Tyle Sands -- page 6382

The Lost Princess? Is it possible?

The Ceyin dragons politely hand the platters and barrels to the five Men who come to clean up after them, saying, "Thank you so much, it was a delightful meal, it truly was. Thank you very much for inviting us, feel free to invite us over again," with bows and winks.

Phikasten looks at you, and turns to Coleng. The Ceyin whispers something into his friend's ear, and Coleng turns to stare at you. "Mmm-hmm," Coleng mumbles. "Yes, I agree."

You feel very curious and tilt your head inquistively at them. "What? What is it?" you ask them impatiently.

"You're to come with us, Galen!" Phikasten says excitedly, and holds out a silvery paw. You place your hand in it cautiously. The skin is soft and leathery, but *gulp* the claws are very sharp and long! Gingerly, the Ceyin pats your hand with his other paw. "Come on, Galen! Are you excited? You are going to meet the Aeined elves, if you have not already met them before!" Phikasten swings you out of your seat.

You laugh happily. Somehow the sound of the Aeined elves is cheerful, and yet very mystifying. You can't wait!

"Well, well," says Coleng, rising from his seat stiffly. "If we must be off, then let us be off quickly. Winter is drawing near and you KNOW how much it stiffens our wings, Phikasten."

Phikasten pouts. "Well, I suppose we must, but I really DID so want to stay here until December. I hear," he whispers confidingly to you, "that they have a big, big feast here in December, the Winter Feast. It's supposedly the largest one in all Middle-Earth!" His silvery voice is excited.

"Phikasten." Coleng's silvery voice is touched with impatience. "We must go. Pack your things," he orders, turning to you.

"But I haven't any things," you say.

The tall ('nine-foot-two, to be exact,' he later informs you) dragon gawks at you in surprise. "Haven't any things? Of course you have," he says with a wave of his silvery hand. "Everyone has SOMETHING. YOU, too, must have SOMETHING. What have you got?"

"Well," you say slowly, tapping your chin thoughtfully. "I DO have two things, as well as these clothes."

Coleng asks, "And what might those two things be?"

"Well," you pull them out, "I DO have these die, and this necklace."

Coleng moves closer for further inspection. He gasps loudly, and orders, "Let me see those!"

You reluctantly hand them over. Something in the Ceyin dragon's tone makes these things seem valuable.

"Yes, yes, these are, as I thought," mutters Coleng.

"Are what?" you ask curiously, eagerly.

"These--" he holds up the two dice-- "these are the Sacred Die of the Aeined. You must be the Princess!" He stares at you and drops to a knee. "Then, you must be Melawen Calafalas!"

"That's impossible," laughs Phikasten. "Melawen was found last week."

"But, I found something very strange about the so-called Melawen, did not you, Phikasten?" Coleng asks.

Phikasten taps his chin pensively. "You know what? So did I," he remarks. "There is something incredibly wrong with her. She's too serious or dull, and not at all as beautiful as Melawen, Lost Princess, was." His silvery-blue eyes narrow and the shimmery eyelashes flicker. A queer blue flame starts to arise up in his eyes, and he says angrily, "Come to think of it, she doesn't even look like Melawen at all! She has brown hair, not black, and brown eyes, not green!" His eyes, smoldered with blue fire, flash furiously. "How could the Aeineds even THINK she looked like Melawen?!"

"Phikasten, Phikasten," soothes Coleng. His silvery voice become incredibly soft and smooth, so different from the hard, crisp, serious voice that the dragon had. "Phikasten, calm yourself. And look, look at Galen."

Phikasten's eyes turn upon you. They are now no longer blazing, but have died down into a dusky blue, rather like a dying bed of smothered coals. They grow wide with astonishment and obvious realization. "She looks exactly like Melawen!!!"

You realize, too, that is true. After grasping a few close locks and rubbing them between your fingers, and looking into the great cracked mirror hanging over the fireplace (where a crackling fire burns), you, too, realize that you must be Melawen Calafalas. You hair, short and uneven as it is, shines (yes, you cleaned it earlier, and brushed it as well) a brilliant black. Your large, melancholy eyes glow green. So, with all the features as Phikasten described thus far, how can you not be Melawen Calafalas?

Well, you think bitterly, it is possible I am not Melawen, and I am just fooling myself into thinking that a dream could really exist. It is foolish of me, it is folly to think this, I know, but deep inside me something still cries out--Melawen! Melawen! Come back to yourself!

What were you thinking? Too sentimental, you say to yourself. Sentimental hogwash. Sentimental poppycock. Too much poetry has obviously soaked into my skin. You shake your head, disapproving of yourself.