"Some things that should not have been forgotten were lost."
Eru Ilúvatar. The Creator. The Father of all within Eä. It was he who began it, the shaping of the universe and its inhabitants. He bore knowledge in all things; knowledge of things that w...
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2933 TA. March 8th. Eastern Eriador. The Elven Kingdom of Imladris ﴾Rivendell﴿
Hitherto, it was a serene setting, against which to digest the implications of his election to bring her here. Forthwith, it was a storm, an aberration from calmness and clarity to chaos and confusion. The call of the elf horn rang out all the clear. It did not pass unheeded - a caveat to all who resided beyond the ethereal veil and within the elven valley.
The lyrical sounds of nature lulled. In its place, a fuse of clamant cries. Dismay... fear... tangible exigency and arduous commands from those held in authority. Imladris, a sanctuary for those seeking safety and solace upon the face of it, began to unravel.
BOOM...!
BOOM......!
Twice, and then thrice again, it came - a deafening explosion, a plume of iridescent purple light. Seismic waves nether the earth grew to a great tumult, rolling and shaking. Sharp they were, forcing the commonly unfaltering elves off their feet. Elrond's estate was sound, albeit invulnerable...?
Alabẙran fought to look forth beyond the cloud of loosened dust and loam. His keen eyes and sharp ears detected the heavy, hastened hammering of stone against stone. The chairs danced yonder from round the table amidst the chambers. Harsh, clangorous percussion pierced the air. Spears and swords belonging to the guards rapped against the tiled rocks. The tramp of feet sounded, Imladris's inhabitants scurrying amidst the area like petrified ants preceding havoc upon their home.
The carefully crafted structure came to crumble. High aloft his head, bits of branches, foliage, gravel, and sizable stones proceeded to fall. The implications of the Green Elf's elections had grown deadly, a deluge of death.
The very breath of his lungs seemed stolen away. An internal war waged on within Alabẙran. His nerves teetered on the precipice of paralyzing panic. Albeit, the innate instinct to survive swiftly set in. For that, he was grateful. Without a second thought, he swiftly surveyed his surroundings.
One...
Two...
Three...
Four...
'Too many,' he thought to none other than himself, 'There are too many! Atar meneldëa Eru órava messë... melin Eru rehta ni!' ﴾God the Father of Heaven, have mercy on us... dear God help me﴿ Recalling his strength, the Green Elf wailed "Ai! Ai! R-rehta! Rehta ni!" ﴾help, help me﴿ Loud his voice bellowed, like the bawl from a Balrog. Embitterment deemed his efforts fruitless as he carried on his call for what felt like eons. Yet hope remained within Alabẙran, for a wellspring of renewed fairing and faith arose.
Like the coming of dawn, so came the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower. Upon his breast he bore a rayed sun. He was tall, and his form was straight. Long were his lustrous tresses, like strands of golden sunlight upon the shining sea. His face was ageless and fair. Bright were his eyes, their beryl-blue stain reflecting joy and wisdom. His hands were able, and within his body he bore strength and a slight for song.
