gondolin_noble | (no subject)

Here, the light of the stars seems to shine more brightly upon him, and their light is reflected in his eyes, even when he looks down at her, smiling.

"And just imagine if you could hear them. I have never heard the reason that your kind cannot."

"Maybe we're not in tune with nature like you are," Alana says, teasing gently. The inky blackness of space is a stark contrast to the burning whiteness of the stars, and Alana whistles quietly. "What do they say? Or sing?"

"It is a hymn to the lady that placed them there. The stars of that waystation we have left never seem to know the tune." Glorfindel muses, leaning on the balustrade, careless of the precipitous drop. "It is lucky the moon is new, elsewise many of these would be hidden from your view."

Alana cranes her neck to look up at him. "What do the stars of Milliways sound like?" she says, tightening her cloak as a buffer against the cool dark.

"They are mute. It is terribly disturbing." He notes, not sounding terribly disturbed at the moment and the breeze ruffles his fine braids. "The trees are quiet as well, though at least they have some voice."

"You can hear the trees, too?" Alana says, turning her gaze to the stars again. "What do they say here?"

"The trees, the rocks... there are many voices in this world." Glorfindel shrugs, contemplating the stars. "As for what they say... they speak of those they knew, the changing of the land."

"My kind doesn't really hear much, do we?" Alana says wistfully, resting her hands on the cold balustrade. "I suspect trees have very good memories. Do the trees of Milliways speak on the same topics?"

"Mostly theirs is a confused mumble. They try their best, though." Glorfindel has a fondness for those poor confused trees, even if they do not make a lot of sense.

Alana chuckles, feeling goosebumps pop up on her arms. "It must be such an odd change," she says. "To have the stars be silent and the trees be confused when you're used to hearing them speak."

"It is certainly disconcerting." Glorfindel agrees, then frowns once he looks down at her. "Your kind are so easily chilled. Come, I will pay for my carelessness before taking you back." He pushes himself off of the stone, heading for an archway different than the one the came through originally.

Alana follows closely behind, grateful that they speak the same language. "Where are we going?"

"There is an inn in the Fourth Circle that makes wonderful meat pies, and I have heard the ale is good." He prefers the wine, which they've learned to stock when the Queen's brothers are in town.

As they descend, the stonework becomes finer, draperies and rugs start appearing - it is also a little warmer, but seeing the entire building is stone, it's not by much.

Alana's eyes track the draperies; she's in awe of all of the colors of the finely woven cloths. "Meat pies?" she says, cocking her head at him. "Those sound good, thank you. Where are we, by the way?"

"The royal citadel - the twins are visiting their sister." The first sighting of other people are the guards that start appearing, tall and still in their watchful duty. They don't dare stop Glorfindel, and if they are curious, they keep it to themselves.

Alana feels out of place in her starburst-flower wrap dress, so she keeps the cloak wrapped around herself and her head down. "The twins? Your lord's sons?"

Glorfindel murmurs assent as they reach the ground floor, the hall treading a line between richly furnished and severely styled. Here there are more staff members, and some of the Royal Court are still in evidence. Persistent folk, he will give them that. The courtyard is alit in torch light, the flames snapping and muttering in the breeze. In the center of the courtyard, the White Tree flourishes. as stark as the guards that surround it.

Alana drinks in the sights, marveling at the White Tree and its selection of guards. She follows Glorfindel closely, wishing to prevent getting lost in the royal citadel. The people in their sumptuous robes and leathers fascinate her, though she has to crane her neck to look up at most of them.

No one dares to question Glorfindel (though a few of the more tenacious court members look tempted), and he chuckles as he leads her to the path down into the city.

"I'll be getting questions about escorting a young lady out of the citadel tomorrow, to be sure." It's only fair, he feels - he had to deal with stories of guests he couldn't account for when Elrond brought people to Imladris.

"Oh, no, I hope you don't get into any trouble on my account," Alana says, smiling a little. She ignores the stares of the guards and court members, ducking her head.

"Nothing I can't handle." He's been talking his way around court hangers-on longer than the country these folk are so proud of has been around. The torch-light continues, casting flickering shadows over the paved path and the intricately pieced stone walls. Even after dark there are people about, along with Guardsmen in their black and silver, the occasional ranger in their green and brown mottled cloaks, and mounted couriers and their fine horses clattering past.

"Well, good," Alana says. "I'd hate to cause trouble."

Alana sticks to the walls, avoiding the mounted couriers. She trails her fingers along the cool stonework, feeling the texture of the city rather than just seeing it.

"Is the inn up ahead?" she asks Glorfindel quietly.

"Yes - see the sign with the red dog?" It's... well, there's certainly a red creature on that hanging sign, and if you squint and look at it sideways, it might be a dog.

It's... rustic!

Alana squints and looks at it sideways. "I think so?" she says doubtfully. "If that's a dog, that is. What's the inn's name? The Scarlet Pup?"

"The Red Hound." Glorfindel corrects, looking amused by her attempt. He pushes his way inside - inside it is warm from the roaring fire in the hearth and the press of bodies. Inside it is loud, with songs and chatter and (mostly) good-hearted ribbing. Inside the air is rich with the scent of baked dinners and house-made ale.

It's a good place to be on a cold night. Glorfindel raises a hand to get the attention of the barliman, then heads for a quieter corner, carving a path mostly by force of elbows. It's clear he's been here often enough that the locals don't care so much about the elf in their midst.