***The 'Snowed' Inn ***

[VanimaEdhel]

"Hamanullas! Come in!" Baranîn called from the outskirts of the snowball fight, "You will catch your death of the cold!"

"Not now!" Hamanullas called from behind a bank of snow, aiming a snowball at a boy nearby. She fired and hit the boy in the head. The girl ducked back down behind her snow fort. He looked around in confusion for a moment. Baranîn sighed and made her way back to the house.

"She won't come in, Mama," she said to her mother.

"Let her play," the older woman said, smiling from where she sat sewing.

"She has been out all morning, though," Baranîn said indignantly. "She did not even come in to greet Lothos and Narowyn when they came for breakfast."

"She's a child. Let her play," her mother said, "Remember what you were like?"

"Not like that," Baranîn said, disgruntled.

"Oh, yes you were. You were worse. It is only within that past year or two that you felt that it was your duty to stay at home."

"But, is that not how it should be?"

Her mother sighed, and looked up at her daughter, her eyes glittering a bit, "I do wish you would get out more, daughter. Go, meet someone. Maybe you will even find a friend. Your father and I are not old, you know. We can manage on our own."

"But Mama-" Baranîn began.

"Hush!" Mother said, going back to her sewing, "If you do not go out and enjoy yourself right now, I will spank you as though you were seven rather than seventeen."

Her mother's eyes continued to glitter with a youthful mirth. Baranîn stood for a second, then she went over to fetch her shawl. She put it up over her head, then went to the door. With one backward glance, she opened the door and went out. Mother smiled merrily as she continued to sew by the fire, humming a bit.

Once Baranîn was out in the streets, she looked around. She made her way, dodging the occasional snowball, to the White Horse Inn.

"You have not come to call me back in again?" came the incredulous voice behind her. She turned and saw little Hamanullas standing with her hands on her hips, looking absolutely mutinous.

"No," Baranîn said, "I-I figured I should get some air. And you really should go home soon. You will get ill."

The little girl laughed. She picked up a snowball and aimed it at Baranîn. Baranîn tried to warn her off, but before she could put up any adequate warnings or defenses, she felt the hard, cold, wet hit her on the cheek. She stood startled, her mouth hanging open in shock at her younger sister's audacity. Hamanullas looked at Baranîn with the same playful eyes that her mother showed just a few minutes ago. Finally, Baranîn could not keep her composure anymore. She burst out laughing, soon followed by Hamanullas.

"Come, little sister," she said, "I was going to go into the Inn. I will buy you something to drink. If I cannot convince you to leave the snow for the day, maybe I can convince you to spend an hour in the warmth with me."

She wiped the snow off of her face and dried herself with her shawl. Hamanullas came up to Baranîn eagerly and the older sister put her arm around the younger. Together they entered the Inn and sat at a table. They both ordered hot chocolate, but they waited for it to cool a bit before drinking it.

"Mama says that you were once as I now am," Hamanullas said over her hot chocolate.

"And how is that?" Baranîn asked, her voice muffled by her own mug.

"She said you used to have fun," Hamanullas said simply.

"And I do not do that now?" Baranîn asked, feigning offense.

"No."

Baranîn laughed. "I promise I will try to have more fun, in that case, all right?"

"Yes," Hamanullas said, with the innocent sincerity that younger children possess.

The two laughed and talking, sipping their hot chocolate and taking in the comfortable warmth of the Inn.

[Witch_Queen]

"Indeed children begin fighting at a young age now. Well I'm not one for speaking."Aduthondiel remembered when she was little and the times when she would practice shooting the bow and sword fighting with her father. "But that time is long pass."

Aduthondiel finally had enough of standing by the fire. She began to walk outside to see how her horse was holding up to the weather. "Count I hope your fine. It seems that we're going to be here for a little while." She walked out to meet her horse who hadn't moved from the tree.

She reached behind her and pulled the hood of her cloak over her hair. A few strands fell over her eyes. After pulling up her cloak she grasped the handle of her sword.

[mark12_30]

The conversation slowed. Mellon looked around.

Godglædhold, Lytdeorcan, and Brond had fortified themselves fairly well, and were defending themselves against the general onslaught. Mellon lingered, watching Brond; the little one's laugh was contagious, and the three laughed as much as they spoke or worked or fought. Mellon envied that, and was tempted to join them, but he looked further.

Ædegard and the Shieldmaidens were still valiantly defending Ædegard's Deep. Several new sheildmaidens had joined. He listened again.

"Good one, Eruvalde!"

"Felly! The wall needs repair again!"

"Aëria, I can't do two things at once! You fix it!"

"Emris! You scoundrel! What are you doing!"

And above it all, Ædegard's voice rang. "Stand fast! Give them a volley! The defense of Ædegard's Deep shall live in song!"

A shiver shook his entire body, and Mellon reluctantly decided to return to the Inn. He really did prefer the heat, he realized with a laugh. Good thing; life would be awkward for a blacksmith who preferred the cold.

As he returned reluctantly to the Inn, he passed Aduthondiel who was tending to her horse. He paused. "I am sorry to have ended our conversation so abruptly, lady. It was rather rude of me. Please forgive me. I meant no offence."

She nodded at him. "You never did tell me what you saw."

"A child, " he said dreamily. "I remembered one of the children."

With a raised eyebrow, she nodded.

"Perhaps you'll rejoin me inside?" he said.

"Perhaps, " she replied.

He returned to the inn. The Innkeeper motioned to the teakettle and said, "It's hot." He nodded, hung his cloak, and prepared a cup of tea. Looking around, he saw a young lady and a girl, sitting at a table, sipping hot chocolate and chatting. He watched them, wondering if they wanted company.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 9:45 AM December 22, 2003: Message edited by: mark12_30 ]

[littlemanpoet]

Ædegard dubbed one of the shieldmaidens as the new leader with a pile of snow on her head, and fled before he could be dubbed back again, and made for the inn.

He was cold and wet and needed something hot, and could stand to be dry. He could go home, but a good spiked hot cider seemed more to his liking. The others thought him a lad of perhaps fourteen years or a little less, perhaps, which was fine in the middle of a snow fight. That he still lived at home was his business, and that the fuzz on his face was still quite soft, the same. He was old enough for a stiff one.

He walked past a snow fort three children were building and defending against Felly and others, and somehow managed to escape their notice. He entered the inn and noticed the parents of the kids building the fort, and more of their children. And there was Mellon.

Ædegard waved to Mellon and went up to the barkeep, and orderd a hot spiked cider, and went to sit at Mellon's table.

[mark12_30]

Mellon peered into Ædegard's mug, and raised an eyebrow, and then leaned forward and gave a sniff. "The Inkeeper sold you that? You're older than you look."

Ædegard took a pull at his mug. "You're not from around here."

"True enough. I'm a blacksmith from Gondor, if you must know, " he said hoping Ædegard would be satisfied with that.

"You said that already. But you look lost."

"Well, " said Mellon, "I suppose I am rather confused."

Ædegard waited.

"I can't remember much, " Mellon said.

Ædegard raised an eyebrow.

"Well, I-- I can't remember anything. Except that I'm a blacksmith, and that I lived in the city."

"Minas Tirith?"

Mellon blinked. "Is-- is that its name?"

"Osgiliath?"

"I-- that sounds familiar, but--"

Ædegard sat back and contemplated Mellon. "It's a good thing you're among friendly folk, " he said. "The elders can send word to Gondor next time someone rides that way. Somebody must be looking for you."

"I suppose that would be wise. But, Ædegard, I'm not sure I want to go back to-- to Gondor. At least, not where I was from. But I don't know why. Do you know a place called Edhellond?"

Ædegard's eyes narrowed. A fugitive? he wondered. "No, I've never heard of Edhellond; where is it? What is it?"

Mellon shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. But I think it might be to the south or to the west; somewhere near the sea. I don't know why."

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 9:21 AM December 29, 2003: Message edited by: mark12_30 ]

[Nurumaiel]

The children were startled when the girl came running towards them, hurtling snowballs as she did so. The first wall of their castle had been completed and they sheltered behind it, Lythremm and Geryman barking out orders to the others, who ran about to obey. Lytdeorcan built up a pile of snowballs to fight off the enemy whilst Hyrde and Godglædhold continued to work on the rest of the castle. Lythremm had been constructing a large tunnel that was to be the gate of the castle when they were attacked, and he quickly blocked off the entrance so the girl could not get in.

Geryman gazed at the pile of snowballs carefully, then nodded. "Good!" she cried. "I do believe that's enough. Keep making them, Deor, for the second round." The rest of the children were called to stand by the wall and all gathered a snowball in each hand. The cry was given to fire, and the got to their feet, throwing the snow with careful aim towards the girl. She ducked her head against the oncoming storm, and when the first attack was over Geryman cried out, "What business have you, stranger, attacking us in this unseemly fashion?"

"I and my friends back there are Shieldmaidens of Rohan," the girl replied. "And Gondor, too."

"That does not explain why you have attacked our castle," said Geryman. "We are also of Rohan, and our kin are of Gondor. We are friends of yours... I suppose."

"Oh, I am indeed sorry. I didn't realize that at first. I could not see you very well over your high walls." She came closer and, standing on the tips of her toes, was able to see them all over the wall. "There are many of you," she said, and then, turning her gaze to Geryman, "The Shieldmaidens have gathered together, and perhaps you might join us, if you were also one. Are you?"

"Nay!" Geryman laughed. "Nor would I wish to be. I have never seen or lived during a war, but should one occur I would take my place near my mother to tend the children and the wounded." She looked down at the snow. "I might have some regrets, for I would find it hard to see my brothers leave whilst I stayed behind, but they would be few. My task is not to fight." She laughed again. "But as long as it is not real, I shall fight with the rest. So I am afraid I cannot join you, for my place is by my brothers."

[Burzdol]

As the first orc swung at Hethor, the man was amazed. He moved to the side of the orc's club, then stabbed into its shoulder. As it screamed in pain, Hethor could smell its foul breath. He was still standing in awe when another ran in, swinging a double headed axe. Hethor parried the swing, then lunged and stabbed. Two down, he thought.

"You see, they are real in the fact of seeing and touching, but they don't think too much," Master Gunhen said through tears of laughter.

As Hethor ran through the other orcs, stabbing and slashing, he glanced oer at his laughin teacher. He really felt that the old man had out done himself, but must find a lot of humor in the fact the Hethor was almost being killed by his creations. Hethor ran straight into the very last orc, stabbing the unfortunate beast in the head.

"Well done!" exclaimed Master Gunhen, "Returnis!"

As he said the last word, each of the dead orcs raised a feww inches off the ground and burst into snow. Hethor just stood there, standing in amazement.

[Meneltarmacil]

As the snoworcs lunged toward the defenders, there was a loud ROAR. The snoworcs all melted away in a great fireblast as the Balrog of Morgoth returned. "STUPID MAGIC SNOW THINGS." it roared. "A LITTLE FIRE ALWAYS GETS THE JOB DONE FOR ME." The remaining snoworcs charged at the Balrog, but all of them melted whenever they got close to the fiery beast. The Balrog picked up Hethor, who was screaming and crying at this point, and tossed him across the plains where he landed in a snowbank several miles away.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 12:36 AM December 26, 2003: Message edited by: Meneltarmacil ]

[mark12_30]

A strange motion caught his eye, and Mellon looked out the window. "Uh-oh. The Balrog just moved Hethor several miles."

"Do you think Hethor's writer agreed to that?" asked Ædegard.

"Well, if not, that's called character hijacking. Not good."

"Trouble, " Ædegard nodded.

"If so, I hope the Balrog reconsiders his actions, " said Mellon.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 8:22 AM December 26, 2003: Message edited by: mark12_30 ]

[Meneltarmacil]

"Okay, okay, I'm terribly sorry," said the Balrog, genuinely terrified of Mellon. "I'll just put you down right here, Hethor." He picked up Hethor and put him back down in the same spot where he was standing before, then continued to wreak havoc on both sides.

Thoronmir saw the orcs coming, and knew he had to do something. He suddenly noticed two orcish swords among the debris on the hillside where he was standing. That gave him an idea. He bent the swords slightly, then took some rope from his pack and tied them to his feet. Using his new "skis" as he called them, he slid down the hillside at incredible speed, firing arrows at the orcs below. He saw several of them collapse as he put away his bow and drew his sword. Crashing into them, he slew several more.

[Bêthberry]

A voice, hitherto unheard in the game, rang out, strong and clear.

Cold be hand and heart and bone
and cold be snow upon the stone.
Yet vanish now in bright sunsong:
Let orcs melted be
and balrogs quenched in that deluge.
Thus evil be its own defeat.
And now we gamers have a treat.

It was Bethberry, singing and laughing as nonsensically as ever did old Tom. When she was finished, she bent low over Ruthven's cart and picked up a volley of snowballs, releasing them faster than Fatty Bolger could run. And her aim was true.

Then Ruthven gasped in surprise as some of the children tumbled into the wall of their snow fort, tumbling it down and all over the old woman, who fell herself into the snow. She rolled over and over, then spread her arms in the snow, making snow Ainur. It was a theme which unfolded to reveal more, as the children joined in the harmony and created their own melodies.

For her part, Bethberry chuckled watching the old woman, who she had never seen look more spry.

"You will be wanting something to warm you now for sure," she said to her friend, offering a hand to lift her up.

"Mellon, Ædegard, children, everyone, come. There's eggnog and mince tarts, hot cider and chocolate, sweet, exotic oranges, gingerbread cookies and shortbread, waiting for all in the Horse. Warm your bodies a bit and then return to the play, for the snow is soft and light and will last for many a day."

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 1:04 PM December 26, 2003: Message edited by: Bêthberry ]

[Imladris]

Felly stared at the newcomers and shook her head. They were kind of strange, but strange is good! Was good. Fellyy frowned and stared at the sky, wishing she was weird.

A voice called out for refreshments, but Felly ignored her until the word "eggnog" graced her ear. Eggnog! Glorious drink. Think, creamy, soft. It just filled your mouth, bathing your tongue in an ambrosial elixer. Her mother never made eggnog, well, hardly ever.

Dropping her half formed snowball, Fellwyne turned as if in a daze and stumbled toward the inn, eggnog the primary thing on her mind. The war of orcs and shieldmaidens did not matter now. Other children left their play and streamed towards the woman and the warm room that awaited them as they sipped -- or ate -- their preferred treat.

With a burst of energy, Felly (determined to be the first to get to the Horse) burst into the fastest run she could muster in the deep snow (which wasn't very fast), and plunged into a hidden snowbank. Coughing and spluttering, she pulled herself out and dragged herself the rest of the way towards the kind woman.

She reached the Inn and, stomping the lingering snow from her feet and brushing off the clinging flakes from her clothing, she dashed in and and impatiently waited for the chance to get her eggnog, which did come, sooner or later.

Retreating to a nearby nook beside the fireplace, she cradled the wooden cup in her hand and admired the pallid drink that dipped and swirled as she fondled her cup. Closing her eyes, she brought it to her lips and drank deeply.

[Orual]

Eruvalde

Eruvalde perked up at the mention of eggnog. She dodged one last snowball and threw an answer at her assailant, then brushed her mittens off on her skirt. The cold was pinching red into her nose and cheeks, and there was a frosting of snow on top of her curly hair. She started off towards the Inn at a run, then stopped, looking back at the lovely blanket of snow that she was leaving behind. For a moment she was torn, half of her wishing to stay behind and make a few more snow Ainur, half of her realizing that she was catching a chill and wanting to go in for some egg nog and cookies. She looked at the snow, then at the Inn, and back. Finally she grabbed a handfull of snow, rolled it into a ball, and threw it at herself before she went inside.

She could feel her hair getting a little wet as the snow melted on it as soon as she stepped inside. She ran into her father, who was just fastening his cloak. She put her hands on her hips again. "I can't believe you missed it! I was in a snowball war and I made some snow Ainur and..." She tried to think of what else she had done. "And I actually hit somebody with a snowball. And you missed all of it!"

"Sorry, darling," he said, and attempted to pick her up, but she twisted out of his arms.

"Can I have some egg nog?" she asked, and all was forgiven. Tamurilo reached up and got her some egg nog and a ginger snap. She put both on a table, climbed up onto a chair, and ate happily.

[mark12_30]

Mellon hefted an orange, and juggled it in his hand; then he carefully sniffed it several times, and closed his eyes.

Ædegard watched him, as Mellon seemed to drift far, far away, leaning his forehead against the fruit.

"What is it?" said Ædegard.

Mellon started out of his reverie. "They name it orange. I remember how it tastes. Betimes Edhellond sent us crates of them, upriver, as a gift."

"At Minas Tirith?"

"Nay, in Lorien. One morning I brought one to Nimrodel." His voice faded to a whisper.

"What?"

"She laughed, and thanked me with her usual sweetness... far sweeter than this, " he mused, glancing at the orange. "And then I sang for her, and she danced by the stream, and then we shared it."

"So Nimrodel is a girl, not a stream?" puzzled Ædegard. "I thought it was a tributary to the Celebrant which flows to the Anduin. And I thought you said you came from Gondor, not Lorien."

Glassy-eyed and breathing hard, Mellon rose to his feet, took a few steps, and gazed at Ædegard. "I'm not.... I am not from Gondor."

"You're not seventeen, either. And it would also seem you're quite a liar," said Ædegard. His newfound friend was rapidly losing appeal.

"Wait, Ædegard, " said the Innkeeper, who had overheard. Ædegard sat back with one raised eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest.

"Sit, Mellon," Bethberry said.

Still breathing hard, and still glassy-eyed, Mellon said, "Lady, I am glad to befriend you, but I need not sit."

"You said 'Mellon' was a nickname. It will do for now. Please, sit down."

Standing straight and tall, he locked eyes with her for several moments. Slowly he turned, looked back at the chair Bethberry was gesturing towards, walked with rigid back and square shoulders to it, lowered himself into the chair, and met Bethberry's eyes.

She smiled reassuringly at him. "You said you sang for Nimrodel. How old are you?"

His eyes grew cold, one eyebrow went up, and his voice hardened. "Fifty centuries. Mortal, why do you mock me?"

She reached forward and laid her hand on his brow. "Fever." Ignoring the flash of anger in his eyes, she called for water. "Ædegard, he is not lying, he is delirious. Do not doubt your friend so."

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 8:55 AM December 29, 2003: Message edited by: mark12_30 ]

[mark12_30]

Felly and Eruvalde both approached with pitchers of water. "Mellon, what's wrong? Don't you feel well?"

Mellon, still straight and tall in the chair, turned slowly towards them, and his face softened. He smiled. "Hello, children. I welcome you and I thank you." Slightly bowing his head, he accepted each pitcher in turn, setting them each on the table. Bethberry paused, and watched him interact with the children.

"Mellon, don't you feel well?" said Felly, and drew close. Mellon stiffened again, and they studied each other.

Ædegard snorted. "He is not himself, to say the least," he warned the children. "Be careful."

The icy glare which Mellon turned on Ædegard made Bethberry more uneasy still, but when Mellon turned back to the children, his smile was warm and his voice was soft. "Such kindness at an early age bodes well, both for you and the world of men. I am pleased, and I thank you and your fathers for your gracious welcome."

Bethberry shot Ædegard a warning glare, and then took a full glass of water and stood before Mellon.

"Please, My Lord, of your courtesy I ask you to drink." Bowing her head, she offered him the water.

He nodded to her without a touch of disdain, took the glass and drank. "I give you thanks, Madam."

"My Lord, " she continued, "would it not please you to rest? Our furnishings are humble, but the rooms are quiet and you should sleep well."

"My weariness does indeed burden me. Madam, I will rest." With a nod, he drained the glass, set it on the table, rose, and waited for Bethberry to lead the way.

Ædegard shook his head in disbelief, Felly's eyes went wide, and Eruvalde reached towards Mellon with deep concern. "Don't you feel well, Mellon?"

"Little friend, " Mellon replied, with a gentle laugh. "I do feel surprisingly weak. But do you not know my name, little one? And yet, since you have so adamantly claimed my friendship--" his eyes sparkled, and he nodded at Felly too-- "I release you from the use of my title. You may call me Amroth. My friends you shall be, and remain."

Ædegard snorted again, and Bethberry turned fiercely on him. "You will treat the Lord of Lorien with honor and respect, " she hissed through chenched teeth. His jaw dropped. Bethberry turned back to Mellon and bowed. Motioning Felly and Eruvalde to take up the pitchers and the glass, she led the way. The feverish young blacksmith from Gondor followed, tall, regal, silent and serene. Felly and Eruvalde brought up the rear carrying their pitchers of water. They went up the stairs.

Ædegard sat back, waves of indignation, disbelief, and laughter washing across his features. He did not leave, but sat watching for Bethberry's return.

&lt;font size=1 color=339966&gt;[ 10:50 AM December 29, 2003: Message edited by: mark12_30 ]&lt;/font&gt;

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 11:03 AM December 29, 2003: Message edited by: mark12_30 ]

[Imladris]

First it was Mellon, the elvish word for friend, and now he was Amroth, an elven king of old. "Dost thou miss thine elven love?" Felly asked as she pattered in Mellon's wake, the pitcher of water clenched in her little hands.

He turned, startled, and saw the little girl following; and then he smiled, but replied gravely: "Indeed, Little One, I do miss my lady Nimrodel."

Despite the smile sorrow haunted his eyes, yet nobility there was also, a mien that quite impressed Felly. Whoever would have thought that a blacksmith could look like an elf-lord of Lorien? Yet as the girl stared at him in awe, a sudden change came across his face: bitterness cast his shadow.

"Poor Nimrodel," Felly added, trying to remember the elven maid. "Her voice was like falling silver, a star was bound upon her brows," Felly's voice faltered and she racked her brain. "A light was on her hair," she whispered, "and her shoes were silver grey. Into the mountains she had strayed, and where now she wanders none can tell, for lost of yore was Nimrodel." Fellwyne's voice sank as she stopped. It was all she remembered, besides the fact that Amroth had leaped from the helm of the grey ship into the sea. She closed her eyes, felt the salt spray on her lips, the tug of the wind upon her hair. She was no longer a little girl of Rohan, but an elf upon the grey ships across the sea, watching the grief of Amroth, Lord of Lorien, from afar.

He looked at Fellwyne's sadness, and nodded. "I never should have left her, Little One. And now she is lost. I must find her and I will search ceaselessly until I do."

Fellwyne fell silent as snatches of a distant song whispered to her softly:

From helm to sea they saw him leap,
As arrow from the string,
And dive into water deep,
As mew upon the wing.

"Mellon no!" Felly whispered, dropping the pitcher that shattered before her very feet: an echo of what had been, an omen of what was to come.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 1:51 AM January 02, 2004: Message edited by: Imladris ]

[mark12_30]

Bethberry reached quickly for Mellon's hand and said soothingly, "Come, my Lord, and rest. " Hearing the pitcher crash, others came to sweep up its shards; Felly looked down at them, and then at the blacksmith as he turned and continued up the stairs.

She shook her head. He was darkhaired and young; he had the rough hands of a blacksmith. But he had changed.

She walked around the shattered pitcher, and followed them up the steps.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 5:35 PM January 01, 2004: Message edited by: mark12_30 ]

[Meneltarmacil]

Thoronmir walked into the Inn and sat down at the bar. He had just singlehandedly defeated several orcs using his "skis", a variant on shieldboarding, and was going to take a well-earned break.

"Hello Bethberry," he said, "I'd like a pint of eggnog."

After he had gotten his eggnog, he kept up a conversation with the others until someone's pitcher fell on his foot.

"Ouch! Watch where you drop things!" he started to say, but then he caught the change in Mellon's face.

"Mellon? Are you OK? Was it the eggnog?"

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 3:32 PM December 29, 2003: Message edited by: Meneltarmacil ]

[mark12_30]

The blacksmith paused and turned, and looked down at Thoronmir, and then glanced back at Bethberry. "Is it the custom of your town to address all elves as 'Friend'?"

Then he looked back at Thoronmir. "I did not drink the eggnog. Nor is that what has weakened my body, but long travel from far to the south. I have come many miles with little rest."

"From the south, my Lord?" said Bethberry. "Not from Lorien?"

"I had departed Lorien, and went south to Edhellond to secure westward passage aboard a ship. My Lady Nimrodel was to journey south when the ship was ready. But alas, she came not. The ship was tossed seaward by a storm, and I swam from it. It seems strange to me that I do not remember finally making the shore, nor do I remember much of the journey here. But that matters little. I must journey to Lorien and find her, or news of where else I must find her."

Thoronmir's eyes grew wider and wider, but a sign from Bethberry silenced his incredulous queries. "Oh. Right. I see," was what he said instead.

Bethberry, having apparently decided enough was enough, regained Mellon's attention and led him upstairs. She showed him a room, and he surveyed it with a nod of approval, and a very slight bow of thanks. Without any indication of offering her any money or form of payment he turned towards the desk and chair, and Bethberry knew she had been dismissed.

He heard her leave, and breathed a soft sigh of relief. But the children were still there. Felly and Eruvalde waited quietly, gazing up at him with round eyes.

The little handmaidens would have pleased Nimrodel, he thought, with their sweet, gentle ways so like hers. Then he smiled, sensing that they could both be wild and wilful as a storm. Like Nimrodel again.

He took another moment, closing his eyes, thinking of Nimrodel, casting his mind northward to the stream she had loved so much; he could not feel her presence. Lorien was strangely quiet as well. He searched carefully but met no minds that he knew. Perhaps the innkeeper was right; perhaps he was more weary and in need of rest than he understood.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 9:21 PM January 02, 2004: Message edited by: mark12_30 ]

[littlemanpoet]

When Bëthberry returned from above, Ædegard looked up at her. "You call me his friend? I barely know him."

"He needs a friend."

Ædegard regarded Bëthberry ruefully. "I take your meaning, innkeeper. I'll stay a while."

Bëthberry smiled. "Heed his words, Ædegard. More is afoot here than simple fever, I deem."

Ædegard shook his head. "You mean that he is also Amroth? He is no elf, this Mellon, just a sick young man in a strange fever."

"No," Bëthberry answered, "there is a doom playing out in this. I feel it. Be his friend, Ædegard. He will need a sturdy friend where he is going."

Ædegard frowned. "Where he is going? I cannot leave my father all the wheelwrighting. He is lame."

"You are not the only wheelwright in Edoras, Ædegard."

He glowered at her. "I could use another spiked cider, madam innkeeper. I've some brooding to do."

[Imladris]

A waif of a smile played about Fellwyne’s lips as she watched the young blacksmith of Gondor, the one who fancied himself to be Amroth. She mused: what would an elvin king drink? Wine, perhaps? What was the closest thing to wine? Cider, naturally. With a flounce of her flaxen curls, she dashed off to the kitchen and begged the cook for a goblet of cider. The little girl received it only in a common wooden mug, but if Mellon could think himself a king, then he could imagine this simple cup to be a golden chalice.

There he was: lofty upon his simple throne of wood. Erect he sat: straight and tall, not suffering himself into the ease of a common laymen, nor the slouch of a wearied farmer. She heard his rebuke to the man who dared to Amroth a friend, and Felly could feel her cheeks grow warm with pride as she remembered the privilege he had granted her.

Dropping to one knee before him, she lifted the cider to him and said, “Milord -- Amroth, take this drink: it might aid in refreshing you from the journey south.” Kissing his hand, she rose to her feet and stood a little to his side, her hands clasped loosely behind her back.

“Tell me, Little One,” the blacksmith said, “how do you know of Nimrodel?”

“Forever she lives in song,” Felly replied softly. It was impossible to be noisy or boisterous in his presence, for his kingly aura forbade it: Fellwyne had felt it when the pitcher had crashed to the floor. “One day, a wanderer from distant lands came to us for shelter. In return he would sing for us and he sang to me the song of Nimrodel. I have never forgotten it.”

She glanced at the lord before her, and she breathed sharply. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Mellon could always be like this? It was like a game in a way: Mellon was Amroth, lord of Lorien, and Fellwyne was like his handmaiden for a time, she thought. But it was better than a game, for he thought truly was Lord Amroth. Yet it would indeed be a cruel fate for Mellon; ever searching for his elven love who was only a mere phantom.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 1:54 AM January 02, 2004: Message edited by: Imladris ]

[mark12_30]

Looking into Fellwyne's eyes, he found more comfort and acceptance than he could remember finding anywhere in... in a long time. His brow furrowed a little. All the rest of his memories were elven-clear, going back in time for five thousand years. Why couldn't he remember anything between his desperate swim to shore, and leaving the seven-tiered Gondorian city of Minas Tirith? The entire journey was hidden from him, as if by shadow that he could not penetrate. It was most disconcerting. But not as disconcerting as being unable to find Nimrodel.

A kiss on his hand startled him out of his thoughts. He looked into the cup he now held, and saw cider. With a smile, he raised the crude wooden mug to his lips, and drank it, savoring the friendship of the child as much as the drink.

They spoke of Nimrodel together; it pleased and satisfied Amroth that someone had been blessed enough by her beauty to sing of it even in the lands of men.

Eruvalde stood aside, listening, and Amroth smiled at her, and then at Fellwyne. "My little friends, leave me to my rest. I must regain my strength before I journey north. But come again ere I depart. You are a comfort to me, and a respite from grief."

The girls shared a delighted smile. "We will, " said Fellwyne. The girls departed, and he rose and shut the door behind them.

Only now that he was alone would he succumb to the exhaustion of his body. He leaned his forehead against the door, fighting the aching weakness with a sense of disbelief. Never before had he felt his body shudder from simple weariness, and he blamed it on the journey from Edhellond to Minas Tirith that he could not remember. He was grateful the Innkeeper had offered him a place to rest.

He turned the bedclothes back, and gladly removed the coarse Gondorian clothing and the heavy, awkward boots. The mannish clothes had served him adequately during his journey. He had wished more than once for the outer royal garb he had shed when the long swim became wearying. But no matter. Lothlorien would clothe him soon enough.

He cast his mind northward one more time, searching all along the banks of her stream. Where was she? Other strange minds touched his, a guard and a few border patrols, and he sensed surprise in some of them. He did not linger with them. Thrusting all else aside, he chose to sleep. His dreams were many and his rest was deep.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 6:20 PM December 30, 2003: Message edited by: mark12_30 ]

[Imladris]

A woman plodded against the brisk wind that slithered between her warm garments. Her golden hair, graced with mists of silver, had slipped from its unwieldy bun and now rested on her shoulder. A burgundy shawl flapped from her shoulders while her mittened hands carried a bundle.

Her cheeks were rosy, and her brown eyes smiled as she neared the inn. Before she entered, however, her eyes wandered across the snow covered yard, as if she sought for a lost treasure hidden among the white dunes.

A little pucker of a frown marred her smooth forehead, and she turned from the door and began to circle the inn. After completing the circle, she found herself again at the front and, sighing, gently opened the door, and stepped in. Warm firelight greeted her, the laughter of children, and the clink of glasses as men drank their ale. Some children cradled steaming cups of cider in their hands, whilst others wiped away a trickling river of eggnog from their beaming faces.

The woman smiled and then she looked for the innkeeper. She knew Bethberry, but saw that she was busy. Well, maybe somebody else could help her, the woman thought. Her eyes rested upon a brooding man, who sipped a spiked cider.

Coming towards him, pulling off her mittens and wiping a stray hair from her eyes, she said pleasantly, “Excuse me, sir, my name is Silwen and I was wondering if I may trouble you for just a moment?"

The man glanced up at her and said simply, "I'm Ædegard. What may I do for you?"

Silwen smiled and said, "You haven't happened to see a little girl named Fellwyne about? She’s also known as Felly -- it’s an old nickname.”

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 2:10 AM January 02, 2004: Message edited by: Imladris ]

[littlemanpoet]

Ædegard nodded. "Felly? Yes, I've seen her. She has styles herself a serving maid for man upstairs who is sick with fever and seems to think he is Amroth of Lorien."

Ædegard noted the worried look on Silwen's face.

"I would not worry. Béthberry has been careful, I expect, to make sure Felly does not get sick herself. She can show you the room Felly is." He stopped and looked at Silwen conspiratorially. "Your Felly is quite the shot with a snowball, mind you! I'm glad she was on my side!"

[Imladris]

“Your Felly is quite the shot with a snowball, mind you! I'm glad she was on my side!" Ædegard said.

Silwen smiled and laughed softly. “Yes, she is. Her father and she have little duals every year. But she is upstairs with a sick man who fancies himself to be Amroth, lord of Lorien?”

“Yes.”

“She should like that,” Silwen said, her eyes straying to the bundle that she held in her hands. A dusty green mitten with the word “Fellwyne” was embroidered upon the cuff along with a soft blue scarf, a small maroon jacket, and an extra pair of black stockings. “She always did like the tale of Nimrodel and would often speculate about what had happened to the elven maid. I think that she secretly hopes they both survived and had found each other again. Thank you for your help, Ædegard,” she added, flashing a gentle smile at him as she turned away.

Running her fingers through her tangled hair, Silwen peered about the room and saw Bethberry serving drinks. Eyes twinkling, Silwen crossed to the bar. “Hello, Bethberry!”

“Silwen, it is so good to see you!” The innkeeper cried. “Your daughter has made a new friend,” Bethberry added, with a sideways glance up the stairs.

“I heard it was Amroth, lord of Lorien,” Silwen said with a wink. “Where is she? I brought her warm clothes,” she said, gesturing to the bundle. “She forgot them again but I wonder if it was a true case of forgetfulness,” she added, raising an eyebrow playfully.

“The strange ways of children. But come, and I’ll show you the way,” Bethberry said. The stairs creaked softly as the women climbed, and Silwen soon saw Felly standing before a closed door. Her head was tilted towards her shoulder, a dreamy, yet expectant smile lit her eyes and her face. “Fellwyne,” Silwen said brightly, kneeling down so that she was level with her daughter, “didn’t you forget something?” she asked playfully, holding the bundle of warm things towards her.

“Mama!” The girl whirled away from the door and threw herself into Silwen’s arms, and clasped her tightly as she whispered, “I’m so glad you came.” Unburying herself, she glanced up into her mother’s eyes and said, “Would you have some eggnog with me, please? You said you’d make some soon and that we’d drink it together, but you haven’t yet,” Felly said with mock reproach. Nevertheless, a smile twitched about her lips.

“Yes, I’ll have a drink of eggnog with you,” Silwen laughed as she took Fellwyne by the hand and hurried Fellwyne down the stairs.

“Oh, Mama, we had this glorious battle and I was a shield maiden of Rohan. And we had to defend Ædegard’s Deep from the attacking orcs and we had to reinforce the wall and everything! And I must say that I repaired the walls quite splendidly,” Fellwyne added with a smug smile.

Felly led the way to the bar and soon they held two cups of crown-creamed eggnog. They found a table beside a misty window and Felly, wiping away the fog with her sleeve, pointed and said, “There are the ruins of Ædegard’s Deep. Mellon was there, too…” the little girl’s voice trailed off and she said, “I don’t want to leave, Mama.”

[VanimaEdhel]

Baranîn tipped her mug and finished her mug of hot chocolate. She looked at Hamanullas and smiled at the girl. The seventeen-year old felt young once again. Hamanullas was looked at her with amusement glittering in her young eyes.

"Do you want another hot chocolate?" Baranîn asked Hamanullas, rising to get herself more. The girl nodded, continuing to sit.

Baranîn walked up to the bar and ordered two more hot chocolates. She looked back at Hamanullas. The girl was looking around the bar, animatedly swinging her legs, as they did not quite yet reach the floor when she sat in the chair.

Baranîn returned with the drinks and smiled at young Hamanullas, who tried to take a drink of the hot chocolate.

"Agh!" Hamanullas exclaimed, quickly putting the mug down as her hands as well as her mouth burned on the hot chocolate.

"Careful!" Baranîn said, laughing in spite of herself. Hamanullas pouted a bit, then joined in laughing with Baranîn.

"Who do you suppose they are?" Hamanullas asked, pointing around the room at the various people engaged in discussion and business.

"Don't point!" Baranîn said good-naturedly, pulling the girl's hand down. "And it is none of our business who they are."

Hamanullas looked at Baranîn mischievously, as though contemplating doing something to disturb the other people, but then thought better of it. She blew on her hot chocolate and took a tentative sip, smiling once she discovered that it cooled some.

[Fire-Galad]

A white horse galloped through the snow with ease. Silver thought to herself that she had to got Raven to some place warm. Raven tried hard to stay wake, but it was getting harder and harder for the small seven-year-old girl to do so. Silver felt Raven slipping and with a nudge, pushed the girl in place. Silver saw the one thing that could help them, Edoras. Silver ran through the gates, came to the first house and started whinning and stomping on the ground, trying to get someone's attention and she did. A voice called out.

"bethberry, who's horse is making all that noise?"

A women came out of the house just as Raven's blue eyes closed and she slid of Silver's back landing on the ground, her black hair stood out against the white snow. The woman, bethberry, ran to Raven and picked her up.

"There's a girl here and she's frozen. Quick get some blankets and some thing warm for her to drink. Don't forget to put her horse in the stables."

Silver was led to the stables where it was warm and dry with plenty of hey and water. In the house Raven was bundled up in about five thick blankets, laid by the fire, and there was hot chocolate ready for her when she woke up.

[mark12_30]

Between dreams, he rolled over and sat up for a moment. He still felt weak, but he had heard a horse enter the courtyard of the Inn. He reached out with his mind, but did not find anyone he knew.

The common room was busy with children happily drinking eggnog. There were shieldmaidens here and there. Hamanullas and Fellwyne and Eruvalde...

He frowned. He didn't remember ever being introduced to the small mannish girls. And why did he think of them as shieldmaidens? They were mere children. He raised one hand and rubbed his temple. He was weary still, and strangely warm in the chilly room.

Baranin's voice rang out in lilting laughter, and Ædegard was telling a funny story, and Silwen and Felly were laughing. Bethberry was giving orders that the horses' child-rider be taken care of.

Rest. Why could he not simply rest in his memories, as he always had? But his body was still very weak. He hesitantly lay back down, rolled over and was soon asleep. But now the voices form the common room wove themselves echoing in and out of his dreams.

[Fire-Galad]

Raven opened her eyes and let out a loud 'ACHOO!' A women came towards he, carrying a steaming mug.

"There you go," said the woman giving Raven the mug. "My name is Bethberry, whats yours?"
Raven took awhile to answer.

"Raven."

"That's a beautiful name."

"Thank you." Bethberry walked away and Raven started to drink her hot chocolate. It's warmth spread through her all the way to her fingers and toes. Raven, now getting uncomfortably hot, untangled herself from the nest of blankets and wandered over to the table where some other girls, all seemed taller and older than Raven, were listening to a funny story. Not wanting to be rude, Raven took a deep breath and said: "Can I listen too?"

[Witch_Queen]

Aduthondiel turned to take her last look on the fair country of Rohan and the Snowed Inn. "Count we're off to the Shire now. Let us hope we can get there unnoticed. I would hate for us to have to fight anyone or any thing."

Aduthondiel mounted her horse and left the Snowed Inn. "Good bye. May my eyes look upon you in the future years."

[littlemanpoet]

Ædegard noticed the westering sun outside, as well as the new snow laden clouds descending out of the north, racing toward the sun. He drained his drink and excused himself from the table.

He went to the bar and told Bethberry help, "I must be off home now. I ask that you send word when Mellon - or Amroth, if you like - wakens and moves about again. I would speak with him again."

With that, Ædegard put on hat and overcoat and bracing himself against the rising wind, left the Snowed Inn and tramped on home to make sure his parents were well.

[mark12_30]

Mellon/ Amroth slipped deep into dreams, and stayed there. Sometimes he struggled, fevered and frightened; and other times he lay serene and still, a ghost of a smile playing about his face. The days slipped by in dream after dream.

Bethberry often intended sending word to Gondor, but whenever a messenger was headed east, they left without her message. Sometimes she was silenced by a sense of foreboding; sometimes dreams of her own silenced her; sometimes trivial or everyday circumstances made the message falter.

Aside from Bethberry, Ædegard and the children, most people forgot the dreamer was there.

[rutslegolas]

Gorgoth Lampash cam riding down the wind on his white horse named Goth.He was from the North about the land of Argonoth,and he was one of the rangers.He had ridden far in search of orcs for he was a hunter and he hunted mostly orcs for his dear old mother was killed by them.He was a young man about 6 feet tall and broad shoulders ,clean shaven and having long blonde hair,he carried a two handed sword at his belt a knife and a shield on his back.

He had heard that there are orcs a plenty in Rohan and he had come to hunt them but now he wanted to rest somewhere and looking for someone to give him some directions in Rohan,and their before him he found that buried under the snow there was a Inn named "Snowed Inn".

He went inside and found that it was filled with men and women of Rohan and he wanted to dearly talk to someone for he had rided far in the evening so he stabled his horse at one of the stables and went inside.

There he went to the common room and sat silently beside a hefty man and he waited for the man to talk to him out of curiosity....