================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Early Evening  < About 7:30 PM >
IC day is: Ormenel <Heavens-day>
IC date is: 19 Iavas <Autumn>
Moon phase: Waning Gibbous <VISIBLE>
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 17 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor <TA 3041>
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RL time: Tue Jul 31
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Garden of the Silver Lights
You stand in the middle of a luscious garden filled with all colors and varieties of plants and flowers, whose sweet scent permeates the air. There are many hummingbirds here flying among the bushes, and even a few scarlet kirinki -- tiny Eressean finches with high piping voices -- are fluttering here and there among the flowers. The garden is walled, for the most part, by a tall green hedge; a number of tall, sturdy wooden trellises on which grow a type of vine adorned with large white flowers encloses the rest.

No trees grow here, and lanterns of different sizes and shapes hang from cunningly wrought sconces, their serene silver light giving a calm peace to the garden, illuminating the small benches that are set amongst the flowerbeds. To the west, grassy steps lead up the silver gates which provide the only obvious exit from the garden. There is a small brook here flowing down from the fountain at the top of the hill, and then running along the curve of the hill and disappearing into a deep green hollow to the east. A long flight of steps leads downward.

Contents:
Galharth
Thorhur
Aragorn
Calriel
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Already evening has fallen, and Arien's care has now stretched its last glow across the horizon with her abundant red colors and crimson hues. Here in Lothlorien, the last light of the sun mingles well with the golden leaves of the forest, rustling in the wind like a fiery sea - for in this magical realm of the Galadhrim, the leaves do not fall as they are wont to each fall, nay, they turn the fairest shade of gold.

And here, here in this secluded garden, these elven people, that call this realm their home, have already lit their many lanterns, bathing the grass in a light white hue. Seated against one of the trees, her bare feet hovering lightly over the grass, allowing it to run against her soles, is Calriel. This elven maid is clad in a dress, so fair and white as the peaks of the mighty Hithaeglir, and her keen blue eyes are set upon a small leather-bound book, resting in her lap.

Thorhur has only been to the Garden on rare occasions, and is now admiring it at sunset. Looking amongst the trees he feels peaceful. His eyes sparkle and he wears a broad smile as he strolls slowly around, looking for a place to sit. Suddenly, he stops and his smiles grows broader. He has spotted Calriel. Waving in greeting, he says in a very soft gentle voice, "Well met Calriel. How are you this fine evening?"

A new shadow stretches over the fair garden as a new figure enters to join the elven gathering. Not so tall as the quendi, Aragorn son of Arathorn nonetheless strides with a noble step; sea-grey eyes taking in the beauty of the clearing stretched out before him. Sable locks flow gently as he turns his head this way and that, until at length he catches sight of the others and move to join them.

When Calriel looks up from her book at the greeting of the other, it becomes apparent how short and small she really is - almost as if she was one of the elven children growing up. Her delicate face, however, seems too stern somehow for a youngster, as if it was hewn out of the palest marble. She raises her slender hand in greeting and pushes herself up a little further against the tree now.

Where the other's voice was soft and gentle, the voice of the Lady of the Laiquendi is rich and full and... green, if such a thing would be truly possible - the faintest accent in her well-pronouncced Sindarin, like a long-lost memory of older days now forgotten. "Well met, indeed!" she says, first intently staring at Thorhur's visage for a moment, before turning her sea-colored eyes away, glancing over the elf's shoulder. "What brings a guard to the Garden of Silver Lights?" she asks, looking now at Aragorn, although the question seems certainly not meant for him. "Should you not be at the borders... keeping the Second Born out?" - but the lightest hint of a smile can be seen, fleeing across the fair face of the Lady.

Here comes another guard, a warden by his easy bearing, though unarmed. Maglind meanders along the path, feet carelessly stepping over grass and stone and crack, face downcast, hands idle. He sits on a stone close to the stream, noticing nothing, and proceeds to gaze at the waters. One finger reaches out, venturing near the laughing current, but then he draws it back, as if burnt.

Thorhur smiles at Calriel. "I am sorry, my Lady." his voice sounds very happy now, and he is just about to continue when he notices another person behind them. He turns to examine their visitor. He is a Second Born, but Thorhur's usual suspicion for them has lifted a bit, and he suddenly realizes that this is none other than a member of the Dundedain. Smiling weakly, for he is still a bit wary, he nods at this new guest and says, "Well met are you as well. I am Thorhur. I don't believe we have met." As he greets him, though, Thorhur's eyes suddenly stray towards the small river, where Maglind is sitting. He raises his voice and says, "Good night Maglind. How do you fare this evening?"

Stepping into the Garden of Silver Lights with a journal and quill in hand, the Tailor Galharth pauses to enter something into the tome. Looking up, he catches sight of the Warden and bends his head once more. With the feather of his quill flickering feverishly, he clearly enters something onto the open page. Pursing his lips tightly, he glances up once more, this time moving his gaze to take in the others present. "Ah!" he calls out as he closes his journal. "This seems to be a popular place this eve. Well met...." His words pause, and it seems his tongue stumbles over the final word as he peers intently at the second born. "...all...." he finally finishes. Stepping forward towards the human, curiosity washes over his expression. "And a warm welcome to you, visitor. I am Galharth, a Tailor in these woods."

Bowing his head to Galharth first, who has greeted him last, Aragorn smiles then to each of the Eldar and places his hands behind his back as he arrives. "It would seem the watch on the borders has grown lax, or else I have been guided into a trap. But here I am, all the same. I am Aragorn of the Dunedain, who was Estel in your kin's realm of Imladris, and who seeks to earn another name still. Well met to you all, and forgive the intrusion. I did not mean to interrupt your discussion."

As Calriel puts the small book her eyes were so intent on beside her on the grass, one might notice a hill-like map drawn across its yellow pages, before the book closes with a soft thud. 'It is quite alright, Thorhur,' assures Calriel the other. 'It is not the first time this man has been here. Rather, instead of worrying about Aragorn here, perhaps you would be able to look after your fellow Order-member. I worry about him, for it seems he has been through much in a short time, and it seems unwise for him to spend time near the brook at this moment.' -- while her words carry the ring of a command, almost, they remain rich in color and betray a hint of genuine care.


Then, the lass turns herself to the human, yet before she speaks, there is a grave silence, and only her eyes gleam for a brief moment, like moonlight touching the tips of a lance. "<Adunaic> Aragorn," she speaks the man's name, although her voice seems to have changed, too. "<Adunaic> Once more you set foot on the borders of the Golden Wood, and it shall not be for the last time. I hope your presence here bodes not ill for the elves." The face of the lass is now graver than it was before, as she keeps her gaze on him, still seated down, her back against the tree.

"I am quite well," Maglind says to the air, back still turned. Empty words, and he reaches out and stirs the waters, hand flinching. "I am not going to dive into this brook, Calriel."

"Dunedain?" Galharth asks with lifted brows, "Friend perhaps to Henleg and Annaiel? Both fine folks who've I come to respect greatly. Perhaps another time you can tell me news of either, if you have it."

Turning his gaze to Calriel, the Tailor shakes his head at the mention of the Warden. "Nay, Maglind is fine, just as he says. He has calmed greatly since his exposure to the knife."

"<Adunaic> As do I," replies Aragorn in the same tongue spoken by Calriel, though he seems not entirely pleased by her words. "<Adunaic> I shall never bear any of your kin ill will, though I cannot promise my deeds will not one day affect you so. Indeed, while I guess you honour me with your choice of tongue, I would not speak it if I can help matters. The memory of it's origins are painful and ridden with shame."

'May we speak thusly?' he asks then in the language of the Sindar. Smiling he looks to Galharth then and bows his head. 'I am both friend to them, and kin also. They are dear to my heart. As, I deem, each of you are to each other. Has some harm come to this fellow by way of a knife?' he asks then, nodding to Magling with a touch of concern.

'No!' says Calriel abruptly as Maglind touches the water again. In a moment and with a grace only the First Born have, this small elf has climbed to her feet. Her snow-white dress of finest silk falling over her bare feet. 'I was the fool for not seeing it yesterday,' she says, ignoring the tailor's remark. 'Maglind - I want you to come here and give me your hand.' even if her voice remains calm, the Lady's eyes seem penetrating enough to make up for it.

To Aragorn, Calriel's words are but brief as she says: "<Adunaic> Indeed, and I know it pains you. But I speak it, because it has been spoken in the days that men did not cringe at its sound; to remind you. To remind you of these days and to remind you that your destiny lies not with the elves, but with the second born, Estel."

His back is still turned and he cannot see, but words are compelling. Maglind leaves the water grudgingly, one hand dripping with sunset. With slow steps he approaches the maiden, nodding to Aragorn, "Ask the tailor. He knows too." And he holds out the hand, slender and long and traced with new-healed splinters.

Taking a deep breath, and releasing it slowly, the Tailor's eyes glance first to the Warden's hands and then to his face. "I fear it's an odd tale that began with the discovery of a curiosity." Chuckling softly he adds, "Which in fact began further still with the testing of a net that was to be used against the oddest of Trolls."

Lifting a brow, Galharth glances towards Aragorn. "Perhaps Annaiel mentioned something of the Troll, and the strange efforts to entrap it with a net?" he inquires softly. Shrugging his shoulders, he returns his gaze to the Warden. Pausing, he frowns. "I fear it's a long story. I risk setting you into boredom."

'What happened, Galharth?' Calriel asks, as she looks from the Waren's face to his hand. Slowly - yet steadily - her own white hand reaches up to touch his from below, as if placing his hand in her own, receiving one. For a moment, it almost looks as if the sea-blue eyes of the Lady become paler, and as if a tear is forming in one of them. She lets out a sigh. "<Quenya> Sinome antanyel nilme," she now says in a language older than the tongue of man that left her lips before. Older even than the fair Sindarin now woven fluently into sentences by the elves of Lothlorien. Shortly thereafter she says in a voice, a little more than a whisper 'Open yourself if you trust me enough, mellon.'

"Little boredom could the ears of a man find in the words of an elf," smiles Aragorn in reply to Galharth, not before bowing his head in gratitude towards Calriel. "And, as I know of this menace indeed, perhaps it will add another chapter to his fell tale, of which I should hear all I can."

"What began as an encounter between one of your kindred and an elven child, against a Troll who walked among those cherishing light, led to the development of a net that was intended to slow the beasts movements so that our more skilled warriors could bring it down." Nodding his head towards Maglind, the clothier offers a warm smile of appreciation. "Alas, under testing it failed, but it certainly gained a good catch of fish. Right Maglind?"

"Anyway, upon the floor of the Anduin, a ship rests, hidden over the ages from the ravages of time.' Pausing his tale, he tilts his head and peers towards Aragorn. 'The figurehead now rests upon the Long lawn should be be interested in having a look. Either Maglind or I could show you."

Open himself? Maglind gazes steadily at the ground, head shaking slightly. His hand curls into a loose fist, and he raises his eyes, eyes like nightmare-frightened child's, to meet Calriel's.

Upon a river there is a ship, and it is sinking. Those upon it are overcome by beasts; the cargo it bears is swallowed into brooding darkness. "It was the captain's knife," he whispers to the Silvan maiden, eyes wide, "and I saw through his eyes. Yet it is an enemy to Lorien, and I could do nothing to stop it."

Frowning at these tidings, Aragorn for his part seems troubled. "You saw through another's eyes? The eyes of one long dead? I know well that the early days of the world were home to many strange and wonderful things, but I have never heard a tale of something such as this. Please," he bids to Galharth and Maglind, "continue, if you will?"R

Calriel's breathing has become slightly irregular, coming with gasps, as if someone shaking lightly from a chill drawing in air. Her eyes now almost squint, perhaps so as to not allow a tear to pass onto the white of her cheek that lies there like an open lawn covered with fresh snow... or perhaps because of something else, as if trying to see something closeby that yet seems far away.

What exactly this small maid has heard from the Warden's account cannot be said, but when he finishes speaking his last words, her voice rings out once more in Quenya, as fluent as in the days it was still spoken amongst elvenkind. "<Quenya> Elentari, my queen, I besiech you to bestow your blessing upon your servant and vouchsafe to keep him from this evil." It is not until then that she allows his eyes to meet hers.

'I understand more, now, but whatever is happening,' she says, her voice still soft and almost meek, 'I cannot do this all here and unprepared, mellon.'

'T'was a vision." Galharth says calmly, though he is clearly disturbed at its mention. "The Attendant Ostiel says she felt evil whiles I was in the midst of the vision, and I can not argue her opinion." Shivering slightly, he pauses to tuck his journal into the pouch hanging from his waist. "If truthful, the ship was attacked by beasts while the Captain left his lady upon the shore."

Glancing to Calriel and then to Maglind's hands, he shakes his head. "It was almost as if for a moment we were this captain..... poor Maglind nearly had to belt me upside the head to end my attacks on those who were helping to dive and retrieve the times on the river bed."

A squirrel with a circlet on his brow scampers into the garden. "Come back here, Pigenmellon," the voice of an elleth calls after the squirrel. Pigenmellon stops in front of the group and looks up, bobbing his head in a bow to each. Curanolas chuckles as she stops. "Mae govannen," she says to all. "I am afraid he has been leading me on a wild goose chase." She looks at the squirrel who chitters happily and scampers up her skirt and tunic and onto her shoulder. She grins and pats his tiny brow. Noticing the faces of those gathered, her expression grows more serious. "What is wrong, mellyn?"

Maglind flinches, though nothing visible has touched him, and finally he moves to draw away. "Sorry ... sorry," the warden whispers in a very small voice. "Th-thank you, Calriel."

Calriel does not step away, but allows Maglind's larger hands to slide out of her own, as she looks up at him. And - no! It seems that, for a moment, she would fall backwards against the tree. Her hands manage to grab the trunk of the tree she was seated against earlier. It allows her to slowly ease her way down. She shakes her head silently, before saying softly "Please say you are not suffering from it also, Galharth."

The tailor offers no words in response to the lady's words. Instead he offers a nod. Guilt flickers in Galharth's eyes as Curanolas enters the garden. "Several have been injured, both of the body and the fea. Both Maglind and I will need to speak with Lady Galadriel if we hope to come to terms with what we've seen."

Thorhur does not know why he has decided to come to the garden tonight, but he was enjoying it. He strolls along through the trees, completely wrapped in his own thoughts. His eyes glisten and a smile is spreading across his lips. He is in such deep thought that he doesn't even notice the group already gathered in front of him, until he has almost walked into their midst. Feeling suddenly embarrassed, he steps back and says in a slightly shy voice, "I am terribly sorry. I did not mean to interupt you."

Maglind smiles shyly at Calriel, and moves to sit on the ground. But the chittering of a squirrel draws his attention, and he peers at his owner. "Nothing is wrong, Curanolas, but for what has already happened. We are talking."

Curanolas turns to Galharth. "Over what happened at the ship wreck?" she asks. Pigenmellon nuzzles her cheek gently.

"That is grave," states Calriel in reply to Galharth. "It seems you are less touched by whatever evil is at work here, but none the less, I advice you indeed to not let this unattended. Personally, I would not place my trust in Noldor who broke the trust of the Valar, but if you so wish..."

"I apologize, however, it seems we have a newcomer," the small Laiquendi maiden says, her one hand now clutching the book in the grass tightly. "My name is Calriel," she offers the other, glancing up at the Imladhrim.

Curanolas turns to Calriel. "Forgive me my manners," she says softly. "I am Curanolas of Imladris." She offers a small smile and nods to the others. "We have already met."

"Yes," Galharth says softly to Curanolas, "That and Maglind's experience last eve whilst he attempted to retrieve the knife from the river." Turning to Calriel, the clothier's eyes flicker with a hint of anger. "Less touched? Certainly that would be my wish, but clearly you know little for Ostiel has lent me great aid so that I might function till the time I can speak with the lady. We trust her, and is that not what counts?" His jaw clenches tightly, and he steps back from the lady as she introduces herself to their elven visitor.

Nodding to Thorhur to acknowledge his entrance, "Well met, Thorhur." he says simply.

Thorhur studies the crowd in front of him. He recognizes Galharth, Calriel, and Maglind, but the Imladhrim and Dunedain are new to him. However, not wanting to be rude, he makes his greetings short. "Well met are you, too Galharth," he replies, his voice soft. "Good day Calriel," he continues, nodding at Calriel. Lastly, turning to Maglind, he simply nods and says, "Greetings Maglind." After a brief pause, in which he takes another suspicious look at the Dunedain and Imladhrim, he continues. "Forgive my intrusion, but, wrapped in my own mind, I seemed to have walked in on your conversation. I will just leave now," he stated shyly, beginning to step away. "Good night to you all and my apologies again for the intrusion."

"She has since been pardoned," adds Maglind quietly, not daring to turn the conversation aside.

"What happened last eve?" Curanolas asks, noticing her rudeness towards Thorhur. "I am sorry, Thorhur. I did not mean to be rude to you. And I have stumbled in just as much as you have." She looks to Galharth then Maglind and back. "Something happened last eve? And...it /was/ the knife?"

"And who is it, Galharth, that you think trained Ostiel? Who do you think it was that oversaw her vows before the Valar and the Elves at the Sacred Grove?" her voice is now stronger again. She grabs her book and rises to her feet again, her white dress spilling over the moon-dewed grasses. Now looking from Maglind to Galharth, she says "Trust without sense is twofold folly. Do as you will, then. Perhaps I should take my leave and accompany Thorhur to the House talan. Namarie!"

Thorhur suddenly remembers. How could he forget Curanolas? "Curanolas, my deepest apologies for ignoring you. My I have been rude to you all this night. This conversation is private, as is clear to me, and I will not ask what is being discussed, for it is not my business. So, I am just going to depart now. Goodbye, and sorry again." Then, as an afterthought to what Calriel said, he turned to her and said, "Thank you Calriel. If that is your wish then I will wait to walk with you back to the Laiquendi Talan, but will remain out of earshot of your talks."

"We are not yet senseless," murmurs Maglind, not daring to raise his voice. "But trust is found in strange places."

In frustration, the warden buries his face in his hands, whispering a single word: "Doriath?"

"Drawing the knife from the river, Maglind was consumed by the vision that set me to maddness the other day." While his voice is low, the Tailor's eyes are glazed with memory as he speaks. "Niinaeth's quick thinking, and mastery of a vine stopped him from doing harm."

Turning to Calriel, his eyes flash with temper. "Do I know? Perhaps I did not ask for references. She helps me. This is all I know."

Turning towards Thorhur, he lifts a brow, but leaves him to his departure. Opening his mouth to speak once more, he catches the Warden's spoken word. "What did you say, Maglind?"

"Naught," replies Maglind quickly, waving a hand. "Go on." Wandering, his gaze under shielding fingers settles on the stream, now far away.

Curanolas eyes Maglind as well. "What /did/ you say, mellon?" she asks gently. At his passive comment, she turns back to Galharth. "I hope the knife is locked away from anyone?"

"No..." Galharth says harshly. As he releases the word, he inhales deeply and draws a hand over his mouth. His eyes grow wide, "I'm sorry Maglind." he offers through the cover of his fingers.

Glancing to Curanolas, he slowly lowers his hand and shakes his head. "Niinaeth sent it into the river with a kick and has suggested it be retrieved without anyone touching it. It lays in wait .... almost as if waiting to fully tell its story."

"I'm fine," says Maglind, one hand reaching down to pluck at the fine grass. "The Minister said something about a sieve. What we will do with it then is uncertain."

"It is as Maglind has said. The Misister suggested scooping it up without touching it." Galharth confirms as he folds his arms over his chest. "But with this recommendation, she also agrees that the story must be told. She suggested that perhaps the Lady would be able to cope with it better than either Maglind or I. Till then, any hopes to continue salvaging the items from the ship have come to a halt."

Curanolas nods. "I hope all turns out well," she whispers. "This is an odd matter indeed."

"The story ... I wish to know the rest of the story, even if it is pain to hear it. Perhaps that is folly, but already I have learned too much," says Maglind timidly.

Curanolas nods gently. "It is all right to want to know more, mellon," she says softly. "It is /natural/ to want to know more." She lets her voice trail off.

"The desire is indeed strong," Galharth says in agreement, "But with it also comes the fear of being lost within the vision." Taking a step towards the exit of the Garden, he glances to Curanolas and then to Maglind. "Bruises and minor cuts bring forth guilt, so I wonder what might occur when we allow the vision to fully unfold." Turning, he continues towards to Silver Roadway, which lays beyond the gates. "It is something that we must consider." And with that, the Tailor is gone.

Curanolas nods. "I shall see you around, mellyn," she whispers and turns to leave. "I must go find Celebringil and discuss more on the wedding." She looks toward the sky. "I have totally lost track of time." Pigenmellon chitters lightly on her shoulder. She strokes his tummy and turns to leave. "Namarie," she calls over her shoulder.