Two horses stumbled down the path from the Misty Mountains, their riders slumped over saddles in exhaustion. The warmth of the valley was a strong contrast to to the frigid climate they left behind; in the mountains snow flurries obscured any hint of the sun, sweeping wet clumps into hair and clothes, the wind groping through any crevice within clothes it could find to chill the bones. Here the sky was bright and clear, the sun beating down upon the pair.
It was a welcome change.
The last remnants of snow melted as they rode deeper into the valley, their pace picking up slightly as the warmth aroused body and spirit. At last the trees thinned and they arrived at the Spire of Meeting. Barangolf slipped off Glasdal and patted the gelding's rump. "Go, rest, my friend."
Daelinn popped less gracefully to the cobbles and sent Amaryllis off for the same. Eyes wide, she peered around, mischief and wonder evident on her face.
Barangolf swept a hand across his brow as he watched his steed trot off toward the stables. “'The Last Homely House has ever been a refuge for those in need. It is fortunate indeed, or we should have been lost in the mountains.”
Daelinn heaved her pack higher upon her shoulders. “There was, at least, plenty to look at?”
Barangolf shook his head at the younger Elf. "Ah, but should we fight the wargs for the honor of scrawny elks?"
Daelinn wrinkled her nose most indelicately and shrugged. "I suppose not."
“Or”, the older of the pair continued, “should we eat the wargs themselves? What do you suppose the dwarves encamped there prefer?”
“'Likely they have elk and warg alike. Skewered and roasted neatly.” Daelinn replied with a shrug.
Her grandfather laughed, and she sniffed in offense at this dismissive response.
“Skewered warg! That is as fitting an end for such beasts as I can think of.” He continued to shake his head in mirth at her suggestion, then flicked a mite of dust off his scarf. “I shall be glad for a change of clothes. I smell of snowbeast and horse.”
He continued to walk slowly toward the main building. "Ahh, I hope the others have arrived before us."
His brow creased with worry as he considered the fate of the rest of the caravan. The dangers of the Misty Mountains had proven greater than last he had come, and the group of wood elves making the pilgrimage to the palantir in the West had found themselves separated unexpectedly. The blinding snow flurries and large expanses of white had foiled any attempt at searching for the others. He hoped they had made it to Imladris ahead of himself and his granddaughter, or at the very least stumbled onto one of the encampments of the Dwarves.
Daelinn did not share his concern. “I am sure they are safe.” She shrugged, then pressed a hand into her back to stretch.
Barangolf frowned. "Perhaps. Or perhaps we shall have to go back to search for them."
Daelinn looked imploringly at the other Elf, “After a rest and a bath, though? If no word has come of them?”
“After a rest and a bath.” Barangolf promised. “We can do them no good bone weary.” He yawned as if to prove this point.
“No. We wouldn't,” Daelinn agreed, “Provisions too, perhaps, so that we are not eating skewered warg so early in the hunt.”
Barangolf laughed again. "We shall be sure to replenish our bags, mell."
Daelinn eyed her grandfather side long.
“Do you believe that I would have us starve?”
“Never!”
“A mince pie would do my stomach a world of good, and some wine to warm up after the chill of the mountains…”
He trailed off, and they continued on in silence. Although typically a chatty pair, the solemnity of their situation weighed down upon them. As they passed over a delicate bridge the two stopped to peer out at the purple and pink flowers sprawling along the side of the hills.
Barangolf paused to inhale the fragrance of the flowering bushes dotting the landscape. “Ahhh, what a relaxing site after all that snow.” He breathed, narrowing his eyes to slits as he savored the aroma.
“Strange to think that just a bit a way is a land of ice and snow while here, in the valley, things bloom and the air is warm.” Daelinn observed, pressing one hand against the rail.
Barangolf replied with mirth, "Ah, but Lord Elrond's people are known for many skills."
Daelinn ran her fingers lightly over the smooth petals, reveling in the feel of them after so long in the saddle.
Barangolf sighed longingly. "If only we could remain here for a time...ah, but perhaps we can! Perhaps the others are waiting for us."
“Or they have left word for us.” Daelinn suggested. “One way or another.”
Barangolf nodded in agreement before swinging open the ornate doors to The Last Homely House and striding inside briskly. "So I hope."
Daelinn ran a hand along the carved stone as she followed her grandfather, fingers tapping against the grooves and bumps.
“Imladris is far different from home.” Barangolf observed, eyeing the spacious foyer and mentally comparing it to the huts in the raft-elf village they had come from.
“Quite.” Daelinn craned her neck to peer up and around at everything all at once.
“your mother and I came through Imladris when she retired to Duillond.”
Daelinn turned her attention fully upon her grandfather then.
“She, too, admired the finery of the Last Homely House. It shares a certain architectural style with her new home.” He smiled at the memory, "She was certainly pleased."
“No spiders to slay immediately upon stepping across the threshold.” Daelinn noted.
Her grandfather laughed at that. “Indeed! A remarkable change of pace.”
Footfalls echoed throughout the hall as they crossed the marble floor toward the Hall of Fire. A few townsfolk could be seen engrossed in books, or chatting quietly with one another. But there was one elf in particular that the pair wanted to speak with.
The one surrounded by goblets and bottles of wine.
Barangolf approached the vintner with a relieved smile. "Galu! My granddaughter and I have traveled many weary miles to rest here. What wines do you have?" He listened intently as Sogadan lists his wares. "Ahhh, Dorwinion red? Let us have it, then!" The wood elf fumbled through his pouch for coins, exchanging them with the vintner for two flagons of wine.
Daelinn took her flagon with an air of one much relieved to have it. Lifting it to her lips she sipped and made a small, happy sound. Beside her Barangolf tossed back his flagon with a pleasurable sigh.
“A fine glass indeed.” She commented, placing her goblet beside the vintner; another elf silently and quickly whisked it away almost as soon as it had touched the table.
“If Dorwinion wine ever fails to relax I shall know it is time to sail West.” Barangolf sighed as he settled into a chair.
Daelinn tried and failed not to laugh at this. "When you sail West, Middle Earth will fall into darkness." She leaned her hips against the table rather than sit; she needed a respite from sitting after so long in the saddle.
Barangolf grinned at Daelinn's cheek. "Indeed! It is a wonder that any society copes without my presence." He then nodded thoughtfully at the elaborate decor. "But it is beautiful here, even if it is lacking in foliage."
Daelinn pressed a hand to her lips, “Oh, quite. My Oompa* holds the world in light.” At the next comment she peered up and around at everything and traced one of the gilded leaves on the table's edge. "They seem to make up for it though."
“There are so many here who are skilled in the crafting of finery! But it is not more beautiful than the trees were before the Necromancer.”
Daelinn heaved a mighty breath and leaned more heavily upon the table.
Barangolf shook his head, recalling a time when his home was rightfully called Greenwood. “One day he will be gone. Then you shall see our home in all its glory”
Daelinn pouted prettily. "People keep saying this, and still I wait. Why not do something about him?"
Barangolf winced and he turns his head to one side at her outburst. "We do not have the power. Not on our own."
He had fought Wars before, seen his kinsmen and women fall before sharp blades and piercing arrows. Had they the power to sweep the Necromancer out completely they would have done so long ago rather than retreat further and further from his seat of power.
Daelinn lifted a hand and gestured around them. "And if we asked for aid, would we not receive it?"
Barangolf shrugged. "I cannot say. But the might of Elves and Men is much diminished since the Last Alliance, and we did not fare so well even then."
Daelinn bit her lips together and simply nodded.
"But the Wise do what they can. The White Council will find a way, surely."
Daelinn bobbed her head in agreement, eager to believe in the hope of this, then sighed and brushed a strand of pale hair behind one pointed ear. The pain and hope intermingled in her grandfather's face was blinding. She peered up at the ceiling and the fabric draped there woven with stars. "Do you think they miss seeing the sky so they recreate it?"
Barangolf followed Daelinn's gaze upward, glad enough for a change of topic, "Perhaps. Or perhaps it is in honor of Elbereth."
"O menel aglar elenath..." Daelinn whispered reverently and her grandfather bowed his head.
The gravity of the moment was broken when he yawned suddenly. "Ahhh. And no sign of Tinurendis or the others."
Daelinn frowned. "Perhaps they are elsewhere in the Last Homely House? Or about the grounds?
Barangolf pressed a hand into his back as he stood. "Let us look around a bit before we retire."
"Perhaps we should look in the library?" Daelinn suggested as the pair made their way from the Hall of Fire and out into the foyer. A few townspeople and visitors clustered together in corners, reciting poetry or speaking on current events. But no member of their party appeared, and none of their names overheard in any of the half-snatches of conversations as they passed.
They wound their way up the stairs, pausing to ask directions once. Barangolf pushed open the doors to the library, peering intently at those browsing the books then shook his head with a sigh. "Not in here."
They slipped quietly out of the room, shutting the door carefully behind them so as not to disturb the readers. They found their way out onto one of the porches, a restful area with a view of a sparkling waterfall.
Daelinn wrapped a hand around the formed metal of the porch railing, well pleased with its crafting while Barangolf fingered the wisteria with a smile. "At least they do not trim back all of the flowering plants."
Daelinn inahled the sweet scent that lingers in the air, carried aloft by the mist of the falls. "No. They have not forgotten the wild things completely here."
"But no sign of the others."
Daelinn laid a hand on her grandfather's shoulder. "Just because we do not see them now, does not mean they are not here. Perhaps we are two riders passing in the night."
Barangolf grinned at his granddaughter and moved toward the door. "You are right. Perhaps if we retire we shall meet at breakfast."
Daelinn bobbed her head and smiled brightly. "Everything will look brighter in the morning."
"...or perhaps we could look in the stables, to see if any of the other horses are yet here." Barangolf suggested, the thought coming to him belatedly.
Daelinn arched her eyebrows at him and propped her hands on either side of her hip. "You are over worrying, but if it will put you to ease, we can go take a peek."
Barangolf threw his hands in front of his chest in objection. "I simply do not wish for anyone to be lost in the frozen mountains any longer than is necessary!"
"This is a fair sentiment." Daelinn conceded.
As soon as they exited the house Barangolf broke into a run, his granddaughter stretching the length of her stride to match the taller Elf's. Each group of Elves they encountered caused them to slow slightly, checking those browsing the market or milling about the Spire of Meeting to be sure none there were their friends.
The stables were on the opposite side of Imladris from the Last Homely House, but hope lent wings and they arrived with heaving chests.
But Barangolf's hope deflated as he checked the stables. "The only familiar steeds are our own. It seems we have arrived first."
"Do you think that they search for us?" Daelinn wondered.
Barangolf narrowed his eyes as he considers this. "Perhaps they do. In the morning I shall petition Lord Elrond regarding a search party. Surely some of his people can be spared to search the mountain passes. If not, at the least I am sure he can send messengers to the dwarven encampments, send word to them that our people are lost and to keep a sharp eye out for them."
Daelinn nodded. "This is good. And they will help. They are used to that... harshness."
Barangolf nodded in agreement before yawning. "But if I do not find a bed soon, mell Daelinn, I shall sleep here in the hay amongst the horses."
Daelinn clapped a hand across her mouth to still the laughter though her eyes dance and she whispered, "A comfort to them I am sure."
Barangolf flopped onto the ground for emphasis. "But not especially comfortable to an Elf."
Daelinn chortled again and nudged her grandfather with the toe of her boot. "At least not where beds are so near."
Barangolf grimaced and stands. "If I had not lost my bedroll to one of those vexing snowbeasts..."
"I told you you ought to have made IT your bed roll."
The older Elf laughed and pushed himself to his feet. "But I cannot imagine those claws or horns would be very comfortable."
"But that fur," Daelinn objected as they left the stables and headed towards the nearest guest house.
"'It was thick and soft. But I had no way of cleaning it, and I am not so sure it did not have lice."
"Fair points."
They found themselves before the guest building before the conversation had drawn to an end. Barangolf yawned again; he would be glad indeed to arrange with those who served Elrond for a bed here. "Sleep well, mell Daelinn. I shall see you at breakfast. Or perhaps later, if the beds of Imladris are as comfortable as I remember."
"Pretty dreams to you, Oompa."
*Oompa is obviously not Sindarin or Silvan =p Since the Silvan Elves are rather rustic, Daelinn and Barangolf's players are taking some liberties with our representation of their speech. They would be speaking Silvan variant on Sindarin to one another so this is merely a translation of affectionate Silvan slang for grandfather.
