================== Eldarin Calendar in Sindarin ===================
IC time is: Midday About 12:33 PM
IC day is: Ormenel Heavens-day
IC date is: 47 Laer Summer
Moon phase: First Quarter VISIBLE
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 3 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor TA 3027
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RL time: Fri Oct 18 12:11:14 2002
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Vineyard
As you walk into the vinyards, what strikes you immediately is the size and
number of fields. You see the leaves, flourishing along the vines, their
colours ranging from light, bright green to deep purple. As you look at the
carefully thought out placement of the fields, the landscaping effort is
evident as geometric patterns are formed by their layout. Curiously, though,
you notice some 'holes' in the rows, and one field in particular is completely
bare, except for tiny seedlings reaching for the sky, not yet climbing up the
lattice of poles which will hold them up. The vines themselves cover the
landscape, long hedge like rows running straight off in the distance. They
appear to be pruned to perfection, no doubt coaxing the vines to produce the
sweetest and juiciest fruit. There is a pathway leading through the fields to
the east, and a small wooden shed is visible in that direction. The sunny sky
above bathes you, and the field, in golden warmth.
The mid-day sky above the cliffs is crystal clear. The Misty Mountains are
visible in the east. A haze seems to hang around them.
The heat of the midsummer sun pours down golden from a flawless blue sky.
Beneath, dark and light green leaves stretch yearningly upwards; and huddling
in darkness beneath them are the smoothly rounding bundles of ripening grapes.
Among the trellises are a few scattered workers, and down one row almost in the
middle of the field, a figure sits motionless. Long dark hair drags uncared for
in the dirt. And nearly covered by the protecting leaves, he leans against the
wooden poles, eyes shut.
Idle comes Caelwen to the Imladris Vinyards, bare feet careful on the hot dirt.
The sun bakes a few more freckles into her bared and faintly bruised shoulders,
and the lace of her gown bulges around her ribs. She slips between two rows of
grapevine, bright eyes marvelling at the trellises, and makes her slow way down
them, loose copper curls shining cleanly in the midday light. She begins to
walk faster, step graceful and flowing, unjarring to the body, and turns at the
end of the row.
She half-shutters her eyes, light footfall taking her quickly across the
vineyards, and turns exactly down the path where Lothdaimoth hides. She slows
when she nears him, then stops and studies him for a while. A groan of pain
slips unbidden from between her lips as she lowers herself to the ground,
several paces away. The Cennan watches the Counsel with uncertainty
After a long time in silence, Lothdaimoth says in a conversational voice, never
opening his eyes. "Did you know they have several varieties of grapes here that
we do not grow? I wonder if I could get some cuttings, or perhaps rootstock."
His face is pale, emotionless. The bandage on his arm might be the same one
Caelwen saw in the greenhouse a day or so past - still bloody, perhaps a little
dirtier. And his clothing is certainly the same.
Caelwen's chin ducks down to her chest, shy apple-green eyes watching him for a
long pause. Her voice is gentle, cautious but calm. "No, I did not know that.
Their wine is certainly different. I'm sure the rest of the Vinters back home
would love to see this new wine, too." Her fingers fiddle nervously with her
skirt, smoothing our wrinkles, tugging the hem straight against the grass.
"Yes. I wonder how they make it. It would be nice to spend a little time with
them and watch." Quiet, uninflected, his voice shows no sign whatsoever of the
ragged tearing tension that had been there not so long ago. Indeed, it shows no
sign of anything at all. "I wonder if it is the manner of the making, or the
grape that makes the difference."
"I wonder if they will let us. I really don't know much about these Imladhrim
yet," a stifled grunt of pain, and Caelwen crawls a bit closer to him, face
draining of blood and teeth gritted. She settles herself again to sit right
next to him, panting a bit in the aftermath of the hurt, wide grape-leaves
swaying about her and shading her a bit from the unrelenting sun. "I haven't
met many of the Gwaith-I-Thein here. I met a Carpenter, but didn't get to talk
to him, much." One hand, palm covered in scabs, lifts to brush away a leaf so
bright eyes may peer at him yet.
"I do not know, but I will ask." It doesn't really sound as he cares either.
Perhaps a small breeze has swirled around them, for the leaves and curled
newborn tendrils of the grapes surrounding Lothdaimoth shiver and rub together.
Another pause while the soft whisper of their movement is all that can be
heard. Then, "A carpenter. You must be sure to tell Rosgwaen."
Caelwen's tone gains a very soft teasing lilt to it. "I am sure Rosgwaen
already knows they have carpenters here. Although.." she pauses, turning to
look at the vines across from this row. "Everything is so strange here. I've
never thought of catching plants like they do. Like in that glass house, and
here, where they build trellises for the grapes." She just rattles on calmly.
"But I suppose it's not so very odd... we do have grapevines growing in the
trellises at Dinlom Talan, and they don't have any Mallyrn here, so I suppose
they must make do." Her head slowly turns back to her cousin through this, and
a hand reaches out for his, fingertips tentatively brushing.
Still there is no response, in body, face or tone. Beyond the casual uncaring
words that he speaks, the counsel might be something carven, not living. "They
have no mallyrn here," he repeats. "Tis a pity, for I should like to climb
one.. still I suppose the grapes will do." Maybe there was movement among the
vines and maybe not, out of the corner of one's eye it is difficult to tell.
But the air around Lothdaimoth's head seems a little fuller, greener than
before.
A moment's hesitation, and Caelwen's hand withdraws. "I saw a very large tree
of some other sort-- oak, I believe-- in a meadow nearby, but I cannot climb
anything with these ribs. It wasn't near the size of a mallorn, but mayhap you
could climb it and tell me if it is any of the same." The younger cousin's tone
continues easy, chatty, but her ageless, faintly bruised face is beginning to
become a bit tighter with strain. "I do agree, the grapes are sufficing nicely
for you. Mayhap grapes are grapes wherever you go." Her eyes watch him
unwavering.
"Ah yes. I have been up there. Last .. last time we were here." For the first
time, there is the tiniest break in Lothdaimoth's soft unvarying tone. But it
is gone like frost melting in the morning sun, gone as if it had never been.
"It is quite pleasant in its way. You should climb up there sometime."
Flickering sunlight filters down through the thickly enveloping greenery,
creating dancing shadows across the shadowy grey of his shirt.
Caelwen eases just the least bit closer, leaves shushing around her as though
complaining about her action. "I can't climb, though," she replies softly. "In
a way, it is a little nice that I should have this injury here, because we do
climb an awful lot at home." She gives a weak smile, and reaches again for his
hand, restlessly.
Possibly the leaves are protesting Caelwen's actions; they certainly seem
thicker where she tries to edge her way in. Gentle fingers brush the back of
his hand and a vague disquiet moves in his face. Again, it is gone almost
before it begins. But the wind (or something) has returned, for leaves whisper
uncomfortably.
Caelwen stops moving, but leaves her fingers to lie on the back of his hand
this time. A long pause allows the leaves to complain as they will, until the
fair whisper of an elven-voice joins the whispers of plants. "Are you going to
sleep, as I did?"
Lothdaimoth is quiet for a time, maybe he is considering this, maybe he has
just run out of things to say. High above them a curlew calls; its voice clear
and sweet. Imperceptibly, the sun has moved in the sky, the shadows slowly
lengthen across the fields of grapes. "I..."
Caelwen seems satisfied with this, or at least doesn't press further. The
Indiri then tilts her head sideways, mingling her curls with leaves and vines,
and rests her temple gently against the lattice wall, eyes closing. She allows
her fingers to lie limply across the back of her cousin's hand as time passes,
shadows lengthen a bit, and a little more of immortal life slips by unnoticed.
Eventually, after a few minutes, or maybe an hour, she whispers again. "I'm
terribly upset by what Galena said to you. I do pray you do not take it to
heart. If she were your family, surely she would have said naught like that."
Were Caelwen watching, she might see the smallest return of tension; or perhaps
instead she may feel it, as Lothdaimoth freezes (as if he wasn't motionless
already) and then retreats into himself. Dark eyes open, staring through the
leaves at something only he can see; wounded holes in the whiteness of his
face. "Have you met many people yet, cousin? And tell me, how do you like the
Peredhel's valley so far? Tis very lovely, is it not? Although it cannot
compare to Lothlorien."
Caelwen's eyes drift open, copper lashes a bit dusky in the shade. Her other
hand lifts, reaches through the vines, and the Indiri leans forward a little to
brush hair back from Lothdaimoth's brow. "It is a pale shadow compared to home,
but paradise in a cup compared to the rest of the world." Her own wounding
creeps into her voice by the end, but she tries to hide it with a false
cheerful lilt. "I have met some people, all strangers, but they have been kind
to me."
The pain in Caelwen's voice, hide it as she may, is noticed and Lothdaimoth
stiffens a little more. His gaze roams restlessly over the waving green and
gold of the grapevines, with their small bunches of purpling grapes hanging
below. "I am glad to hear this .. I .. " He moves as if to rise, and in the
motion, a vine slides caressingly across his face. Barely surpressed panic
recedes again and he relaxes just a fraction.
Caelwen leans forward, brushing aside the vines and stretching her wounded
torso to place a kiss on her cousin's cheek as she often does. "Don't go. I
think even Imladris' vines like you." A weak smile, and the Cennan levers
herself up with many a wince and even a single whimper. "Namarie," she says,
trying to keep her voice light and calm. "Rest well. It eases me to see you
resting." She lingers a moment, looking down at him, then turns and strides
slowly away.
Obedient to her command, or unwilling anyways to move, Lothdaimoth does stay.
Under the vines that drape themselves around him, lingering on black hair and
whispering over rough fabric. Long after she has left, he still is there while
the shadows stretch and grow, creeping across the fields. Night falling on; the
stars circle brilliantly overhead - and still he remains: unmoving, unspeaking,
avoided by those who work among the grapes.