In some ways what can be discerned of the elven ruins feel strangely familiar- here a motif popular among the elves of Mithrim, there arches that any Noldorin stonemason would be satisfied with. Even the statues, with their great bat-like wings, would not be unimaginable as products of some of the more abstract sculptors of Fingon's acquaintance.
(Though, admittedly, there was something else familiar about those, something which put him on edge....)
But there's another feeling about the place, tugging on his mind, coaxing him to stay. And the more it whispers, the more he doesn't quite trust it. Instead he hums snatches of melodies, of Hithlum marching songs and the ballads of the Aman of his youth, to drive them out of his head.
Maybe it works too well, as light catches a jeweled hilt in the corner of his eye and Fingon turns to see an all-too familiar blade.
"Ringil" he breathes in shock. His father's blade, lost with his father- it couldn't be here.
Could it?
III.
Fingon grew up in a city and is used to the press of crowds, but Llomerryn is nothing like Tirion; nothing like any settlement of the Eldar or the Edain that he has ever seen. He's happy to wander the streets, drinking in both the harshness and the richness of his surroundings. And if anyone tries to take advantage of the stranger with the long black hair and the glowing eyes, well-
Not to worry, he's not looking to be cruel.Even the truly stubborn ones will be smarting more from wounded pride than actual wounds.
Eventually he finds himself lingering over a stall of musical instruments, chatting easily with the merchant about her wares. The instruments themselves he eyes keenly, looking for anything new and interesting or of acceptable quality. His own harp remains in Arda, and while he's here it may not be a bad idea to look into a replacement.
no subject
In some ways what can be discerned of the elven ruins feel strangely familiar- here a motif popular among the elves of Mithrim, there arches that any Noldorin stonemason would be satisfied with. Even the statues, with their great bat-like wings, would not be unimaginable as products of some of the more abstract sculptors of Fingon's acquaintance.
(Though, admittedly, there was something else familiar about those, something which put him on edge....)
But there's another feeling about the place, tugging on his mind, coaxing him to stay. And the more it whispers, the more he doesn't quite trust it. Instead he hums snatches of melodies, of Hithlum marching songs and the ballads of the Aman of his youth, to drive them out of his head.
Maybe it works too well, as light catches a jeweled hilt in the corner of his eye and Fingon turns to see an all-too familiar blade.
"Ringil" he breathes in shock. His father's blade, lost with his father- it couldn't be here.
Could it?
III.
Fingon grew up in a city and is used to the press of crowds, but Llomerryn is nothing like Tirion; nothing like any settlement of the Eldar or the Edain that he has ever seen. He's happy to wander the streets, drinking in both the harshness and the richness of his surroundings. And if anyone tries to take advantage of the stranger with the long black hair and the glowing eyes, well-
Not to worry, he's not looking to be cruel.Even the truly stubborn ones will be smarting more from wounded pride than actual wounds.
Eventually he finds himself lingering over a stall of musical instruments, chatting easily with the merchant about her wares. The instruments themselves he eyes keenly, looking for anything new and interesting or of acceptable quality. His own harp remains in Arda, and while he's here it may not be a bad idea to look into a replacement.