Dol Amroth

~Dol Amroth~

“How was the magistrate?” Belegorn teased playfully, his normally deep baritone voice jumping an octave higher to a normal man’s voice, looking bereft of the squire Baranor whom he had unceremoniously dumped into a local stable’s haybale. He carried his distinctive feathered-helmet in the crook of his arm and waved with his free hand.

After she had been dismissed, Isulril fell into a melancholic state. She ate little, and kept to her bed. Time was something both stilted and fleeting. Time kept her in a glass case, much like a butterfly specimen. She waited for she knew not what.

Soon, she began to waste away. Her body, once decidedly voluptuous, had now become thinner and frail. Her skin became nearly sallow, and there was a faint darkness beneath her eyes. She was weak, she was tired. Very little happened.

“Find him. Find him, and pull out what we want to know. For Gondor, Amenadil.” 
“Understood, ma’am.” 
 
Those were the last words they shared before his departure. 
 
 

"I love you." It was simple enough yet complicated to say, and so when it came from Isulril's mouth, she found herself shocked. "I love you," she had insisted.

She remembered the day as though it were yesterday, when her lord had come to the apartments he had kept for her, when he was sitting in his study there, looking through some documents. He had looked up at her, apparently somewhat stunned by the admission.

Standing by the fire, the pale woman was clad only in her chemise, her feet bare, long black locks falling to her waist. She looked into the embers, and thought of the previous evening, standing by the fire in the common room of the Prancing Pony.