Dark Fated

Meneldir was not familiar with the

receptiveness of the nursery, but he enjoyed

its immaculate soul. Having grown up

in untamed forests, such a counterfeit

knoll was an outsider idea to him, at this point an

intriguing one.

He looked as butterflies moved over the

blue and yellow blossoms, noticing to the

percolating wellsprings and trilling sparrows,

blended with the tune of far off harps.

Sitting on a seat by the wellspring, he had his

face covered in a book, not perusing, however simply

safeguarding his face from the rest of the world as

his psyche wandered off-track into the extraordinary blues. A

plenty of contemplations entered and left his

little brain, a large portion of interest, some of dread, and

others wonder.

His mission was obvious to him: avoid

undesirable consideration however much as could reasonably be expected

- the expressions of his dad, a man harshly

-

suspicious of the great mythical people.

Yet, perhaps his dad was by and large as well

concerned; these individuals were not that

not quite the same as his own. His dad's neurosis

simply supported his timidity, however he was exhausted.

For seven days he had done just

stay in the illustrious loft and spend his

leisure time in the nursery.

"Perhaps I ought to have a go at talking with a portion of the

younglings," he told himself, "they could like

me and acknowledge me as their companion."

"Be that as it may, I'm a wood-mythical person, quite possibly of the backwoods people,

how might they take it?" his shier self talked

out, "and what might father think about it? Would

he like me talking to a high-mythical person?"

Youthful Meneldir was clashed; he was as well

modest to start a discussion. The downpour of

contemplations whirled around him, suffocating him in

theory. "Ok well," he murmured under his

breath, stunned by the clatter of contemplations.

"Are you lost?" a voice asked suddenly.

He hopped in shock, almost tumbling to the

ground. His most memorable impulse was to go for his

non-existent knife, and second to be

eased for its nonappearance.

As he woke up, he looked at

the little shadow before him: a youngster, no

more established than Meneldir's 94 years, finely

garbed in blue-gold clothing, his satiny dark

hair vacillating in the breeze like a banner; his eyes

shone blue as though two electrical discharges

bobbed inside two finely cut sapphires

1

it was not normal for anything Meneldir had seen

previously.

"Gracious, sorry, I didn't intend to surprise you," he

expanded his hand, attempting to help Meneldir up.

"I just saw you sitting inactive and glancing around,

also, I thought you were lost or something to that effect. I'm

apologies, I'll simply go."

"No! No! No! Kindly stay!" Meneldir sat up

what's more, investigated the high-mythical being's face.

For a portion of brief they gazed at one another, no

words shared.

Something about him misled Meneldir:

he had frequently known about high-elven ladies and

of their unrivaled effortlessness, yet though their

marvelousness significantly affected him, the kid's simple

look was sufficient to deliver him stunned.

"Gracious, damn it. Where are my habits," the

high-mythical person bowed, "Vilyánur Sarmäcil, at your

administration."

"Meneldir Fionhen at yours," Meneldir stood

up and bowed back, "you have a wondrous

name."

"Much thanks to you, you as well," said Vilyánur, "in spite of the fact that

all the more suitably, my name in your

language would be Lindrúin Lúthmegil. Feel

allowed to call me by all things considered."

"I like Vilyánur more, and you call me Mey,

In any case, every other person does."

"What's more, you can abbreviate my name to Vil,"

Vilyánur answered.

"Okay," Mey saw him, running his

golden eyes all over his figure. The two

of them stood gazing at one another for a

while, flooded with morning light and abnormal

quiet, the two of them excessively modest to begin a

discussion.

"Will we go for a stroll through the nursery?"

proposed Vil.

"As you say," Mey answered, going to Vil's side,

thus they began to walk.

The nursery was genuinely barren at this

season of day, with a large portion of the legislators and

aristocrats being occupied in the court or in the

field. A ways off two legislators walked

through, visiting delicately. Praetorian

Monitors strolled about, their eyes blue and dark

swinging left and right, apparently overlooking the

two as they strolled on intently.

"You're the ruler, right?" asked Vil finally.

"No doubt, the main child and main successor to Lord Arvedui,

successor to the high position of the Woodland Realm, et

cetera and so on... also, you?"

"I'm the lord's nephew; my dad was best

prior to him."

Meneldir

are you..."

gave

him a shocked look, "stand by, so

"The main known child of Eldärion? Yes, that'd

be me."

Out of nowhere Mey was out of words, he was

visiting with conceivably the main living child of

a famous legend who had saved their reality. He

didn't have the foggiest idea what to say.

"Try not to fear. For any remaining intentions, I'm simply

an ordinary high-mythical being youngling, a bashful forlorn

guy who battles to satisfy individuals'

assumptions, and frequently falls flat."

"|-I..."

Mey attempted to talk yet he felt like the

divine beings integrated his tongue with a bunch, "Please accept my apologies for

what befell your dad; his penance

was truly bold, nothing similar to I had at any point seen

previously."

"Tha-" Vil was surprised, "I don't

know whether to say thank you or it's alright,

however, don't stress over it. Also... I genuinely want to believe that you

comprehend."

At last, somebody as modest as me, thought

Meneldir, a sensation of harmony overwhelming him.

"It must've been an incredible misfortune for you, no? To

find out about your dad, the high-lord... fallen

in fight?"

"Not definitely, for I was still in the belly

then, at that point," said Vil, "despite the fact that I wish I might have met

him."

Mey brought down his head in misery, such a

awful misfortune to grow up a vagrant.

"I lost my mom too during the conflict," said

Mey, "I actually review those long periods of happiness,

despite the fact that I was nevertheless twenty then, at that point."

"Gracious, sorry," Vil put his hand on his shoulder, "I

didn't have the foggiest idea... such a misfortune."