================== Eldarin Calendar in Sindarin ===================
IC time is: Dawn About 5:51 AM
IC day is: Oranor Sun-day
IC date is: 16 Ethuil Spring
Moon phase: Waxing Crescent HIDDEN
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 5 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor TA 3029
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RL time: Fri May 30 13:57:18 2003
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Vineyard
The rows of grapes you expect to find in a vineyard are not present here. Instead, most of the plants grow wild among the tall Mallorn trees, except in one small clearing at the far end. Here, newer-looking wooden rails form low trellises that a few vines clamber up and along. Unlike the somehow orderly tangle of grapes that twine about the enormous trees, these few rows have been carefully trained along the fencing.

Here and there, many elves are harvesting grapes for the winery to the north. Southwards, the road you're on runs off to the feet of a young mallorn. One elf farmer in particular stands nearby, working amidst the bountiful vines.


Quiet, still - it is the hush just before dawn. A faint mist rises to swirl about the growing vines, pale in the darkness, and everything seems to hold its breath and wait. In the east, the sky slowly changes from black to grey to rose and then the first slim ray of light pierces through the dimness and Anor rises above the edge of the world.

Surrounded by leafy green tendrils and curling vines, one tall figure lifts his head to the light and the dawn gives his pale complexion a color rarely seen there. It is spring, and a new day, and Lothdaimoth turns at last from the rising sun towards the vines in his keeping.


Yes, a new day is dawning. Rose layers and pink hues are the clouds, that seem like torn apart cotton candy, drifting lazily in the western skies. As colorful and light as the field of heaven is this hour, it is the earth that holds the lush greenness; Green also is the dress of an elven maiden, and it is shot with silver like the dew upon the verdant grasses of fields of the Galadhrim.

Making her way through quite some the gathering of elves, working diligently here in thie large vineyard. Eying the work as a dwarf would look at fine craftsmanship, Calriel (for of course, it is her) inspects the business of the vinters. Yet at long last, her eyes manage to pry itself from the image of the busy elves, and turn towards Lothdaimoth, observing him from a few feet distance.


Long fingers follow the curve of leaf and vine. Lothdaimoth's face is remote, listening; turning from one plant to the next, his dark eyes fall on Calriel and he nods in greeting. But it is still a little longer before he steps away from the growing vines and speaks. "Tis a fair morn." Then, one dark eyebrow raising inquiringly, "It has been long since we saw you here." Perhaps a small ruffle of breeze toys with the clinging vines, for it almost seems they follow the tall vintner's form.

Toying with vines, and also running through the lass's hair is the morning breeze, which is as the hands of a weaver, Calriel's hair the golden thread of his work. Loose and unbound it is, flowing free under leaf of Mallorn tree. Long parted from one another, Calriel appears the same as always - not merely her hair, but also the ivory alabaster of her skin, the bright blue of the eyes, as only the skies on a white winterday look, the greenness and verdant life of her attire -- and yet, yet some quality or another seems to have changed. For deep within the eyes, and perhaps written there, weighing on her brow, there is something that was not there before.

She steps closer, a slight smile coming to her dry lips, eyes twinkling as midnight's stars. "It is good to see you once more, Lothdaimoth," she says, her voice warm and melodious; warm had summer already heralded its arrival. "And it is good to see a Minister occupying himself with such worthy work. We are blessed with one so versatile."


A grin spreads across the vintner's face. "Thank you," he says, and if his voice is grave, there is a spark of laughter in his eyes. "It is not so much that I chose to occupy myself thus," he continues, "As that the vines chose for me... and you? How do you fare of late, mellon?" And an unexpectedly keen glance lands on Calriel's face before dropping to a nearby blossom.


A sigh, light as the wind, and soon nothing more than a memory on an early dawn. It is all that Calriel has in answer to the words of the Minister, as she also lets her eyes wander to all the life around them. The forest, the vines, other elves, birds - cheerfully announcing yet a new day dawning over this dreamlike realm. "Well..." the Herald says slowly, tracing the lines of one of the leaves, "you can say that the journey to Imladris has been fruitful, but not without demanding its own price. How do you pay for the life of one of the mortals, Lothdaimoth? How?" And with that, almost urgent sounding question, Calriel rises her eyes to behold the other's visage, her eyes searchingly looking over it.


"Yes..." From his tone, almost it would seem he had forgotten there had been a trip to Imladris. "You returned not long ago?" A troubled look shadows his eyes and they drop again to a bit of leaf that has somehow insinuated itself between thumb and finger. "I have been ... occupied."

Silence falls between them. And the distant sounds of others working around them creeps in to fill it. At last the minister raises his head and shakes it slowly. "I do not know," he confesses heavily. "Their lives are so short... yet not without value."


"Yes... yes, we recently returned, of course," answers the maid, who, even while standing proudly in the wind like a warrior defying an army of dreadful soldiers, is still quite a bit shorter than the other. "The Lord assigned me to travel with the humans. There are few among us who truly understand them. Especially the Beorning - quick in anger, and quick in laughter. If you suprise them, you may be blessed with a laughter or threatened with harsh words. As the sole elf in their company, I did learn much, yet I am unsure as to the role I played. I wonder what their destiny is, and when I do, I feel but a slight sigh in the tides of time."

She turns around, slightly, observing the work of the others, while sayiiing "But come, you say you have been occupied. What has been on your mind, then, mellon?"


"Little," Lothdaimoth says with a hint of self-mockery in his voice. "The mine collapsed, did you hear of this? Some portion of it chose to fall on me." Unbidden, his hand raises to his now unblemished temple and then falls away. "Now Caelwen is angered with me, she says I risk myself and take no thought for her.. but what would she that I do? I cannot sit in the middle of bare ground and never move. I do not remember why I was there, even." He sighs a little and manages a crooked smile.


It is Calriel who steps in closer, her pallid hand gently touching the other's arm. A look of understanding briefly crosses her fair elven features; a smile, though not a large one, not one of great amusement or appreciation, but a simple one, modest, one of sympathy, mixed with the slightest irony. It is not accompanied by any word, for all there is seems to be the wind.

"Listen," says the elven lass then, at long last. "It is the wind of Manwe. Let go of your burden, set it free on the wind." - her voice is as kind as it is urgent; as sweet as it is demanding.


Long curled tendrils of vine sway with the breeze, tapping against the minister and his companion. And something of the same remoteness smooths all expression from Lothdaimoth's face as he stills to hear what the air might say. "If I only knew," he says as if from a great distance. "But I cannot remember. I look within and all is darkness..." His voice trails away, slowly skeins of distress and unhappiness are blown away and scattered by the all-encompassing compassion of the winds. Around them, workers slow from fluid motion to the smallest of movements, or perhaps it is only an impression of the viewers for time behaves oddly here in the Golden Wood.


"Come, let us take a walk together," says Calriel, as she slowly begins to make her way toward the southern path. "It is too nice a day to let your thoughts be clouded."


Vines cling undemandingly to his clothing, sliding away with each step the minister takes. And he falls into step beside the Lord's Herald, bending his head to hear her words, his low voice murmuring responses.