1 Disclaimer: I did NOT write the Lament for Boromir (that's all the bits
in italics, except for the first part), believe me. That's Tolkien's, in
the two towers, near the start. Ooh, I discovered something so sweet the
other day… anybody got the lotr soundtrack? Supposedly, the words to 'In
Dreams' (I really don't like the choir-boy singing style, but the song's
still good) were written as a poem by Tolkien; for his wife after she died.
Oh, and something else – know Beren and Luthien? On his and his wife's
graves, under his name is Beren, and under hers, Luthien. Isn't that just
soooo sweet? *wipes away a tear*
2 On with the story. Hope you're enjoying it. I was just reading through it –perhaps a bit varied in style – one minute they're saying, 'how goeth it, fair malvolio?' and the next, 'wassup babe?' Ok, slight exaggeration (slight? – I hear you say – she's gotta be kidding'– heehee. Be afraid, be very afraid of my insanity) and totally random quote examples from nowhere, but yeah. Have to try and resolve that. Anyway…
~*~*~*~*~
Chapter 4: Heirloom of Gondor
The next day Isilmë did not, as was her usual wont, go out into the forests and remain there throughout the day, practising with her bow, or riding the green trails with her chestnut mare, Mîrlómë; instead, she wandered alone through the quiet halls of Henneth Annûn, peering into each room, looking at each tapestry or picture upon the walls. She ate silently with the servants in the morning; the evening meal she bypassed, preferring to be alone with her thoughts. It was late when she finally slept.
In the middle of the night, a restless Isilmë woke. After lying still for a few minutes, she got up, and again wandered the many corridors of her home. At length, she came to the great dining hall. Slowly walking around the long tables, she came to the wall behind the slightly raised dais where her mother and father usually sat, and espied an old manuscript hanging on the wall. Hanging beside it were two pieces of a cloven horn, with ornate script running across it. She stepped closer to read the manuscript. In a fine tengwar hand, there was written what appeared to be a song. She read the title: Lament of the Winds; and below this there was written, in a less ornate script:
'Indeed, 'twas as was said, by the Elfstone: we looked for him from the White Tower, but he did not return from mountain or from sea.'
Isilmë was intrigued, wondering what all this meant. She started to read the words of the verse:
Through Rohan over fen and field where the long grass grows
The West Wind comes walking, and about the walls it goes.
'What news from the West, O wandering wind, do you bring me tonight?
Have you seen Boromir the Tall, by moon or starlight?'
~*~ Isilmë ~*~
Boromir the Tall! My uncle… it must be a lament for him, for my father's brother, who was killed at Amon Hen… See, it speaks of how he died… 'Beneath Amon Hen I heard his cry. There many foes he fought'. And it speaks of this horn – the horn of the son of Denethor.
*End/Isilmë*
Slowly, Isilmë reached out to the smaller piece of the great horn. She lifted it gently off the wall, and looked at it closely, running her hand along its fine silver tracery with flowing calligraphy engraved upon it. It was not heavy to hold; its surface was smooth as a sea-worn pebble. As she held it, she thought of Boromir, who had travelled with the halfling ringbearer; he would have been looking forward to his journey's end, soon to see his beautiful city again, yet he was killed before he had such a chance. Picking up the other piece, she held them together. They joined perfectly, but for a small, lightning-shaped gap, where evidently a shard had broken off. Isilmë frowned, thinking. There was something about that shape… Suddenly, she remembered; the pendant that her father had given her on her sixteenth birthday! She wore it all the time, as a good luck charm really; a small piece of white horn, with a hole bored through its centre for its cord, shaped as a perfect lightning bolt. Bringing her hand up to her neck, she lifted it out from beneath her shirt where it was hidden; she untied the leather cord, and lifted it off her neck. Slowly she brought it to the two joined pieces of the horn, and placed it in the gap. A perfect fit. Isilmë closed her eyes; so that was where the pendant came from! She had wondered about it when she received it, for though it was of a smooth texture, pure white, a beautiful piece of horn, it had not seemed the type of thing her parents would give her – not like the crystal pendant upon the silver chain that had been a gift when she had turned fourteen, nor the fine silver fillet with the sparkling clear stone in it that she wore for ceremonies, as daughter of the rulers of Ithilien. Yet she had been strangely attracted to it, and came to wear it constantly, though often hidden beneath a cloak or shirt. Now she understood its true significance – the heirloom of the house of Denethor had been cloven in two, and was no longer any use. Yet this tiny shard of it, hard yet so smooth, survived; as Isilmë wore the pendant, so the eldest child of the house of the Stewards bore still the great Horn of Gondor.
~*~*~*~*~
Oooh. Exciting, huh? Well, not that exciting. But I had to split this chapter 'cos it was really long, so keep going – it's still silent in the halls of Henneth…
2 On with the story. Hope you're enjoying it. I was just reading through it –perhaps a bit varied in style – one minute they're saying, 'how goeth it, fair malvolio?' and the next, 'wassup babe?' Ok, slight exaggeration (slight? – I hear you say – she's gotta be kidding'– heehee. Be afraid, be very afraid of my insanity) and totally random quote examples from nowhere, but yeah. Have to try and resolve that. Anyway…
~*~*~*~*~
Chapter 4: Heirloom of Gondor
The next day Isilmë did not, as was her usual wont, go out into the forests and remain there throughout the day, practising with her bow, or riding the green trails with her chestnut mare, Mîrlómë; instead, she wandered alone through the quiet halls of Henneth Annûn, peering into each room, looking at each tapestry or picture upon the walls. She ate silently with the servants in the morning; the evening meal she bypassed, preferring to be alone with her thoughts. It was late when she finally slept.
In the middle of the night, a restless Isilmë woke. After lying still for a few minutes, she got up, and again wandered the many corridors of her home. At length, she came to the great dining hall. Slowly walking around the long tables, she came to the wall behind the slightly raised dais where her mother and father usually sat, and espied an old manuscript hanging on the wall. Hanging beside it were two pieces of a cloven horn, with ornate script running across it. She stepped closer to read the manuscript. In a fine tengwar hand, there was written what appeared to be a song. She read the title: Lament of the Winds; and below this there was written, in a less ornate script:
'Indeed, 'twas as was said, by the Elfstone: we looked for him from the White Tower, but he did not return from mountain or from sea.'
Isilmë was intrigued, wondering what all this meant. She started to read the words of the verse:
Through Rohan over fen and field where the long grass grows
The West Wind comes walking, and about the walls it goes.
'What news from the West, O wandering wind, do you bring me tonight?
Have you seen Boromir the Tall, by moon or starlight?'
~*~ Isilmë ~*~
Boromir the Tall! My uncle… it must be a lament for him, for my father's brother, who was killed at Amon Hen… See, it speaks of how he died… 'Beneath Amon Hen I heard his cry. There many foes he fought'. And it speaks of this horn – the horn of the son of Denethor.
*End/Isilmë*
Slowly, Isilmë reached out to the smaller piece of the great horn. She lifted it gently off the wall, and looked at it closely, running her hand along its fine silver tracery with flowing calligraphy engraved upon it. It was not heavy to hold; its surface was smooth as a sea-worn pebble. As she held it, she thought of Boromir, who had travelled with the halfling ringbearer; he would have been looking forward to his journey's end, soon to see his beautiful city again, yet he was killed before he had such a chance. Picking up the other piece, she held them together. They joined perfectly, but for a small, lightning-shaped gap, where evidently a shard had broken off. Isilmë frowned, thinking. There was something about that shape… Suddenly, she remembered; the pendant that her father had given her on her sixteenth birthday! She wore it all the time, as a good luck charm really; a small piece of white horn, with a hole bored through its centre for its cord, shaped as a perfect lightning bolt. Bringing her hand up to her neck, she lifted it out from beneath her shirt where it was hidden; she untied the leather cord, and lifted it off her neck. Slowly she brought it to the two joined pieces of the horn, and placed it in the gap. A perfect fit. Isilmë closed her eyes; so that was where the pendant came from! She had wondered about it when she received it, for though it was of a smooth texture, pure white, a beautiful piece of horn, it had not seemed the type of thing her parents would give her – not like the crystal pendant upon the silver chain that had been a gift when she had turned fourteen, nor the fine silver fillet with the sparkling clear stone in it that she wore for ceremonies, as daughter of the rulers of Ithilien. Yet she had been strangely attracted to it, and came to wear it constantly, though often hidden beneath a cloak or shirt. Now she understood its true significance – the heirloom of the house of Denethor had been cloven in two, and was no longer any use. Yet this tiny shard of it, hard yet so smooth, survived; as Isilmë wore the pendant, so the eldest child of the house of the Stewards bore still the great Horn of Gondor.
~*~*~*~*~
Oooh. Exciting, huh? Well, not that exciting. But I had to split this chapter 'cos it was really long, so keep going – it's still silent in the halls of Henneth…