to Tinnulanthir, and to Edenriel as she arrives. Indeed her eyes seem loath to leave the Hirdan's at first, each breath drawn of the Lady's will as one fueled to an unseen focus upon what she might discern of his wounds. But at length the faraway haze of her efforts lifts from her gaze, and the first light to be seen upon her face is a faint smile for Gondramind. She takes a folded linen cloth, and again her touch drifts to his left temple.

"They shall be tended, even before they are taken from your side. Here, Duinlas is with you." At this, Arwen spares a glance to the Glirion, wherein the strength of her focus is refreshed; but as Gondramind questions further of Glasiel, the Heryn can offer no more than her lingering smile, and an echoed reassurance. "Soon, Gondramind. Be at peace."

Duinlas opens his eyes, aware of the strong gaze of the Hirlin, he returns it, both eyes undamaged from his mangling, then he looks to Gondramind smiling and speaking softly, "Hirdan, Thank You."

A sigh, thin and drawn as it may be from his broken chest, slips quietly from Gondramind's lips. He nods to the Evenstar and allows thoughts of Glasiel to slip gently from his mind, a mind that at last begins to relax, as a fist clenched in tension slowly uncurls into a still and open palm. He turns his head and gazes at Duinlas. A small wrinkle forms between his brows when the singer thanks him. "For what?" he mutters, voice flat with weariness.

Duinlas smiles and speaks slowly, as if it is painful for him (and indeed it is!), "For keeping your promise to me, and seeing me and my beloved home for our wedding." He moves his left hand up to his head and touches his wound on his face, he adds, "Though, I do believe we shall delay until I look worthy to be at the side of such an elleth."

The linens still in one hand, Arwen then slips a thin, silvered vial from a leather satchel set nearby. A moment's study of the label is all that is needed to confirm the selection before the lady removes the stopper and coaxes a modest amount fragrant oil forth into her open palm. As it warms, the faint smell of new spring grass takes to the slightest of breezes, notable especially in these, the wintering days. Into this oil the Heryn dabs the clean cloth, and then a second from the store Tinnulanthir and Edenriel have brought.

A smile would foretell her satisfaction with her patient's eased worries, but it is a faint regard. One more close glance to the Glirion, and Arwen turns back to Gondramind, endeavoring to slip the linen cloth gently under what garments can be lifted from the Hirdan's chest.

The nethrodur has been quiet for sometime, but can no longer remain so. Very gently he pushes Duinlas' hand from his wound. "Allow me to see to that, Glirion," Tinnulanthir says gently, moving to clean the cut with a soft cloth.

Hovering over the pile of supplies, her hands fluttering from linens to herbs to water, Edenriel peers at the Lady Arwen's capable hands as she works, marvelling at her skill. After a moment, she remembers her task and seizes a jug of cool water to carry to the wounded and the weary.

An easy, simple smile, like a child's, comes to the Hirdan's lips when the scent of the oil reaches him. His mind, unbidden, is taken to the Lake Ivrin in spring.... "You shall be made whole, Duinlas," he says, in this state of ease, "else I should never hear the end of it from your beloved." Gondramind then winces as the Evenstar lifts the badages about his chest, and the wince becomes a small pant of pain.

Duinlas nods and relaxes as Tinnulanthir pulls away his hand, "Aye, Aye. That she would." He winces at the pain that comes again, but it slowly receeds.

Easing her touch with every rise and fall of Gondramind's pain-laden movements, Arwen deepens her focus to follow every contortion of his features. These are met with gentle whispers, more a melody than words to be discerned. But even as her song lingers, the Lady withdraws her touch from Gondramind's wounds, then looking to Edenriel. "Mellon, you are needed. Would you stay at Gondramind's side, while I tend to his companion? I would think a draught of your water to be a good thing for his healing." That said, Arwen rises, only to kneel again beside Tinnulanthir, two short steps away.

Reaching into the bag, Tinnulanthir pulls a corked bottle filled with a clear, slightly green liquid. He soaks a fresh cloth with the substance before returNing to cleaNing the gash. The nethrodur offers Duinlas a small smile, "Fear not and listen to the Hir's words, you will heal just allow yourself some time." Pausing for a moment, he looks up as Arwen approaches and moves to the side, allowing her a clear view.

Edenriel hastens to the Evenstar's side. "I should be glad to help as best I can." She kneels on the dew-damp grass beside the Hirdan's litter. "Some water to cool your throat, Hirdan?" She hides her pain at seeing closely his wounds.

Duinlas' eyes are open, and they search the face of the Evenstar, sighing happily as she kneels beside him, "Hail, my Lady. It is less pleasure than I am accustomed to when returNing home. But for this, I beg, you will forgive me, and I shall heal quickly and be a burden to you no longer."

Again, Gondramind's mist colored eyes close - both against the pain of his chest and to better focus on the melody softly whispered by Undomiel. The pressure to breathe eases. For many days now he'd borne the sense that his upper body was but a collection of shattered and misplaced bits, and now it feels as if those shattered parts of himself try to align, slowly, painfully.... His lids flap open and Edenriel is at his side, the Heryn attends to Duinlas. "yes, water. Thank you mellon," and he manages a courteous smile - habit - for the young elleth's sake.

Arwen shares a grateful smile for the Nethordur before the harsh red gashes across the Glirion's pale skin draw her focus down to him. "You have done well already," she intones in quiet aside, assumedly for Tinnulanthir. The second cloth, still in hand, the Heryn draws across Duinlas' marred face. Her reply is through a slight, gentle smile. "There is naught to forgive, Glirion. For in your love of home and your will to recover will you healing be found, and soon. You need but rest, and look forward to these days." An effortless reassurance comes so easily to the Evenstar's lips, yet the depths of her grey eyes betray a graver sentiment as she beholds this edhel, so badly wounded. It is well-veiled, but present to those who would seek it most deeply.

Carefully pouring water for the Hirdan, Edenriel murmurs words of comfort. "Though you have wandered far and suffered much, you are home now, home at Imladris, and you can rest deeply in comfort and peace here." She lays a damp cloth gingerly on a cut on his forehead, hoping not to pain him further.

Only after he has moved from the Glirion's field of view does Tinnulanthir allow the concern that burns in his heart to flash across his face. As quickly as it appears, the nethrodur buries it once more. Not wanting to interrupt the great healer, he sits patiently nearby, observing her skill silently.

Gondramind accepts the cup from Edenriel and smiles politely as she speaks. "Aye, friend. Home." An odd light creeps into his eyes, but it quickly fades again, perhaps too quickly for any to notice but those that know him well, very well indeed. "Home. Comfort. Peace." His smile is fixed and courteous. "But there are those that yet remain..." he says no more. But smiles again, offering Edenriel a kind, if weary smile. "Is the Artisans's Guildhall still standing? You haven't gone bothering the awardain now have you?"

Duinlas nods at Undomiel's words, closing his eyes as cloth is laid over his wounds, surrendering sight for the sounds of the valley. No sweeter sound could come to one gone so long.

The Lady's fair brow furrows beyond subtlety as she dabs a slow arc down the left side of Duinlas face with the healing compress. When grey eyes half-lidded with focus at last flutter open fully, and her hand lifts its delicate touch, the faint concern to line her features regretfully remains. It does not lessen the melody of her soft mid-soprano, or the kindly smile meant for the Glirion's eyes.

But her words are for Tinnulanthir, and others nearby who had carried the litters. "There is more to be done. But these, and the dwarves, must be taken inside." Thus as her charge's eyes fall closed, Arwen stands slowly and starts for the house. Her nod to all fit to carry equipment is her wordless farewell.

Stifling a laugh out of respect for the wounded, Edenriel replies, "I don't think that I bother the awardain, although perhaps my help is somewhat more eager than useful. But rest now, don't speak and pain yourself for my sake." She squints into the newly falling snow. "We must move you from the cold."

With but a word or a glance does Undomiel command the hearts of the Imladhrim and the more so now in such a cause. Those that long bore their living charges take up their litters again and gently, one or two at a time, make their way up the porch stairs and into the house. There is no order, but that of expedience, the closest first. And so it is that wounded naugrim and edhel enter the home of Elrond Half-elven together. Upon the snow covered ground before the great house, flowers of red seem to bloom, some small, some large, where the wounded once lay.

Gondramind smiles kindly again to Edenriel as his litter is lifted, and he says no word of parting for indeed and at last, no words are left to the Herald. He merely gazes with still eyes upon those wounded that precede him, watching them thread their way up the stair, rocking gently in his own litter with the movement. And it is upon Duinlas and Braldor, that his gaze lingers longest.