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Durzhat goes on a .... "date" ???

It’s here. It’s FINALLY here.

The moment Durzhat the Death-bringer, Messengorc, has been waiting her entire life for– ever since the orcette crawled out of a hot lava bed squelching and burping ash and destruction– she has… a Date.

She has buffed and sharpened her claws to needle-like points ready to scrape, scratch, claw, maim, and kill anyone who dares to venture to even look at her Date. Her date is hers, her own, her PRECIOUS! Her mohawk reaches exceptional heights tonight as if inspired by the heights of the glorious fiery mountain of Doom or the shadowy spires of Dushgoi where terror clenches cold fists around every unfortunate orc sent to slave away there under the cold gaze of the Nazgul.

Down here, on the Plains of Gorgoroth, the temperature swelters and Durzhat wears a blood-spattered leather vest with a pair of machetes slung across her back like wicked wings. Sulfur steam drifts by and opens the pores of her ashen face almost as good as the Uhhhhhhh Spa’s torture treatments. Yes, Durzhat is at her very best tonight– she is single and ready to mingle with one very special individual. No one could possibly resist this Messengorc!!

Ohhh how her heart pitters and patters like drums, drums in the deep, at the thought of her upcoming courtship.

Durzhat brings a rotting carcass of some unfortunate and unidentifiable creature, hoping to lure in her Date with its tantalizing scent so strong she can taste it in her own watering mouth. She wipes a gob of drool from her lips and prepares to make the perfect first impression.

Durzhat practically trembles with desire and anticipation as the recipient of her devoted affection and fanfare arrives…..black wings swooping, scooping debris from the ground in a cyclone of glassy, lung-shearing obsidian. A Fell beast. It literally takes her breath away.

Weak in the knees, she falls to the ground, offers up the carcass on a pink, lace-trimmed picnic blanket, and recites her most very original poem:
“The sky is red, nothing is blue,
Killing is sweet, and I will have you!”

“Oh noble beast, I offer you this token of my affection! Will you be mine?”
She is going to get her Fell beastie even if it kills her.

With a screeching roar, she receives the full blast of the fell-beast’s stale breath before the creature tears into the carcass with abandon. Misty-eyed, Durzhat is captivated by the sight until it turns red eyes upon her as it licks bone and sinew from its maw. The Fell beast sinks back on haunches, screeching once again, and takes off for the shrouded skies above.

Tantalizingly terrifying and exhilarating, Durzhat is infatuated and enraptured with her “Date”.

“Call me!!” Durzhat shouts desperately at the black splotch in the sky.

Y'all thought I wouldn't post as Túrin while I have this icon, eh?


The days in Nargothrond passed quickly, and for a time his heart felt lighter than it had been, though the memories of heartbreak ever haunted his nights. Even during times of great happiness and great success, the felling of a great beast, a successful ambush against the enemy, in the peak of great victory came a whisper of great sorrow. Wisdom earned through loss, and he often wondered if he were born a little earlier that he could have saved his father and uncle, who most likely were dead, and perhaps even avoided all the pitfalls this seemingly cursed world offered him.

On the anniversary of Beleg's death, he took a leave of rest, locked himself in his quarters, spoke to no one, thinking how he wished for his own death instead of the archer's. He sang with a quivering tone the song he made for Beleg, weeping from morning until evening, when Gwindor knocked on his door, checking on him.

Gwindor was a good person, and a pity for his torture! Curse the foe that hurt both of them so! Curse them! Mutilated by the enemy, Gwindor no was longer in high standing in Nargothrond. Though they disagreed on matters in terms of the engagement of the enemy, he saw the nobility of the Eldar within him. Besides, did friends not disagree on matters? Only thralls blindly agreed on everything, or so Sador said, and neither Túrin nor Gwindor were thralls.

So it happened that on a day of rest as he wandered in the hall he chanced upon the sun-haired Finduilas, who smiled as she approached him. He averted his eyes in respect, bowing to her. For though she reminded him of the sister that often appeared in his dreams, laughing and running around the fields of Beleriand, Finduilas was a High Elf. A princess to the Eldar, a queen to men like him.

"My lady," Túrin greeted, bowing towards her.

"Thurin Adanedhel," she responded (her name for him that always startled him, so close she was to discovering his true identity), her eyes bright in the afternoon sun, "have we not known each other long enough for you to call me by name?"

"Perhaps, but you are queenly, as a golden tree in the green grass of spring."

"I recall you saying that, as if it were yesterday, or so the Edain would say," Finduilas replied, "and I shall respond as I did then, for as queenly as you deem I am, you are as kingly."

Having already heard the compliment before, Túrin shook his head, "I am not of the Eldar, I cannot accept such a compliment, though my lady means it well."

Changing the subject, he asked, "for what can I help you this day? Or is this meeting a coincidental greeting?"

"Few coincidences appear in this realm, nor in Arda, in fact. Though I do have a request for you, Thurin."

He looked up and saw the smile and warmth from her eyes.

"In my haste I appeared to have lost something inside one of the caves. A gift to Gwindor that I left behind, a trifle thing to many, but very important. I was planning on partaking in a quest to retrieve it, yet now that you are here..."

A gift to Gwindor from Finduilas was worthy indeed, and equally important. Túrin ever feared the darkness would return in his friend's heart, and the light of Finduilas seemed to heal him so.

"It would be my honor to aid my friend, Gwindor, in finding such a gift, my lady," he said.

It probably was a trick of his eyes but the light dimmed for a second in Finduilas' eyes before returning once more.

"Then we best not tarry," she smiled, "though it is a rather narrow passage. I shall wait for you at the entrance of the caves. Best wear something rather ordinary, friend."

[End Part 1]

The Fish Whisperer... Hisser!

There was an enchanting peace and beauty about the nightly landscape of a pool enveloped by steep rocks in the midst of forest. A waterfall fell into the pool, and its curtain shone in the pale light of the full moon. The music of the constant fall of water and the beauty of the moon on the foamy ripples below, as well as the fresh and wholesome forest air was surely the best setting for spending a romantic hour or two with a loved one.

"Sssss..." came a low hiss that even with all its quietness stood in stark contrast to the rest of the scenery. "Nasssty Pale Face, very nassty!" A small, dark creature crept down to the very edge of the pool and looked up, its big pale eyes reflecting the moonlight. Unimpressed with all the surrounding beauty, or even seemingly disgusted by it, Gollum hissed again: "Nasssty, we says! Better than Yellow Face it is, yessss. Yet we doesn't like it."

Gollum spat and sputtered, and hissed some more insults at the heavenly body which apparently cared little for the curses of the wretched creature. Regardless, Gollum was on a mission, his belly was empty, and the pool held quite a few delicious looking fish. He fully intended to woo at least one of those tonight.

"Come to ussss, come..." his voice was quiet and as inviting and enchantingly singing as he could manage while he lowered his head down to the very surface of water and sniffed at it. "Fisssshy, fisssshy, here!" He had brought no flowers, and not even worms to present to the fish as a dating gift so he had to rely on his voice alone. Truth be told, he had initially intended to bring a couple of fat worms but had inadvertently eaten them on the way here.

Then Gollum slid into the water and for a few moments kept himself submerged, with only his head sticking out, looking as if he was enjoying a water treatment in some large bubble bath. Yet, the enjoyment would not be complete without a fish - in his grip.

"Fissshy, fissshy..." he lured again sweetly, and then focused in with his big eyes on a fish which was surely enchanted by his voice, was it not? His body tensed, and a hunter's zeal shone in his eyes, then he dove for it as quick as lightning.

Gollum resurfaced, sounding much like a strangely purring cat as he swam to the shore, crawled some ways up and sat down. "See? How much we loves you!" he said, kissing the fish he gripped title on the head. "Fisssh, nice fisssh!" Suddenly his sharp teeth bit into the same fish he had just admiring, tearing out a piece of it. He gulped the delicious morsel down, blissfully unaware that it was not a good custom to eat your dating partner.

"Smeagol!" A voice suddenly interrupted his romantic time with a fish. "Smeagol, Master has come to look for you. Master is here. Come, Smeagol!"

Impertinent, meddlesome Hobbits! They apparently had no sense of privacy at all. Gollum would have wanted nothing else but slap Frodo with the same delicious fish a couple times, but suppose it was a no-no while the Master held the Precious. "Should give us time, he should, precioussss..." he hissed regretfully. It seemed that he would have to resume the date at some later time, though he could keep this fish, could he not? As a prize? His pale eyes looked up at the Master as he said sorrowful good-byes to the unfinished date.

Doing as the princess asked, Túrin swapped his armor for rather plain grey everyday clothing. Knowing that the caves could have water, he donned boots suitable for the terrain. Within a reasonable amount of time, he made his way to the entrance of the deep caverns of Narog, a place quite a few elves travelled into and out of for various reasons. Some of the elf-children ventured within to seek out adventure, playing games of pretend and pursuit. Their laughter would echo in the caverns, sometimes eerie, but more times than not, comforting.

But Túrin rarely travelled within the caverns when he knew children were inside. Though their joyous laughter raised his mood, a somberness, like water overflowing from a cup too small, would enter his chest. For he imagined his sister Lalaith, running around the caves, and the echo her laughter became an ever present reminder that he would no longer hear it, and somberness would fill his soul. These caves did not bring comfort to him, but a regret that his sister could not enjoy them.

His spirits lifted though upon seeing the smile on Finduilas' face at the entrance. She wore raiment matching her sun-hair.

"Thurin! I see you are dressed for the occasion? Are you an experienced wanderer in caves such as these?"

Túrin flinched. Finduilas was too close to the truth again! Flashes of traveling along hidden roads in Amon Rûdh passed through his mind, the yells and screams of war around the hills. He closed his eyes, willing his mind shut from the memories. For the hilltop covering his home for one year became drenched with the blood of his...

His cries of pain as the orcs hit him with metal and leather repeatedly, then in the end, he mistook...

"Thurin!" he heard the voice of Finduilas, her face now etched in worry, "what thoughts have disturbed you so? Perhaps you do not need to traverse these caves, after all."

Blinking and quickly exhaling out, he solemnly replied to her, "What is a man who cannot keep his word? Lead the way, my lady, and we shall retrieve what you lost."

"A man such as you I would rather not hurt," Finduilas replied, as she sighed, "for often the mind is one's greatest foe... yet it is one's greatest friend too."

He chose not to respond, finding the words strange yet familiar.

"Let us go then, if you truly do not mind," she said, walking into the caves.

"My lady, I do not mind, but perhaps we could use a torch?"

She looked back at him, a momentary surprise in her eyes, and then realization as she looked away, "I had forgotten. Our eyes are keen, yet though you are so like one of us, you are not. Forgive me, Adanedhel."

"... there is nothing to forgive," he replied. Some days he enjoyed the nickname, which meant "man-elf," as he had great reverence for the Eldar. Yet in other days he longed to be once again known as Túrin, son of Húrin.

Finduilas paused, her gaze seeming focused on something in the distance, she then turned her eyes back to Túrin "... then perhaps you shall hold my hand. throughout. I shall be your torch through the caves."

"This gracious offer... I cannot accept," he said, bowing his head apologetically.

"Then if I insist, perhaps? To redress a wrong? I would rather not see you felled by a low ceiling," she said, her voice now hinting of mirth.

That was indeed a possibility... as he often hit his head on low ceilings by accident. A bitter end that he would rather not have.

Túrin relented, "as you wish, my lady. Let us not waste anymore time then."

She held out her hand, the sun reflecting the smile on her face. He hesitated for a second, and then he gently held her hand, as she guided him into the caverns of Narog. He looked at the back of her head, and all too easily he imagined a grown-up Lalaith leading him through places far and wide.

And his heart lightened, the darkness inside fading a little as he felt like a child again, listening to the laughter of his sister.

[End Part 2]

The caverns of Narog held a motely of branching paths throughout as the two traversed the caves. In the beginning, darkness filled Túrin's sight, their pace slow, though the ground was even, perhaps hewn for comfort by past dwarf dwellers. He still almost tripped a few times. Finduilas' touch was his only guide; even her sun-hair could not pierce the shadow. They did not speak, thankfully, allowing Túrin to concentrate on his footing. Drips of water, echoes of light footsteps, and indiscernible voices from others often disturbed the silence. From where in the cave, though, he could not tell.

Yet the more time he spent, his eyes could differentiate the path they tread from the rocky walls. At points he saw faint hints of light at the end of different forks they did not go through. The stalactites and stalagmites briefly shone at those points. But most helpfully, he could finally see the faint yellow of the elf's hair, easing the growing anxiety he held.

"There are paths thin enough that only an elf can barely crawl through," commented Finduilas at one point, stopping for a second, "there is a one to the right of me, thin like a vein of the earth, where I have heard the bravest and foolhardy have crawled."

"For what purpose?" he asked, "what is there to gain by such a feat? What glory is there to crawl on all fours through such a place?"

Túrin saw her turn around, though he did could barely see the smile on her face.

"A sight that is worthy of song, a wonder to behold," she replied, "I should know, after all. I passed through this very vein to the other side."

He said nothing at this, though he beheld her now in a new light. Túrin never fathomed Orodreth's daughter doing such a thing.

"Did Gwindor escort you at that time?"

"Nay, for I was but a child," she replied, "I recall when the caves were a wonder, a new adventure every day in each path. Though I have found another way to the end, a path more favorable for the both of us. Let us go, Thurin!"

The path seemed narrower as Finduilas slowed her footsteps, her grip tightening around Túrin's hands. The floor became more uneven, sometimes ascending and sometimes descending. After what seemed like minutes of aimlessly walking ahead, he brought his hand over his eyes, shielding the growing light threatening to blind his eyes from a thin illuminated crevice, like a vertical crack unveiling the true road to the lands of the Sun. He heard something on the other side akin to a continuous roar. It did not sound like an animal, though.

She let go of his hand, giving him a wan smile as she did so, "we will have to sidle through this crevice. It should be wide enough for one of us at a time."

He nodded, initially gesturing for Finduilas to go in first. But then he hesitated, unsure whether it was more proper if he went in first. Who knew what lay at the end of the path? Whatever it may be, it would have to get through him before Finduilas.

She laughed, and his spirits lifted again... a small smile appearing on his face. Then the realization once again hit his heart, as he heard the echo of laughter from someone else who shared the same hair, the reminder that Lalaith could never see this place...

A shadow re-entered his heart, and his face became stony as Narog's caverns. Finduilas apparently noticed this, giving a confused frown at his change in demeanor, then her eyes widened, and for a moment he saw the reflection of pity.

Only a moment, though, as before Túrin could have the opportunity to hide his anger, her smile returned and said, "lead the way, Adanedhel, and see for yourself the wonder I saw in years past."

Without a response, he walked ahead, turning his body and sidled into the thin crevice. He was careful not to have his hands get caught on any of the sharp protrusions of the wall. The further he moved, the louder the roar became, until he could discern what exactly was making that sound. But he chose not to think more on that, as Túrin concentrated on his breathing, easing the uncomfortableness of squeezing through an opening, and after what seemed like a small eternity, he exited the crevice on the other side, with his mouth ajar.

In front of him he felt the wind blow through his hair, as he realized now he was in an alcove with the view of a waterfall, the source of the roar clear, a light powdery spray surrounding where the water fell below into a stream that led directly into the Narog. The faint hint of a rainbow could be seen as the sun was passing through, and the sight of the colorful array would have taken his breath alone. But even more beautiful were the grass and flowers that grew from the cracks in the alcove. For as many colors he saw from the rainbow, he saw even more from the flora. Yellow, blue, red, violet, pink, green, orange, white, and many more. A sense of wonder filled him then, and he understood why people would crawl to reach this secluded area.

"Is it not beautiful?" spoke Finduilas, startling him. His head whipped around, and then he bowed it slightly apologetically, forgetting that she was behind him.

"Yea," he replied, walking on the rocky paths, making sure not to step on any of the flowers, "... Gwindor has seen this, has he not?"

"Indeed he has... though, let me see where I left the gift," she said, eyes quickly darting around, her raiment reflecting in the sun, "ah! There it is."

With light feet, she made her way to a corner of the alcove where there was naught but grass upon rock. There, wrapped in a handkerchief, he noted, was a bouquet of purple primroses.

"Thurin, could you perhaps come closer and look at the waterfall from this angle?" she requested. Túrin nodded, carefully walking to her until he was next to her.

There he saw the waterfall and the rainbow, this time the rainbow's crest adorning the top of it, with the waterfall symmetrically in between, as if the rainbow guarded it from all enemies wishing for its destruction. It took his breath away, yes, but...

He thought the flowers were still prettier, particularly the yellow ones.

"Would you..." she began to say, then her eyes averted his as she quickly looked away, as if some doubt crept into her, "once the sun passes, we shall only be able to see the waterfall. Shall we wait until that happens?"

A part of him wanted to, to sit next to her in a comfortable silence, listening to the roar of the waterfall, hearing the birds sing their songs and counting the flowers in the alcove.

Then his stomach suddenly rumbled, and he sighed.

"On another day, my lady," he responded, giving an apologetic look to Finduilas, "If I may suggest, Gwindor should come with us next time. This place... it will ease his heart from the memories of the past."

For some reason her eyes dimmed a little for just a second. This likely was a trick of the light though, as she smiled again.

"You are a true Elf-Friend, and considerate to Gwindor, and I am sure his appreciation will be as palpable... as my appreciation is for you, Thurin," she softly replied, then walked back to the crevice a bit faster than normal. He followed, but then stopped as he noticed a cylindrical hole about 10 feet away from the crevice entrance.

That must be where Finduilas, as a child, entered into this alcove in one of her adventures. Something that he felt tempted to point out, but he chose not to. He followed her as they went through the crevice again.

He had mostly passed through the thin entrance into the caverns, Finduilas moving at a quicker pace than he did. Trying to keep up, he hastened his sidling. Misfortune hit, however, as his right hand stabbed itself into one of the sharp protrusions. He hissed in pain, and as soon as he exited the crevice, sat down, holding his wounded palm in the other hand, feeling the blood pouring out, trying to vainly stop the bleeding with his other hand tightly wrapping around it. Though that pained him even more.

"Thurin!" Finduilas cried, as he also heard the sound of something being dropped to the cave floor, and she was there at once, "I... I am sorry, forgive my haste. You are wounded!"

"It is... ugh... just a flesh wound," Túrin replied, for indeed he suffered far more grievous wounds, though this one in his palm still stung, "just let me rest for a moment."

"Nay, let me..." there was enough light from the crevice for him to see that she was going to rip her raiment.

"No! Do not waste such cloth on me!"

"Nonsense," she replied. Túrin closed his eyes, hearing her hurried footsteps, gritting his teeth as his palm stung. Why did this always happen? Such a frivolous wound not even in the heat of battle!

"Here," Finduilas said, returning and bending down next to him, "give me your palm."

He opened his eyes, releasing his other hand from the wounded one, both bloody now. She beheld the wound for a moment, then wrapped something around it, creating an wrap around the probable hole in his palm. She whispered words which soothed him, and his breath slowed as he relaxed. Luckily, he was in Nargothrond, so even if by some ill-chance he had an infection the healers would resolve it all.

"My thanks to you, Lady Finduilas!" Túrin said, trying to give a reassuring smile to her as he slowly stood up.

And that was when he noticed the purple primroses, without its handkerchief covering them; a bouquet no more. And even though fools would say that these were mere flowers, his heart wept. As these plants now became marred, petals likely bent or hewn, the gift to Gwindor lessened. A reflection of the curse Morgoth placed on this world; a reflection of his own misfortune.

Then he realized what the wrap was made out of: the handkerchief that held the primroses.

"Thurin," he heard Finduilas say in the midst of his silent grief, "... your need not be sad. When the sun rises again, I can always pick more."

He wanted to protest. These were specially picked flowers, each one with a specific purpose in the arrangement. He doubt another bouquet could be as unique as the one that became marred. Yet, like a blown-out candle he felt weary, thus kept silent. Túrin dared not look at the flowers as Finduilas picked them up and inspected them.

"Let us leave... I will escort you to the healers immediately," she said, holding out her hand.

He merely looked at it, then looked at the wan smile on Finduilas' face, containing guilt and sadness. He sighed, then lightly grasped it with his uninjured hand.

They then left the cave without any other word, as both Túrin and Finduilas left with different tumultuous thoughts.

The shadow of Túrin's curse grew in Nargothrond that day.

Silinde Merenion & Tinnuriel Glórinian (12)

The mortality and immortality issue remained between them and neither would seize what they were convinced about. Travelling back to Gondor, where another feast was being held at the court of King Aragorn and Queen Arwen. Neither had met both of them. Tinnuriel was quite looking forward to meet the queen who had been a member of her kindred but had given that up for the love of her husband. King Aragorn had been from birth Mortal, though blessed with the life of the Numenoreans even it had faded. Silinde was not interested in king or queen. He was a citizen of Dol Amroth and subjected to Prince Imrahil, an independent realm, but with liaisons to the king. If Imrahil chose not to aid Gondor, the king could do nothing about it. Getting admitted to the feast was another obstacle. Not everyone was invited, and Tinnuriel and Silinde had no invitation. So technically they were not welcome.

With clean greywhite robes on Silinde looked much better. His hair was bound in a simple knot on the back of his head. Locks of hair still fell half besides his head that hadn’t made it into the knot. And she was really nice to see her offwhite gown and some big flowers in her hair. They were looking quite nice and surely elvish. Tinnuriel had seen to that. Silinde could wear it, but he wasn’t. But keeping fighting over an issue was not the way at a feast. How to get admitted? “Leave it to me,” said Tinnuriel in Sindarin. Elves should always be welcome? She was convinced of it. But the guard had other ideas. “Invitation card, please.” His voice was a drone under the helmet he was wearing. Wasn’t there a major-domo? A chamberlain? Or a butler? The common tongue was not easy to understand. Tinnuriel blinked at the guard. Silinde stepped in and barked in Sindarin. “Since when are invitations needed for the Knights of Dol Amroth?I will let my Lord know if his Knights aren’t welcome at the King’s court,” he said stiff. The guard looked at him, then his clothing and the sword he carried. Silinde was not unarmed. “Sorry sir,” he stammered also in Sindarin. They got a weave to go on.

Being mortal worked better in this world, than being immortal. Silinde was used to the works of it. Tinnuriel’s part was a mystery to him. They were each other’s dates on this event. What kind of feast it was, he didn’t know. “It is sort of celebrating for a love feast,” said Tinnuriel. She had a leaflet in her hand, with the text in the common speech. “Can you read it?” asked Silinde. “No, but the pictures are telling,” pointed Tinnuriel. “Why they don’t have everything in Sindarin? Would make it so much easier,” said Silinde. “You can complain, but what is the use. People around here, the common folk don’t speak it. Sort of court language it could be that they speak it at least,” argued Tinnuriel. They were admitted in a big foyer. Big plants on either side and a flower vase in the middle. Benches stood on either side, you could sit there, but also pass around. All was quite blocky, in black and white patterns. The marble glimmed in the sunlight. The entre went into a more open air area. Pillars supported the floors above, but the space was open on three sides and elegant curtains blew up in the soft breeze. Tables and chairs stood in rows, with the table of the king and queen facing them from the blind wall.

A military safety feature. Nobody could shoot the king from behind, noticed Silinde. But Tinnuriel saw only the nice tapestry behind it, with the Gondor emblem on it. In the courtyard below stood the blossoming white tree. Neither knew anyone of the courtiers around. What did wallflower elves? “Let’s have a break for the table,” suggested Silinde. “And find ourselves some seats.” They didn’t have that either. “Should we wait before we are signed to a few?” asked Tinnuriel. “You haven’t been on feasts as these. Wait and all chairs are occupied. Don’t allow yourself a blunder,” grinned Silinde. They sat somewhere in the back, with the open space behind them, breeze in their backs and also the White Tree. The tables were decorated and laid full with tableware waiting to be used. The less important sat always at the back. Silinde was content among them. People in the back weren’t as snobby as in the front, though they could copy the snobbiness. The occasion of this feast of love would be revealed by the king himself. Silinde was one of the first to sit down, while most other guests stood in groups talking. The king and queen were among them. More people exampled what Silinde and Tinnuriel had done and sought places along the table. Two plumb people, man and woman, middleaged, came sitting on the other side of Silinde. Tinnuriel’s right side was free, the table ended there. The horseshoe setting of the tables was working out.

More elves were in the company, and where they spotted one of their kind, they usually gathered. So the row connecting to Tinnuriel contained about five of them, before the table continued with humans towards the king’s table. It took not long, before Silinde noticed that Tinnuriel was whispering with the woman across her. Excellent ears didn’t find it hard to pick up the softest sound. Silinde had nothing to say or share with his plumb neighbour. It was interesting that there were also emissaries from Rohan and other humans from the other parts of Gondor. Silinde didn’t know any of them. He was a practical man, served as Knight for Lord Imrahil, dealt with problems rising within Imrahil’s jurisdiction and tried to give a moral example for those who needed it. When finally the silence fell, the King and Queen joined. There was applause and the raise of drinks. Silinde did join in that, because it was customary. The women weren’t active in that gesture. It was just a thing for men, human men. But the other kindreds couldn’t leave it out. Human lands had human customs. In the elvish enclaves rules elvish customs. With the dwarves ruled dwarven customs. Such were the ways.

“I welcome everyone at this feast that symbolises the joining of brothers and sisters of all people in my united kingdom. The war caused a lot of pain and loss and we remember that central at another time. With the approach of spring and the renewal of life, I want to thank every one of you to make peace and prosperity possible. That hatred has no place among us,” spoke the King in Sindarin and next in the common tongue. Silinde listened to the first things he said, but quickly his attention drifted to Tinnuriel who was still whispering with her female neighbour. Sindarin was a court language. Not surprising, the king had grown up in Imladris and the queen was an elf herself. Just as Tinnuriel was. Speeches weren't inspiring for him. It was talk for the ears that loved or needed this hearing. But he wasn’t a Gondorian. He was part of the enclave of Dol Amroth. It was a minority of people within this great new realm. It was a few years old, but for now it was a success, and all were getting along. Even emissaries from the lands of Harad came to find liaisons. All snacks were brought and lots was to choose from. The elves kept to vegetarian foods. But Silinde could eat other kinds as well. He chose for something of fishy origins. It was salmon as he tasted it. But the sausage hid the colour of the meat under it.

Tinnuriel wasn’t watching what he ate now or if she knew, she said nothing about it. But since their relation she had a say what he ate at a daily basis when he was together with her. The cook of this celebration dinner was recommended for his work. Silinde had no idea if the King recognised the people who cooked for him, but maybe he did. From what he had heard, the king didn’t feel himself more than anyone else. He was a king in name, but not in person, as one could say. Probably it was not common for guests to search in the kitchens for the cooks and thanked them for their work. The whole feast was quite boring, and that was for most people around the table. Silinde could observe that. This sort of formalities were not that common among Tinnuriel’s kind. The whole dinner didn’t take that long. When it was over, the courtiers dispersed themselves into a corner. The elves came together to talk mostly about the upcoming leave to the Undying Lands. Their representation at these occasions became rarer quickly. The Noldor were granted to leave and leaders as Elrond and Galadriel had already left these lands. One day Tinnuriel had to leave as well, otherwise her presence would diminish in these lands. There was no point to become a sort of elven spirit. The other equivalent of a wraith. Silinde had no idea if he really could come with her. Silinde hadn’t much involvement than just watching and listening. Nobody came to them, that they hadn’t any invitations as all the others. When they left finally, they said goodbye to the king and queen as they were present when the guests left for home.