Dol Amroth: Marble Gate

You stand on a narrow bottleneck of land no more than two thousand paces wide, shooting westwards to connect to the rocky promontory on which the Castle of the Prince and the city of Dol Amroth stands. To the north and south are the waters of the sea--even from hear you can smell their salt tang and hear the cries of sea-birds.

Directly to the west stands a massive wall that covers the entire width of the narrow bottleneck of land, visible only as a massive monolithic shadow, black against the navy star-filled sky. A gate, illumined by torches and flanked by two statues is guarded by a company of men-at-arms wearing the royal blue tunics of those who serve the Prince, leads through the wall into the city and eventually to the castle beyond.
 

The morning mist is just beginning to lift as a short column of men enters the city of Dol Amroth. Decked in the black uniform of the Guard of Minas Tirith, they are yet covered with the road's dust. Yet they are not a scraggly bunch, hardened for more action than the simple marching between two cities.

At the head of the column is a figure on horseback, his dappled steed clip-cloping at a steady walk. Though clouds block the sun from shining directly upon his bright helm, it still manages to flash whatever light there is. As they reach the gate, the horsed figure pulls his beast to a stop and speaks a few quiet words to the guard stationed there. Leaning down, he adresses a few words to an aide who steps off quickly. Turning in his saddle, he speaks to the Lieutenant not too far behind. "Beautiful Dol Amroth, home of Prince Imrahil... It has been far too long since I last visited. The men will camp outside the city. Orders have been given for such. But! I would be honored to have you join me in lodging inside, if you would come."

Keeping a tenious balance on his mottled brown steed, Malahir edges closer to the guard at the head of the column, the two horses appear to be of the same breed in fact. Malahir's horse awkwardly comes to a stop a few paces ahead of Ingold's, despite the harsh words from the rider to halt. Looking back to the tall leader of the guards, the lieutenant responds, "It would be an honor and a pleasure commander. I would like a moment to some issue direct orders to the men in my company, and may I ask if a friend could join us", he asks timidly.

Word passes quickly through the streets... Opening cerimonies of the fair! To happen this hour! Soon! Like wildfire it spreads... Is that what the horns mean? Yes! Ride, people, ride! Attend the faire!

The Commander gives a gracious nod, "Most certainly, Lieutenant. But! The time for lodging has yet to come, for I hear the brazen horns of the citadel summoning us to the lists! Perhaps the message reached me too late, for we set out in time..." Trailing off with a shrug, he adjusts his helm, "Order the march, Lieutenant. The lists are westward." With that, the officer spurs his beast forward, and it jumps ahead as if out of a gate and onto the racetrack.

Malahir doubles back his horse and guides it toward his men. Beside him is a covered wagon, carrying supplies, full in the rear section. Occupants of the wagon are two, but there faces unseen. Malahir motions for the wagon to follow Ingold westward. Making a quick order, the commander of the silver ship orders his men to march with as order and civility, for many are about to enter Dol Amroth for the first time. Turning the steed around once more, he starts the count off for the march into the city, keeping a distance from the slow covered wagon ahead.
 

Dol Amroth: The Lists

Nestled between the walls of the citadel's inner bailey to the west and the castle itself to the east runs a fenced in area some two hundred paces long. A pair of gates are set in the fence on the southern end and northern end, broad enough for a pair of armored and mounted knights to ride throug, and a narrow divider splits the area down the middle of the longitudinal axis. The vegetation inside has been scoured away by the pounding of the war-shod hooves of the Knights' steeds, and a small circle to the south of the fence designed for mere foot-combat shows similar signs of wear. Running against the castle wall on both the eastern and western sides of the fenced in lists are plain wooden bleachers, little more than unpainted planks held in place by wrought-iron stands.

The grounds seem lifeless, here in the darkness of night. The citadel, like a sleeping lion, crouches over the area, filling the air with an austere silence.

Leading by the hand a lady of rohan, the squire Aramis strides into the lists, where the grass is tossed up by the winds in all the fanciful forms of the ocean's rolling waves, yet crushed and trampled into the ground in other places by the sharp pounding of hooves, creating a sharp contrast that mars the beauty of the place. A horse near the sides of the lists approaches it's master, neighing it's approval of his return. Petting it, the squire grins for the first time in days, "Hello there Aremaen, how goes thy travels?"

Horns wax in the brilliance of the morning light and then from the citadel there marches a long line of knights into sight, and these are the honour guard of the Prince of Dol Amroth. The banner of the Ship and Swan flutters proudly in the dawn. Among these Men, the Prince is tall, and he is dressed in a panoply of regal chain. Upon his head a tall helm is set in the likeness of a great swan. Drums roll. The Prince marches in.

Torelin spies Aramis and the young woman with him; Aramis' way with his steed creates a smile on his lips, a smile which can not seem to stay off the young knight's face these days. As the Prince appears with his guard, Torelin bows as is custom and awaits to hear the ruler speak.

Imrahil walks in and then he comes to a dias set upon a knoll overlooking the lists. He steps upon it and then drums roll, the time has come for the Prince to speak.

Entering with the general flow of those who would partake of the morning's ceremony, yet apart from them, a golden-haired lord of the Mark makes his quiet way towards a clearer place to look at what shall go on. He glances at the benches and chooses not to sit, rather adjusting the seating of the great sword upon his hip and leaving a hand upon the hilt, fingering the pommel as he watches the prince of this ancient citadel takes his place.

A horn sounds, not so brazen and with a sound far unlike those of the citadel...

The Prince stands tall. His grey eyes glinting as if an eerie light cast from the shadows of perceptions is lit therein. He then smiles and cries out, "My people! Allow me to welcome you to Dol Amroth, citadel of Gondor where the sea laps at the grey walls of the fortress of the Numenoreans! I welcome you all to this land. To the people of the outlands, I give thanks and welcome. To the folk of Minas Tirith, our brothers in arms know you that your watch is not in vain and that together we may still strive to achieve victory over the common foe of all Men."

Heading to higher ground, Fara shades her eyes in the morning sun, searching for a dry patch. Settling herself down, her simple green gown pooling about her, she lifts her eyes to the prince and smiles as he begins to speak.

A column of marching men can be seen, closing the distance between them and the lists! They are garbed in black, their numbers amounting to perhaps fifty. At the head of the column rides a man, his horse walking with a stately tread as it comes closer to the dias... Yet, right at the edge of the crowd, the rider pulls his reigns back and the beast stops with no little flair. Leaping off the horse, the men behind him now to be seen as the Guard of Minas Tirith. Their leader speaks no words, only smiles brightly, his helm shining in the light. Ingold of the Rammas Echor has never been one for only a small show.

Preoccupied with his horse, the squire follows the Lady of Rohan, talking with his pet all the while about absolutely nothing. From a pouch at his side he pulls a carrot, feeding it affectionently to it before dropping unceremoniously to the ground beside the lady to listen to the speach. Awaiting a break in talk, he whispers, "Fair lady of rohan, what wouldst thy name be?"

Imrahil pauses and pushes his cape back before continuing, "Six and Five hundred years ago, a dark time was upon Gondor. And only through the aid of our noble neighbors and allies, the Rohirrim, were we suffered to be given fruitful victory. The years have been long since the field of Celebrant. But we of Gondor remember."

The hush of the crowd is quite nearly absolute -- only the fitful young child in a mother's grip being hushed, or the old grandfather hefting a granddaughter upon his shoulder at her request, so she may see the grandeur of the ceremony (or 'the handsome people' as she puts it.) Eyes are attentive upon their Prince and lord.

As to the men and women with their long, braided flaxen hair and the stern, fair features of the northern fields -- they say nothing, though many of them look among their neighboring countrymen, catching one another's eyes. They, too, remember that great riding.

Ingold quietly hands the reigns of his horse to an aide standing nearby, who promptly takes the beast from the field. With that, he gazes over the faces of those assembled here at this time before his eyes finally turn to the speaking Prince, misty grey of his ees sparkling with proud attentiveness... and perhaps no small measure of mischief. The Guardsmen behind him also settle down, watching in silence.

Then, a retainer standing next to the Prince opens a wooden box and in it is a vial of clear water, "Therefore, I take this vial of water from the stream of Celebrant and I pour it onto the soil of Gondor." With this the Prince empties the flask upon the earth, "In memory of our peoples who have fought and suffered together in long years. Let us renew this oath of friendship and allegiance forever after. Brothers in arms. Allies forever! Therefore, this tournament is dedicated to loyalty. Therefore, the theme of the Bardic contest shall be declared to be loyalty!"

At the pronouncement of the bardic theme, Fara grimaces slightly and leans towards the young squire to whisper, "I was hoping for something a little closer to my specialty." Sighing then, she hugs her knees to her chest, eyes roaming avidly over the assembling crowd.

With renewed enthuisiasm the squire looks upon the young lady, "Fair lady, you doth make lays and songs? Of what kind, may I ask? For many things may tie in upon the lay of loyalty, for love is of a loyal kind, and war is loyal to a nation," smiling empathetically he laughs, "And you have yet to tell me your name, fair lady?"

Imrahil then turns to the west and then bows low, "By the King that was, but the King that is, and by the King that shall surely return, we give thanks for blessing Dol Amroth with bliss and the friendships renewed of peoples long sundered." Imrahil then rises and is silent for a long moment.

Torelin turns and motions to his squire with his head and a quick movement of his hand to join him, instead of charming the ladies.

Looking nervous, a young woman peers at the assemblance, dressed in a simle white dress. She glances about for a certain person, and, on spotting him, tries to sneak closer, unnoticed.

Silence falls upon the field as Imrahil bows.

Imrahil then takes out his sword and shines it in the morning light, "Then by the blessings of Arda and all that she holds, I do declare this tournament and fair to be open under the mandate of the Lords of Gondor! Hail Gondor! Hail Rohan!"

The Knights of Dol Amroth draw their swords as one, "Hail Gondor! Hail Rohan!"

Torelin swings forth Silrathil and cries out, "Hail Gondor!" in unison with the rest of the crowd.

The Rohirrim, for the most part, do not follow the ritual performed Imrahil, the bowing that many do indeed and the long silence -- though all know the tale of the warrior-king who died and left the throne upset. It is not their land. But that of their league-fellows, of the Stonging-land with men as hard as stone. So they look to the west, and keep a respectful silence -- which is quick to be followed by their cheers and words, in the Common Speech and the rolling, sonorous tongue of the Eorlingas. "Hal! Hail Staningland! Hal Riddermark!'

Ingold gives a solemn nod of his head at the pronouncement of the theme, and even more so at the Prince's words. His face is a solid mask, though his eyes sparkle. Drawing his own blade, he joins in the cheer, the hails, and his men follow that example. A loud roar rises from the area.

Horns blow again clear in the morning light. And amidst the cheers Imrahil cries, "But peace! There is still one more thing that we must honour this day ere we go. And that be love. Torelin of Linhir and Aiesha, Lady of Rohan, come forth!"

The squire stands and brandishes his own weapon, "Hail gondor!", his fair voice echoes. He looks down to the lady below and smiles, "I fear I must go, mayhaps we shall meet again." Sheathing his weapon he makes his way towards the Knight, bowing before him, "My lord..." he states roboticaly, glancing one last time up at the lady sitting below his horse.

Having seen Aiesha long before she has noticed him, Torelin goes to her now and offers a hand. He smiles reassuringly and leads her before the Prince.

Horns blow again clear in the morning light. And amidst the cheers Imrahil cries, "But peace! There is still one more thing that we must honour this day ere we go. And that be love. Torelin of Linhir and Aiesha, Lady of Anorien, come forth!"

Ingold nearly chuckles his approval as Torelin and Aiesha are called. For, solemn as the occasion may be, the spark of humor has yet to leave him and he nods to himself. The Commander folds his arms over his chest and nearly leans back against the air behind him as if it were solid, so relaxed is his posture.

The Prince looks at the twain and says to those gathered, "Before us stands the Lord Torelin of Linhir and the Lady Aiesha of Anorien. The Lord and Lady have given their love to eachother and she has consented to be his bride, and he her husband. It is with honour that I have been chosen to perform this ceremony." Imrahil then smiles, "Is it still so Aiesha and Torelin?"

Hearing herself being called, she throws a grateful glance at her very soon-to-be husband as he takes her hand. She trembles slightly, though whether from excitement, fear or simple nervousness is hard to tell. "Well, here goes..." she murmurs to herself, glancing over those assembled. "Well, I know I haven't changed my mind," she pipes up, glancing at Torelin.

The squire crosses his arms solemnly behind his back, underneath a new cloak that drapes down about his feet. A smile graces his lips at the announcement of a wedding, his eyes immediately falling upon the three as he watches the procedures with intense interest.

Torelin looks solemnly at Aiesha as she speaks in typical Aiesha character, and then to the Prince, bowing his head. "It is still so with me, my lord."

The Prince then smiles to Aiesha, "This is well, since I do like to perform these ceremonies." The Prince then laughs and then turns to a page, a youthful boy who walks forward with a wooden box. The box is open and inside are two golden rings and a band of silver. Also, next to the page there walks a girl. And in her hands is a wreath of flowers.

Imrahil says to the two lovers, "Join your hands."

Torelin offers his hand to Aiesha, his eyes smiling even if is mouth is not.

Aiesha smiles nervously, offering her own hand to that of Torelin.

Imrahil now turns and then from his cloak he removes a long band of silk. He takes the band and wraps it about the hands of Torelin and Aiesha, "Thus shall you be bonded to eachother. In love and joy."

Imrahil now first looks to Aiesha and his speech becomes more formal if possible, "Aiesha, thou'st has given thy heart and thy hope to the Man Torelin. Repeat after me: I Aiesha, do swear to love, honour and obey my love by star or sun, by sea or hill, for ever after until death take me, and even then, until we shall meet again."
 

Imrahil now first looks to Aiesha and his speech becomes more formal if possible, "Aiesha, thou'st has given thy heart and thy hope to the Man Torelin. Repeat after me: I Aiesha, do swear to love, honour and obey my love by star or sun, by sea or hill, for ever after until death take me, and even then, until we shall meet again."

Aiesha smiles at Torelin, and repeats, "I Aiesha, do swear to love, honour and obey my love by star or sun, by sea or hill, for ever after until death take me, and even then, until we shall meet again."

Imrahil smiles at Aiesha gently before turning to Torelin. Then he speaks, "Torelin of Linhir, thou'st has given thy heart and thy hope to the Woman Aiesha. Repeat after me: I Torelin, do swear to love, honour and obey my love by star or sun, by sea or hill, for ever after until death take me, and even then, until we shall meet again."

Torelin watches the Prince perform the ceremony, something which he is totally unfamiliar with, coming from Minas Tirith. He looks to Aiesha as Imrahil instructs him and makes a small wink that only she can see. "I Torelin" he repeats with a trueness to his voice seldom heard, "do swear to love, honour and obey my love by star or sun, by sea or hill, for ever after until death take me." He pauses and his blue eyes look deep in his soon-to-be bride's. "And even then, until we shall meet again," he finishes.

Then the girl takes the wreath and places it between the two lovers as Imrahil says, "Then by the power vested in me as Prince of Belfalas granted by the Kings of Gondor. I declare you husband and wife as long as the thrones of the Valar endure."

Imrahil smiles and chuckles saying, "You may of course, kiss the bride Lord Linhir."

Torelin nods his head and smiles at the Prince. He leans forward to kiss Aiesha through the wreath.

Aiesha grins impishly at her husband, leaning forward at the same time to kiss him through the wreath. She forgets the crowd watching, seeing only her husband.

As Torelin kisses his new bride, an approving smile lights the face of the Commander of the Rammas Echor, and, after clearing his throat once, he lets out a cry... it is impossable to tell what exactly he says, but from the look upon his face and the general sound of the shout, it is most definitly congratulatory.

The page, seeing the kiss complete hands over the rings to the couple. A shout rings out from the crowd in approval!

Torelin takes hold of one of the simple gold bands and places it on Aiesha's finger gently.

A smile spreads across the face of the squire who raises his arms to clap, yelling out his congratulations into the torrent of yells already reverberating off the marble walls from the crowds.

Aiesha accepts one of the rings from the page, smiling her thanks. She turns her smile onto her husband, placing the much larger ring on his finger. "Welcome to husband-dom," she chuckles.

Horns ring loudly and the trumpets play!

The Prince then cries, "And now friends one and all, let us depart for the feasting hall!"

A definite shout rings from the men of Minas Tirith, many mentioning Torelin, their former comrade, and the famous Aiesha. Yet a small, ragged cry follows directly after at the Prince's mention of the feasting!