NationStates Jolt Archive

Maglor nos Fëanor watched from the observation deck of the MIV Aliria as it cruised serenely around an asteroid; though actually, the asteroid was being pushed out of its way, for it was only a small one. The Aelosian craftworld was ahead, through panes of transparent metal he could just about discern the reflection of the sun’s distant rays from its bright form, even with his elven eye. Far clearer, though was the sister ship assigned to the Menelmacari cruiser in this mission, this one named Aelosia, merely hundreds of kilometers away. A cluster of frigates and a few destroyers went with him. For the Asteroid Belt was as close as one truly came to the Wild Space of cheap pirate holo-thrillers, teeming with everything from Tannelorni absurdists to Eldar corsairs.

They were decelerating now, already, at the peak of the journey from Earth to the craftworld, he would barely have been able to see that asteroid it would have whipped past the ship so quickly. Now, despite their pointed prows being oriented towards the vast space-station ahead, the ships were slowing.

He leaned back in the plush chair and peered again at the various data slates he had with him, everything from a list of assorted gifts, some personally selected by himself, some more general gifts of the Menelmacari State to the Aelosian.

The crown prince deftly picked up one of the slates and examined it, it was the letter that had been sent to arrange the visit.

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By the Voice and Will of Her Imperial Majesty, Sirithil nos Fëanor, Elentári of the Eternal Empire of Menelmacar and the C'tan, given at Fëanor Palace, Vinyatírion, on the forty ninth day of Lairë of the thirty one thousandth, eight hundred and seventy third year of her reign.

To Her Majesty Aliria nos Elúrin nos Dior nos Thingol, Everqueen of the Sacred Sindarin Empire of Aelosia, and all territories thereof.

Greetings to my esteemed ally and friend, I hope that this message finds you happy and contented. It is also my desire to reinforce the bonds between us, which I feel could benefit from further augmentation.

Therefore it is my desire to arrange a diplomatic visit by Haryon Maglor nos Fëanor to you in order to discuss issues of mutual concern as well as enhance the profile of Menelmacari-Aelosian relations.

I have instructed the Prefecture of State to, upon receiving acceptance of my offer, liase with your equivalent on a time and place appropriate for his arrival.

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Roquen (which is to say, army-captain) Ítanér interrupted Maglor’s reading, standing behind him looking rather fetching in his dress uniform of black and silver with its crimson cape. “We should be arriving shortly now Milord. Might I suggest that you take time to prepare?”

“Humm?” Maglor asked, “Isn’t this starchy enough?” he said, tugging at the uncomfortably tight collar of his robes.

“Not as such,” Ítanér said, “Certainly acceptable for everyday wear, but this is an occasion of state…” Ítanér wasn’t really as pompous or protocol obsessed as he seemed. Indeed, he was one of the more distinguished young officers of the MIDF’s ground forces, having distinguished himself quite notably on Mars recently. Not through any fault of his own, Ítanér was a rare breed indeed among the MIDF, a genuine coward. He’d been aiming to avoid danger, and yet managed to inadvertently look like a hero. Hence his current prestigious posting – where nothing at all untoward could possibly happen, he’d been offered Elrandir, but turned it down, as those units occasionally suffered actual casualties, and that was a concept you wouldn’t find him swallowing without a glass of water.

“So you think I should make with the horribly overdone crown and the flashy boots and the diamonded barocade coats?” Maglor asked. Thousands and thousands of years of lying low don’t go away too easily, and it wasn’t Maglor’s instinct to draw attention to himself, but rather to skulk, and blend in with crowds and disappear.

“That is rather what one expects when going to visit officially as a crown prince Milord.”

Maglor grunted noncommittally, and swept his slippered feet from the table, bounding energetically to his feet, and sweeping up the data slates in his arms.


As the ships approached the Aelosian Craftworld, the lead ship – a massive dreadnought by the name of Melian – moved ahead briefly, and its commander, a Sindarin elf-lord named Authbrannon, sent a signal requesting final permission to approach. The common practice in Menelmacar was for important persons such as Maglor not to travel on the largest vessel in a fleet, but rather in an intermediate vessel, in case of assassination attempts, as most aggressors would presume that he would be aboard the dreadnought. This was why, most (though not all) of the time the Elentári used her customary destroyer sized personal transport, rather than a larger vessel.

The message was simple. Almost routine. Even as the measures of security around the Craftworld were tight, including that according to the aelosian protocols had at least two entire warfleets protecting it, menelmacari ships usually got instantaneous clearance when approached, after a standard authentification routine to discard Dark Eldar disguised raiders.

The aerial controller aboard the escorting Void Stalker signaled the current coordinates of approach, wiped a bit of nervous sweat from his brow, and rested. Not everyday you send a personal message to the Everqueen herself!. Pulling out a picture of Aliria from his pocket, he stared a it for several seconds, thinking if he ever will have a chance to meeting the fabled flower of the sindar...

The said "Fabled Flower of the Sindar" was busy, her cheeks entirely red as one of her maidens tried to get her into the elaborate costume she had spend eight hours waiting. Her torso was contained in bandages so the tight transparent body glove could slide over her already thin to the extreme frame. Over the base, the baroque dress, inspired in at least ten different cultures, was astonishing to others, but for the little, delicate Aliria, it was a device of torture.

The different layers of fabric, silk, cotton, and even pieces of malleable wraithbone designed to amplify the Everqueen's short figure, were designed for beauty and general simbology, but not comfort. It had a pair of wings made of polished wraithbone, along with golden and crimson details that gave her the aspect of a bird made of fire. Even the impressive armor of the Everqueen, that she was entitled to use when dealing with military issues and personnel, was a lot more easy to wear than the intrincate designs of the Head of the Courtiers.

Already winded by the heavy conglomerate oppressing her lungs, she almost climbed to the high heels that were supposed to give her a "regal" pose, and sighed. Turning to Celestrianna, one of her best friends and a fair peer of the Royal House as the Archduchess of the Paelisi House and Imperial Chancellor, who was just standing next to her, smiling with a sincere show of empathy, Aliria, Everqueen and Jewel of the Sindar, pouted like a little girl, curling her lower lip.

"Is it strictly necessary to wear such a regalia with Prince Maglor?. I have welcomed other guests in simpler costumes, and even in armor, you could have chosen something more...friendly to me...", said the little elf, making a move to test her stability with the gold woven sandals.

"You must symbolize the rebirth of our nation under your rightful and beloved rule. Therefore, today you must be a Phoenix", said Celestrianna, still showing her smile, and extending a hand to fix the location of the carefully woven golden wings that were part of the outfit. "You are not dealing with another standard militarist dictator from Mars, Ali, you are going to have a personal interview with the heir of our most steadfast and staunch ally. With your personal protector's son, one of the eldest elves alive, eldest than me, eldest than Elurín, and that is almost say too much. He's a legend, you know why, yourself heard his songs when you were a little, as any other elf in Aelosia", explained the older elf, grabbing Aliria's cheek for a second between her index and thumb in a typical human gesture, a kind of gestures Celestrianna was really used to.

"Thus, you need to dress properly. Menelmacari, as us, are proud elves, and would like to know that we, one of their closer allies, still retain some notion of etiquette. Would you like the descendants of Caranthir and Celegorm, whisper that after all this years, the descendant from Lúthien still walks bare footed in the glades?", asked the elf, raising now her index finger as to lecture the younger Everqueen, again fixing a pair of crimson silken feathers over the shoulder of her ruler.

"But, Cele, I still walk bare footed in the glades...", started Aliria.

"I know, but they do not have to. Now go out and catch your carriage to the docks, my beautiful Firebird, before you turn to ashes in the process. You also know that your mother thought that Maglor was quite a catch, and that she wanted you to marry him to heal the rift between our peoples, and strenghten the position of the Firstborn in the universe", added the Imperial Chancellor, pinching the Everqueen's behind, not before checking if anyone was watching.

Aliria almost fell, but she remained in equilibrium, taking a pair of steps to the door. "I wanted to. He didn't show enough interest, although. I'm not interesting enough for a Prince of such knowledge, power, and vast domains"

"Stop that nonsense. The menelmacari are a bigger empire than us, but have you seen a map lately?, the sindar now control more lands than most empires out there, and we enjoy a second golden age, golden as your wings, Aliria, golden as your smile. And darling, one last thing..." said the Chancellor, pausing for a moment.

"Yes?" said the Princess as she opened the door, to the outside where paiges, nobles and maidens were already waiting to escort her to the docks.

"You look beautiful. A true phoenix, if ever one existed. If Maglor do not like what he is about to see, thousands will", said the Archduchess, waving her hand in the traditional elven gest of good luck.

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Several minutes later, the Everqueen was already waiting the Menelmacari Prince in the landing bay, in her nerves electrical impulses that caused her to blush, sweat, and tremble all the time. Representatives from every Noble House were already standing at her side when she spotted Celestrianna joining them, placing herself two steps behind her, and making a soft and delicate wink.

Maglor watched the wide plains of Lothlann with an almost vulpine expression. As was customary, the orcs had little idea that he and his companions were there, cloaked as they were. Bows were strung carefully, and Maglor did so likewise. He couldn’t discern the rest of his company more than a few hundred yards away, they seemed to simply be uneven patches of ground, or rocks. But he knew that they would be doing likewise.

He squinted at the orcs again, checking for a moment, before revealing himself, tossing his cloak off his shoulder, and laying his hand on the pommel of his sword, drawing it with a flourish. Some of the more enthusiastic orcs loosed off their bows toward him, and they began hustling along uphill a little way on the plain.

He lifted his sword, checking the orc scouts’ range once more, and dropped it downwards. On the other side of the orcs, the rest of his men disgarded their cloaks and fired, arrows sizzling through the air…

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Gothmog roared in defiance as the same sword cut through one of the flaming thongs of his whip. His axe came around, and Maglor ducked under it as it crashed climatically into the ground, driving forwards with his sword into the demon’s wrist. The Captain of the Balrogs snarled again, its horned visage whipping down as if it wished to bite him in twain. Maedhros’ sword shot forth to block another lash from the whip, flaming thongs curling around the Aman-forged blade, sparking and flaming against it, darkening the mithril blade with its soot.

Maglor drew his own blade back and smote it upon the hellish iron of the daemon’s helm, tearing into it but little harming the creature of darkness whose head it protected. Flame blazed about the wound and black blood gushed from it, burning upon contact with the air.

Amras could be seen with several of his friends through the demon’s dark haze of soot and shadow. The creature’s jaw opened in another bellow of rage as a shining lance pierced its back, two of the Balrog’s kin were already in full flight, and infuriated at its confounding, Gothmog snarled again, consuming fire blazing in its gullet as it did so. Again Maglor drove his sword forwards, slashing into the demon’s jaw, spilling more burning blood that hissed against his hand, a mere taste of future pains that extremity would undergo. More blows followed, cutting into the dark corded sinews of the demon. It fought back, fiercely, caught between Maglor, Maedhros, and Amras and his followers. Spears and sword strokes cut into the dark flesh of the daemon, and it thrashed back, the heat of its body burning those who attacked it, but its blows for the most part falling wide.

With the back of its wounded hand, the Balrog beat Maglor aside, snapping with its teeth in the direction of the elder brother, fleeing in its pain, incinerating the corpses of some of its troll host as it fled, not to be seen again for four hundred and seventy years.

“Ataryo…” he heard Maedhros cry, and turned from climbing back up and watching the flight of the Balrogs, to look for his father…

The leather of Maglor’s glove creaked a little as he removed it, daydreaming for a moment of things long past and quickly replacing it with one of white armorweave. He did the same with the other hand, and examined his outfit. Nowhere near as complicatedly outfitted as Aliria, he was instead regaled in varying shades of white. Trousers and robes of creamy white were worn under outer layers that seemed radiant with their own light, golden threads at their base coiling upwards to give the impression of a kind of benign golden fire that had not truly been seen since the days of Laurelin.

Picking up his sword, the same sword, pausing for a moment to gaze into the jewel of its hilt, which shone with the light of the Trees yet, one of few of his Father’s jewels that had not been consumed by Ungoliant. Maglor hung its scabbard at his side, and pressed a mithril circlet into his hair, adjusting it this way and that until he was satisfied with it.

Ítanér stood in the doorway. “We’re ready to dock with the Craftworld, my Lord,” he said.

Maglor frowned at the mirror, and turned, white and crimson cloak fluttering from his shoulders as he did so. “Very good,” he said, and strode from his room, in flashy boots, with diamonds and white leather.

He felt rather better about his outfit when he saw Aliria, and it was a part of the reason a smile came to his face as he stepped from the airlock. Only part, though…

Aliria checked the needle gun, and placed the elongated one shot cartridge in the chamber, cocking the weapon as she tried to calm down, and reduce the trembling of her hands. All around her was chaos, the screams, the oaths, the gunfire, the explosions. Every single hall of the palace was overcome with bedlam.

She was in the tower, the highest tower of the castle of the ShadowPrince. She peered through the traslucent window, down to the once marvelous and dread Aelocity of the Craftworld, full with souls of the Firstborn.

Not marvelous today, but dread indeed. Clouds of smoke covered the dome, and fires erupted in every corner of the metropoli. A phoenix plane of the Craftworld's aerial defense passed close to the tower, its inertialess drive not enabling the pilot to lose a Menelmacari golden aircraft pursuing it, who chased it and fired several pieces of ordnance. After a glancing hit, the aelosian plane crashed into a crystal building and dissappeared in a blast of fire.

Down in the streets, the white and grey gowns of the aelosian citizens ran from the streets, trying to get away from the firefights that sprang between different groups of soldiers. From her high position, Aliria almost detailed how many got caught in the crossed fire and exploded or fell to the streets, that became flooded with more and more sindar blood. Troops were confused, and shot at any armed people on sight, fearing they were enemy soldiers. Today, brothers were fighting brothers.

Grav tanks surveyed the streets, fighting a chess game with each other, and with both rebel vehicles and aerotransported Menelmacari armoured transports. Trust was unexistant, as sides quickly dissappeared in the ensuing chaos.

At the entrance of the Palace, both Mornahossë and Hyral troops, looking like insects made of gold and silver, tried to pass through the bridge that was the only access to the Spiral towers, while loyalist Phaelos and Mablung soldiers defended the fortifications fiercely. Close combat followed, and power swords and lightning spears sprang to life, and dealt swift death to elves of both sides alike, just before artillery starting to pound the Palace's reinforced doors.

Aliria was frightened beyond her own comprehension, and tried again to stop the trembling of her fingers as she picked the gun. "Green. Means it is charged and loaded", she whispered to herself, placing her finger on the trigger. If Ma'El found her, she was going to defend herself, and if she failed, she was going to throw herself down the window before letting those heinous, corrupted hands touched her skin again.

Then the closed doors of the highest room of the tower opened, and a figure entered, covered in a cloak. Aliria knew instantly who was there with her, who had come looking for her.
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Her next memories recalled her race through dark alleys, stumbling into mounds of corpses, smelling the disgusting stench of burned flesh, hearing the laments and the whistling shuriken rounds, watching dismembered bodies placed in littered heaps, the needle gun in her hand, unloaded. Why she couldn't remember how she reached the streets?, How she escaped the disaster at the palace, the artillery siege, the final onslaught of the Menelmacari and rebel soldiers?

And then, the landing bay, the transports, the Mornahösse and the Dire Avengers that found her and took her in protection until everything was over. The white clad menelmacari personnel that took care of her, dressed as...

"As Maglor", said Aliria in a whisper, watching the airlock as it opened slowly, and the Heir of the fabled Empire of Menelmacar came out of the door. Dressed in white, as her saviours that day. In white, as the clothes Mephet'ran the Istari of the Stars wore the day he changed her life. In white, as the outfit of the moon that was the only witness of her dances.

"Your Majesty?", asked the young Dinan Duke, being sure that the Everqueen said something.

Aliria didn't issue an answer, she didn't said anything. Taking a long breath, she took a step towards the Prince that had survived more ages that she could imagine, the last scion of the greatest elven family of all times, the fabled minstrel, the witness of Aman.

As the crowd gathered offered the visitor the most courteous of bows, as hundreds of bodies politely bent forward to greet the dignatary that decided to offer them the gift of his presence, Aliria advanced, step by step, slowly as if time itself took a pause to record this moment, to engrave it in the memories of those present.

And after a pair of infinite seconds, infinite even for those who had the eternity of inmortality ahead of them, she stood in front of the Prince and pronounced the first words that came to her mind, softly, so low that only the Heir of Sirithil could heard them. "The flame of rebirth pales in front of the first light".

And then, placing gently her arms over the Prince's shoulders, crossing them behind his neck, Aliria leaned her body over his, placed her forehad on his chest, and embraced him close, the closer she could get. And a complete silence flooded the bay as if a curtain protected both from any noise that could harm an unspoken enchantment...

Well, I can’t reciprocate the bow, Maglor decided as Aliria took him in her arms, closing his own around her waist as he did so, he could feel her breath against him, the subtle swell of her chest telling of quite how labored it was, lifting her a little, almost unconsciously, and breathing in her scent, his eyes closing reflexively as he did so, “It is a light that now is greatly dwindled,” he replied, “in many ways,” he continued, meaningfully quiet.

The train of elves that came with Maglor was rather long, various retainers and minions, dressed in raiment ranging from golden Noldorin armor to blackest robes. Foremost amongst their number, of course, was Ítanér, in silvered-black and crimson, accompanied by two armored soldiers arrayed in gold and azure carrying high mithril spears that glittered as icicles, from which bright pennants bearing heraldry of lozenge-shaped icons, one, of the modern age, and one of the First Age and the last age of the trees. The former (http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/36318755/) was of an eight pointed diamond star within a circle upon a background of waves, representing the seas by which he had long lingered. It was unusual, in that points touching the edge didn’t convey his station, and was in fact, omitted entirely. This wasn’t entirely true, and could perhaps be seen here, as part of the flag was made with threads of ithilden, that under moon or star-light, the center of the design blazed with light that seemed to rise from the depths of the ocean, forming rays of brilliance that formed five points touching the edge which seemed to shift position according to the position of the viewer. This Menelmacari design commemorated the casting away of the last Silmaril, and also a certain humility and inner light. The latter (http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/14084537/), designed in pride and in Valinor, bore the central multi-faceted representation of the Silmarils with flames darting from it, much like his father’s device.

Behind these heralds, seeming entirely relaxed, in stark black galvorn and white argil-like scales, stood two Mornahossë guards, with compact blackened rifles that hung from shoulder straps locked into the armor nonchalantly, and gently curved swords that looked like reeds bent in the wind.

Following these were two individuals in the same dress uniform as Ítanér, but holding lofty staves - Airëavandili – of white wood made from the fallen branches of hidden forests of distant descendants of Galathilion and the White Tree of Gondor. They were the badges of office of the Menelmacari Imperial Defence Forces’ mages, variously wild-looking, or bound in mithril or gold and sometimes capped with shining crystal.The staves were said to be invested with many powers, though not all such mages possessed them; there was a years-long waiting list for they were not pruned by the Elves, but rather supplied by the Shepherds of the Trees themselves. For any harm done to such trees would be a fell deed indeed, and such an item’s powers would only be warped. For this reason, its owner uniquely ornamented each of the Airëavandili, though some were as they had been provided, of silver-white bark and crooked shape. With them stood another six armed guards, four of them prominently bearing large, leaf-shaped shields and high silvered spears, four of them forwards and behind, the two others bearing between them a box of black lebethron wood carved intricately with scenes of Tírion and Valinor. This cask was borne upon gold-covered staves and was inlaid in places with opalescence and trimmed with silver, laid over the steel of its fittings. It was marred by no keyhole, but nonetheless locked, and evidently very heavy, as interested elves in the audience could easily discern that the support-poles were not ordinary devices, but contained controls that activated some systems; one would presume rightly, gravitic lifting mechanisms.

Maglor was of course, unconcerned with this and gave none of it a moment’s thought, at last, it seemed comfortable, and right, even. He smiled, and kissed Aliria on the cheek chastely, nuzzling a little of her hair aside, “and it’s a light that in many things can yet be seen; Yet think not too fondly of radiant light, Its splendor’s eclipsed by the dark hair, T’I hold and feel and see as deepest night, Greater than all the jewels of Valinor fair, This easily I in greatest ever fervor swear, And already I long to savor its allure, For many ages such entrancement may endure,” he said, opening his eyes and leaning back a little, still smiling contentedly, putting her fully down onto her perilous heels once more, “I thank you kindly for your warm welcome, your majesty,” his grin broadened a little, “and look forwards to reciprocating at some point in the future,” he said, taking the time, and a step back for the space, to reciprocate in a much lesser way, her deep bow, doing so with a slight rakish flourish that made his elaborate costume swirl grandly. His train didn’t do so as much, save Ítanér, and the mages, in part due to extensive equipment and in some cases armor (the Mornahossë could have twisted their heads through their legs, but it would have looked very foolish, and consequently they limited themselves to something more modest) but Ítanér at least was learned in the Aelosian custom, and was sure to bow lower than his Lord.

Maglor looked into Aliria’s eyes for a moment, his own seeming to be kindled to a fire, and a thought – distinctly external, and not quite in words, came to her, suggesting moving somewhere less public.

Behind Aliria stood several of the most powerful nobles of Aelosia, most of them admirers of Maglor's work, some of the young, some of them eldest than the aelosian empire itself. But everyone showed the most polite and sincere smile at the words of poetry of the most fabled minstrel of the entire elven history, that was already long.

However, disciplined as they were, they didn't made a move for about five seconds, that looked as an eternity, waiting for the reaction of their Princess. As their Menelmacari cousins, they stood under their own banners, some of them still in the classic style of the first age, others influenced by ancient eldar symbols. There were the Hyrals, dressed in crinsom and gold, under the proud sword of heroes, the Dinan, showing proudly their knowledge of the eldar language, clad in white and blue. The dark Phaelos, masters of magic chants, always in black, with the azure lightning bolt over a pitch black field, the golden Paelisi courtiers, the grey sages of Cúthalion, the emerald minstrels of the Phaelos, the Eöl sinister drows and the brown marshalls of the Mablung. But noone said a word.

If Aliria was good at something, that something would be reading the thoughts of others through their eyes. Some courtiers in Aelosia used to say that the only way to hide your mind from the inquisitive glance of the youngest sibling of the Dihyru Royal House was to look in an entire different direction, or possess the strongest of wills. Maglor, although for sure had the latter, also for sure wasn't making an intent to hide his thoughts at the moment.

So Aliria knew he wanted them to be alone, to talk without ear witnesses, without escorts or companions. Returning again to her rather reckless and childish nature, she resorted to the only way she could fulfill his wishes. Slowly coming down from the high heels, she dropped the wings of her delicate and rather complicate costume, and grabbed Maglor's by the arm.

"Me and the Prince are going to take a holo train, to the glades of the palace. We don't want to be disturbed, so we are going alone", said the Princess, in a barely audible voice, as she started to walk on her bare feet, gesturing gently to Maglor to follow her to the holotrain station nearby.

Astonished and surprised, officers, admirals, courtiers, maidens, stood motionless and speechless, then again to the merit of most, noone said a word, just staring as their Everqueen left with the Menelmacari heir towards the holotrain station.

Ítanér had something to worry about as the queen of Aelosia hustled Maglor off; his image. It just didn’t do to be seen to be so careless with the man he was supposedly the bodyguard – or at least, retainer – of, and he sprinted after them, letting them get out of the chamber first.

He also didn’t want to be left to handle the fallout of the whole thing; so off he went, playing the conscientious follower to the hilt – it’d likely make him more popular with the maidens in Aelosia anyway, just a little roguish – after all, Aliria had asked to be alone – but nonetheless loyal. Or at least he hoped to appear as something to that effect at any rate.

The Mornahossë, momentarily indecisive, for even though their reactions were impossibly fast, even they were a little surprised by the request for solitude, fell in behind him, leaving the rest of the considerable Menelmacari delegation to stand and wait for one of the Aelosian courtiers to take over proceedings.

Maglor, meanwhile, shrugged at Aliria’s apparent obliviousness to protocol as soon as they were out of sight, and he watched her carefully as she beckoned him along.

He followed, arm in arm, with the queen, murmuring softly once he was sure they were alone and unobserved, “It seems you have little regard for formality, with that I can truly and deeply sympathise, nonetheless, there seems no better hospitality, and I must surely repay the surprise…”

He suddenly, though delicately and gracefully, turned her to the side, letting his hand fall on her hard, corseted waist, and looking deeply into her eyes for a fraction of an instant, before his lips met hers. He kissed her, it was said – not untruthfully – that the kisses of Aliria had slain men. But this was to be far different – for a time, as he kissed her, he became an incarnation of ardor and passion.

He stopped after a moment, and looked back at Ítanér as the officer came into view, and gestured for him to be a bit more discreet. Ítanér obligingly disappeared again, and Maglor grinned at Aliria, “You wanted to take me somewhere?”

Celestrianna Paelisi, the Imperial Chancellor, was famed as the most capable diplomat of the Sindar Empire of Aelosia, and if ever a moment during her career needed expertise, this was it. She didn't blame Aliria for her blatant and careless breach of protocol, as after all, she was the one that told the new Everqueen to behave more freely. Yet the stares of the puzzled menelmacari delegation in front of her for sure demanded more than just a few words.

Addressing her duty quickly, she opened her arms, and directed the noldor in front of her a warm smile and an honest look. "Private meetings, public meetings", she started, "everything happens during these visits", hoping that her words helped to rest importance to Aliria's behaviour. "Please state individually what place of the Craftworld would you like to visit the most, and we will get you to it", added the courtier, taking a few steps forward and mixing herself amongst the noldor visitors, a stance quickly followed by the rest of the nobles standing with her.

The aelosian Barons, Counts, Marquises, Dukes and Duchesses, soon mixed with the menelmacari envoys and started individual conversations, hoping to share gifts, gossips and tales with their noldor counterparts, erasing the idea of two groups meeting, instead choosing a more informal approach, not too different from a party, hoping to solve the tension created by the leave of their ruler with Prince Maglor.

Lady Princess Sylia Daeron stayed apart from the mixed groups, although, given her special qualities and capabilities that allowed her to have a better sense about what was happening. Adressing the situation faster than most, as fast a Ítáner, she moved casually directly in the path of the trusted menelacari advisor and the retinue of guards following him.

Intercepting the noldor, she casually "gave him a glance", with her blank and absent eyes, although the term "glance" was completely loose when applied to Lady Sylia. She stood there for a second, trying to rest sure that the Everqueen Aliria made her escape through the hallway behind the Daeron Mistress, alongside Prince Maglor.

The regal sindar Princess, her noble, slender and delicate form covered in a light green gown made from imported silks of ten different countries, stood in front of Ítaner with resolve, knowing that she had nothing to lose in this encounter, and gestured with her hands towards the menelmacari nobleman. "To follow your lord would be indeed the most noble endeavour you could follow now, noble retainer. Even I can feel that I am in the presence of someone of higher station than me", she started, taking a step towards Ítáner as her hands lunged forwards as to grab his robes. "Yet sometimes, compassion overlaps over duty, or so the ancient elven forefathers said", continued the elven lady, trying to give the impresison of someone entirely lost in the ruckus of the meeting, not something entirely untrue.

Aliria didn't even look behind her as she almost dragged Maglor out of view and out of the aerospatial dock, into the single wagon of a hyper speed holotrain stationed nearby, the same luxury wagon that brought her to the docks in the first place. Once they both were inside, as she pressed the bright rune of "closing", she turned to Maglor and kissed him again and again, as the hiss of the closing door signaled they were finally in private. Leaning againt the wall of the private chamber of the royal holotrain, and without a further word to answer his last question, she dragged Maglor's body with her, placing her arms around the Noldor's Prince body and squeezing him against her own. Her outfit was already showing signs of dissarray, the wraithbone wings already falling apart as she pressed furiously her lips against the face of the son of Fëanor.

After more than a minute, she broke the long, passionate kiss to whisper the words she had prepared in advance for this moment. "I'm taking you to me, Maglor. Sadly, I cannot restrain myself, not now, this will be the last of my childish ventures into the unknown, before becoming a full queen for my people. Do as you please, Prince. And do not feel forced into anything. Without any compromise, protocol or anything. Feel free to enjoy the dream of the new Doriath, with a new Lúthien, as your brothers once dreamed. From there, you can take any decision you see fit", with that she pushed a comm button, saying quickly to the pilot of the train. "To the Dior Glades, fast", before pushing it again to close the audio link with the cabin.