They had long been riding west upon expeditious and stead of hoof mounts, albeit it was cumbersome and problematical for the young page, as both Price and Princesses mounts bore them ever more swiftly than that of his age-burdened errand steed. So it was that He and the Page trailed ever slack behind, as siblings pressed ever unceasing in their journey, furthermore, Ellemire’s steed, whom she honored so and held so dear, Beren, galloped unceasingly, swan-like neck outstretched, hooves drumming a rhythmic cadence, and seemed to the keenest eye to be a chestnut sea striving to overtake a burnished obsidian shore-namely that of her brother’s steed, Maeglin. The sun now sat upon her throne, and her red and gold stallions that drew her chariot pranced among the hoary clouds. Songbirds warbled audibly, welcoming the Sun, as if it was her first birth. The land swelled as though it were a green sea, up to the very foot of mountains. A stream that had trickled like a hoary serpent amongst the folds of the earth, vanished into a deeper growth of cresses and water plants, and it could be heard tinkling away in green tunnels, down along gentle slopes towards the fens of the Arcane Vale.

Mountains rose like a bald ogre’s pate from the misty plains that they traversed in great haste. The zenith of the mountains were sunlit, if not rather hazy, and you could not see very far, as dew from the early morn was a hoary vapor that puffed and billowed above the grass, like land-born clouds, before dispersing into the sky to become true clouds. Near at hand the dew was gone; though it crowned the tip of the hill-top like a wreathe of white smoke, and rose like steam from a hoary river that chuckled and muttered to itself as it wound its way indolently through the foot of the plain. They seemed to have left winter clinging to the high mountains, as the air here was warm and agreeable, and it seemed as though spring was here, and sap was again stirring in the great green things of life, though those folk that dwelled in the wrinkled visage of the mountain still looked upon the sparring of the White Queen of Winter as she crossed her blade fashioned of ice with that of Spring, and her chill shriek of indignation and rage as Spring ever had the audacity to step upon the trailing train of her pallid gown still rang ever in their ears.

Luminosity swaned on the hoary miasma of din that was the brook. Now and again muted flashes of lustrous plumes of mist crested the sway of the brook, to ripple silent into the very Eye Of Heaven. A mischievous wind was in flight, more joyous than the russet swallows that swooped and intertwined amongst the stippled canopy of the immense antediluvian trees in the wood, and as heedless as a toddling babe evading its mother’s reaching grasp. It swept recklessly through the burnished blue tipped grass, making waves and boisterous patterns like golden silt on the bed of a prominent river. It seized the boughs of the towering old trees and deprived them of their jade brood, sending the young leaves in acrobatic spirals and dives, and tousled their polished tips, to reveal the luminous silver of their undersides. It doubled and twisted back on itself, always to vex a new thing of nature. It roiled and skimmed over rivers and brooks, so that the glassy silver and cerulean waters merged and distorted so faultily, it simply became a miasma of sound and color, naught more. The wind finally died down into what could have been a nature’s sigh, and slowly rose up indolently on warmer drafts of air, as if were a frisking hound suddenly having to be called reluctantly to its master’s side. As it rose nevertheless, it stirred the pollen from the drowsily nodding heads of the Xindella flower, and flung it aloft into the wind-washed sky. At length, nestled within the ardent embrace of mountain's whose pates were enshrouded in mist, as though smoke billowed from great pipes round their crowns as they drew meditatively upon aged and wooden stems, their village drew nigh.

Weary mounts cast downcast heads upward, great, wrinkled, velvet nostrils dragging at the air, ears canted forth and straight, like that of a docked ship’s sails aquiver before cast off from a dock, minute whickers of divine knowledge and pleasure escaping once silent throats, bugles peeling like bronze and silver bells...home drew nigh. Beren and Maeglin, maws seizing and drawing upon their iron bits, began to fair dance with the anticipation of warmed waters and newly harvested oats, lifted hooves long grown burdened with the furlongs and the undertone of iron-clad hooves, and proceeded, somber as mourners in the rain, to proceed forth in a stately affair of a trot of their own accord, without further prompting from those astride.

So it came to pass that the royal train wound through the secluded mountain villa. To the unkeen eye, the villa was nothing but so much rough hewn wooden chalets with steeply pitched roofs or idle sloping ones, chimneys perched upon them like multi-hued ravens, particularly fond of gazing down, sternly, at passerby as some hapless bard or other made their way down the paved cobblestone paths that wound from residence to residence, and meandered like drunken youths into the humbled patches of joint gardens and stables, and into he plains and foothills beyond. It was, in fact, a hornet’s nest for the unwary, and as Ellemire’s sea-hued eyes took in the seemingly humble topography, she felt a great swell of pity for an addled-wit who came to this clandestine empire. For while a bard’s wandering eyes and mind may pass like rain in the mountains over the seemingly innocuous villa, Ellemire marked well the large cobbled wall, the self-same hue of the russet mountains and sparse vegetation, as well as the cunningly hidden watchtowers, turrets, and Aid-Fires, as well as the series of concealed passageways that held into the cold heart of the mountain to secret away the infirm in times of war and strife.

Earth-festooned youths tumbled about the cobbled paths, pursued by sly-eyed and wide-mawed hounds, and plump bellied pups, shouting and shrieking with fits of belly-laughter, or setting the bowl aring with the clash of wooden swords, sending chickens scattering like pallid marbled strewn by a giant’s hand, with naught but a snow-spatter of feathers and shrill warbles of irate distress. A group of small girls sat in a stippled patch of sunlight, small hands daintily weaving together a necklace garland of daises and dark-eyed violets, scowling their disapproval the boy’s rabble. All but one. Ellemire’s eyes widened, taken aback. The corners of her lips tugged upward, then won their battle as a smile settled in place of haunted and grim compression of her lips, as a small maiden with crimson-hued hair swept the feet from beneath the lad she had engaged in a mock sword-fight. With all the bright furor of molten rock her hair spilled across her chest, along the ravines of her shape to her white ankles. Orange-red, indeed, as flames, he gently waved cascade illuminated the soft darkness around her. Every hair upon the young maiden’s body was of the same hue, even upon her arms and eyelashes. “Do you yield?” Inquired the maiden, her youthful voice a piping as that of a reed-warbler’s, her wooden sword point raising a pallid star-prick of flesh upon the boy’s throat. “Never!” gasped out the defiant youth, still too prideful and arrogant to admit defeat at the hands of a woman.

The Fire Maiden, as Ellemire had come to call her, as she had not the proper calling of her, drove the wooden point of her sword still further into the boy’s neck. “I have given you quarter,” she said, drawing herself up regally and speaking with all the authority of a five-year-old. “I ask again-do you yield?” The boy spat in reply. A weak gesture-the spittle dripped down his chin in a uncouth manner. Ellemire, upon hearing this, slid in a motion like liquid sunlight from astride her mount, unsheathed her sword, and stood beside the Fire Maiden, her own sword point resting pale and chill against the boy’s throat. “Do you yield now?” She inquired, in a voice that was at once amber and silk and steel. The boy swallowed audibly, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He nodded in an barely perceptible manner. As one, she and the Fire Maiden withdrew their swords. With a nod that acknowledges one Knight from another Knight, Ellemire inclined her head. “Well done, little Fire Maiden.”

So saying, Ellemire inclined her head, and kissed the muddy brow of the child. He narrowed his eyes and shifted upon the mount, nearly sliding off its broad backside as he did so. She had lowered her voice to a volume perceptible only by the breeze. There came a golden flash-its luster snuffed a swiftly as a candle’s wick in the breeze as the child’s hand closed round it. Then, gyrating swiftly upon her heel, He watched as Ellemire remounted, and without a word, pressed on.

At length, the clatter of hooves upon the cobble caused the sentries to unbar the gates and sound the trumpets, calling home the two sole heirs as they clattered into the courtyard. Another page stepped forth to hold fast to Æethelflæd and Ellemire’s steed’s heads, only to have Æethelflæd slide from his charger’s steaming and sweat-flecked back. Æethelflæd tossed the waiting Page the reins of Maeglin with a curtness born of exasperation and rage, before storming into the castle without so much as a glance or acknowledging nod of his Men that gave forth all encompassing bows to his rank. Ellemire slid from Beren’s back, and with a murmured word of thanks and dismissal to the page, took hold of Maeglin’s and Beren’s reins, and lead them towards the stables.

Dust moats danced in the fallow gold bars of light as Ellemire curried Beren’s chestnut coat, humming an ancient verse or other learned from their local Minstrel as she swept dirt and sweat from his coat and teased cockleburs and tangles from his mane and tail. Beren took fright of a sudden, and cast his head upward, as the heavy, double-binary oaken doors to the barn are cast back with a resounding crash against the cobbled stonework. Ellemire placed a soothing hand upon his nose and murmured consoling into his ear to quiet him. She turned a furrowed brow to the door, to see who would dare demonstrate such reckless behavior around such high-strung chargers. Her disapproving look turns to one of great concern, however, for it is none other than Æethelflæd stalking in a black mood down the aisles. Whatever she may have desired to ask or question dies upon her lips. Without a word, she is at his side, even as he flings open the door to Maeglin’s stall, and proceeds to tack him upon with deft, precise, hands. Within moments, she is taught the meaning of haste, as with a curt gesture, he waves her aside, and buries his heels in a forceful manner into the sides of Maeglin, barreling out of the stall and out of the barn, stray bits of hay and dirt blown into forgotten corners in their wake, with only the fading refrains of Maeglin's hoofbeats to keep her company.