Chapter Text
Laerornil was leaning against the big oak at the edge of the forest, waiting patiently with the rest of the group Tauron Galdor had brought with him on another of his travels to see Hîr Turgon, a son of the new Tûr of the northern shore of the lake Mithrim.
Sighing, she looked through the bustling camp, trying to see if she could spot Tauron Galdor or his Cidinn-Arben. It was boring, not that she would say, she had begged both her parents and Tauron Galdor to be brought along, despite the danger, she wanted to see the Golodhrim, after her Adar had been with Tauron Galdor for the whole three times, and since he had taken the holy road to the Melian he wouldn't be back before the apples were ripe again.
“Why do they look like that?” she asked Hest Sadrion, touching her own hair, only pulled away from her face with two combs, nodding towards one of the Golodhrim whose back were turned so the mess of black braids and ribbons with no seeming pattern could be seen clearly. Another one, heaving water, had even more braids pulled on the top of their head, so it wasn´t visible if it was short or not, and their clothes! It looked horrid! So many patterns, layers, colours, mixed with seal and white bear's fur, and so much jewelry that they must have worn their own weight twice, just looking at them made her dizzy.
“Like what?” Asked Sadrion, with a knowing smile as he leaned towards her, “they have defied the Balan, as you know, perhaps it was for their fashion choices?”
She choked on her laugh, holding up a hand in front of her mouth, “you don't know that!”
It wouldn´t do to show her teeth in front of the Hest. Although he was pretty, with sleek chestnut brown hair, and dimples on the pale face, with honey coloured eyes pulling it all together.
He wouldn´t be married yet, he still had to serve a five year as Hest, plenty of time to convince Mam.
“I have heard the weeping king is the worst of them all!” Sadrion leaned in over her as he walked up to stand shoulder to shoulder with her, “he sleeps, bathes, battles, and sings in his braids, and jewelry!”
“No, he doesn´t,” she laughed quietly, “that would be impossible.
“Oh, but it is! He has ten servants just for his hair! They say it can reach across the river if he should wish to ever unbraid it.”
“... I wouldn´t want to unbraid my hair if it was so long either,” she said with a smile, pushing him lightly, “there you see,” he laughed, his corner fang glimmering in the light, “maybe he isn´t as gone as we will have him!”
“Yet he welcomes the thrall king,” Tauron Galdor´s Cidinn-Arben hissed as he came storming into the midst of the group, his arms held over his chest, with hunched shoulders, making his lacking height more obvious than it already was with his soft face. Laerornil snorted. A few years and the man would be grown in body too, but it didn´t do for him to still behave like a child. Sadrion seemed to agree with her, if his raised eyebrow said anything.
“Don´t sack,” he said after the Cidinn-Arben hadn´t fixed his posture, “you surely misunderstood, the late king is contained, perhaps they have a long funeral seremoni.”
Laerornil nodded, fiddling with her clay flute. The weeping king had held a funeral around twenty star circles ago. The body of the late king´s appearance wouldn´t do anything other than perhaps the weeping king wanted a funeral with the remains of his brother.
“No!” The Gwinig cried, “the people living here have been hearing its screams to Bauglir every night! Likely crying all the secrets of the Golodhrim! And the Caun of the Tûr is aiding its recovery! The recovery of a corpse!”
“I doubt he is,” Sadrion said calmly, trying to lay a hand on the Cidinn-Arben´s shoulder, only to be shrugged off, “it is just a misunderstanding, of course they aren´t aiding it.”
“Yes. They. Are!” the Cidinn-Arben´s voice trembled, and Laerornil suddenly felt uncertain. He looked frightened and small, everything from his arrogant usual self, “the weeping king and the Tûr´s Caun are already planning the coronation of it. Long live the Thrall King,” he said as he spat over his left shoulder to ward off the eye, the side Bauglir´s lieutenant always stood at.
A rustle in the trees behind her made her turn her head, noticing the rest of the group already had their weapons drawn, but nothing was visible, even to the trained eyes and ears of the Thinnedhel.
It would be good to come home to Dor-lómin, there at least she was safe with her citole and bone flute.