NationStates Jolt Archive

Mephet'ran stood behind his wife, twitching his finger at a holographic image, causing it to pause in mid-motion. The news show had been discussing the matter of a recent 'diplomatic marriage' between Pantocratoria and Roania. He rubbed his hands along her shoulders, and leaned down a little over the seated elf. "Poor kid," he said, after a moment, "I wonder what she did to deserve that..."

"I don't know," Sirithil answered. "I wonder how she feels about it."

"Probably resigned, I suppose. How would you feel about a forced marriage to a Roanian?"

"I'd be pretty annoyed about it," mused the Elentári. "And, knowing what cowards most Roanians are, I'd make it quite clear to my prospective spouse that the union would operate on my terms."

He frowned at her, "Unfortunately, I doubt she's had he upbringing to make that kind of stand..."

"Well, she'll have to learn, I think. A pity so few in Pantocratoria actually understand Roanians."

"Here's an idea," Mephet'ran said, "why not bring her here, and train her to be a little more independant... It'd be fun for us, and Sirithil smiled brightly. "I think that'd be a great idea."

"And I have just the idea how to persuade them to let us too..." he said...she'd benefit from it immensely, especially when having to deal with her future husband," he shivered a little.

----

The letter was sealed with a blue circle, with a golden border, and a sunburst in the centre, with silver stars, four evenly spaced Menelmacari dagger-stars and twelve lesser, four sided stars each with a point touching the golden edge, in the case of the dagger-stars, the longest point. Handwritten, it bore the words "Given in Vinyatírion to be given into the hands of Andrus the First, Emperor of Pantocratoria."

Sirithil Nalosaurawen Finlaurë Aineldalië Minyavendë to Andreus of the line of the Emperors of Rûm, greeting: the Valar keep you and may no shadow fall upon the Empire of Islands.

In that We have observed Your intent to wed your daughter, Zoë Capet to the heir apparent of Our vassal Adrik Alexei Chyornyev of the Divine Imperium of Roania, we request that she be made available for Our approval of this union. It is our wish that we are afforded more time with the princess to assure ourselves of her suitability for a match with our humble servants in Roania.

Therefore we request that You dispatch Her Highness to Our capital of Vinyatírion for a period of Our leisure, that should allow us to become familiar with Your daughter, and educate her as necessary in the correct means to engage with Roanian culture.

During such time, be assured that she will be extended every courtesy of Menelmacar, and treated in the manner that would be accorded to Our own child, as well as housed and kept in a manner similar to that to which she is accustomed and fitting to her station.

We shall tolerate whatever entourage You desire in accompaniment of the princess, though naturally We are quite capable of keeping her appropriately ourselves. However, we are aware that it is the custom that princesses of Your court are chaperoned at all times, and will not interfere with this beyond the necessities of our own security procedures.

Manwë keep you under the One, and send fair wind to your sails.

http://members.optusnet.com.au/a_marrington/ns/achievement.gif

Sirithil Nalosaurawen Finlaurë Aineldalië Minyavendë
Elentári of Menelmacar

Soeur, votre Majesté impériale,

We pray God that this letter finds You in good health, sister, and that Your recent marriage to Monsieur l'Empereur des C'tans is as fulfilling as You and His Majesty had hoped it would be. It was Our sincerest pleasure to attend Your wedding, and We hope and expect that Your marriage lives up to the promise of that spectacular event. We trust that You and His Majesty are enjoying every happiness in Your new life together.

We naturally recognise Your rights as liege lady of Our brother, His Divine Illuminated Majesty the Tsar of Novar Ohan, to grant or withhold approval in matters concerning the succession to Your vassal's throne, including matters surrounding the marriage of the heir apparent thereto, His Serene Highness the Grand Duke of Agua. We enjoy similar rights over Our vassals, and would not think to deny You of such a right, even in the matter of the marriage and happiness of Our own daughter, a subject very near to Our heart, as You will appreciate.

We shall arrange for Her Imperial Highness to attend You at Your court in Vinyatírion at Our earliest convenience. As You will appreciate, at her tender age, it is of paramount importance that an entourage accompany Her Highness which includes not just her personal staff and guard, but also her tutors so that her studies will not be neglected. We trust that the customs of her staff and the requirements of her tutors will not be unduly disrupted. Naturally We have every confidence in Your hospitality, and feel sure that Our daughter will enjoy her stay with You, sister, in addition to prove her suitability as a match for the Grand Duke of Agua to You.

Given by Our hand at the Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator on the feast day of Saint Bieuzy in the thirty first year of Our reign, with Our sincerest fraternal regards to Your Imperial Majesty,

ANDREUS
By the Grace of God, Emperor of Pantocratoria, Autocrator of the Romans, Caesar Augustus, King of France and Navarre, Equal of the Apostles, God's Vicegerent on Earth, et al.

Sirithil Nalosaurawen Finlaurë Aineldalië Minyavendë to Andreus of the line of the Emperors of Rûm...

OOC: I find it interesting that you've decided to use the Arabic name for Rome here? I'm wondering if this is a translation from Quenya or French, and what made you choose that translation. Just a little bit of linguistic curiosity. :)

Oh, and welcome back from the hiatus!

/taggy goodness

OOC: I find it interesting that you've decided to use the Arabic name for Rome here? I'm wondering if this is a translation from Quenya or French, and what made you choose that translation. Just a little bit of linguistic curiosity. :)

OOC: While Sirithil may well speak and read Arabic, this is not actually, in context, the meaning. It is in fact, untranslated from the elvish rendering, which is indeed Rûm as well. There are in fact, two names in elvish (I'm uncertain which type, but probably Sindarin in both cases) for Rome, Rûm, a literal copy, and the far less flattering Magbar, meaning home-of-slaughter - possibly a reference to either imperialism, or more likely, the rather repellant spectacle of the roman 'games.' Romans is Rúmhoth (this is definately Sindarin, and also perjorative. -hoth being Sindarin for crowd or host (military context), from the Quenya root -hossë, but in Sindarin, this word is used generally to reffer to those not liked by the elves, orchoth, for example, is 'the orcs' in Sindarin. -rim is another word meaning the same as -hoth, but applied to not so wicked armies).

"...by... myself?" Zoë asked for clarification, frowning in surprise.

"With your staff of course." the Emperor clarified.

The pair were talking in the Philippe-Auguste room of the French Suite in the Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator. The Emperor was seated on a cushioned bench, the stitching of which was reminiscent of medieval tapestry, in an almost relaxed pose, while his youngest daughter was standing two yards in front of him, her back to a large (but anachronistic for the Philippe-Auguste period) suit of polished armour. The two Varangians in the room were themselves like another two pieces of furniture, silent and unmoving.

"But, without you, Sire?" Zoë asked again.

"Yes, without me." the Emperor nodded. "Without anybody. You will be the Elentári's personal guest."

"I've... never gone anywhere except as part of your court or in the entourage of another family member, Sire." Zoë said anxiously. "Why did Her Majesty invite me alone, father?"

"As the Tsar of Roania is a vassal of the Elentári, she is entitled to approve or disapprove of marriages to the Tsar or his heirs. In order to approve or disapprove of you, Her Majesty would like you to spend some time in her company, Zoë." the Emperor explained. "She and I have arranged it, you will take your staff and tutors with you, it won't disrupt your studies at all. You seemed to like what you saw of Menelmacar at the Elentári's wedding..."

"I'm not sure I'd like to live there, though." Zoë said, a little frightened and excited at the same time. Menelmacar had been fascinating, but it had also been very alien. She wasn't sure whether she'd like to live in an Elven palace, even though she was sure it would be very beautiful and exotic. "How... how long am I to stay there for, Papa?"

"For however long it takes for the Elentári to make her decision." the Emperor replied, himself a little anxious about the indeterminate length of Zoë's stay in Vinyatírion, although he didn't show it.

"But... that could be... well, it could be a long time. They're elves, they like to consider things more slowly than humans do, after all. Sometimes they contemplate important decisions longer than the length of a human life!" Zoë exclaimed, her mixture of anxiety and excitement becoming more volatile as the idea had time to sink in. "Maybe it would just be easier, you know, if I didn't marry Sebastian."

"You will be marrying Monsieur le Grand Duc, Zoë." the Emperor replied, disapprovingly. "And Her Majesty won't take that long to make up her mind. Who could object to their vassal's heir marrying such an accomplished young lady?"

Zoë blushed - it was very rare for the Emperor to compliment any of his children. It was enough to make her momentarily forget that he was going to make her get married to an immature Roanian boy two years younger than her. She smiled quietly and then went over to join the Emperor on the bench.

"I'll try to make a good impression, Papa." she replied, granting her assent to the stay in Vinyatírion, even though it wasn't sought after. The Emperor took her hand in his, patted it, and gave her an approving look, although naturally he didn't smile.

Maglor nos Fëanor watched as the vehicle carrying the Pantocratorian princess set down at the airport outside Vinyatírion – technically called a gravport, but quite capable of landing conventional aircraft. On either side of him, a column of three Mornahossë guards stood ready, not quite at attention, but almost motionless as his robes were whipped in the wind by the landing. He waited for her to descend, and smiled as she did so, bowing just a little in his

“Bienvenue a Menelmacar mademoiselle, je m’appelle Maglor nos Fëanor. Je serai ici pour ta gouverne pendant que votre séjour. Ils seront un plaisir accompagner vous à le palais,” he gestured with a flourish to a grounded gravitational car behind him. He gestured to one of the more plainly dressed attendants of the airport, and, switching back to his native tongue, instructed them to see to the needs of the princess’s miniature court.

He turned, and opened the rear door of vehicle, a sort of open-topped stretch limousine with a deep red bodywork and a purple-and-black interior. Maglor managed to look quite confused for a moment as a Pantocratorian chaperone entered with Zoë, unbidden. That in itself seemed, to Maglor’s mind, quite extraordinary. He walked around to the other side of the vehicle, having decided that the princess clearly wasn’t allowed to do much of anything alone.

Various other vehicles moved in to ferry the rest of the princess’ miniature court and her possessions, as the first vehicle moved off down towards the city, built around straights, much like Constantinople, and mostly dominated by a style of architecture designed to maximise the use of this space without having to build unnecessarily into the mountains on the north (the major mountain there being rather undesireable as a building sight due to being above the home of the military, and thus, rather a prominent target for attack) and south sides of the city. This resulted in a lot of tapering high-rise towers, frequently sporting balconies of greenery, or set amid groves of tropical – the entire region, was after all, very warm – trees. There were surprisingly few aerial vehicles of a similar nature to the one they were in visible in the city, although thousands of elves, humans, and other races could be seen going about their business below. One of the two most notable structures was the place they were headed towards, a glimmering combination of many structures, which, through cunning design, looked as if they contained far less space than they truly did. The other, a large ship-like construct in the sea off to the east, made of white metals, and shaped broadly like a snowflake with similar towers, although they were somewhat more angular, rising from it.

The car eventually came to rest in an open-air landing bay in the side of one of the palace’s towers – a more functional structure that essentially held the majority of the palace’s vehicles as well as other heavy equipment. Maglor hopped out over the side, and, after opening Zoë’s door, held out a hand for her. “Would you preffer to meet my mother immediately, or to get settled in first?” he asked, again in french.

OOC EDIT: Oui, my french sucks, I've not had to use it in about four or five years, and was never much good at it beyond pronunceation anyway. However, Maglor's not spoken the language for about four or five centuries, so it all works out.

And no, neither babelfish or any other translator was involved.

It was not entirely without anxiety that Princess Zoë climbed down the steps from the 747 to the gravport's landing pad, clad in a formal New Rome court gown, delicately embroidered with gold and silver thread in ornate patterns and edged with lace around the wrists. Her hair was even more delicately done up into a bun of tight curls, some of which were allowed to fall about the sides of her face. She was followed by her ladies in waiting and staff in strict order of precedence as she made her way down the steps to Maglor. She bit her lower lip lightly as she listened politely to Maglor's out-of-practice French.

"Thankyou for your kind welcome, Your Highness." Zoë replied with a curtsey. "It is an honour to be escorted to the palace by a prince of such noble birth."

She was followed into the grav-limousine by her chaperone, a dour looking middle-aged woman, dressed in a similar, if less lavishly decorated gown. She looked out over the city, marvelling at it as they flew through the air and finally came to rest in one of the palace towers.

"Whichever is Her Majesty's preference, monsieur." Zoë answered in reply to his question. "If she would like to see me as soon as possible, I will come with you immediately. If she would prefer to wait a little... either way would be agreeable to me, monsieur."

Maglor nodded, “I shall check,” he said, closing his eyes for a moment and leaning forwards against the side of the vehicle.
----

In the ‘royal’ suite of Fëanor palace, Sirithil smiled, and sent a reply to Maglor’s query. She smiled a little as she massaged her husband’s shoulders softly, “Is something the matter?” he asked. Mephet’ran smiled and dropped some of his work as he did so, tossing a handheld computer onto a pile - it was a letter, vaguely similar to the papal encyclical, addressed to the ‘Congregation of Thelas.’

On other data-pads and papers liberally piled onto the table, belonging to both partners were numerous other pieces, including ‘documents of ennoblement’ – for a duchess, the Taraskovyan Archduchess Vethara – now, or soon to be, also Duchess of the city of Khamesti (or in full, Kheper-kekui-kha-mesti, the custom of naming cities on Duat was… terrifying now that they’d run out of short names) in the Duat province of Aterat no less. Less interesting were a few reports on prominent business engagements and letters from foreign leaders, invitations, and so on.

Leaning forwards a little, she laughed, reading the document he was writing over his head, “Not really. That was Maglor, I told him that we’d have Zoë join us for breakfast.”

“Oh,” he said, “We’re having a guest, humm,” he picked up a small bell, and rung it once, causing a tall, dark haired elf dressed in a two-piece outfit to enter hastily. She was dressed in a surprisingly short skirt and jacket made of some kind of dark green silk, embroidered with black threads - surprisingly enough, she also had high-heeled boots, something extremely rare for an elf, but due to some whimsy, they were part of the indoors uniform of the palace servants, as well as delicate gloves and an elaborate rose-gold thread pattern around her jacket’s shoulders and collar. The maid curtsied a little, and Mephet’ran smiled, “Liëssa, we will be having a guest for dinner, prepare the table for three in the dining room,” he said.

The former Etarosi queen nodded, “Yes Ranah,” she said, and disappeared back through the door. Sirithil closed her eyes for a moment…

----

After a moment, he smiled, “She will see you immediately. You are to join Siri and her husband for breakfast…” he said informally, he raised his arms a little, and twitched his wrists, shooing the princess towards a lift in a vaguely playful manner.

Moments later, they entered a small room with a large panoramic window overlooking the city, based around a moderate sized table made of a fine black wood called Lebethron, carved with an intricate pattern of ivory inlays. Maglor plucked a seat out and held it out for her, “Please, be seated,” he said, before leaving the room, waving over his shoulder jauntily as he did so.

----

The Elentári entered the room through another door a few moments later, dressed in a simple – by her standards – teal and amethyst robe made of a thick, somewhat reflective fabric, apparently a dressing gown of some sort, accompanied by matching slippers. Her husband, a few steps behind, in a similarly violaceous garment, different only in that it was done up to the neck, unlike his wife’s, whose neckline plunged rather deeply.

Sirithil’s French, unlike her son’s, was flawlessly delivered, “Good morning dear, welcome to Menelmacar,” she glanced at “It’s nice to see you again, I see you’ve grown a little, so quickly,” the towering elf smiled, and glanced at the Pantocratorian’s chaperone, “You won’t be needed for the morning my dear, I’m sure you will find someone to show you your rooms and so forth outside, first left.”

---
OOC: As always, subject to editing when Siri gets her pampered elfy ass back on IRC.

Zoë watched on with considerable unease as Maglor communicated telepathically. She had heard that elves had various sorcerous powers, and had tried to prepare herself for them, but she still couldn't help but feel uncomfortable. She put that aside when Maglor informed her of Sirithil's response, and smiled weakly in response to his vaguely flirty demeanour. Was it flirty? It was certainly playful. Zoë couldn't be sure.

When the Elentári and the Emperor of the Ctan entered the room, Zoë got immediately out of the seat Maglor had seated her in, and curtsied. She blushed in surprise when she realised that the royal couple had deigned to receive her in their dressing gowns and pyjamas. Well, dressing gowns anyway... they didn't seem to be wearing pyjamas.

"Thankyou, Your Majesty." Zoë replied to the remark that she had grown a little. The next remark unsettled her a touch - between the sorcery and the dressing gowns, Zoë wasn't sure she was ready to be deprived of her chaperone just yet, not that she thought the middle-aged woman would be much good if anything untoward was to happen. She glanced over to her chaperone, who looked to Zoë to be excused. After a few moments, she nodded.

"His Majesty the Emperor asked me to convey to Your Majesties his greetings and regards." Zoë added as the chaperone left the room.

The C’tani Elenaran sat down and smiled, “Thank you,” he said, “it’s most pleasing to receive and return such good wishes. When you next communicate with your father, please be sure to send him my fond regards.” He spoke in Sindarin, a language with grammar rules superficially similar to those of welsh, with a rather different – and usually more economical sounding – vocabulary. While Zoë was aware of the sounds, she was also aware of their meanings, as though somehow translations were being whispered to her.

Sirithil sat down and leaned back in the chair, stretching her back slightly, tilting her swanlike neck back, “And likewise for myself certainly,” she said, “Do sit down darling,” she added, waving with one hand back towards the chair where Zoë had previously been seated, “you’re going to get very tired if you jump up like that each time you see us.”

Mephet’ran smiled a little, and one of the servants came back into the room, and set a plate with two unopened eggs in silver eggcups down in front of Zoë, with a china bowl of a cereal with thinly sliced pieces of strawberries and other fruits. The servant supplied the same meal to Sirithil, and left the room. Mephet’ran, leaning on his elbows, smiled and watched Zoë curiously, it seemed.

Zoë was visibly unnerved when she realised that she could understand Mephet'ran's Sindarin. She surpressed a surprised yelp and forced herself to smile and nod in reply. At Sirithil's command she sat back down and calmed herself down. She was in Menelmacar, of course things would be different from how things were back home... they would just take some getting used to.

"Thankyou, madame." Zoë replied.

She watched as the servant came in and laid a breakfast tray in front of her, and then in front of Sirithil, and surveyed its contents. She frowned slightly at the sight of the boiled eggs, their shells still fully intact, and looked self-consciously up at the imperial couple opposite. She shifted uncomfortably when she noticed that Mephet'ran seemed to be studying her rather intently. She had never opened her own eggs before, and while it was pretty easy to work out what to do, she wasn't confident that she'd be able to do it without making a mess, and she didn't want to do that in front of the Elenaran and the Elentari. She looked up at Mephet'ran again.

"Are you not joining us for breakfast, monsieur?" she asked, while waiting politely for Sirithil to start before she did so herself.

Mephet’ran smiled, “No, I don’t require food, at least, not this kind, anyway,” he said. “I occasionally do so for the sake of appearance, but it’s not really essential.” Sirithil casually dispatched the tops of her eggs and set about eating, as Mepeht’ran continued to watch Zoë.

"Oh. Pardon my ignorance, monsieur." Zoë replied quietly and looked back down at her eggs.

Those proud, defiant eggs. Never had eggs been so insolent as to stubbornly refuse to be opened already by the time they had been placed in front of her! Zoë raised her teaspoon a little nervously, and cracked the side of the first egg, before prying the top off - rather neatly in fact. The determined frown on her face turned into a self-satisfied smile as she proceeded to consume the egg's yolk, leaving the egg white untouched. She didn't think she had ever tasted a better boiled egg! A glance at the Elenaran reminded her that Mephet'ran was watching her every move, and her self-satisfaction with her accomplishment became a little less evident.

"It was very kind of you, madame, to send His Highness to greet me." Zoë offered. "And kind on his part too, of course."

The Elentári watched Zoë with quiet amusement as she approached eating an egg with determination, and then proceeded into fussing over exactly what she ate. The elf smiled when she’d finished and rose, waiting for Zoë to do likewise, “Oh you needn’t worry, Lotsë,” a term, if Zoë could recall her Quenya, would recognize as ‘flower,’ “it’s nothing at all; we’ve got to drag him out of his chambers sometimes,” she grinned playfully, “or he’ll turn into a hermit. You can’t be very comfortable dressed up like that,” she said, after a few moments of contemplation, “Perhaps I should take you to have some new outfits fitted – we can call it ‘fitting in with the local culture’ if anyone asks.”

It took Zoë a few moments to remember the meaning of lotsë, but she worked it out eventually. She rose in a hurry when Sirithil rose, even though just a few moments before breakfast the Elentári had waved off her jumping up and down when her hosts did so. Her observation about Zoë's attire not being very comfortable was correct, although the Pantocratorian Princess had long since learned not to be bothered by the long, restrictive skirts, the delicate and vaguely ridiculous frilly decorations around her wrists, or the tight, stiff corset around her waist. She barely noticed any of the things which made New Rome court fashion so impractical until she did something which was in anyway physically demanding, that was, which was when the whole ensemble became absolutely unbearable. Her familiarity with New Rome court fashion aside, she was quite keen on being allowed to wear elven clothes. The idea was quite a glamorous one, in fact.

"Oh yes, I'd like that very much, Your Majesty." Zoë nodded enthusiastically. "I'm only dressed like this because that is how one dresses for the Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator, after all. In Pantocratoria when one visits lesser palaces, one dresses in the particular fashioin of that palace. It would be quite inappropriate for me to continue to dress as I would for a foreign court now that I am a guest here in Vinyatírion. I am sure the Emperor would be most displeased with me if I didn't try to fit in."

Sirithil disappeared into the next room briefly, her step light and ethereal as she flitted over the plain burgundy carpet of the room, and Mephet’ran, suddenly, and instantly, changed his garments, walking over to the window at the curved edge of the room, looking over the shining ocean and tall spires of the city. Mephet’ran’s garb was changed to a long robe, something like a greatcoat, that pinched in at the waist to exaggerate the ‘V’ shape of his back, and flared from there to stop an inch or so above the ground, patterned with white and green colours, with pentagonal bursts of colour, pointing downwards, in greens browns and incandescent sky blues. The peacock-themed outfit was somewhat obscured by his long, glossy hair, he raised his arm and twitched his fingers in her direction, gold ring on his forefinger flashing, beckoning her over.

“What do you think?” he asked, nodding to the vista outside the window. It looked out over the bay of the city, with a panoply of tall buildings that merged with one another in style, each designed to fit into the environment around it, creating a merging effect where different styles of architecture blended into one another.

"It's very different to New Rome, monsieur," Zoë said, walking up behind him, visibly uneasy and even afraid, staying a few paces away from him, looking out of the window squinting a little in the sunlight. "Very... vanima... it's like... natural... like a city that's grown out of the ground, like a forest. Your Majesty, may I…"

Sirithil returned, dressed in a scarlet and pink robe similar in cut to Mephet’ran’s but emphasising her hips a little more than his did. She laid her slender hands on the girl’s shoulders, “Ready to go?” she asked, looking behind her.

“Yes madame,” Zoë said, sighing a little with relief, and obediently trotted along after the Elentári, leaving the room and crossing through a few corridors. Mephet’ran followed them into an elevator, which did not seem to move as it descended, and the doors opened mere seconds after they closed, the level indicators inside the lift having descended by several levels – it used an obscure base-twelve system of Quenya numbering, too, making it rather more complex to interpret than it otherwise would have been.

The atrium beyond was on two levels, with a balcony hanging over it, and a dozen elves wandering around from door to door. In the centre of the room was a high fountain that contrived to make water flow upwards in shallow channels around the edge, it was a cunning if showy trick of technology, rather than magic. The Elentári walked across the chamber’s marble pavement, and through a glass door that opened at her approach, into a workshop of sorts.

Like the room floors above it had a wide window looking out on the city, but it was dominated by rolls of ornate fabrics in hundreds of colours in high racks that spread from floor to ceiling. Several outfits were sitting around on tables or hangers in various stages of completion. An elderly-looking elf – it was perhaps because he was wearing glasses, and had slightly greyed hair, rather than actual effects of aging, rose, and spoke briefly with the Elentári in the welsh-sounding Sindarin. He walked over, and bowed slightly, “Good morning your highness, may I ask what you would like?” he asked in slightly accented English.

Zoë took a moment to process that the dress maker was speaking in English - she understood the language, she just wasn't expecting it. She blinked at him once or twice before his meaning became clear to her.

"Oh!" Zoë replied. She characteristically bit her lower lip lightly as she thoughtfully looked about the workshop. She ran her hand over a roll of delicate teal-coloured fabric, astonished by how fine it was. She glanced at Sirithil, trying to study her dress without appearing to stare. She moved about the other rolls of fabrics and half-completed dresses, quietly admiring them and considering her decision carefully.

"I'm not sure I'm tall enough to pull it off... but I'd very much like something in a similar cut to Her Majesty the Elentári, sir." Zoë replied to the dress maker after a few minutes, in distinctly accented English. "Maybe in this lovely teal fabric?"

The tailor nodded at Zoë, “very good your highness, and would you like anything else? Something for your hair perhaps, a different length or colour maybe?” he idly looked over at the rack of fabric rolls and checked its co-ordinates, there was quite an expansive collection, and it wouldn’t do at all to get the wrong type, “oh, and do you have any preferences in jewellery and so forth?” He seemed to be quite enthusiastic, “Oh, and how quickly would you like it your highness?”

Meanwhile, Mephet’ran and Sirithil discussed something in quiet tones.

"What do you mean, something for my hair? Is it normal to wear something over one's hair?" Zoë asked, perplexed. "Like a nun's habit?"

When the tailor clarified that he was referring not to a covering but to her hair itself, Zoë at first demured and declined the offer with a polite shake of her head. She may desperately like to know what she would look like as a blonde, but proper Pantocratorian young ladies didn't dye their hair. In fact, until a little over a year ago, it had actually been illegal for Pantocratorian young ladies to dye their hair, and some of the people responsible for those laws were very closely related to Zoë indeed.

"If you mean dyeing my hair, I can't do that, but thank you for offering. Maybe I should get my hair cut in a more... Menelmacari fashion though." Zoë speculated, stealing a quick glance at the conspiratorially whispering monarchs. "And I suppose I should... with jewellery, I mean, what's fashionable? I don't want to wear too much, but... I do like jewellery and I'd like to, you know, fit in."

She paused for a few moments and then grinned at the tailor and added quietly: "And look good doing it, of course!"

The elf smiled, “Well, I wouldn’t call it dying in all cases. There are some rather more sophisticated ways of changing hair colour, most notably magical. But anyway, if you want your hair altered, you should see the hairdresser a few floors below, I’m sure Sirithil will make time to take you.

He wandered off to the end of the frame holding various fabrics, which was capped at the end by a selection of drawers, “I’ve got some items of jewellery you might be interested in trying here, anyway,” he said, and passed her a box containing various items largely intended to be incorporated into clothes it seemed, brooches and fasteners for cloaks and belts and so on. Mostly they were silver, though others ranged towards bronze or copper, and there were some gold items, too. Mostly they tended towards semiprecious stones such as opals and carefully shaped agates, though there were also some that incorporated diamonds and emeralds.

Zoë loved jewellery, and always struggled to restrain herself to picking modest pieces when she was allowed to choose the jewellery she wore. She bit her lower lip once again as she looked through the box, tracing her fingertips over the designs thoughtfully. She finally managed to settle on a few of the more modest, but still very pretty, pieces.

"These are all so lovely, monsieur." she said to the tailor, by way of indicating that she had made her selection. Zoë looked over to Sirithil and Mephet'ran again.

"I'd very much like to have my hair done in a local fashion, Your Majesties." she added hopefully.

The local fashion, as it turned out, tended towards long hair. Very long hair. Sirithil had about four feet most days, though it did tend to vary depending on exact style and whim on any given day. The style that was presently in vogue for women was a long, straight combed out style that came down (in Zoë’s case, thanks to the hairdresser) to the small of the back, and contained a single plait that started from the temples, went through a lightly bejewelled ring and then extended about half way down the back.

After that, Mephet’ran left to attend to other matters with a tall woman who was introduced as Marchioness Asaid Virenus, and Sirithil took the girl on something of a tour of her city, mostly focussing on the major landmarks and tourist attractions, including extensive harbours and a particularly impressive library.

The streets were ornately decorated, and completely litter free, at least, where the princess was taken. The pavements didn’t show gaps at all in most places, rather fitting together one to the other like tessellating pieces of artwork. There were, in total, around fifty thousand different designs of pavement used, mostly at random, throughout the city. They were made of a stone material that was dyed through when it was manufactured, meaning that the patterns – ranging from abstract flowers to stylistic vistas of constellations in the night sky. There were very few vehicles in the city, though it preserved less elaborate road-ways which wheeled vehicles could use. In some areas gravitic vehicles were parked here and there – some hovering slightly, some resting on the ground. Zoë could notice various apertures intended to carry rainwater into drains, of course. If she asked about them, there’d be a fair chance that Sirithil would impart the fact that now and then, four-foot talking spiders were encountered in Vinyatírion’s sewers, if she were feeling like worrying the princess. It was however, no myth made up for credulous foreigners.

The people paid some attention to the two of them – there were guards, of course, but the Mornahossë who were responsible for escorting the most senior Menelmacari dignitaries were experts in being discrete. Zoe would notice several ‘races’ represented, notably humans, mostly less elaborately dressed than the elves, and other races of elves, including one dark skinned kind and another, shorter type – if she inquired into that, she would be told that many of the other elves and most of the humans were actually foreigners, either in the city on business, or servants – it was apparently the fashion to employ foreigners in such roles throughout most of the Menelmacari ‘Middle class.’ Aside from those, there were also, among the taller variety of elves, some whose features resembled Indian humans, more than the ‘Caucasian’ pattern most evident – these were of course, Kajali. Occasionally Sirithil would stop to discuss something or other with the residents, when asked. But these conversations were habitually carried out in Quenya or Sindarin with great speed.

They reacted to the Pantocratorian princess with courtesy, occasionally greeting her in English or, less frequently, greek (in some cases, this was rather archaic) – it seemed that the Pantocratorian court language was relatively unknown in Menelmacar.

Lunch was taken in an open air restaurant built into a rocky prominence that overlooked the harbours. This, Sirithil mentioned in passing, noting its Romanesque architecture, was built in the time of the Roman Emperor Nerva, though it was not original, much of the building had not changed in design. The meal itself was probably about the standard she was used to, consisting of a particularly succulent dish that one would guess was beef, though the nature of the sauces that accompanied it was much harder to divine.

Zoë was returned to the palace, where, perhaps somewhat surprisingly, the outfit she had ordered, as well as her staff, waited.

Zoë had never done anything quite like her tour of Vinyatírion with Sirithil, even back home in Pantocratoria. Even when she ventured out into the Old Quarter of New Rome, she never mingled with the people like she and Sirithil had done. She replied with a sort of stunned courtesy to the first few people who had greeted her, whether in English or Greek. Her English was much better than her Greek - a language she hated - and she had a lot of difficulty understanding the more archaic forms of the second of Pantocratoria's two official languages in which some of the people greeted her. After the first few, the surprise wore off and she responded in a fashion more typical of the standards of behaviour instilled in her in her classes in the Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator.

She was impressed with both the speed and the quality of the dress maker's work when, upon her return, she was presented with the dress she had ordered that morning. She looked to her staff, and then to Sirithil.

"Please, Your Majesty, may I be allowed to retire to my apartments to change?" Zoë asked. Then she realised that she hadn't yet seen the rooms in which she would be staying at the palace. "I should probably also ask where they are..."

The Elentári nodded, and gestured for one of her guards to escort Zoë to her quarters. These were deeper in the palace, in an area mostly deserted that appeared to be designed to house a number of guests. A great hall was there with carved pillars of living stone worked into the shapes of high oak trees that branched in a canopy of branches and golden leaves. High above, in this artificial graven canopy, flets – large platforms of gilded wood on steel boughs – modelled on those of elven realms long past, served as junctions between doors in the walls, carved into spiralling ivy creepers, that led to other guest quarters, some clearly designed for creatures other than humans. Songbirds darted and wheeled in the high layered ceiling that glowed with golden radiance, and doves and butterflies fluttered about here and there. If she were to take binoculars to the ceiling, she might even notice the occasional honeybee going to and from a stainless steel hive hanging from the ceiling near a great balconied window.

Her own quarters branched off from this hall, behind towering doors of wrought copper inlaid with ivory. The main room was in itself almost the size of an average church, and had a broadly similar architecture, though it was much more comfortably furnished as a sitting room. A high gothic window frame showed a part of the palace’s gardens, which were of course, the reason the bees were resident, filled with practically any type of flower one could imagine.

The window itself was made of some form of crystal cast in one pane, that seemed stained but changed subtly when one didn’t look at it, around its edges, scenes of legend and myth were played out. Without instruction it seemed to let in as much or as little light as the inhabitants of the chamber desired. Normally however, it refracted the light that fell on it from outside so that it fell lengthways down the room no matter the position of the sun.

Other rooms branched off it, bedrooms, wardrobes, and chambers of all sorts for both guests and their staff. Unlike much of the other furniture in the palace, most of this room’s was designed for humans, rather than elves, and thus wasn’t intended with tall people in mind. However it retained the same stylistic traits, often making use of surprisingly slender supports for back rests and so on. There were various consumables available, often in beaten copper or bronze vessels, or crystal decanters; especially noticeable was a preference for red wines that seemed prevalent in Menelmacar.

Zoë couldn't help but be impressed by the great hall with its rather unique décor, and even more so by her own quarters, with its gargantuan doors and imposing architecture, and that was before she had even noticed the magic window. Even though she was accustomed to accommodations which were, by ordinary standards, ostentatiously, even obscenely, over-decorated and lavishly appointed, the sheer scale of her Menelmacari apartments and its exotic, alien style combined to render her breathless.

Her staff quietly set about moving into the rooms while Zoë explored them, more or less ignoring the presence of her staff as they went about their work in the best traditions of a Pantocratorian noblewoman. She examined the vessels of wines, fruits, and other consumables as her servants moved her clothes into the wardrobes, made beds, and brought in her personal effects. Zoë made her way over to the astonishing window and watched it in fascination

"Something to eat or drink, Your Highness?" asked a servant, Marie Belière, a woman in her late twenties who had been in the service of the princess since she was little more than Zoë's present age herself.

"Hmm?" Zoë murmured, glancing back at the servant from the window. "Yes, I'd like to try some of these things... some of those... they look almost like figs, I'm not sure. I'd like to try some anyway. And some of that wine, too. It all looks very different, I'd like to try a little of everything."

"Yes, mademoiselle." answered Marie, moving off.

Marie fetched a few of the dishes and a decanter, regarding them somewhat suspiciously as she prepared her young mistress a plate of food and a glass of wine, while Zoë walked down the length of the main chamber of her apartments, running her hand along the stone by her side as she did so. Marie set the plate and decanter down at a table in a room which had already been configured as a private dining room, and carefully folded a napkin and checked the polish each piece of silver cutlery she'd require for the Princess' setting - all of which had already been unpacked. When she had set the table appropriately, she moved out into the main chamber, and approached Zoë, whose back was to her again as she once again stared at the window. Marie curtsied and cast her eyes downwards, as was appropriate in the presence of so high-born a young lady as a Purple-Born Princess.

"I beg your pardon, mademoiselle. A sampling of the foods left for you here and a glass of Menelmacari wine awaits you in the dining room." Marie said.

"Where's the dining room?" Zoë asked, turning around.

"Just behind me, mademoiselle." Marie answered, rising to her full height but keeping her eyes cast down for the time-being.

"Good." Zoë answered, walking past Marie into the dining room. She smiled at the sight of the elven food and wine. "It all looks so exotic."

"Yes, mademoiselle." Marie answered, holding Zoë's seat for her.

The Princess sat down, and with her fork, daintily slipped what resembled a kind of fig into her mouth. She began to chew before her expression abruptly changed from one of delight to a distasteful expression which testified to the extremely strong flavour of the fruit. Marie caught her breath.

"Is there something wrong, mademoiselle?" the servant asked.

"No, it's just... très fort... I'll wash it down with some wine." Zoë said after forcing herself to swallow the fruit. She picked up the glass of wine and took a good gulp of it to wash down the taste. Her expression immediately softened, and she regarded the wine with delight before taking another sip. "Well, I don't think much of their figs but their wine is marvellous. That will be all... erm..."

Marie tried not to feel more than a little hurt that the girl she had waited on for her entire adult life found it difficult to remember her name, although she told herself that the Princess had dozens of other servants with her in Menelmacar, and that she usually had nearly a hundred attending to her in Pantocratoria. She didn't let herself show it, however, and she curtsied again to Zoë.

"Marie, mademoiselle. Thank you, mademoiselle." she replied, before quietly leaving the room.

Zoë took another sip of the wine and smiled again at the flavour.

"I shall have to try the others too..." she thought out-loud.

Sirithil and her husband had at first considered their best ‘moves’ in their agenda carefully. In the end, however, it was one of their friends’ ideas – neither had actually ever been children, after all - they took up. The best way for children, in her experience, to develop independence was by making the kind of friends their parents didn’t approve of. Of course, usually it also happened that the parents were in the right, but in this case…

In this particular case, it was accomplished by having Zoë accompany Sirithil on one of her busier working days. The ‘Conclave’ of Menelmacar, its parliament, was frequently home to Sirithil during the day. It was held in an expansive campus that covered an entire mountain outside of Vinyatírion. The structures there were held to be the total of the Menelmacari government’s buildings – this wasn’t entirely true.

While most government business was done in the Artaoron – Fortress-mountain, security concerns necessitated the entire affair being duplicated in a host of smaller sites. Nevertheless, the Artaoron was doubtless the heart of Menelmacari governance. The entire area around Vinyatírion had once been volcanically active, and when the elves had moved there, the Artaoron; then Úroron, had been the only active volcano in the entire region. In its early history, it was used as a source of energy for magical experimentation, but eventually it had entered a cycle of eruptions some three thousand years ago that had dissuaded Sirithil from continuation of such use. Despite that, no one had ever been killed or harmed by the volcano, as it was, at the time, occasionally subject to divination of its future activities.

Eventually, some time afterwards, another use had been proposed. The elves had first cut deep into the sides of the mountain, and tapped the magma chamber there with hundreds of overflows leading to an artificial river of molten rock in channels made of the super-materials that were used in star-ship hulls. This river was regarded as something of a war memorial, in truth. Other plates and hydroelectric taps had been installed, providing the Artaoron with a limitless source of clean energy for all its needs (except for a system of cunningly worked defences, which need not be spoken of here) including the elaborately designed gravitic ‘roof’ that served to deflect rain onto the gardens and the water systems, as well as a multitude of other functions.

The perimeter of the campus consisted of a retaining wall for various larger structures on an elf-made mesa. These included the glimmering white metalled towers of the treasury and the lower, solider, structures that resembled nothing so much as tents of metallic fabrics between the towers of other prefectures, built by the prefecture of defence, translucent crystal buildings belonging to the prefectures of education and compassionate relief.

Further up were gardens and buildings belonging to other prefectures, and in the caldera of the mountain was the Conclave itself, various tiers dedicated to numerous representatives, backing onto a maze of offices and landing pads and elevators and tunnels. The discussion chamber was based around a bubbling lake at the centre of the inert depression, with high sculpted limestone and marble pillars supporting each tier above, combining a discussion chamber with something of an open air office complex. An island in the middle of the lake housed half a dozen systems designed for displaying information and an elaborate, but rarely used, speaker’s podium.

Sirithil’s section was actually one of the smallest, consisting of an extraordinarily ornate throne made of golden reeds that formed a platform and a backrest that cradled hundreds of semiprecious stones and a ruby cut into the daggerstar symbol of Menelmacar, so large that Zoë would be unable to stretch her hand wide enough to equal its span. Around this were various bits and pieces of writing and equipment, parchments and intricately bound books as well as eight computers of various types built into the eagle-sculpted wooden panels around the desk that accompanied the throne. There were other seats, one on either side of her, in the same style made of copper and bronze woven together.

The Elentári’s ‘office’ continued back into the mountain, with its own private dining rooms, audience chambers, and landing bay on the outside of the mountain. Hers was actually one of the least ostentatious, as she had other offices in the palace that she spent most of her time in.

After giving Zoë a brief tour of the Artaoron, Sirithil sat down looking out on the lake area, and lightly held a finger to a metallic bumblebee that had been clinging to the collar of her robes, holding it up to her face and saying, “Lelya.” The thing flittered off into a garden below, and she leaned back in her seat. “And,” she said, in her usual impeccable French, “You might want to go too; this will probably be deathly boring…”

And sure enough it was, the discussion being led by an elf who was a representative of some islands in the south, presently discussing the environmental operations in the south of the country’s mainland

With coincidentally perfect timing, another elf swept in to the balcony. The black haired elf was the minister (Prefect) of defence and a number of other things, and seemed to be completely at home around the Elentári. With her was an elf who appeared to be about the same age as Zoë.

She was somewhat taller than Zoë, with closely cropped black hair and a rakish build, combined with a dress style that was rather different to that of her parents. The customary national costumes of Menelmacari were actually more elaborate than they often seemed to be to foreigners, but few people ever saw the style of practical dress that this elf was wearing, consisting of a short-sleeved green jacket and trousers with half a dozen pockets. Nevertheless,

“Ah yes,” Sirithil said, “Zoë, this is Nénuyen Tuilëvënda Culdalot nos Fithnurin, Serendis’ latest daughter. Culda, this is Princess Zoë, of Pantocratoria…”

The other elf put a hand up, then rethought the matter and extended it towards Zoe, clearly expecting to shake hands with her, “Hello,” she said, as she did so. She too seemed to be speaking French, but this was merely Sirithil’s influence, not that it was easy to tell.

To say that Zoë was used to Menelmacari architecture décor would be going too far, but she had seen enough of it in the fortnight she had been Sirithil and Mephet'ran's guest in Vinyatírion to avoid total flabbergastation throughout her tour of Artaoron, although there was an awful lot to take in, so very alien to anything to which she was used.

Zoë stood by politely as she was introduced to the Prefect for Defence's daughter. Despite their apparent similarity in age, which Zoë discarded because she mistrusted her own ability to judge the age of an elf, the two young women seemed to contrast rather sharply. Culda's raven black hair was much darker than Zoë's natural brown colour, and darker still than the light blonde to which she had changed her hair colour several days ago using one of the advanced coiffure devices such as she had been shown upon her arrival. Culda's pragmatic attire was obviously Menelmacari in origin, like the Pantocratorian's, but whereas Zoë wore the latest fashion of a Vinyatírion courtier, Culdalot was dressed, in Zoë's estimation, like some sort of elven mechanic. Despite whatever misgivings she may have had about Culdalot's appearance, Zoë took her proffered hand and shook it, her grip very faint because it wasn't the custom of Pantocratorian princesses to shake hands at all.

"Pleased to meet you, mademoiselle." Zoë replied politely.

Culda grinned, she seemed very animate, and regardless of Zoë’s rather timid manner, shook her hand firmly. “How’d you like to go somewhere more interesting? If that’s acceptable to her imperiousness here, anyway,” she said, leaning forwards and wrapping her arms around Sirithil’s shoulders.

“Certainly,” Sirithil murmured, reaching up over the back of the elaborate throne to ruffle Culda’s hair affectionately, “Knock yourselves out. But take a couple of guards with you. I’ll never hear the end of it if I let her go somewhere without chaperones.”

The young elf let her smile droop, frowning a little, “Oh well!” she said, reaching out, and taking hold of Zoë’s hand and tugging her in the general direction of one of the anterooms, “So, what shall we do then?” she asked.

Zoë was surprised as she was nearly dragged by the hand into an anteroom by the excitable young elf. When Culda asked the Princess what the pair of them should do, Zoë looked back blankly. Not having been consulted about being dragged away in the first place, she had assumed that Culdalot had something in mind, and was now rather surprised to find that she didn't. Besides which, Zoë wasn't really used to deciding for herself what the day's agenda would be; the Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator was a world of rigid routines and inflexible ceremonial, which seemed so natural to someone who had spent most of her life there that she just went along with the flow of things, only really deciding for herself what she was going to do in her recreation time. Not knowing what recreations were available in Artaoron, but suspecting that there were precious few, Zoë found the question unduly difficult to answer.

"I'm not sure... what is there to do around here, anyway?" Zoë asked, looking about the anteroom. "I'm not sure there's very much here designed for people our age."

Culda laughed in a manner best described as innocent, though with a tinge of wisdom that made it seem less childish than it had any right to be. “Don’t be silly!” she said, “We’re not stuck here. We can go anywhere we want!” Contemplative and amused expressions chased each other across the young elf’s face, and she grinned, “I have just the thing, C’mon,” she said, and twisted up on the ball of her feet, span around, and skittered down a small flight of stairs, booted feet almost seeming to dance off them as she did so, she span around again and gestured for Zoë to follow.

"You eat a lot of sugar, don't you?" Zoë enquired as she followed Culda down the stairs at a more sensible pace. "What's down here, anyway? And are you sure we're allowed down here?"

She looked back to her escorts as if to check as she followed Culdalot down the stairs.

The elf trotted down the stairs, past another guard and a force wall, to what resembled a great artificial cave cut into the rock, bare but for austere buttresses of steel. Obviously, this room was created in a different phase of Menelmacari culture, where the silvered symbols on the floor weren’t as complex as they would be in a landing bay now.

She lead Zoe and the guards to the side of what appeared to be a crimson sports car, though it, like most Menelmacari vehicles, lacked wheels, instead having an undercarriage that was smoother than its open topside.

She walked around to the wheel – surprisingly, this was rather normal, and then looked over at Zoë, reaching over and opening the door for her. “Get in,” she said with a smile. Culda laid her hand on a glass panel built into the dash beside the wheel, which lit up with a sequence of glowing blue-white Fëanorian characters. The guards seemed to think nothing at all of this, and got into the back seat quite willingly.

"This doesn't look very safe..." Zoë complained, but got into the gravcar anyway, seeing that the guards did so. She wondered why, if the guards were there for her sake, they seemed to be following Culda's lead. Zoë did up her seat belt and shifted around on the seat. She admired the vehicle for a little while, running her hands over the dashboard.

"My brother would love this." she finally declared. "He's got a huge car collection, but I don't think he has any gravcars. I bet it goes really fast. Those are his favourite ones, the fast ones..."

She prattled on about Constantine's car collection until the gravcar's engine came to life, which saw her grab a hold of her seat and squeak: "Do you even have a driver's license? You don't look very old..."

“Well,” Culdalot said, “We shall have to get one for him then, shan’t we?” she added, “and no, I don’t have a licence, far too young, I’m thirty three,” she added with an explanatory tone before leaning back in the sports car’s seat and tapping a button on the dash, “Celavar Park. Fast,” she added with a little grin.

The vehicle didn’t actually exert much force on its passengers, being gravitic, it moved them with it, but the wind did do a good job of blowing them back into their seats because of its open topped design, Culda’s black hair being pushed outwards and fluttering in the wind, she looked over at Zoë. For some reason the wind didn’t seem to get into the passengers’ eyes, “Like it?” she asked, grinning.

"Aieee!" Zoë exclaimed as the gravcar sped through the sky, and her own hair was quickly blasted out of its carefully coiffured Menelmacari style. She clung tightly to her seat and screamed at Culda. "What do you mean you don't have a license? You know how to fly this thing right? Aieee, we're all going to die!"

Culda laughed and smiled a little, “Treble speed!” she cried, and the gravcar obeyed, shooting out across the green city-sprawl below, “I haven’t the faintest idea how you fly it!” she added, “It flies itself,” she added, at last, by way of explanation, “It probably wouldn’t let me fly it if I tried. I just tell it where to go.”

Given Zoë couldn't rely on her PeacockPod to play music without crashing, she had little confidence in the ability of a computer-controlled flying car, even a Menelmacari one, to fly itself. She clung onto her seat for dear life and closed her eyes tight.

Soon enough, Culda jumped out of her seat as the vehicle came to a stop, “Right,” she said, “we’re here.” The place they’d come to had several low buildings with less of the usual flowing elven look to them, though here and there ivy and other creepers clambered up walls of white material as though they were invading armies clambering the sheer walls of a castle. The area around was partly cultivated, and golden wheat blew gently in the wind away from them. On the buildings were few signs of what was inside, indeed, fewer still of where they were.

Finally coming to a stop, Zoë unbuckled her seat belt with trembling hands, the adrenaline still rushing through her body, an unfamiliar sensation. She shivered slightly with the after effects of the adrenaline as she climbed out of the car and started to explore, a few steps behind Culda.

"Where are we, anyway? Is this Celavar Park?" asked Zoë as she looked about. "Why'd we come here?"

Culdalot grinned “That it is,” she said, taking the Pantocratorian’s hand and tugging her over towards the buildings. The doorways had a strange form, in that they were essentially circles cut out of the walls, which, at ankle level, dropped to encompass the floor. Heavy stone doors moved aside as Culda entered the building, and she grinned at Zoë, “Stay here for a minute,” she said, and disappeared into another room, before returning with a key.

“This way,” she said, and lead the princess into another room, down a stairway, and into what could best be described as a garage, housing a variety of obviously military (or perhaps, construction sector) vehicles of distinctly non-Menelmacari design, brightly coloured for the most part.

“Now,” Culda said, walking over to one of the nearer ones, “We’re going for another ride. I’m going to get you to do something distinctly unfeminine… Siri says I should, too…”

"Not in one of those we're not... what do you mean, unfeminine?" Zoë asked with not inconsiderable trepidation. "And slow down!"

At this point, Zoë had had quite enough of following Culdalot about at a break-neck pace, and she certainly didn't intend to do anything unbecoming of a young lady with her, especially not in a... well, whatever those vehicles were. They looked even less safe than the gravcar, that was for sure. She crossed her arms in front of her defiantly, expecting some sort of explanation.

Culdalot turned to regard Zoë with a vociferous look that seemed quite jarringly at odds, given her apparent age, with her silence. Then she laughed softly, and sprang back to the Pantocratorian. “You are silly!” she exclaimed jokingly, “honestly now. Do you think I’d want to do something that’s not fun and safe? Of course I wouldn’t! Of course, if you’re afraid…”

"No, this has been really ridiculous." Zoë insisted. "We've gone quite far enough, I don't intend to go tearing about in an elven bulldozer, or whatever those things are. It's like you've had too much sugar or something. This is silly. What are we here for anyway? Why did we leave? I was perfectly happy where I was."

Well, she wasn't perfectly happy, she was rather bored in fact, but Zoë was far more used to feeling bored than she was used to feeling ridiculous.

Culdalot seemed to be about to say something, but then her frown turned into a smile, her look and manner seeming to abruptly show a greater wisdom and maturity than her years, perhaps from her own nature, or that of her race and upbringing, “That’s hardly a becoming sentence for a princess to utter, is it,” she laughed, speaking not of its etiquette but its veracity, “But we shall do as you wish. I suspect it will be more appropriate,” she nodded to herself, thinking of her… objective, “in the long run. So, what would you like to do then? Surely not go back, you know you’ll be bored rigid…”

"Actually," Zoë declared haughtily. "I was finding it rather interesting, the Artaoron that is. Those sort of things interest me, you know. I wasn't bored at all. Racing about in flying cars, or driving those... things... down there, that would be more my brother's style. I'm not interested in such juvenile pursuits. Let's go back to the car, and this time, let's travel at a more civilised velocity - I'm a tourist after all, I'd like to be able to do some sight-seeing."

The car cruised over a little way to the east, skimming along the coastline of Forod Fëanoria, the northern island in the archipelago strung out between three continents that was Menelmacar. The entire region was volcanic, and the circle of islands, linking holdings on those three continents, made up most of Menelmacar. The entire region was spreading, Culdalot mentioned, very slowly. There were actually about five plates, but one was not developed enough to break the surface, meaning that a roughly circular undersea surface existed, with islands created at its edges. Part of one of the continents had ‘broken off’ by other means, a great island larger than any of the others, famed for its wilderness preserves, with wide straits between it and the mainland.

There was a diversity of environment throughout the islands. Some of the more isolated ones were of interest to biologists, being Galapagos-like examples of evolution in action, but most were covered in a diverse range of environments. In the south of the country were equatorial desert (in one instance) and jungle environments. North, as they were now, of the capital, these rainforests segued into temperate forests, with some colonies of northern American style trees, but as could clearly be seen from the terrain whipping by below, what could be called European breeds of plant and animal were by far the most common. “We have mûmakil in the far south,” she grandly declared, as it if was expected to mean something.

All this and more seemed forthcoming from the talkative Culdalot who made nothing of the princess’s grand rejection of juvenility as they returned. “This used to be an active volcano. Still is, in fact,” she said, “but it’s quite safe now. If the internal pressure gets too high, the material inside is vented along those channels going west,” she pointed, “which are composed of a heat-reflective metal that keeps everything below the immediate surface molten, until they reach water – well, lava – falls over a cliff about half a league away. I’ve not seen it, but I’m told it’s pretty nifty. There’s a similar overflow for water, as well, and the entire structure captures rainwater for a few uses. Rumour has it that Siri still has some sort of magical laboratory down there, even if she doesn’t use it any more, protected by a labyrinth of walls that change shape once someone’s inside to make escape impossible,” she said this last with a certain childish glee, as the car landed on a round stone outcropping from the Artaoron, not far from where they’d left before.

Here it was easier to see the general structure of the site, which was of course, circular. Despite its name, it wasn’t built as a fortress, but built in a way to resemble one. A long flight of thousands upon thousands of stairs of shining white granite went from the very base of the mountain to its lofty peak, and around it were built concentric rings of smoothed off stone, here and there made to resemble the walls of a fortress with low battlements, in places, undressed and allowed to remain natural. Dozens of different structures shot from or rose gracefully above or clung to the rock, all of them had a common style of willowy ornamentation of naturalistic structures that perfectly offset the small copses of woods and florid banks that made up the gardens of the Artaoron. The place’s denizens wandered about in silence and song alike, from high banisters and slender bridges.

“So, what would you like to see here then?” Culdalot asked.

"Well... uhh... hmm..." Zoë began. "I'm not sure about any one thing, let's... see it all. Let's just walk about the place. See and be seen. That's something mature people of our standing do."

As the two young women - surely they were that, not girls - walked about the Artaoron's gardens, Zoë made small talk about this or that flower, plant or feature they passed. Zoë slowly turned the conversation into areas which she regarded as being a good deal more interesting.

"I'd like to learn more about the Imperial Family, you know... things which I wouldn't have necessarily read in the official biographies." Zoë began, hinting that she'd like to gossip. "I've not spent much time about Prince Maglor, so he's a bit more of a mystery than most to me. Do you know anything interesting about him? When did he learn French?"

Judging by Maglor's fairly amateur efforts in the field of French linguistics, Zoë fancied that he might have learnt the language just for her visit, although of course she didn't enunciate that particular theory, especially since she was aware that her Quenya was even worse and her Sindarin non-existant.

“Maglor? There’s a fair amount to tell… he was originally one of Sirithil’s seven sons, who embarked with his father on an unsuccessful quest to retrieve the Silmarils,” she didn’t seem to find an explanation necessary, “from the Enemy,” again, not really, “and after he was the only survivor of that, he wandered the world for many thousands of years. That’s probably where he picked up French. I don’t know beyond that, I suppose I could ask him where and when he learnt French, if you’d like.

“Other than that, what would you like to know about the ‘Imperial family’ There’s not so many of them at the moment. Siri, and I suppose her husband, Maglor, Celebrimbor and Miriel. That’s about it, really.”


OOCness: Icky post...

"Why isn't Prince Maglor married yet?" Zoë asked, perhaps naïvely. "Or Princess Miriel for that matter?"

Culdalot blinked, "Why should they be?" she asked.

"They're very old." Zoë began, but frowned and qualified her statement. "Well, I know that age isn't very relevant for elves... but they're certainly adults."

Culdalot smiled a little, "They're very old, yes."

"Adults get married." Zoë said. "It's unusual for them not to do so, no?"

"Not really," the elf said, looking puzzled, "They might do yet. I know Maglor plans to, and Miriel's seeing someone..."

"They're prince and princess though." Zoë replied. "They ought to have been married by now."

"Why?" Culdalot said, seeming a little bemused. Or perhaps mischievous.

"To ensure the future of the dynasty, at the very least." Zoë pouted, seeming somehow upset by Culdalot apparently finding amusement in the Pantocratorian's line of reasoning. "Or for political reasons. An alliance, or something."

"Ah, but they're not likely to die, either. Well, Miriel maybe. But Maglor certainly isn't," Culdalot said, "and we've had one 'political' marriage in the last while... That being Sirithil..."

"The Elentari surely married for love!" Zoë protested.

Culdalot laughed, "Right... And why shouldn't Maglor?"

"Because he's a prince!" Zoë snapped, frowning. She certainly didn't see what was so funny. "Princes are supposed to marry. And not for love, either. Why is it different for elves?"

Culdalot frowned a little too, "Why should they have to marry, though?" she said.

"I don't know..." Zoë shrugged her shoulders. Her chin wobbled a little before she spoke again. "They just do."

"If it makes you any happier, rumour has it, Maglor's planning to propose to a queen somewhere."

"Is she ugly and horrible?" Zoë asked, in a tone of hopeful misery.

Culdalot, apparently oblivious to Zoë's thoughts, answered honestly, "No. I think the word is probably 'cute.'"

"Is she at least pimply?" Zoë inquired, somewhat deflated.

"No," Culdalot said, "Why do you ask?"

"Because I'm curious about whether there's any justice in the world." Zoë replied. "So far, it seems not. I don't suppose you're engaged?"

Culdalot laughed, "No. But then I'm not a princess either. Well, not in the same way."

"I don't suppose elven princes get acne either." Zoë observed.

"Not as a rule. But that's mostly a matter of hygiene. It's possible."

"Once again... no justice." Zoë complained. She sighed and then smiled again. "So, who is Maglor's queen, anyway?"

"That'd be telling!" Culdalot said, "do I look like a gossip?" she pouted, and put her hands on her hips, striking a pose.

"Yes, actually." Zoë replied. "Tell me!"

"Aliria nos Elúrin nos Dior nos Thingol, of Aelosia..."

"Oh..." Zoë breathed quietly as she thought of her friend, the Duchess of Votosoros.

"Oh?" Culdalot asked.

"I was just thinking of my friend." Zoë said. "She's a year younger than me. We have classes together. Her family was killed in a terrorist attack a few years ago... I just got reminded of her."

"Ah. There are some unpleasant people in Aelosia, yes... Aliria's not attached to them, though. She was on the other side..." Culda added, after a moment.

"Of course." Zoë smiled, feeling somewhat self-conscious. "I know it's silly... but those sort of associations are hard to break in your head, you know? I never imagined that she could've been involved..."

"So, why all the interest in Maglor then?" Culda teased...

"Well... he's my first elven prince." Zoë grinned.

"Some-one's in looove..." Culda sang quietly.

"So immature!" Zoë rolled her eyes, and then giggled.