================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Late Night < About 2:11 AM >
IC day is: Oranor <Sun-day>
IC date is: 57 Laer <Summer>
Moon phase: First Quarter <VISIBLE>
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 16 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor <TA 3040>
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RL time: Tue Mar 20 09:23:55 2007
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The Mirror of Galadriel
Deep and green, the walls of this small enfolding dell rise steeply on either side. The silver stream turns south here,
flowing through the hollow and beside a wide silver basin set on a low branching pedestal. Scattered through the soft green
grass are white lorelli, the elven dream-flowers. Their fragrence lends a faint strange perfumed tang to the air; those who
are not careful find themselves feeling rather tired... On the ground nearby, sits an ewer of silver.

Participants:
Galharth
Rhibi
Galadriel
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A light mist creeps along the soft green grass surrounding Galadriel's silver basin. The warmth of the air, and the coolness
of the mist, combine to form an almost haunting feeling to this mystical place. High above, the tree branches sway gently,
exposing an occasional glimpse of a dark, star studded heaven. The perfumes of the delicate white flowers mingle with a
distant hint of rose growing in the gardens nearby. Somewhere in the distance, a bird is heard calling forth a promise that
only a few hours linger till Anor's next rise.

Beside the stream, tucked within the shadows, a figure sits with his head leaning back against a tree. At first glance he
almost seems to be sleeping.

Sleeping? In such a glorious morning? Tsk. The branches overhead sway a little more than perhaps could be accounted for by
the wind; a shadow moves against the stars. The bird, undisturbed, sings on.

Lower, lower... A slim figure is limned against the pale trunks; leaps lightly to the ground and, with a gleeful smile,
bends to the stream. Water drips through fingers, silver droplets fly through the air. Alas for the sleeper.

With the water strikes, brows furrow upon Galharth's brow, and he raises a hand to wipe away dropplets of water. As his hand
sweeps over his eyes they open, and he peers curiously at the figure standing near the water. "Had I opened my eyes to a
squirrel, I'd have understood it's disruption of my rest," the Clothier says as his hand drops to rest upon his lap.
Glancing about the small glade, the ellon's brow remains furrowed. "Do you have an appointment with the Lady?" he asks as he
returns his gaze to the youth. "For if not, this is an unusual place to find anyone, myself included."

Rhibi laughs; though the comment is not one that seems particularly funny; and squats down on the ground beside Galharth.
"No," he says. "I was climbing and I saw you sleeping there. Why are you sleeping? Are you ill?"

"I wasn't sleeping!" the Clothier says quickly, in a tone that could almost be taken as defensive. Glancing upwards, his
eyes sweep along several branches that stretch out over the glade. At the sight of the curious pathway overhead, Galharth's
brow smoothes out and the corner of his mouth lifts in a half smile. "Long are the days since my own boyhood travels," he
mutters softly. In a louder voice, he adds. "I've been working upon a project, perhaps a bit much and I needed a place to
rest and reflect."

With a glance towards the youth, his smile grows. "I'm Galharth. And who might you be?"

"You looked like you were sleeping," Rhibi points out. "You had your eyes shut and you didn't know that I was here." He
holds one hand up to let the silver water run down his finger, and his smile turns more mischievous than ever. "What sort of
project? Are you making something? My name is Iaurfer. O nos Dinlom."

The smile fades quickly, "I was resting," the crafter says firmly. "Just because I didn't know you were here, and just
because my eyes were closed," he adds, pausing a moment to take a breath, "and because I didn't pop up when you arrived,
doesn't mean I was asleep." Shaking his head, as if amazed at his own response, he glances from the droplets of water in the
youth's hand, and then to the stream. Devilment flickers in his own eyes and his glance sweeps back to the youth and then to
the stream.

"I've been making a quilt, Iaufer," Galharth says as his hand drops from his lap and slowly moves towards the nearby water.
"The song put forth in it's construction has drained me."

"You were asleep!" Rhibi crows triumphantly. He lifts his own hand, admiring the sparkling droplets that hang from his
fingertips, and seemingly unaware of Galharth's own creeping motions. "Why do you sing to a quilt?" he asks in the next
minute.

"I give in. You wage a battle over something silly, that has no profit to bring to an end, so I abandon it, and go for
something more." As a bird of prey might suddenly sweep in to pounce upon it's victim, Galharth's hand forms a cup and dips
into the stream. Flinging the water towards the side of the youth's face, a laugh errupts from Galharth's lips. "I sing with
each stitch I make upon the quilt so that my thoughts pour forth to enhance the beauty."

Rhibi's laughter rings through the quiet vale, and he shakes his head like a seal, water flying from his hair. "My cousin
sings to her clay," he says, still dripping slightly. "Or she used to. I think she still must." His forehead wrinkles a
little with thought, then he shrugs dismissing all such gloom. Green eyes dart about the clearing and land on a silver
pitcher, and the boy is up in an instant. "Have you ever looked in the mirror?" he asks. "I never have. Do you think it
works if the Lady is not here?"

Lifting a hand to ward off dropplets sent airborn by Iaurfer's head shaking, the Clothier's smile returns. "I suppose you
could visit her to find out, but I suspect if she continues to ply her craft, she still sings." Galharth says as his own
eyes follow the youth's gaze. Tilting his head, the Clothier peers at the fabled mirror. "I did look once, but it was
hurried, and without much interest," he admits with a shrug of his shoulders. "And I'd not know if it workes without the
Lady's skill, but I suppose one could try a number of things to get it to work."

Rising up to his feet, the ellon takes a step towards the silver basin, pausing only to glance back towards the youth. "I'd
be willing to try, if you are..."

"I can't visit her," Rhibi protests. "Or at leat not yet. She has gone to sail west, didn't you know that? And I certainly
don't want to do that yet. There is too much here to learn about first." He lifts the ewer, grinning at Galharth, and dips
it into the stream. Then, with a sudden excess of politeness, and a glance over his shoulder, he offers it to the other elf.
"Do you wish to pour it in?"

"Tell me about it...." Galharth mutters under his breath in agreement, in response to the youth's view on sailing west. In a
louder voice, he adds, "I hope your cousin's choice has brought her peace. There are many names upon the quilt I'm making,
perhaps your cousin is one of them. Tell me, what is her name?"

As ewer is filled, the Clothier glances towards the entrance to the glade. Clearing his throat, as if to ward off
nervousness, he returns his gaze to the offered vessel, "Actually, my weariness will likely affect the outcome, so perhaps
you should do the pouring."

"Caelwen," Rhibi says absently. "Of Dinlom also. She is wed to Lothdaimoth of Raavindonserke. He is very clever. I don't see
why they had to sail." He glances at the empty basin, and down at the pitcher in his hands. Another glance over his shoulder
at the empty quiet glade. "All right," he says, and pours; a swift silver stream that boils briefly against the stone and
then calms. The boy replaces the pitcher on the ground and puts his hands behind him, leaning over the water with great
interest. "Is it doing anything?" he asks Galharth in a half-whisper.

"Caelwen," Rhibi says absently. "Of Dinlom also. She is wed to Lothdaimoth of Raavindonserke. He is very clever. I don't see
why they had to sail." He glances at the empty basin, and down at the pitcher in his hands. Another glance over his shoulder
at the empty quiet glade. "All right," he says, and pours; a swift silver stream that boils briefly against the stone and
then calms. The boy replaces the pitcher on the ground and puts his hands behind him, leaning over the water with great
interest. "Is it doing anything?" he asks Galharth in a half-whisper. (re for Gala)

Leaning over the basin, and watching as the water cascades from the pitcher, Galharth looks up towards the youth. "I've
heard tell that it's suppose to do something, but it's just sitting there." Leaning closer, the Clothier squints his eyes,
and softly, he sings "Heeeelllllo Mirrrrrror."

Rhibi giggles. "Are you supposed to touch it?" he wonders, but doesn't. Instead he too leans a little closer, holding back
his hair as it threatens to fall into the still water. All he sees is a reflection - two pairs of eyes. "Hello?" he says
softly. "Maybe there are special words to say?"

"Ahem," comes the not so subtle announcement of the Lady's presence from just behind Rhibi. Her slender arms are crossed and
her eyebrows are slightly arched, more in curiousity than reproach.

Crystal blue eyes peer into the mirror with a look that could only be compared to horror. What at first held two pair of
eyes now holds much more for the viewing. "Um, I see something now," he whispers so softly that the water does not even
register his breath. Lifting his gaze, Galharth steps back, glancing from the youth to the Lady. "Um, Hello." he says with a
slight squeak in his voice.

The elf child jerks around, leaping back from the basin as if he has been stung. "Ah..." A frantic glance towards his
companion. "G-good morning?"

"Good morning indeed," replies Galadriel with a note of irony. She steps toward the mirror and glances at it - checking for
signs of disrepair perhaps? - then looks toward the elves and takes note of their self-incriminating expressions. While her
countenance remains stern, she cannot mask the amusement in her eyes and seems in no particular hurry to put the squirming
duo at ease. "Had you a question for the mirror?" she asks at last?

"Oh, no!" blurts out Rhibi, without waiting for his companion. Then he gives Galharth an abashed look and falls silent,
slowly edging backwards until he is slightly behind the other elf.

"Um," stumbles out of the Clothier's mouth before concious thought engages. "I'm curious about a number of things, but
nothing anyone could consider important," he adds in a hurried voice, spilling his words out to cover his initial studder.
As Rhibi blurts out his own response, Galharth gulps hard. "Sure you have a question," he directs towards his companion,
"Ask about your cousin." After speaking, he chews his lip slightly and glances at the Lady, "If you wouldn't mind of
course...."

Galadriel, arms still crossed, taps her fingertips thoughtfully on her upper arms. She seems piqued by Galharth's suggestion
and continues to regard the younger elf curiously. "Questions my mirror will answer, but it is reserved and fickle as a
woman. You must know how to coax an answer from it and you must be prepared to for it to answer in its own way - which is
not the way you would often hope for or expect. Also like a woman." She smiles coyly.

"Oh," Rhibi says and looks up at the Lady with a swift loss of shyness. "My cousin, Caelwen," he explains glibly. "I
wondered if she still sings to her poetry now that she sailed into the west. Do you think your mirror would show us that? I
will ask it nicely." He gives the water an uncertain look. A woman? "Would it like flowers?" he hazards.

Glancing at the liquid sitting innocently in the basin, Galharth furrows his brow, "How can we know what question it might
answer," he asks softly just as the youth speaks. At Rhibi's comment about offering flowers, he smiles and shakes his head.
Stepping to the side, allowing the youth to come into Galadriels full view, he scuffles back, taking the position in the
back. Leaning forward, he whispers, "I'm sure she means sweet words of encouragement..."

"Ah, well the mirror has flowers a plenty," she gestures to the delicate white dreamflowers that nod quietly at their feet
all throughout the grass. "And you need not ask it about Caelwen. You might have simply asked me, or any who attended the
recent Bardic Congress. For she and Giliath never sailed West. They have a residence in Elrond's valley where they raise
their son. And I imagine a song passes her lips still on occasion."

"Not flowers?" Rhibi says, and then stops, mouth open. "She is? They didn't? He does? Where are they and why did they stay?
Do they like it there? Why don't they come home? Why has no one told me?"

A smile appears upon the Clothier's lips and he reaches out to pat the youth's shoulder. "Perhaps you'll see them much
sooner than you expected. I'm sure you'll have a great deal to talk about." A soft chuckle escapes Galharth's lips as his
own words are lost in the rapid fire list of questions now being launched towards the Lady. Drawing his hands behind his
back, it seems clear that the older ellon is more than willing to remain a silent audience.

Galadriel affects a look tinged with sadness. Her eyes divert to Galharth briefly before returning to Rhibi, "So many
questions which I fear I could never answer to your satisfaction, Rhibi. For now, that is where their path has lead them,
but if it eases your heart at all, I will tell you that you are not aloning in wishing they would come home." She pauses for
a moment and glances again at the mirror: filled to the brim with good intentions. "I cannot say when next you will see your
cousin, but I bet that you and Abanangel will be fast friends."

"Oh," Rhibi says, unhappily. "But... if they are in Imlad... could I not go to see them? Surely it isn't far; you went for
the congress didn't you? Mother didn't want me to go; she didn't want to go herself, nor anyone else - but she didn't know
Caelwen was there! Surely, she would have said yes, if she'd known!"

Catching something in the Lady's gaze, the Clothier's smile faulters and a gaze from Galadriel to Rhibi, and back again,
reveals that it might not be the child alone that misses Caelwen and her family. "I'm sure your time will come, mellon. From
what visitors to the wood have said, now is not the best of times to venture beyond our borders." As he speaks, Galharth's
eyes venture towards the basin, and his voice faulters. Clearing his throat, he glances up to Galadriel and then to Rhibi.
"I'm sure for now, the knowledge that they are closer than expected is enough to give you something to look forward to in
your future."

"Ah, 'if'...that magical word," replies Galadriel, though quietly in reply to Rhibi. She then falls into a reflective
silence as Galharth speaks. She nods in approval of what he says, then concludes, "I know it is hard yet for you to
understand. To you, your time here seems great already, but it is but a drop in a great river which originated a forever
ago, and stretches far beyond what any of us can see. You shall see Caelwen again, and when you do, it will seem like no
time at all has passed. I promise." She smiles, in her comforting way and reaches out to brush her fingers briefly upon the
young elf's cheek.

"But," Rhibi protests again, "When?" Not yet has he learned the swift and endless passage of time. But he has grown enough
to recognize when it is futile to argue any longer, and he droops disappointedly. "Will your mirror show them to me?" he
asks once more.

"Perhaps an exercise in patience is called for," Galharth says with a chuckle to Rhibi, "Else the Lady might splash you as I
did earlier."

"I splashed you first," Rhibi retorts, a smile coming to his face. "While you were sleeping." He chuckles, wickedly gleeful.

Galadriel makes a gesture with her fingers, motioning Rhibi to step back to the mirror. She puts a finger to her lips,
quelling any remaining laughter, then dips her finger in the still water and swirls it gently so that the bottom of the
basin disappears in a tumult of sparkling silver.

Falling silent, Galharth watches the Lady's actions with curiosity. Dropping his gaze, he watches the swirling water for
several long moments before turning his gaze to watch Rhibi's reaction.

One step back, the youth gives his Lady; but he cannot keep from leaning as far forward as he dares; green eyes wide with
anticipation, wonder, delight. "What will it show?" he asks, in a whisper. "Do I need to say anything?"

The water seems to absorb the reflection of the forest's green that surround the small dell until it pulses slowly with a
vibrant verdancy. "Nay," the Lady whispers. "Just think hard on them." She leans slowly over and blows gently upon the
surface of the water. A gentle mist rises and details seem to slowly form within.

A frown appears upon the Clothier's face, and if suddenly taken by a chill, he folds his arms protectively over his chest.
Peering intently into the water, the water offers him nothing. Glancing up towards Galadriel, he shakes his head, and
releases a soft breath that was for a moment being held. "I see nothing," he whispers more to himself than anyone present.

And think Rhibi does, eyes squeezed close, face wrinkling with the effort of concentrating his usually quick-silver mind.
Memories dance through his mind, bringing a smile, a frown.

For Galharth, the scene changes little: green blobs morph and coalesce, only to separate again into shades and hues.

But for he who asks the question, there is more. The green becomes the leaf-clad branches of foreign trees shading a golden
path which opens onto a great vallley, recognizable from books and tapestries as the home of the Imladhrim. The scene moves
slowly forward, down the path and turns to focus upon a waterfall. The scene is still distant but three figures can be
discerned, seated upon a blanket: two adults and a child. "Look," the Lady whispers to her young charge, "Open your eyes."
Her face belies that she is somewhat relieved by what the mirror has given to the child.

Rhibi's eyes pop open, and he stares into the mirror, a delighted smile spreading wide across his face. "Look!" he says
happily. "There he is. And Caelwen! They look happy, don't they? Is that Abanangel? I have never seen Imladris before, look,
it is every bit as beautiful as the hangings show. Only," he adds loyally, "Lorien is more beautiful."

As the Lady speaks, Galharth's gaze turns towards the youth. Remaining silent, he smiles, taking some pleasure in knowing
that he at least was able to witness the joy brought to Rhibi with the vision seen.

Lorien's Lady smiles in spite of herself, "You are right on both counts, Rhibi." Slowly the scene recedes, back down the
path, beneath the greenery of the trees, and through the surface of the now stilled and silent water. She smiles at
Galharth, a little apologetically for his whetted curiousity.

"Yes, I believe they are happy there. And you see, you have brought that image forth and it is Truth. They are never farther
away than your own thoughts. And should there ever be news again of them, or their location, I promise that I shall come
first to you with it. How is that?" Galadriel tilts her golden head down slightly to the youth and looks him in the eyes.

The child looks still into the mirror, even after the vision is gone. At last he lifts his eyes to meet Galadriel's and they
are unwontedly somber. "Thank you," he tells her, with great dignity. "But... I don't understand. Caelwen said they must
leave because of something that frightened her, but if they did not sail after all, it must be all better? Why then do they
not come home?"

"I'm sure that is for your cousin to say," Galharth offers softly, "Perhaps you can write them a letter and forward it with
whomever travels northwards next."

"You've given him much more than either of us expected when we poured water into your mirror." Poking Rhibi with his elbow,
he nods his head as if to encourage agreement. "Isn't that so? Neither of us could manage even a shimmer, so what was
receive is probably more than deserved."

The delicate brows of the Lady draw together, "I cannot speak for them. I can only say, for now, that they have a new home.
Though that is hard for us to imagine." She smiles a little smile of thanks to Galharth and finishes, "Me most of all."

Rhibi listens, nodding reluctantly as Galharth prods him. "Yes," he says, "Thank you for letting me see them," then bursts
out, "No! They cannot, they do NOT!" And he is gone, a whirlwind with shimmering eyes and tear-streaked cheeks.

Watching Rhibi leave in a whirl, brings an embarrassing rise in color to the Clothier's cheeks. "It is hard on him, but one
day, I'm sure he'll understand the gift you gave him," he says with a step back. "I guess it's best if I leave you to what
you came for to begin with."

Glancing towards the exit he turns slightly as if to make an escape. Taking a step, he pauses and turns, "Though now is not
the time, I hope that I can meet with you this week. If you're willing that is..."

Galadriel inclines her head in assent to the request, her eyes still lingering upon another thought. "I take my breakfast
every morn in the Open Talan. Come and join me whenever you like."

With a smile, and a wave, the Clothier makes a quick exit, leaving behind whatever mischief that might still echo within the
glade.