================== Eldarin Calendar in Sindarin ===================
IC time is: Mid Afternoon About 4:42 PM
IC day is: Ormenel Heavens-day
IC date is: 27 Rhiw Winter
Moon phase: Waxing Crescent VISIBLE
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 4 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor TA 3028
---------------------------------------------------------------------
RL time: Sat Apr 19 13:34:08 2003
=====================================================================

This is a large hall, running from the breezeway through to the back of the building. A newly crafted door leads eastward to the breezeway, while another leads north into the weapons forge. Windows look out eastward, allowing light to spill in from outside, and brightening the room. Broad skylights also allow an unrestricted view of the heavens, and allow the inspiration of the skies to artisans working day or night.

Alcoves line the entire west wall of the Hall, with a corkboard fastened to the door of the office of the guildmaster, with messages from various members pinned to its surface. Newly erected shelves stand against the north wall, on either side of the door, covered with all manner of scrolls and books. Large tables with benches fill the middle of the building, at any time covered with projects half finished and sketches of wonders yet to come.

An imperceptible sigh is worded by the Hirdan near the door. He eyes his comrade shaking his head, albeit he stands bemused, "It is as I had foreseen... a harsh stroke dealt by the season. Pity none were too heed my council. Perhaps in another age or two my words will gain in weight and meaning." Randinen laments, chuckling softly now.

Unfolding his arms he leaps to action, striding towards Gondramind and casting a sideglance towards the unrolled plan, "We spoke of the woodwork before, it is best to wait till spring. Nonetheless... have they made known their preference as to what work they wish to see done in the brown tan of treeskin?"


A soft chuckle rumbles from the stone cutter's chest and he too shakes his head. "Your words have always been heeded by me mellon nin, in ages past and those to come. But." His lips curl in a smile of shared annoyance. "In this I am ruled by the will of others. And so. We are stalled in construction. Yet the pad and all earth work are prepared and but await stone. The quarrying must being now, but yes. For framing we must wait until spring." His long slim hands spread out the rolled plan for Randinen's inspection. "As for material needs... Pine for the internal framing. Maple and Cherry I think for the rest. The contrast of light and dark, no? For the Pillars and the work upon the walls. What think you?"


A shadow falls across the door, and silent footsteps bear its owner close behind. Fyaeglim pauses in the entrance, hooded watchful eyes scanning the busy hall. His gaze pauses on a recognized face and then moves on - between moving figures, the tables all seem to be filled, and after a moment, he takes the few steps necessary to bring him near to Gondramind and Randinen.


"If it is the contrast they desire..." Randinen muses. His eyes examine carefully the unfolded designs, and the Hirdan nods to himself, rubbing his chin ere he taps his lips. "The pine we have in abundance, even during winter. Although the aid of the river might be in order to ascertain a swift line of supply."

Then he pinpoints a few locations on the plan with his index finger, arching a brow in wonder, "Will these pillars act as supportive beams aside the frames?" But then the Hirvaethor keeps his silence, staring up as they are approached.


"The pillars, as you see, support the interior hall which surrounds the interior courtyard. These pillars..." But Gondramind's voice trails off as he sees the Galadhrim approach. His face assembles itself to a more formal air and he smiles to the Maldan. "Mae govanen, mellon. Randinen, this is one of our guests of the Galadrhim. Fyaeglim. Have you found everything to your liking and use here, mellon? Have you completed the gold work you began?"


Fyaeglim nods to Randinen. Hair, the black between the stars on a moonless night, hangs smoothly down his shoulders and catches a little on the soft grey and brown material with the motion. "Your people have been very accomodating." One hand reaches into a pocket and brings out a small round object. He holds it between his fingers and turns it over and over as he speaks; glimpses show that it is a ring. "I am not quite finished however."


Gondramind's eyes narrow slightly as Fyaeglim fiddles with the ring. The Gonnhir gazes upon the band, twirling and catching the light between the Maldan's fingers, with a sculptor's eye and appreciation for perfection of form. He says nothing, not wishing to pry though his curiosity is piqued.... That one bound for the West should work upon a wedding band... "If there is anything I can do to help you, mellon, you have but to ask. Have much work left to do?" His clear, colorless eyes stray again toward the band.


"It is good to hear our hospitality has not diminished over time... After all 'tis one of the key elements a true haven ought possess..." the Hirdan muses anew, smiling absently as he inclines his head towards the guest from Lothlorien.

"Another whom lost his heart to fine craft and nimble hands?" he remarks looking upon the golden piece, "But the pillars," the Hirdan glances again at the designs, "You might prefer somewhat sturdier lumber if they are to bear some weight. The softer material will deteriorate over time..." (Randinen)


Gondramind's attention is pulled back toward the plans under his hand and he nods as Randinen speaks. "Aye. Then what would you suggest? Has cherry not the strength? The pillars must bear a good deal of weight, as the courtyard ceiling will be supported by them, and that is to be entirely of quartz. Rose quartz." He sighs. "Mining /that/ shall be a challenge. But to the pillars. Perhaps the corner pillars shall be of stone then, to bear the weight of the roof. What woods do you recommend? Oak?"


"Thank you," Fyaeglim replies gravely. A hint of amusement flickers in the ice-grey eyes at the other's glance towards the ring. "Only a little." He shows no disposition just now to leave, leaning forward a little to glance at the plans and then straightening. His eyes go from face to face as the two speak of the future building, and beneath the polite exterior, lurks the passion of a craftsman.


"If you place stone pillars at a certain interval..." Randinen clarifies his statement by pointing several times at the building plans, "Here, here and here, along with a sturdy pillars at the corners, then perhaps for effect we can still install a lighter type of wood. Otherwise, I indeed would recommend oak or a similar type. Although it is harder to carve... hmm, so must the pillars remain pure and simple or do they expect decorations?"


A sly grin pulls at the corner of Gondramind's mouth and he slides his clear eyes from the plans to look at the Hirvaethor with a side-wise glance. "Disaster averted then." And he winks, then stands upright from the table and faces Randinen fully. "You should do this, you know. Not me. You should assume the oversight of all wood-related aspects of the construction. Stone is my field and my passion. The properties of these softer materials elude me. I know all the specifications and design needs. Even to the shape and pattern of the designs upon the pillars. But you... you could execute them with the grace and artistry only you possess...." He raises his brows in a question and an invitation. "It would be good to work side by side again mellon..."


Light pours unhindered through huge windows and skylights, catching at a bit of yellow silk almost lost in Fyaeglim's dark hair. It winks off the golden band he still fingers absently, but gives up its quest to brighten all the world as the grey-brown weave of his clothing merely absorbs whatever light hits it and remains a garment of shadow. And even as he listens, his eyes lose their focus and rest in distant thoughts.


"Be this an invitation to revise your every plan and bring to light each and every flaw which has crept into your design on moments unaware?" Randinen inquires in playful anxious voice, and his eyes brim a joy unequaled, yet he restrains himself to not clap his hands. Rather the Hirvaethor makes for the door, flanked by a chime of laughter, "I will consider it, mellon, this opportunity -- shall we say -- may be too good to be true! But you will have an answer the morrow. For now I wish you both a pleasant day, namarie. Show me some more of your craft once, Fyaeglim of Lothlorien!"

Thus one Hirdan leaves the warm Hall in exchange for the cold outside.


Drawn from his reverie, Fyaeglim returns to the present world of noise and work and consultation. "Perhaps," he replies, somewhat enigmatically and tilts his head a little to watch the other go.


A deep, joyful laugh rumbles from the Gonnhir's chest and Gondramind calls to the departing Hirvaethor's back... "You shall not alter a jot of my design, mellon, but aye opportunity it shall be. Namarie, namarie." Still chuckling softly to himself, his long fingered hand rolls up the plan and he casts a friendly gaze toward the Galdhrim before him. The smile dancing upon his lips fades somewhat, but a kind of curisoty now shines from his clear eyes. "May I see your work Fyaeglim? I know what it is like... that desire to create and see the work of others... And that small bit of perfection now dancing in your hand... It has captured my curiosity...."


A thin smile curves the corners of Fyaeglim's mouth upward, though the hooded eagle-eyes remain untouched, and he holds out his hand wordlessly. A thin ring of clear flawless gold rests in the hollow of his palm. It seems to gather light to itself and glow; and though the surface of the gold is smooth and unmarred, thin twining lines appear and fade depending on the angle it is held at. "You may."


The smile upon the Hirdan's face softens as he looks upon the shining ring held out in Fyaeglim's palm and, like a sculpture of sand taken in by the surf, it gently, slowly collapses. He reaches out and takes the golden circlet beteen his index finger and thumb and holds it up to the light and a crease forms between his raven's black brows. Unbidden his mind sees her hand, white and small as a child's held in his and he blinks at the image, and his eyes, the color of rainwater, cloud and he looks to Fyaeglim with more than a little surprise. He returns the ring quickly and adjusts the set of his shoulders as he untiles his leather work apron. "It is beautiful," he says, eyes averted from the Maldan. "Perfect in form and ... spirit." Marble dust rises from his clothes, his night-black hair as the apron comes off and he wipes his hands on a towel. "Perfect."


The smile that has not touched Fyaeglim's eyes is replaced by a concern that does. Warmed and softened, the ice-grey melts into clouds. For a long moment, and then another, the master goldsmith stands silent, the ring replaced in his pocket and another withdrawn. "I thank you, mellon, but... is aught the matter?" He looks down at the second golden band, this one unfinished and says softly, "These are the last such I shall make on these shores, I put all my fae into the making. Yet it disturbs and does not bring joy?"


"They shall bring joy to the wearer, of that I am certain." Gondramind's tone is disant, yet courteous. He removes his tool belt and begins methodically cleaning his chisels with the towel, one at a time, all of his attention firmly focused on that work. But the Galadhrim's presense, his hanging question... He glances up at the goldsmith, his eyes scanning the other's face. "Pardon my manner. I meant no disrespect. I was born in Eregion, mellon and your work could equal any of... It disturbs in that it... called up memory. I thought of my wife." And he looks away and attempts to change the subject. "Do you craft these for friends or family? Or are they a commission you fulfill before... departing?"


"Ah." Fyaeglim bows his head a little. A strand of midnight hair that has escaped from its yellow confining cord slides across one pale cheek. "Then the fault is mine, I did not think. Please accept my apologies." After a moment, he looks up again, willing in word at least to follow the turn of conversation. "A commission. An unexpected one." One dark eyebrow quirks in amusement. "It seems there is a youth among our guard and his beloved travels with him... he asked this of me, and I have spent all my time on it since." But despite the easy tone and the humorous brow, there is a distant sorrow in his eyes that might be the match of Gondramind's. Softly, as if offered as a gift, he adds, "I have not seen my wife for more ages of men than I can count. Nor my daughter. I.. I do not even know if they yet live on these shores."


"And yet you depart?" The words escape Gondramind's mouth before he can recall them, and he shakes his head in annoyance with himself. "Forgive my unruly tongue. It wanders where it is not invited." He turns and throws a drop cloth overtop the large, rough marble he was working on, the barely visible shape of a horse and rider struggling to emerge from the stone. Dust rises with the fluttering of the cloth and sparks in the afternoon light like tiny stars, living and then winking out.

He turns, hand resting atop the covered statue, raven's black hair glistening with stone dust. His face grows hard and impassive and, suddenly taken with that same spirit in which old soldiers share tales they would sooner forget, Gondramind speaks, and his tone is strangely light and offhand given his words. "My son died in the Last Alliance. My wife departed for the west over 600 years ago." A rueful, weary smile pulls the corners of his mouth. "I envy you your journey, mellon. And hope you find your own answers in the taking of it."


Into this weary solemnity, there comes a sudden quiet clatter, and the soft pattering of rapid feet. There is a flash of silver. The edge of damp-stained, green fabric as it disappears beneath a table, and nothing more.


A passion similar to that shown to his crafting flashes like a storm in the sea-grey eyes. "I have longed for this day for yeni uncounted, my friend. I cannot stay." Long fingers close over the ring held in his palm and gently, the storms in his gaze tamed for now, Fyaeglim says, "You find it surprising that I leave... I find it more so that you stay. Your wife is there, you say, yet you join her not." There is a question in his voice, yet with it a willingness to accept no answer if none is given. A sudden swiftness of motion where most all else is deliberate and fore-thought, sends both the Galadhrim's eyebrows winging skyward. "It seems you have a whirlwind in your halls, mellon," he comments dryly.


The Hirdan cocks his head to the side and he narrows his eyes upon the table where the child's skirts disappeard. "Aye," he says with a slow, knowing drawl. "I can rightly guess who it is. Tis the gadfly of these halls. And she loves to tinker and pester." He catches the eye of a apprentice sitting at said table and they both smile. "We are accustomed to her presence here." He turns his gaze back toward the goldsmith and the smile remains, though the eyes grow distant. "I have wanted to make your journey ... for centuries now. I have but.. I have a daughter here. Born shortly before my wife left. And..." Gondramind pauses, suddenly aware that he speaks to a stranger and reveals to him things he keeps but from those closest to him. 'He will go and take my words with him,' he thinks, and speaks on. "My wife extracted from me a vow before she departed. She and I..." he chuckles. "It is complicated. The long and short of it: She begged of me that I would not come to her in Valinor until I had learned... certain lessons here in Middle Earth. I have only recently come to understand what she meant by that. So... I have only truly begun the learning. And I only find your departure surprising because you know not the whereabouts of your loved ones. I could not go with out my wife. And yet.." he shrugs his broad shoulders and looks away. "And yet I remain without her."


Entirely forgetting that she is in hiding, the raven-framed, angelic features of quite a small elfling poke out from beneath oilcloth. One finger firmly set within her mouth, hazel eyes wide with curiosity, Trastawen peers up at the two edhil -- one of whom is entirely a stranger. Her gaze lingers longest with him, scanning his form for matters of interest before settling on the Hirdan. "You got a little girl?" Her voice clear, the words unintended. Out loud, at any rate. She disappears again.


"I think we are much alike," Fyaeglim says softly, as he listens to the Imlad's story, his gaze bent on the table beneath which a small child had vanished. "For myself, in the ... time of terror," his voice catches slightly, "I was away. And when I returned, I could find no trace of my family. I would know, had my wife died, but.." his voice trails off and he shrugs a little in resignation, still grey eyes seeking Gondramind's face. "I hope I might find her in the West, but if not, still I must go." He pauses and with a hesitance not often found in this proud fierce elf, offers, "Is there anything you would send, word...? I would gladly take it."

When the child reappears, his gaze drops and then rises again, a question on his face. Your daughter or mine? But he offers politely, "I do have a daughter. She is not very little though."


For some time now Gondramind has felt he looks into a mirror of sorts -

not merely a similarity of coloring, but one apparently of nature as well. He nods slowly, holds Fyaeglim's gaze, the Galadhirm's offer hanging in the air between them, shining with possibility. And then Trastawen's curly head pops up and she speaks. Gondamind cannot help but smile at the girl. He chuckles and cocks a brow at the goldsmith and points to the table with and open hand. "The gadfly." He says, by way of introduction. "Her name is Trastawen. And aptly named she is." He looks under the table and says softly "Cefelleth is my daughter. You might know her, child."

Then he sits up again and looks once more to Fyaegilm. "I too feel a kind of brotherhood between us. I..." A sudden soft and unlooked for constriction of his chest, as of small, soft hands wringing his heart, gives him pause. He clears his throat and looks away. "I would give you a letter. And, if you have room... a small work. A sculpture. Her name..." and here he stops and clears his throat again and stands and turns his back to the Galadhrim and busies himself with tools upon the bench behind. "Her name is Briniel." His voice is quiet and rough. "My son, should he be now granted leave of Mandos' Halls, is called Linmaethor."


The child, for her part, listens intently, absorbing everything that she understands -- and the achingly poignant edge within both voices most of all. There is a dull thud as something (pilfered) is set down beneath her shelter, and she pushes herself out now, bright glance flickering between the two stern creatures with a growing scowl upon her own small features.


"There will be room," Fyaeglim says. It is a promise. His own voice loses some of its distant smoothness. "And.. my wife. Her name is Maithlen. My daughter is Melaewe. If... if you should see them here, tell them of my going." He stops, a suspicious brightness glimmers a second in his eyes before he drops them to the girl. "Hello, Trastawen," he says with a little smile. "Do you wish to be a smith as well?"


Gondramind turns and looks at Fyaeglim with a steady, unwavering glance. "Maithlen, Melaewe." He says. "I shall remember." And that too is a promise. Then the angles and lines of his face soften as he looks toward the very serious Tratsawen. "Aye. An artisan or a thief," he says kindly.


The potential artisan thief disregards the maldan's question, instead clambering to her feet and tilting up her chin. Both warm hands are upraised to Fyaeglim, as the elfling stretches as far as she may reach. The stern, fierce stare she fixes on the pair is matched only by the bare fervency of her voice. "Don' be sad, sillies. Don' worry. Your little girls would be /sad/ that you're sad."


A true smile graces Fyaeglim's stern face, the hooded grey eyes warming as he looks down at the child. One open hand and one closed reach down to meet the upstretched arms. And there is a catch in his voice compounded of laughter and sorrow. "Child," he says. "If my daughter knew where I was, I think it would be such great joy that no other sorrow could stand before it." A swift glance to his companion. "My thanks," he adds quietly.


The clear eyes, color of rain, color of fog or mist or soft mirage, close slowly with a solemn nod of Gondramind's dark head. And he reaches out for the child and ruffles her soft curls with his long slim hand. "My daughter Cefelleth is never sad," he chuckles, "though often sharp of tongue and wit, and with these disallows my own sorrows. As for my son... He is where sorrows are no more." And he glances toward the goldsmith and his eyes rest upon him. "Where healing and blessedness reign. And he is lucky. As are all who dwell there. If you need anything while you are here, mellon... you have but to ask me. I owe you much. And now I must go. Trastawen, keep good company of our guest, and mellon Fyaegilm... Thank you." And with that the Hirdan ruffles the little girl's hair once more and departs, striding slowly toward his quarters on the western wall. He opens it door, looks back once, then disappears within.