Tidings Fair and Foul
(regarding Ahmo Laicamiril- an alt) - this is pretty much raw and unedited.
As resplendent dawn kissed the spires of Ered Luin, the rider on the great road perceived a singular stirring in her heart. Something new. As though the onrushing golden tide was washing her westward like a surge onto a beach. The night shroud began to dissolve as the bright stars receded from view like fish into the deep waters.
The mare's pace quickened as she trotted between the three great towers that reared from high promontories in the Emyn Beraid. Relics of times brighter and times darker they stood astride the road. Sharp eyed guards kept vigil by sunlight and starshine and it was said in truth that no creature could escape their surveillance upon that land.
Beneath the hooves of Silverflower were now the gleaming white paving stones laid before the world was remade and changed by those who elected to remain in Middle Earth that the grace and beauty of Valinor should not be forgot in mortal lands. The Westmost farms of the Shire Folk could see the taller of them, Elostirion from their fields many verdant rolling leagues away. To this tower many of the elves and some few mortal folk would make pilgrimage to look upon Tol Eressea through the palantir that had been set there as a gift to Elendil by Gil Galad. But Westernesse failed and the elves endured. And so it was that the orders of knighthood of the King of the Noldor established the three gleaming ivory towers as their habitation.
As Ahmo passed the towers, she held her glittering sword Swiftsure aloft in salute to whomsoever's eyes were fixed upon the road that day. Many times in the past she herself had performed this duty and sat in the high seat keeping watch as the wind flung her burnished brown hair behind her and she took note of traders, pilgrims and those whose simple raiment betokened their leave-taking.
Daybreak was now in full effulgent glory. The crisp, brilliance of the moment of cold joy when winter-night's harsh chill is, of a sudden, replaced by the first tentative warmth. Riding on as crows swirled from their rookeries in the tall pines that stood in knots on either side of the great white road, Ahmo enjoyed their song, which others found ugly. She had felt a kinship with the birds from the day she first girded for war.
“The promise shall be kept!” She shouted as a murder swept overhead. One singular sable bird dropped from the cloud and swept low.
Ahmo reined the big horse in and the crow, which she recognized at once landed neaby. The elf removed her high helm. “Mornistir,” she said to the bird. “Tell thy mistress I shall return to the cabin in two days' time. If anything should go awry, my owl shall come in my stead to deliver what news there may be.” With that, she replaced her steel helm and galloped hard to the west, crossing the high dwarf-made bridge that separated the great city on the Lhün from the mainland. Already her eyes discerned the mighty towers and bastions that studded the strong walls, all clad in pure white marble that reflected the sun's unalloyed gold.
The people of the townships she rode through were already up and about their affairs and progress was slowed for a time as she waited on walkers, animal carts moving goods or other ordinary folk on ordinary business.
At last, the great gate came into view across a verdant field lush with communal gardens. Only once had the gate's strength been tested and the colossal portals of polished brass and iron stood firm, though the Enemy had not time to throw his full power against the city Numenor knew as Mistelondê.
The gate as ever, was open to travellers and she rode into the city's streets, filled with throngs of ordinary folk. Sentries saluted her quietly, noting her livery, for she wore the sky blue associated with the House of Feanor, though her cloak was emblazoned with the silver faragwantaurë bird, which betokened her own family line. Frustration mounting with every delay, she quickly reached the gate of the palace of the Steward of the Havens, a collonaded palace surmounted with a golden sheathed dome set with precious stones got from the sea.
Reaching the stables, Ahmo breathlessly gave her name to the hands and all but ran through the gardens in her haste, a thin book taken from her saddlebag under her arm tighly. The guards clapped the butts of their spears onto the paving stones ar her approach to the great hall.
“The Steward and High Navigator is in council today. For it is the first new moon of the year and the messengers from Imladris are here to speak to our Lord Cirdan. Have you come from Imladris to bear tidings to the Steward?”
“Indeed I come bearing tidings our Lord will wish to hear at once,” Ahmo answered all in a rush. The guards opened the door to admit the armored knight. As ancient custom dictated, she hung her sword upon a post on the wall, where weapons far more ancient and storied than her own held a kind of martial council of their own. With that she strode at speed past bemused grandees and servants alike into the space below the mighty dome.
Few among mortal races had seen the space beneath that dome with their own eyes. It was once said by a poet of Osgiliath who had that 'half the world is encompassed within that dome.”
Lined in skystone, a pure cobalt stone made by the artifice of the Noldor and set with hand sized adamants which channeled and amplified the light of sun and stars, the interior of Mithlond's council chamber was made to present the world in miniature. A cunning-wrought golden orrery of gemstones of great size representing the planets which followed their courses within the vault of Mithlond as they did under the Taitelon* itself.
The vastness and grandeur of the space did nothing to diminish the majesty of he who ocupied the high seat of the council. Cirdan the shipwright, ancient and wise, whose flowing gray beard flowed over his broad chest. Clad in robes the color of the ocean under a blazing sun and girt with a sword forged of old by Thingol's own hand and art, the master shipwright and beloved of Ulmo brought his gaze from the mundane matters of administration and counsel to the onrushing visitor.
“Welcome, friend!” called Cirdan as a panting Ahmo threw herself to her knees before that wise lord, her dull and battered helm clattering to the polished marble steps. A throng of elf lords interrupted their deliberations on some matter and cast astonished eyes upon the lady in her blue surcoat and noted the tokens of her lineage.
“I beg pardon, Lord. I bear tidings that demand thy attentions.”
“Speak on,” intoned Cirdan's rumbling baritone. His blue eyes fixed hers of green and held her in a spell that restored her confidence and sense of purpose despite her exhaustion and unease.
“My Lord you must know that beneath thy very gaze, a deadly conspiracy has been brought nigh to full fruition.”
“You speak of the Dourhands, Laicamiril?”
Ahmo blinked. “You know?”
“You sent me your friend the owl Calimisil,” Cirdan smiled. “Dost thou think thy friend so faithless as to fail you? I have sent messengers to the townships of the Havens to warn our people to avoid the habitations of the dwarves until we may discern what is happening to the north.”
“But the bird returned to me with no message.”
“If I know naught what mischief transpireth beneath the spires of Skorgrim's citys, then what word would I send you?”
“Forgive my presumption, Lord,” Ahmo stuttered.
“Forgiven,” Cirdan rumbled kindly. “I had hoped that our friends the dwarves would have taken this matter in hand. Word reached me about the book you gave to Cyanite. A noble gesture but dangerous all the same. Far better to bring such things to us here. The dwarves maintain an ambassador here to look after such affairs.”
Ahmo thought about this, rejoining in frustration, “Should we not raise our army and crush them?”
Cirdan's laughter pealed out in waves. “The Dwarves of Gabilgathol regard the Dourhands as their special province.”
“Then why do they not act? An Army is being raised,” Ahmo protested.
“They have their own politics to tend. A full scale war between Longbeard and Dourhand would have to be fought out to the finish and Lord Dwalin has yet to gather into the hall enough of his people to field an army big enough to challenge the Dourhands. It was only recently that Thorin's people seized the city, forcing their cousins to remove to Kheledul.”
“I've word merrovail and some Angmar blood witches have found their way to Kheledul!”
Cirdan's tone changed quickly, “You should have told me this in the first place. When did you learn this and how do you know it?'
Ahmo blushed from embarassment. “The huntress called Xanderian discovered it while creeping on cat-feet around Kheledul. The matter of the peculiar stones I informed you of.”
“Ahh...ever the fly in the ointment, 'the Monk'.”
Ahmo laughed in spite of herself. “She can be at times. She has the luck of being in the right place at the right time.”
Cirdan nodded, “That is a skill that may not be learned, try as you might. And many have.. Call it luck or fortune or doom. The Lady Arahen's squire has an overflowing chalice of it. Yet she does not care to visit us here. Instead she wanders. Her perigrinations make Mithrandir look like a homebody. She left it to you to send us word of these perils.”
“She felt her word would not be considered worthy of taking seriously,” Ahmo protested on Rian's behalf. “Her family suffered some disgrace in the past.”
Cirdan's warm smile returned. Two of the supplicants and counsellors nodded. Ahmo felt certain that the Shipwright knew more than she herself knew of this fey young huntress.
“You know something of disgrace, Laicamirill. But do not be angry. Xanderian, or whatever her true name be, is welcome here and her word weighs as much as any. Her worth is proven many times over. As is that of her strange sister. The tidings you bring me are evil and action must be taken.”
Cirdan's Marshall spoke up, a warrior in flowing ceremonial robes that hid a golden coat of mail, “Lord, it cannot appear that the elves interfere in the affairs of the Naugrim. Though the danger is real enough. Perhaps I can send you and Arahen and Arthandron and a company of hunters. Slaughter the Angmarim and buy Dwalin and his folk time to form their own army?”
Cirdan nodded. “The idea has merit. The Dourhands were never worth much in a pitched fight. Treachery was always their first weapon of choice.”
Ahmo broke in at that. “The Monk has advocated this very idea, my Lord. She has gathered a company together. We only need a place to bring this artifice of sorcery Angmar sends the Dourhands so wiser and more learned heads may decide what must be done.”
“You propose to bring it here?” Cirdan's consternation was balanced with curiosity.
“There is nowhere else, Lord”
“The Longbeards will say it rightly belongs to them.”
Ahmo answered, “The thing is a poison to possess. The book I gave Cyanite I copied for you. I had thought to send it to Imladris but there was no time.” With this, she set the book she carried upon a mahogany table that was strewn with maps.
Cirdan nodded toward the book, “We shall give it due study. You have already told me your own interpretation of the disturbing facts set down on those pages. The Lady Rhavanielle, one of the eldest in Middle Earth, save only for the Lady Manadhlaer is dwelling in Duillond. I shall summon her to ponder the matter with me. What aid can we lend you to confound the enemy's schemes?”
Ahmo had an answer at the ready. “A fast boat that we can outrace any pursuit and slip upriver unseen, Lord.”
“That you have.” He glanced up to a slender elf who wore the device of Cirdan's navy. The sailor bustled away quickly.
“Seek that one out at the quays. He will have the perfect boat made ready. Then rejoin your company and enact your plans. We will wait for your safe return and keep watch on the river lest you need help in making your escape,” Cirdan enjoined.
Ahmo bowed thrice. “My lord is too kind,” she said as she nearly ran after the sailor.
Cirdan watched her making speed for the harbor and as she disappeard, he turned to his Marshall. “Hopefully I was kind enough. Have my armor made ready and send for Rhavanielle.
*Vault of Heaven (Q)
