The grey pre-dawn light is slowing turning gold as the sun rises above the rim of the earth. A chill winter mist is shot with golden and rose shafts; the coming warmth of Arien's chariot will soon burn it off. In the still dim light of the Sun Flet, Goerhim is humming happily to himself. His fingers are stained with dirt and bits of dead leaves stick to his clothes where he has brushed against the rapidly growing trees that surround him. From his seat on the floor, he can reach all but the tallest of the pots; and currently he is gently dripping water from a pitcher onto the roots of the nearest. His free hand carefully arranges the muddy soil while he pours.
The wind shifts, and it brings with it the heady scent of dew, and quiet words spoken nearby.
"Are you sure this is the best course?" A warm tenor, rich and light.
"It is." A female voice, soft and low.
"Aye, then," the first replies, "but I still have misgivings," and soon two shadowed figures cross the threshold to the flet. Both should be familiar: Hyardoel o nos Aderthad and Merenion o nos Dinlom, foresters in the Gwaith-I-Thein.
The elleth looks sideways to her fellow as she enters as the former scans the sun flet for his kin.
At the sound of voices, Goerhim says, "Mae govannen, mellyn." Light green eyes never waver from the thin stream of water until the pitcher is set aside, empty. Then he looks up. A delighted smile lights up his long pale face at the sight of a fellow Dinlom. "Merenion!" One hand reaches out and snakes his crutch nearer and he begins to struggle to his feet. Upright, he waves at his trees proudly. "Are they not beautiful?" The sight of Hyardoel brings a faintly wary look to the depths of his eyes, but his smile doesn't falter. Yet.
"Aiya, Goerhim!" his kinsman booms, striding quickly to the young Silvan's aid. "You're looking well indeed, and so are they." A short, merry laugh lights Merenion's countenance as twinkling eyes touch upon the trees. In marked contrast to this greeting, perhaps, is Hyardoel's softer "mae govannen," as she, too, steps closer to Goerhim. Smiling faintly, the Aderthad glances to the pots -- though by and large she does not shed her reserve.
The plant-filled flet brightens each moment with the turning of the earth. A stray beam lands on Goerhim, turning his red hair into flame; but the next minute it has been dimmed by some far-off shadow. Perhaps a cloud drifted by. "Thank you." Goerhim's voice is pleased and he shuffles around a little to admire the evergreens. "They have grown so." He takes a halting step closer and reaches out to finger spiny needles. "Look you, Hyardoel, how healthy they are." For a second, he sounds almost defiant. "I will have to plant more, so that Caelwen may have her ashes." He falls into silence, his eyes fixed fondly on his trees.
At the mention of the cennan, Hyardoel's smile widens briefly -- though a new twist suggests it is not wholly good humor, not wholly of lightness and mirth. "Aye, the cennan will be pleased." Looking now at Goerhim as he looks to his charges, she continues, "They have rooted in good soil, Goerhim. But have you?"
Merenion looks to the limping Silvan now with a wistful, encouraging smile. The former locks eyes with the Aderthad a moment, and Merenion takes a step towards his kin.
The elleth's grey eyes return then to Goerhim, and her level voice brooks no dissent. "Today, you will leave this flet."
"Leave?" Goerhim's eyes dart from one to the other. "But .. I cannot leave my trees!" A note of panic enters his voice and he steps backwards a little into the dubious shelter of the clustered pots. In his distress, he missteps and sways precariously. Throwing out a hand, he regains his balance; then asks, a note of sullenness not heard for many days back in his voice, "And besides, where would I go? Where could I go?"
"I can think of several offhand, even in the city." If Hyardoel hears the sullenness, she gives no sign of it. She studies Goerhim, set in an unsmiling mask of calm that gives little, if anything, away. But perhaps it is a touch too calm? "Better than...a single flet, and stunted trees." She tilts her head, nodding to his crutch. "Come, now. You can walk. Enough of this hiding."
Fear turns to anger and Goerhim lashes out at his fellow forester. "Do you think I stay here by choice? It is easy for you to talk, who have two whole legs and can go where and when you wish. And if I were to go to some other place yet remain in the city, how is that better than here?" Fury crackles in his voice now, for the attack on his trees rouses him more than any on himself. "They are not stunted! They are growing normally, do you think I would not know? That I have not checked daily? I will not leave my trees!" His face is white and his eyes blaze with green fire.
Merenion draws closer now, tentatively raising a hand to soothe the Dinlom, "Goerhim..." Yet what further words are cut off by Hyardoel's tirade.
She keeps her voice even, though she strains with the effort; and in the midst of a rigidly neutral mien, the elleth's grey eyes blaze unchecked. "They -will- be, unless you move them within the next few loar. And what of you? Soon it will be spring, and the mellyrn's leaves will fall -- will you stay seek not to see it, and stay here, still moping? Will you chain yourself to jars for all eternity?" Her voice whips out, each word crisp. "You -cannot- root yourself here. You will come. Merenion, stay with him."
From white, Goerhim's face floods scarlet. Merenion is ignored, all his attention focused on Hyardoel. "I will NOT leave this talan merely to move to another like it!" He is shaking now with rage and his voice drops to a venomous hiss. "Oh, are you now calling into question my competance as a tauron? I know this - I have thought of the necessary arrangements. The young ones can be moved to the forest and new ones planted here." Suddenly all the fury drains out of his face and he turns awkwardly away, his shoulders drooping, voice barely above a whisper. "Please, Hyardoel. Could I but return to the forests I would gladly go. But how can this be? Did another ... another wolf," The word comes out with difficulty. "Return to the woods, I cannot even climb quickly enough to escape." A dull anguish at the memory of the terrible days before the gift of Caelwen's pots darkens his tone. "Don't take from me what little I have - at least I can feel of use here. And.." But here his voice breaks off and the sentance is never finished.
"I did not say that you would go -alone.-" Despite the words, her tone is still hard and unrelenting. "You are not of the olvar, to abide in one place thus. Did I say that you would not return? What holds you here? Nothing save these--" her jaw clenches for a moment, "--these seedlings of yours, and your fears. If these clay-gardens can bind you so strongly to one tree -- then I deem them an ill gift indeed." Only now does she break from Goerhim's gaze, passing over Merenion, unseeing.
Goerhim turns his head towards her, uncertainty taking hold in his eyes. "My fears," he says on a questioning note. "No, I thought... Caelwen and Rosgwaen..." Naked longing flashes across his face and he turns more fully. Intently, his eyes hold on her face. "Tell me the truth. I did ask Rosgwaen, yet he said naught and I thought... Could I return to the forest?" His gaze turns to Merenion. "Merenion, is it so? But how can I truly take up my work again if not like this?" A hand waves at the pots before a passing thought cocks his head to one side. "You know Rosgwaen, don't you? Caelwen's brother?" Then he returns to the only subject that truly interests him, now or ever. "My seedlings, as you call them, are well worth whatever effort I choose to give them. Tis not that I desire to spend my life thus - I only thought there was no choice."
"No choice," says Hyardoel, "You and the thavron -are- kin. But I see no reason for you not to return to the woods, if your thought did not dwell upon these jars. And if you willed it."
Here the edhel Merenion attempts a shaky chuckle, smiling at Goerhim as he speaks. "Well, why not? I mean, it's not like the soil in those pots is any different from the earth in the woods. All you have to do is get out more and...well, there you go."
Yet now a frown breaks the Aderthad forester's calm, though it doesn't seem to be for her colleagues; unaware or unheeding of Goerhim's stare, she directs a thoughtful gaze at the jars. "Have the cuigrithweg seen you since you left their care?" The frown deepens, knitted brows and narrowed eyes -- but any expression must be better than nothing.
The young forester stares first at his kinsman and then at Hyardoel. Slowly, hope growing in his face, he says, "I would like to go back. The - the pots, they are good, but... if I could return to the forests I would." Green eyes fall to the crutch he leans on and then raise again. This time his voice is questioning, not bitter. "But, how will I live? No matter what you say or what I wish, /this/ will not change." Hyardoel's question brings his gaze to her face, puzzlement wrinkling his forehead. "The healers? No. When I left, they said there was nothing more they could do. Why do you ask?"
"They said that." A pause, as she digests the information. "I did not know." For the first time today, Hyardoel looks at Goerhim's crutch, keen eyes moving up and down its length. For a moment, her gaze wanders to the injured leg, then return to the carved staff, considering. "It may be more difficult to track kelvar as you did before -- but surely that is not the greater part of how you lived? Truly, I fail to see the connection."
"Yes." Goerhim shifts uneasily under Hyardoel's scrutiny. "No, I don't care to track - I never have." Confusion enters his eyes and he tries to think back. "In truth, I cannot say. I ... I do not remember, only that it seemed that everyone felt I could never return to my life's work and I..." He falters and his eyes drop in shame. "I was not thinking clearly, perhaps. I did not question anyone - they did not wish to speak of it, and neither did I," he confesses finally.
"We speak of it now," Hyardoel replies, retreating to calm -- this time not as forced as before. A level gaze, not unkind, accompanies a lapse into indirect speech. "The songs of our people are strong, even in the dusk of this age. So it is said amongst my kinsmen of the nightingale. Some even hold that it is sweeter for this."
Goerhim cocks his head, eyes clinging to Hyardoel's. Her words, while perhaps cryptic, bring some measure of ease to his tense face. And taking a step forward, the crutch thudding on the floor, his maimed leg dragging after; he turns his gaze to Merenion seeking confirmation. With much less heat than before, he says, "I will not leave to only go to another place in the City. But if I could return to the forest... gladly would I go."
"Well, so much for a drink at the Mar," Merenion quips. "But kinsman, what do you say about a brief jaunt by the river? We'll return to this flet when we're through." Though not in touching range, he seems to hover near Goerhim, as though waiting for when the latter might need his aid.
And seeing this, Hyardoel merely steps back, confirming Merenion's words with a nod. "Could?" she echoes softly, "Only you may answer that." Her gaze on Goerhim does not waver; she wears a half-smile.
An uncertain look is cast at Merenion, and then Goerhim surprises himself by laughing. "I did not exactly mean that, mellon." The sun is fully risen and shines through the leafy surroundings, dappling the ground (and occupants). "I would like to go out; where-ever you choose." Smile fading the smallest bit, he looks again to Hyardoel and repeats his question. "You think it is possible I could return to the woods? And live there again? Who will live with me?"
Raised brows convey Hyardoel's surprise, but little more. Her voice is no longer hard, though. "Indeed you may return, Goerhim, and I trust we will see you living at the forest in time. But for now...perhaps Merenion's thought is apt. Despite the hour." As though in emphasis, she looks up to the sun-streaked branches, where Arien's charge brings light but little warmth. Then again, Siniathweg -does- serve water.
Goerhim limps forward, into and out of a patch of sunlight. Then he hesitates. Face turning red again, he says softly, "I could use some help going down the ladder." He turns rather to Merenion than Hyardoel as he speaks.
Anor's bright rays find the gilded queue and pallid mien of one who slowly, silently ascends the Sun Flet's rope ladder, only now becoming visible to those three already gathered upon the talan. Deft hands grip rung after woven rung, unshod feet matching their pace, and soon does the figure of Rosgwaen Golfingund appear in full, clad in the unadorned, dun raiment of his shop as he stands upon the flet's wooden platform. A nod of greeting is given to the twain of foresters, winter-green eyes lingering first upon Merenion, then longer upon Hyardoel, ere turning at last to Goerhim. "Well met, cousin. Yet it seems we meet as you prepare to leave..." The thavron's warmthless gaze seems to take careful account first of Goerhim, then of the crutch he leans still upon.
To this, the Sinda forester voices no protest; indeed, she steps back once more as Merenion attends to Goerhim, drawing to the side opposite the latter's injured leg. Kinsman to kinsman, he nods, "Of course, mellon," offering support should he wish it.
And Hyardoel quietly trails the pair, saying nothing even as another approaches, barring their approach to the bridge. She briefly turns her gaze to Rosgwaen as he arrives, but she lets Dinlom speak to Dinlom for now. Her attention is mostly given to Goerhim.
Already, Goerhim has taken Merenion's arm and is balancing himself carefully when Rosgwaen's unexpected appearance brings an exclamation of surprise and pleasure. "Rosgwaen! We were going to the Mar. Come with us?" And then he stops, a look of intense thought narrowing eyes only a shade lighter than his cousin's. "Could you build a talan? A small one?" An eager light rests on his thin face; his body is tense and he quivers with anxiety while awaiting the answer.
"A talan?" For a moment does Rosgwaen pause as he steps aside, no longer barring the flet's entrance. And he seems to look away, perhaps to the leafy foliage and twined vines as they swing now in a light wind. "Never have I built one, yet perhaps it would do me well to turn a hand to such things." Turning then to Goerhim again, a small, tight smile crosses his fair features. "Yea, cousin. I shall. And, the Mar... are you certain your leg is yet well?"
Impatiently, the younger of the two cousins waves this concern aside. "It will never be better," he says shortly and returns to the subject of his new talan. "Merenion and Hyardoel say that I can live in the forest as I used to and I want a talan. You could build me one, you think? It need not be large."
"Well, maybe not exactly as you used to," Merenion hastens to add, "But I am sure the forest songs would do you much good. It's better than having you moping here, at least." His free hand is held half-raised beside him, hovering expectantly near Goerhim's arm. His smile never fades.
Slowly does the thavron turn to the twain of foresters as they stand beside Goerhim, then again to Goerhim himself. "If they deem you well enough, mellon... I would not refute their judgement. And yea. As already had I spoken, I am untried in this, yet I will build one still." Verdant eyes turn again to the trailing vines as they crawl from an ornate vessel to a mallorn-bough above, their leaves set asway by the lightest of winds.
A brilliant smile is bestowed on Rosgwaen and the crutch is handed to Merenion. Leaning heavily on the other forester's arm, Goerhim makes his way to the ladder, where he lowers himself to the floor. His kinsman's cautionary words are ignored. "Thank you, cousin. Perhaps later we can go look for a suitable place." Twisting around, he reaches his good foot down to the ladder and begins to descend. When he reaches the bottom, he clings still to the rungs and calls up for his crutch.
His kinsman, Merenion, climbs halfway down the ladder before handing down the finely-carved crutch. And at the threshold of the Sun Flet, Hyardoel stands, waiting for her turn to descend.
She turns to Rosgwaen now as the other two make their way down the rungs, offering a silent nod of greeting. Her gaze is calm as she meets his eyes -- indeed, it seems nigh impossible that heated words were exchanged between these three only moments ago. There is none of this ill temper, now.
And so too do Rosgwaen's eyes meet Hyardoel's as they turn from his kinsmen's descent, no rumour of mood graven in their cool depths. The thavron's head lightly tilts, as if in query, though for a time he breaks not her gaze-- until his eyes rise to the golden mallorn-leaves above as they whisper against a silvern branch. And looking still to the sunlit canopy, it seems he grows distant, or lost in thought.