The Hall of Fire

[Allison]

Though usually a quiet room, the Hall of Fire is an excellent place to meet with friends, share a few laughs, and talk about anything that comes to mind. On special nights, the Hall is filled with beautiful music and haunting stories, all for the enjoyment of Rivendell's inhabitants. So come and join us here and have some fun. (There is food in the back.)

[ellindaer]

~When the Elves of Mirkwood travelled to Imladris they would go south down the Anduin and cross at a place which had always been known simply as the High Pass. It was not a journey without dangers, nowhere was, but Great Eagles nested in the crags above the Pass and their far sighted eyes descried the movements of yrchs, wargs, and all travellers . These were the descendants of mighty Thorondor of old, who had dwelt in the peaks of the Encircling Mountains in the Elder Days and the majestic birds now, as then, loathed the things of evil which crept below.

Although snow still capped the peaks of the Hithaeglir with white , about them, as they rode down Anduin, all was growth, blossom foamed thick as churned cream on the blackthorn and the grass flushed into a green which sang of newness. The wind still blew cold through the Pass, which they crossed in single file, for it was narrow and dangerous, but as they descended on the other side the warmth bloomed again. Choughs shouted from the corries and , unlocked from winter ice, freshets of crystal water striped the cliffs like silver ribbons, wavering when touched by gusts of westerly wind and scattering in tearing veils of mist.

Elgalad was enchanted, and the journey would have been wondrous save that Malthador also made one of the party. The warrior loathed the Noldor; he believed the Elf who had brought Elgalad to the forest was Noldo and Imladris, after all, was founded by the survivors of Ost in Edhil, many of whom were Eldar. Vanimórë had spoken of Imladris, but had never seen it, and if Malthador hoped to discover anything further there, he would be disapointed.
But at least Elgalad need not be alone with him. The riders kept together, bivouced together, and the younger Elf was spared the '' toughening '' of his beatings. Mostly silent, but drinking in with all his senses the beauty around him, he wondered if they would ride all the way to the Western Sea , for in this wild land, there seemed no sign of Elf, or of Man, anywhere, only the brush of the winds over heather and rock and the murmuring dance of hill-streams. So it was that he was startled, when, one morning not long after sunrise, the party drew rein.

He looked up, seeing a figure poised above them on a ridge, Anar striking sparks from mail and jewel, he glimpsed a reddish-brown flash of long hair, before the rider moved and descended toward them.

He sat tall in the saddle, a cloak of flame-red pinned at one shoulder by a glittering brooch, the sun delineating the hard, stern face and flashing lucent silver from the eyes. Elgalad heard Malthador give a hiss from beside him, although why, he did not know. The rider appeared to hear it, for he turned the haughty head for a moment, and then he bowed over the saddle, and greeted Legolas in a voice rich and mellow and clear.

'' Le suilon, Legolas Thranduilion, Le suilon folk of the Great Wood. I am come to escort thee to Imladris. '' There was warmth now, in the pale eyes , as he continued. '' Though I know that thou dost know the way, Legolas cunden. ''

Elgalad realized then, who this must be. As the horse was turned, he saw the great fall of hair caught back in triple braids with gold thread, and recognised the brooch-pin's emblem, he had seen it depicted in books and scrolls of Lore in the halls of the Elvenking, and heard it cursed. Its background was the fiery insignia of the House of Fëanor , overlaid with a harp with three blazing jewels set on its strings. Legolas had spoken of this one; Tindómion , who he called by the epesse Istelion, offspring of the lost Maglor, second son of Fëanor .

'' Kinslayer. '' Hissed Malthador and the virulent hate in his words, brought Elgalad's head about in surprise.

'' This is a friend of the P-Prince, sir. '' he murmured. '' He is n-no Kinslayer. ''

'' He wears the badge of a cursed House, openly flaunts it! '' The warriors lips barely moved. '' he is a son of rape and the taint of the Doom lies in his blood. ''

Abashed, the younger Elf fell silent, listening to the low murmur of conversation between the Noldo and the Woodland Prince . The path was narrow, winding among ling and fern and rounded a thrust of rock which rose before them, and then dipped, and as they paused, Elgalad looked down at the valley of Imladris with a welling sense of delight.

The refuge of Elrond Peredhil was sited on a plateau. To the east, the hills hunched, step by great step, toward the Hithaeglir, and in the forgotten turmoils of the Shaping of Arda, cliffs had been pushed up, where now, fuming waterfalls laced and plumed down . The great House, the Last Homely House, was , Elgalad could see, a complex of buildings of graceful white stone, fringed by wide balconies, which overlooked gardens, . It was far larger than he had expected, and welcoming in these lonely lands, a jewel guarded by rough, ancient hands of rock and water, and climbing woods. As he listened he heard a bell chime out and echo through the valley.

They were greeted after their horses were taken from them in the ward. Tindómion lead the way up a shallow flight of steps to where several Elves stood, and one, with long dark hair , stepped forward and greeted Legolas.
* Elrond * Elgalad thought . * son of Eärendil the Blessed. * Tall and fair , with shining grey eyes, a circlet on his brow, a smile kind and welcoming, at his side an elleth, regally lovely, Celebrian , Lady of Imladris. Close to them stood two younger Elves so alike that the Sinda could not have told one from the other, white of skin, with the same pale, brilliant eyes and dark locks, and beside them was an elleth of great beauty. By their stances and faces, he guessed that these were the children of Elrond and his lady, Elladan and Elrohir, the twins, and Arwen . Then, beside them, suddenly, Anar seemed to shine in the court, as another stepped forward and gilt-gold hair flamed in the noonday . Elgalad need not guess who this must be, with that hair, and the tall, graceful, arrogant carriage, Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower. His smile, as he saw Legolas was a warm flash of white and his eyes seemed to burn with a radiant, glimmering Light as they passed over the others with a courteous greeting .

Overwhelmed, Elgalad was grateful to be lead by servants of the house to guest chambers. A servant had brought in wine and he poured himself a cup, before going to the bathing room . He had heard of the Noldoli skills of building and now saw it for the first time , the floor was warm under his feet, and pipes carrying both heated and cold water flowed in, and swirled out of the sunken bath, in what fashion he did not know, but he made good use of it. Slipping into fresh clothes, he walked to the wide balcony and looked out at the gardens. Here, nature and artiface were seamlessly melded; the scent of apple blossom and the cool, faint odor of bluebells drifted to him and over all, he heard the unceasing sound of water, from the Bruinen and the falls which endlessly cascaded about this valley. He closed his eyes, absorbed, leaning against a carven pillar, almost slipping into waking reverie.

Later, in the Hall of Fire, he heard the son of Maglor sing , in full, the tale of Eärendil the Mariner . The Sinda felt surrounded by legend, as he had , at times, with his Lord, the fire seemed to pulse with the music, sent a glissade of flame over the strings of the great harp, shone in the bright eyes of the Elves who listened, in motionless reflection.

[Minya Collowen]

[wow, you did that so well that I think people are actually afraid to post a response]

Lleywin stared into the flames which warmed the Hall, a frown constricting her flesh. It was Flame that murdered her family, Flame that left her an orphan, it was Flame who took away her village, her people, her life. Lleywin tugged a thick woolen cloak over her shoulders, she kept the hood over her head. She was cold, incredibly so. The flames only seemed to make her shiver more. Thoughts. Erratic. Sweat beaded on her face, her breath hastened but she kept quiet as memories fluttered within the constraints of her mind. She was alone now. With no where to go. She had hoped a journey would enlighten her.

Friends. She had none. She wanted none. Yet she desperately needed them.

A pain seared within her, crawling up her throat, clawing against her flesh. She coughed momentarily, thin fingers fumbling within her purse where few coins settled. A drink. A drink would do her well.