================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Early Night < About 9:38 PM >
IC day is: Orbelain <Valar-day>
IC date is: 28 Rhiw <Winter>
Moon phase: Last 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: Thu May 10 16:12:44 2007
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Northern Garden
These are the Northern gardens devoted to the enjoyment of those in the long process of healing and recovery. The air here is quiet and full of a peace hard to find elsewhere, even amongst the Golden Wood. Small birds chirp softly as they move towards their nests, and a warm breeze whispers through your hair. Off in the northern corner, surrounded by a bed of brightly colored flowers, a small, but healthy, grove of apple trees flourishes. A lone empty looking basket is nestled near the trunk of a particularly large tree. The aroma of hundreds of plants, glinting in the light, float upon the breeze as the scent brings comfort and relaxation. Often patients can be found walking or sitting in these gardens, enjoying the peaceful atmosphere. Nearly hidden to the west, a soft gurgling sound echoes from beyond a gate.

To the South, the ground slopes gently downward through a gap in a hedge of rose bushes to another garden beyond. And to the North, a path leads out to the Golden Roadway.

Participants:
Galharth
Haldir
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Beyond the hedge of roses and among the grove of apple trees, a pair of brightly colored birds sing a merry tune. Somewhere nestled in one of the apple trees, young hatchlings chirp in their attempt to gain their parent's attention as they try to draw them home for warmth and a comfortable evenings rest. While early in the evening the wood is alive with both sight and sound. Beyond the garden, the bards sing of happy days as fireflies dance around the taller Mallorn trees within the city.

Wandering among the fruit trees, a silvery haired ellon weaves around the tree trunks. His eyes peer towards the ground as if deep in thought, and his pace is unhurried.

There is another in the northern gardens: one not here for the customary healing and rest that suits the majority of its more permanent residents. Haldir sits with back to one of the apple trees, legs stretched out and hands placed together upon reclined body. His attention is lent nowhere, in particular, unless it be at the ground before his feet. The marchwarden bears nothing that would betray him as one of the guard: neither armor, weapon, cloak or cowl.

As Galharth's eyes catch sight of feet, he pauses his wandering. Lifting his eyes, recognition flickers within his crystal blue eyes. "Well met, Haldir," he says as he turns his gaze towards the nearby row of apple trees. "What brings you here this eve? Certainly this garden is lovely, but it's more for escapees from the Healing Talan rather is it not?" As he speaks, his left hand sweeps before him and to his side, indicating the garden around him.

Haldir lifts glance lazily to meet the speaker of greetings and questions, intoning an answer in reply:

"That is what you are to believe, Galharth. It is what the healers say."

Broad shoulders lift slightly -- as much as they can for the position they are in -- and the Silvan continues with comment and query.

"Where better place to hide? If they only look for the injured, then the well will not be expected."

Moving to the tree nearest Haldir's resting spot, the Clothier leans carefully against it. "The Healers would have you believe much, and should they search for me, this is likely the last place they'd look." Crossing his arms over his chest he shakes his head. "I know why I hide. Thoughts of another night lounging uselessly upon a cot were more than I could bear."

Turning his gaze southwards, towards the Healing Talan, Galharth takes a moment before he speaks again. When he does, he turns towards the Marchwarden with a lifted brow. "What is your reason for hiding?" He asks simply.

"No particular purpose," muses Haldir absently, still looking up at the Clothier. "I sought a place of peace and did not have the will to travel far. This was all I could imagine."

A half-smile places across the Silvan face, tediously tugging upwards upon the corner of lips.

"The healers are kind. You need only tell them, and they might release you to this place -- this place alone, but it is not the talan."

"There is no arguement, they are kind, but our opinions differ as to what is best." Galharth says firmly, hinting as a sour experience. "I am unused to sitting or laying without something to occupy my time."

Turning back to look at the Marchwarden, he draws in his lower lip and chews slightly. "The elder Losse came to visit the day before. Do you know her? She's Dinlom I believe."

The smile vanishes as Haldir lapses into thought: brows narrow barely, slight enough to betray momentary perplexity.

"We may have spoken before, and I recall her name. To answer your question: Not exceptionally well. Why?"

The perplexity turns to query and question, and he looks back towards the clothier.

Unmoving against the tree, the clothier lowers his gaze and frowns. "She asked about the Troll, and while I told her what she asked, I referred her to you for better informed information about the encounter."

Glancing upwards through his lashes, he ponders the Marchwarden for a moment, "She said she would not trust you to tell her truth." Shifting uncomfortably he lifts his head to gaze fully at the other ellon, "She claims that you and your brothers withhold news to protect us from the dangers." Tilting his head slightly, he adds, "I know there is much I do not know. It leaves me wondering is this due to my own folly for not seeking what has always been available, or because the powers who be keep that information distant?."

At the words spoken by the Clothier, Haldir lapses to silence: glance falls downwards, eyelids fall shut, and steepled fingers fall flat.

He says nothing -- not yet, not while gaze is averted and expression mute. He is silent.

Crystal blue eyes flicker over the Marchwarden's form, and Galharth's frown deepens. "A fool I've been over these past weeks. Putting forth effort through an innocent's eyes, and further still to have faced such a beast without proper attire, nor adequate training. It's not easy to face errors, nor to take the steps I need to prevent them happening again." He lifts his chin slightly, as he continues, "And I assure you, I will do what needs done."

Pushing away from the tree, the clothier steps forward and he slowly kneels down. "Am I a fool to believe that I can trust that you speak the truth unclouded? To me, the question comes down to this, does a fool trust the one who saves his life, or the one who gives him pastries and cause to think himself a fool."

"Do not think that because I spoke not ... that the accusation is true," cautions Haldir, shaking his head as gaze opens. He shifts, moving hands to push upon the ground and bring him to an upright position, whereat he crosses legs.

"A wise man can act foolishly, but that does not make him a fool. We can discuss whether you are or are not in a moment."

The marchwarden's assumed tone is neither defensive nor assertive, for he simply explains:

"When I speak, I speak the truth, Galharth. I do not lie. But neither do I speak all that I know to all. -- What use is it for a healer to know the full tale of my discussions with the men of Dale? -- We inform the Lord and Lady of what we hear."

The barest of pauses.

"Am I to speak my fears born of long travel and toil? Those born of my own opinion? My views are not unknown."

Something in the Marchwarden's words bring the clothier's head down with closed eyes. Pursing his lips for a moment, he rises up. Opening his eyes, disappointment flickers over his expression. "Omission is a delicate thing. It is not a lie, and yet the lack of a full tale leads others to come to the wrong conclusions." A shallow breath is taken and he moves back to the nearby tree. "I myself fell prey to a lack of information."

A hand raises to rub an itchy healing shoulder, and Galharth lifts a brow to Haldir's last words. "Should you speak of your fear? Absolutely, for unspoken they grow and consume you. You've brothers don't you? Trust them, speak with them if need be. And should that not suit you, I'm sure you have friends."

"Some know the full tale. Others wish for half. Still others wish for none." Haldir again shakes his head. "Those who desire -- or need -- the full tale hear it. You fell prey to a lack of information: but not for information that was not available."

"My fears are already spoken of to others, Galharth. But I do not broadcast them to every person who crosses my path: some are unfounded, others only in suspicion, and still others in opinion. I will not mislead because of my own prejudice."

"Words are much like a seam, well done or spoken and it holds when all else fails. And so to if poorly done or said, it fails and unravels leading to disaster." The clothier says thoughtfully, "And clearly I need to learn how to ask for the unspoken."

A soft chuckle escapes Galharth's lips and he slowly lowers himself to sit at the base of the tree. "I'm glad you've spoken your concerns. From my one and only misadventure, I can only imagine the long list you have tucked neatly inside your head. I myself am overwhelmed, and my most pressing task in life is the repair of damaged clothing, or perhaps a nice new cloak."

A mirthless, curt laugh escapes Silvan lips at the comment of a list. But Haldir shakes his head again, saying: "We all are overwhelmed. Do not look lightly upon your own tasks; many a life has been saved by the creations of the crafters, the cloth-weavers nonetheless. We all serve Lord and Lady and Lothlorien."

The marchwarden leans back, seemingly content.

"How long will you be confined to the healing talan?"

"More than one ellon has told me that I've saved their life...." Galharth mutters as he leans his head back against the tree, "especially when I've stitched up the seat of their pants." Leaning his head forward, he smiles, "Their own fault I might add. Some like to wear their pants a bit tighter than they should."

Turning he glances at the Healing Talan. "Officially, I'm free of the Healers in the morning. Unofficially, I've given myself a few hours off for good behavior." Glancing back to the Marchwarden, the clothier tilts his head, "Do you have need of my services?"

The smile is returned, but it lasts not long. Haldir lifts shoulders in another shrug, commenting: "I gave my rent cloak to another. It is already finished, I fear. I would not have you suddenly overtaken by the whiles of a job when you are just now healed: one overestimates abilities then."

"We do what we must, Haldir." Galharth says firmly, "And besides, I do enjoy working so it's more a pleasure than an labor."

Leaning his head back again, the clothier sighs softly. "I suppose I'll have to go and retrieve the capapult. It would not do well to leave it for others to discover." Lowering his gaze without moving his head, he adds, "I don't suppose that I could ask for an escort from either you or a few of your guard."

"I can send for it to be retrieved, and you need not even go near the border," replies Haldir with an inclination of his head. "At the same time, I fear that none of the guard would know how to dismantle it properly. Surely you did not just drag it there whole?"

Galharth offers a surprise look in response to the Marchwarden's words. "Drag it? Impossible. It dismantles and is bound as a pack that is transported on one's back. It's somewhat heavy, but nothing any one of us can't handle." Frowning slightly, his gaze drops to the ground, and then back up again in a matter of moments. "I don't mind making the trek to retreive the catapult. It only has to be returned to the border since the Lady does not want it in the city."

Again he reaches up to scratch at his healing collarbone, but he pauses. "When next you set forth outside the border, would you mind if I tagged along? Clearly I have much to learn, and it seems rational to me to learn in small doses."

"Then consider your request for an escort granted. I will send word to the guard upon the northern border. They will be expecting you," states Haldir.

Indecision reigns in the expression of the marchwarden, for no attempt is made to hide it. Then, he shakes his head, the matter partially decided, as betrayed by reply:

"No. Not yet. I do not travel short enough distances for it to be a 'small dose'. Mayhap some time later, when the time is right."

For a second time during the evening, disappointment flickers over the clothiers face. "Perhaps it is for the best, I suppose I'm still now a hinderance rather than a help." He says with a shrug of one shoulder. "Your job is hard enough that you don't need to add work. I understand completely."

Looking down into his hands, he rolls one thumb over the other, clearly an effort to distract himself from his disappointment. "Does the Lord and Lady ever allow you time to pursue other efforts such as song or perhaps crafting?"

Through the northern entrance to the garden walks a figure -- one of the guard, by dress -- constantly looking this way and that: gaze lands upon the marchwarden, and a spark lights therein. He gestures.

"I am a competent healer of physical wounds and have some skill with herbs, if such is worthy of calling another pursuit. But ai! They have found me," exclaims Haldir, his own glance finding the newcomer. "It seems my choice of a place to hide was not good enough -- I hope you will excuse me."

He rises.

Turning his head toward the new arrival a small chuckle escapes the clothier's lips. "I think perhaps you should dabble in the bardic arts, you have a way with your words." he says, "Go, and be well, Haldir."

Falling silent for only a short moment, Galharth adds, "Be warned Marchwarden, I will likely be hunting you down sometime over the next few days to ask you to provide me with some schooling with my longsword."

Haldir laughs, mirth finally evident in the sound, and replies in kind: "You are not the first to say that. Perhaps it comes from my time amongst the ambassadors, I cannot say. But, nay, I would play the bowstring more 'oft than the harp, in this day. You would have more chance than I with success. Try it: you just might be surprised."

With an inclination of his head, the marchwarden begins the trek to the patiently waiting fellow, and he calls over his shoulder: "My hiding place will be better next time. You will need hunt, indeed. But what use is a sword, if one cannot find the opponent?"

The question goes unanswered from the Silvan, for he speaks with the sentinel, frowns, and then departs.

Galharth chuckles softly to himself as he watches the Marchwarden leave. "Alas my friend, I will certainly find you." With that he closes his eyes, and leans back to enjoy the evening song drifting upon the air.