Of The Line Of Estelondo: Percival's Tale.

Chapter 6: When Crisis Arises, The Only Wrong Course Is Taking No Course

Orónëminya felt gentle hands on her shoulders, and looked up, to see Francis gesturing for her to rise. Smiling, she did so, and then watched as Francis began to kneel, and stumbled, but Metimafoa was instantly at his side, as was Bartholomew. Francis waved them off in irritation. "The day I lose the ability to kneel before my king and queen, is the day I die." After a minute of him trying, he finally lowered himself into a kneeling position, and bowed his head. "I served your under your father in the capital, as one of his knights, many years ago. I will serve his line, for as long as I live. I will personally provide you with any resources and services you require."

Orónëminya was so caught off guard by this relatively sudden turn of events, that she had no idea how to respond, as the rest of the family slowly bowed before the heirs of Saironelloistya and Aranellevanima, the Children of Herulepilin, and Herievamornie.

After a moment, she recovered her wits, and said, "Arise, Children of Eru, and now to us no more. We have done nothing to earn your fealty, except to be born into the Royal Family. I would far rather, that if anyone bows before me, it is because of what I have done, not what my ancestors have done. And, more than that, I do not wish to be bowed before in general." An image of Jirah passed before her eyes, the blade of Metimafoa's rapier pertruding out of her mouth, while she gurgled on her own blood. "We are unworthy of such devotion." She concluded quietly. Her voice still high, and melodious, was very clearly tinged with a note that resonated with guilt, and shame.

Elizabeth looked at her, awe still apparent on her face, but curiosity was evident there as well. "What have you done, that you are filled with such shame and guilt?"

Metimafoa went to answer, but Francis raised his hand and stopped him. "They did no more than that which was necessary for their survival. Come, Children. We shall resupply you, and provide you those boats you requested."

Metimafoa grinned. "You do realize the irony of you calling her "child," when she is the oldest person here, right?"

Francis stared Metimafoa down for a moment, before grinning mischievously. "Then she has aged more gracefully than I, my boy. Come along." As they began to walk into the basement, he continued, "so, what resources do you require?" He pulled two large leather bags off of a hook on the wall, and began filling them with ration packs. Reaching over, he took a hand drawn map down off the wall, and carefully rolled it up, handing it to Orónëminya. He packed some rope, and a large piece of flint, into the bags.

Orónëminya answered, "We could use a few canteens, or water skins, if it would not be too much of a burden, but either way, the boats would have been enough. Thank you so much, Sir, for your service. I will remember as long as I live."

Graciously, the man bowed, and handing each of them a bag, he walked away and came back with four empty canteens. "You can fill them in the river," he explained, "while I prepare the two boats." With that he left, out to the docks, leaving Metimafoa and Orónëminya to their own thoughts.

"I honestly, do not understand." Metimafoa stated, watching Sir Francis walk away. "Our family did him no service, in fact, it was quite the opposite. He served our family as a knight." Shooting Orónëminya a glace, he asked quietly, "Did you enchant him?"

Orónëminya shook her head adamantly. "No, I did not enchant him. For some reason, he is grateful to our family, and wishes to help the line of Estelondo." She turned toward Metimafoa, and put a slender, but tan and calloused hand, on his shoulder. "Come on, Metimafoa; we should go fill the canteens."

. . .

Approximately fifteen minutes later, the two siblings were sitting in one canoe, with their supplies in the other, and rowing down the Xitalmar. Xitalmar was from the ancient gnome word Xital, meaning talking, or living, so when the Elves named it in their tongue, they called it Nenquendi, the Water that Speaks.