11/18/2007
================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Late Night < About 3:56 AM >
IC day is: Orgaladhad <Trees-day>
IC date is: 49 Laer <Summer>
Moon phase: Waning Gibbous <VISIBLE>
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 18 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor <TA 3042>
---------------------------------------------------------------------
RL time: Sun Nov 18 11:18:51 2007
=====================================================================
Sacred Grove
Standing atop a hill in this tranquil glade are two magnificent trees, both resembling the surrounding mellyrn, but each distinctly different. The first is completely silver in color, glowing bark and leaves both. Its twin, likewise, is entirely a golden color, including its shimmering bark, and when touched by the sun it illuminates the entire area with soft golden light. Clusters of small cairns rest at the base of the trees that encircle the meadow. An aura of overwhelming peace and tranquility emanates throughout the Sacred Grove; so much so that even the song of the birds that dwell here is subtle and languid.

Contents:
Galharth
Calriel
Aluirwen
Thorhur
=====================================================================

It is late night in Lothlorien. But for the First Born it is not as dark and ominous as for the humans living in nearby Rohan or far away Dale and the Eastern Lands. Here, the elves that call this faelike realm their home, have lit their many lanterns. In the trees below the green shimmer emanates a warm and natural atmosphere, whereas farther up the hill that houses the Tree City of Caras Galadon, silver lamps glow as the piercing light of Isil's care.

Yet this glade does not benefit from the lanternlight of the Galadhrim. Nay, the two mighty trees here provide their own inner light. The one, a silver-glowing bark, another atwin to the first, adorned with golden leaves unlike any of the other Mellyrn. It is, indeed, an enchanting place, where several elves gather during day and night alike, most of them belonging to the order of the Cuigrithweg, but this night, also seven figures arrayed in long and heavy robes of a deep forest green, and among their number is a maiden - Calriel - one or sometimes two heads shorter than her companions, her long pallid tresses of golden hue covering most of the cloak. Yes, the Glirdain are here also, perhaps offering their own prayers to the Valar in unspoken songs.

Wandering without purpose with staff in hand, enjoying the eve, the stars, and the beauty of sound that seems ever present within the city, the Tailor Galharth enters the Sacred Grove. Something within the glade gives him pause, and the crafter slows his walking pace until he finally comes to a halt a short distance from a group of seven edhel. Curious eyes flicker over the group, and he silently looks to each face as if attempting to gain some hint of their purpose.

Ever is the Sacred Grove known as a place of peace and tranquility, and perhaps there are those who would seek it for these qualities that it freely presents. Perhaps it is even this that has drawn one elleth to this quiet glade, for she might be found amidst the grasses of the meadow, not altogether far from where the seven robed figures stand and where the Tailor halts; and upon her expression there is a look of thought, perhaps even of worry, which would not seem altogether usual of her, for she is the oft-merry linguist Aluirwen. Yet this evening she seems not so merry as she seems pensive, her hand grasping a pendant of sorts that hangs about her neck.

And perhaps it would seem that Aluirwen recognizes of a sudden the presence of the others, and her grey eyes rise from their earth-bound gaze to look upon Galharth and the robed figures, for the moment keeping her silence, perhaps trying to clear the thoughtful worry from her expression before she is recognized.

The seven heavy-robed figures would look too solemn, had they not been in such a hallowed place. When one would look closer, one would see the intricate design in their attire, a conjuration of many mallorn shaped leaves caused by the use of various fabrics and weaving techniques the Gwaith-I-Thein hold fast in their wealth of knowledge. And near their hearts a golden harp is embroidered, the symbol of the council of Master Bards that sit over the Glirdain in presidence. Three to the right of Calriel the Masters of Song, Poetry and Dance, and the three to her left the Masters of Lore, Language and History, and then the small lass herself. Her own mantle is fastened at the neck with a star-shaped jewel, the star of Denethor, an old heirloom of the house of the Green Elves, they that still dwell amongst their fellow kindred here in Lothlorien, Amon Thranduil, Imladhris or at the Grey Havens before they set sail westward to join forever their kin, the Teleri, at the shores of Alqualonde.

"Well, well," says one of the taller white haired elves in the company, his hair falling down alongside his cheeks as thin silver lines. "it seems the Craftsmaster has come also this night. Be welcome! And also to you, Aluirwen," the Master Linguist Fealcanor says, his words carrying a heavy ring to them. "And congratulations! The council has chosen this night to assess your worthiness of inclusion into the ranks of the Scholars of the Glirdain -- a great honor, indeed. If you feel you are ready, step forward. You are allowed to bring one person to assist you, one defender of knowledge, and it seems the Valar have granted his presence in their foresight." - now, the strict eyes of the Master Linguist turn to Galharth once more.

As he is addressed, Galharth touches a hand against his chest and sweeps it outwards in acknowledgement of the Master's words. Remaining silent for the moment, he turns his gaze to the next addressed. Nodding his head quietly towards Aluirwen, he lifts a brow at Fealcanor offers his congratulations. "This is news! Let me offer my own congratulations as well," the Tailor says. His words come to a quick halt as the remainder of the Master's words are heard. Furrowing his brow, he turns his gaze towards Fealcanor. "Pardon? Certainly you do not speak of me on this matter?" he mutters with no small measure of confusion.

At these words from the Master Linguist, the eyes of Aluirwen grow wide with some hint of surprise, and her hand releases the pendant, where the silvery ring there swings gently before coming to rest once more. And though the worry in her eyes has not subsided, a swift and yet graceful motion is the one that brings the linguist quickly to her feet, slippered steps drawing her nearer to the Masters, where her steps quit just afore she dips in a curtsey.

"Aye..." she calls, her words softened, surely for the quieted aura of the glade, "it is indeed an honor to be considered by the council..." And yet here her words, too, are broken, and her grey eyes fly to Galharth, where she looks upon him with a measure of the same confusion that plagues the Tailor. "...the Craftsmaster?"

Fealcanor remains silent at the question of the Craftsmaster. Instead, his weighty gaze lingers on him for a moment longer. In the silence that follows, a female, known as Silfwen, her dark strands of hair quite similar to Aluirwen's, steps forward. "As you are quite well aware of," she says in a clear voice that is just soft enough so as not to disturb the atmosphere in the surrounding glade, "A linguist is already an accomplished bard in her field. You have been not subject to any form of training but the one that you chose for yourself. In the opinion of the majority of this council, your self-undertoken work has been sufficient to carry the title of Scholar - one who is not only accomplished in her own area, but also in related fields."

This time, another maiden speaks. It is clearly a Laiquendi voice, even reflecting the heritage of her kin in her words. Yes, it is Calriel, whose words come like a warm blanket. "There is no need of such confusion, Aluirwen. Fear not! The time is past where we have to test and try your knowledge, one in which Galharth could not assist you - as great a professional as he is in his own art. However, the question that we pose is more one of insight, of learned wisdom throughout the ages. He is free to assist you as is his wont."

Now, Fealcanor's voice comes, deeper - and one can hear that this elf has seen many years of hardship and sorrow, as well as careless joy and fruitful labor. "The question we have come to lay before you is this: how does the world that surrounds us compare to us? Are we its masters? Are we its slave? Do we perfect it, and if so, how? Or does it, perhaps, govern our own existance? How do we encounter ourselves in it? It is a question that can only be answered after many years of contemplation, so share with us your knowledge and insight, Linguist Aluirwen."

The expression that now sweeps over the Tailor's face is one that sings of innocence not unlike that of a new born child. This expression is honestly earned as the words spoken by the elleth Silfwen are heard and yet if they could be seen they would be seen flying over the Craftmasters head. But then, as Calriel speaks, the corners of his mouth turn slightly downward. "I will help if I can, but certainly the greatest confidence for an intelligent answer must come from within they who now face promotion." Galharth says softly as he now looks towards Aluirwen.

Once voiced, the question brings forth a furrowed brow upon the Craftmasters face. "Aluirwen," he says softly as the corner of his mouth rises from frown to a slight smile, "You need me not in the answering of this question."

In the shadows of the trees one stands alone. His hands are folded. His eyes are blue and are the only things alight in the darkness of the nearby trees. He has been there for some time, indeed, he has seen all. His legs are relaxed against the trunk of the tree. Is he waiting for something? Yes, he is waiting. Waiting for what?

Stepping out of the shadows he bows his head and looks towards the Craftsmaster and Linguist. Then his eyes train towards the Masters. No, he says nothing, only emerges from the shadows to get a better look.

The grey eyes of the linguist flit to Silfwen, then to Calriel as she speaks, and then once more to the Master Linguist as he pronounces the question to be answered. And then she bows her head toward the Masters of the Glirdain, her eyes falling softly closed, her hand again finding its place about her pendant-ring. It would seem that she does, however, hear the words of Galharth, for she nods slightly after he has spoken. And yet moments pass where she speaks not, still and silent where she stands, and when she speaks, naught changes but that her voice sounds, clear and soft and lyrical; her head remains bowed, her eyes closed.

"Yet a question that demands such years of contemplation, how might it be summarized? How might I voice all words, all impressions, all thoughts that might surround this question and yet not weary those who now hear my reply? Nevertheless would I fain reply, as best that I might." And here she pauses, a breath drawn before the words come once more.

"Within the world are we not both its masters and its slaves? Are we not both commanders of it and commanded by it? For it is we who weave songs, who heal, who cultivate, who make from materials all that is lovely and good for any use. And in this, are we not creators who command what lies about us? And yet, are we not in some measure bound to our creations, having offered ourselves in the making of them? And though we might master many things, there is one thing that we, and that none, have yet to master: though much of it is afforded us, we cannot escape the passing of time, the turning of ages, for the tales of our history, and even the contemplation of our own years, show us as much."

After the Linguist's answer, there is a silence in which only the rustling of the leaves of the two mighty trees before the company is heard. Not yet have the birds awoken to herald a new day, far yet are the warm rays of Arien's care that could set alight the horizon in crimson hues and amber layers. There are other elves, such as Thorhur, that enter the location or that leave, their time of meditation over. When Master Fealcanor speaks at last, his voice carries in itself some of the meditative quality of this isolated locale.

"Aluirwen, the question we posed you is one the Council is divided on themselves. To some nature appears awesome, mysterious and inscrutable as well as beautiful. While peering into the dark entrance of a cave, we feel fear and desire: fear of the threatening, obscure cave, and desire to see whether there would be some strange object inside. Precisely this sense of wonder stimulates us in the desire to explore nature."

Silfwen, the Master of Song, chimes in with her fellow Master. "Some feel that it is important to consider the central position we elves take in our art. Do we in our songs have to imitate nature as its slaves? Indeed, I vigorously reinstate that we should imitate the truth around us, nature. We should look upon nature as a divine work of art. Yet, as we look upon it as an organic, creative entity, it further transforms the meaning of imitation, nature instead of being a model to be copies becomes a standard of aesthetic beauty."

She now glances towards the other Masters, as if to see who else wishes to say something.

A silence, contemplative, seems to take hold of the group. Yet as a sudden rainshower from the wast, it is Calriel's refreshing voice that now addresses Aluirwen. "I would not agree. Besides imitating nature as a divine work of the Valar, more fundamentally as a model of creativity, our work as Glirdain also fulfills a complementary role with respect to nature. Though perfect on its own level, nature appears imperfect when we compare it with the formal perfection of our minds. I have always seen it as my challenge to transform nature in accordance with this higher beauty. Our fea enhances nature's perfection by imposing its own spiritual form upon the imprefect corporeal one presented by nature. In this way we are its masters."

Much is said, and through it, the Tailor remains silent. When silence takes hold, the Craftmaster shakes his head. "Perhaps in this moment, the differences between the Gilrdain and the Gwaith-I-Thein are revealed. There is a time for word and a time for action, and where some might choose to debate what is, what was, and what will be, others choose to embrace what is, mold what might be, and treasure what was both in memory and what remains." Galharth says, drawing a breath when he completes his thought. Smiling to all present, he bows his head and steps back. "If asked, I would think Aluirwen's answer a worthy response, and indeed something that might add to the debate of the Masters present."

Looking up, his smile broadens slightly. "As it is, I thank you, for the words spoken here this day have inspired something, and I bid you all farewell so that I might assure that my thoughts can be written down so not lost." Looking now to Aluirwen, he winks. "Good luck," he mouths without sound. With that the Tailor departs the glade, disappearing off into the night.

The greyed gaze of Aluirwen opens once more, raises her head to look upon the Masters as they speaks. And yet is she motionless, her whole attention focused on their words and on this question.

"But..." And here Aluirwen perhaps seems hesitant, as if she is unsure if it would be wise to interrupt the debate of the Master Bards. "Is it not possible that we are yet both masters and slaves to the nature around us? But perhaps the matter upon which all depends is not the subject of art, but perhaps the intent of its creator. Forgive me if I digress to the more concrete, yet..." Here again she pauses for the briefest moment afore continuing.

"For one might look upon the river Anduin and see upon it the starlight glittering and hear its laughter as it flows along its way, and, seeing this beauty, wish to inscribe it in a song. And yet, as fair and as well-chosen as the words might be, perhaps it is impossible for them to truly represent the beauty seen. And in this, we are commanded by nature, for we attempt to imitate it. But even this imperfect song, if so fair a thing could be named 'imperfect', is fair in its own right, for upon hearing the song we might envision the sparkling starlight upon the Anduin and bring to our memory an image that we have before seen on many an evening. But yet, perhaps we might envision a river that we have never seen, one even more lovely than the Anduin, and in writing a song with words fair and well-chosen, have we not in some sense mastered nature, as we have improved upon that which we have seen with our eyes?"

Perhaps with her words, though, there is a sense of slight timidity that is manifest in the way that the linguist bows her head slightly and in the way that her gaze flits admist the Masters.

The Council has an austere look about them, standing there in the shadow of these two trees, like seven immobile sentinels. Their forest-green cloaks reveal not their attire underneath, nor their hands or legs or anything else for that matter. It is not until Calriel steps forward from their midst that her two slender hands reach out from underneath her mantle, carrying a necklace of gold, shaped as a chain of Mallorn leaves.

"It is the task of a Scholar of the Glirdain to ever be vigilant, to never stop thinking and to form her own opinion. As you say, we might envision things more perfect than our eyes can witnessed, but we draw our strength not from ourselves, but from elsewhere. Rooted in nature around us, our knowledge and our art spring forth to bring joy to our fellow kindred. Galharth is right when he characterizes the differences in our calling."

For a moment, the lass looks at the Craftsmaster appreciatively, before he takes his leave. There is a gentle smile on her otherwise so unmoved visage, her eyes twinkling like the fresh stream of Celebrant river in the morning light. "Well, I shall not delay any longer. It is the will of the Council that you shall henceforth bear this rank of Scholar. And, so that you may be known as such to all that cross your path, I will now grant you the chain of your high office and calling, so that any Galadhrim may look upon you as a teacher and guide."

And with those kind, yet solemn words, her soft pale hands brush alongside Aluirwen's cheeks as she reaches up to hang the fair piece of jewelry around her neck.

"Congratulations Aluirwen. I know you will do well," Thorhur says solemnly from his place outside the ring. "Gooday." With a nod Thorhur exits the scene.

The hand of Aluirwen then falls from her ring-pendant, coming to rest gently against her gossamer skirts, as Calriel steps forward bearing the golden necklace. And it is then that the linguist smiles, a gentle smile, the pensive worry of earlier seeming to have, for the time, fled from her eyes of grey.

"I thank you," she says softly, lending a curtsey once the Master Bard has finished fastening the golden chain. And her words are joined by the muted rustling of mallorn leaves, the gentle light of the twain of trees at the center of the glade, even the quieted words of others within the glade. Indeed, all within the grove is music, art, creation: the nature with which the work of the Glirdain is so deeply concerned.