Garden of the Silver Lights
You stand in the middle of a luscious garden filled with all colors and varieties of plants and flowers, whose sweet scent permeates the air. There are many hummingbirds here flying among the bushes, and even a few scarlet kirinki, tiny Eressean finches with high piping voices, are fluttering here and there among the flowers. The garden is walled, for the most part, by a number of tall, sturdy wooden trellises on which grow a type of vine adorned with large white flowers, whose seeds are crushed to produce the flour of which lembas is made.
Lamps of different sizes and shapes hang from the trees, their serene silver light giving a calm peace to the garden, illuminating the small benches that are set amongst the flowerbeds. To the west, grassy steps lead up the the silver gates through which you entered. There is a small brook here flowing down from the fountain at the top of the hill, and then trickling away eastward.
The quiet trickling of the brook makes a muted background music to the garden. Silver lamps hung from branches all about add their serene cool light to that off the full moon that pours down from the starry sky. Oddly enough for what is usually a popular retreat, few elves are here this night. Most of them walk among the flowers, talking quietly. But one, clad in dark blue shirt and green pants sits cross-legged on the grassy slope, bent over some papers in his lap. More are stacked beside him, a stone for a paperweight balanced on top. Silver lions gleam at the base of his neck holding black hair neatly out of his face. And a silver pin on his shirt occasionally catches and throws a spark of light back into the garden. The faint skritch of a pen moving across paper blends into the babble of stream and soft hum of voices as Lothdaimoth steadily works his way through the stack of parchments.
Caelwen's steps make no sound on the grass as she slips down the steps, a leaf flying from a basket in her hand and left to flutter to the ground without being noticed. She walks slowly along the flowerbeds, eyes flitting through them and plucking a bloom here, a leaf there. She nears Lothdaimoth and glances to him, hesitating only briefly ere striding closer. "Mae govannen, cousin," she murmers, very soft as though to avoid disturbing him. "Do you have a great deal of work from when you were gone?" She is gaining a blush while looking at him, so she turns and kneels instead to a flower bed near, reaching out with a hand covered in soft brown dust that sparkles in silver lamplight.
Skritch, skritch. The pen moves on, hesitating here, racing there. "Yes, some," Lothdaimoth says at last, laying the pen down. Leaning back on his hands, he stretches his neck to one side and then the other. "What are the flowers for?"
Caelwen reaches only for a dying flower whose petals are dry, shaking gently the head to free them into the palm. "Texture," she replies, transferring the deep orange slivers into her basket. Her gaze darts only briefly toward him, from the corner of her eyes, but her voice is easy and cheerful. "They're for a sculpture-- or for pottery, I'm not sure which yet. I like to press them into the clay and leave them on for the firing sometimes, so they burn off." She inspects the contents of her basket, a finger stirring with a dry sound.
Shifting his weight onto one hand, Lothdaimoth peers into the basket and pokes a finger of his own into the dried leaves and petals there. "Interesting," he says. "Does it make a pattern then?" With his movement, a tiny star lights and burns at his throat. Just a bare second though, for his next motions snuffs it.
The brief flash draws Caelwen's gaze, and she answers only distractedly, "I usually use them to paint cobalt or copper around and leave a negative image behind..." Her brows draw together, and her hand drifts toward his throat. "I never asked you. What do you wear around your neck?" She stops herself before touching him, drawing her fingers back to her lap as her head ducks a bit shyly. She shifts a bit closer.
Lothdaimoth looks down at himself as if he has forgotten what is there. Then he laughs softly and sitting straight again, fishes the thin golden chain out from under his shirt. Holding it out for Caelwen's inspection, it twists and sparkles in the lamps. A tiny golden cage enclosing an even smaller silver flower dangles from the end of the chain. "Tiina had it made for me when first she left the Wood for Imlad." He prods it a bit with a finger from his other hand. "The flower is a lily, see?"
Caelwen ducks closer to see it, turning her head now and again as the cage sways. "It is beautiful," she speaks low. "I cannot imagine making anything so small." A hand placed in the grass beside her for balance, she hesitates with another swift glance to his face ere leaning back again. "Why a lily?" Her hands flutter a bit as though looking for something to do, and one finally settles back in the basket.
"I don't know if she had any particular reason. Only I do not really like roses so well as other flowers and lilies grow in the Alqualonde." Lothdaimoth shrugs and tucks the chain with its fragile burden back into the neck of his shirt. "We both, and Sil and Melae, like to spend time there." Caelwen's nervousness doesn't go unnoticed, but for now at least, is allowed to pass unremarked.
Caelwen nods once, her curls swaying and causing sparks of light to slide down them. "I remember that." She bows her head in silence for a moment, closing her eyes. A deep breath. "Well.." she says calmly, then turns to inspect the nearby flower bed again, her fingers clenching into a fist and releasing ere stretching forth once more.
And this too is noted by sable eyes that watch quietly, gravely, until finally the counsel reaches out a tentative hand towards his young cousin. "Caelwen," he says softly. "What is wrong? Have I offended you somehow that you are so discomforted in my presence?" One by one the others that shared this garden have slipped away, until now they two sit alone beneath the endless starry night with its silver disc of moon.
Caelwen's chin ducks further down at the familiar voice, but her eyes drift cautiously toward him. Her hand reaches for him, her fingers smooth and powdery with clay-dust. "You know, what I said in the orchards," she says, voice low and abashed. "I... I speak my thoughts too much. You have done naught to offend, I swear it." She does not notice the other elves leave, but watches his face more openly, eyes glimmering in the semi-darkness.
Confusion writes itself plainly in the lines of Lothdaimoth's face, the wrinkles between his eyebrows. "What you spoke...?" he begins and then stops. Still the frown remains, but from bewilderment it shifts; not to anger, but perhaps an uncertainty of sorts? And a deep sadness moves in his eyes. Long minutes pass in silence, while the stars swing slowly across the heavens above and the moon sinks imperceptibly towards the horizon. Then he sighs, deep and soundless and letting go of her hand, sets all his papers on the ground and slides himself around to put an arm about her thin shoulders. Still he says nothing, perhaps unable to begin, uncertain what to say, something holds his tongue.
Caelwen tenses slowly during the silence, so much so that she startles faintly when her hand is released. She slides her own arm tightly behind him, allowing her head to rest on his shoulder. "I am sorry," she whispers, eyes pinching shut. "I was afraid that saying something would be uncomfortable for you." Her other arm goes before him so that she may cling to him in an embrace, and she stills.
Almost in spite of himself, Lothdaimoth's arm tightens. And still he hesitates to speak. When at last words do come, they are slow, his voice rough. "I.. Caelwen, are - are you certain of this? Might it not be some..." he pauses, searching for words and then gives up. Finally, after a silence so long it seems he will speak no more, he whispers, "I love you greatly, cousin. I would not bring you hurt."
Caelwen's face winces in grief, and she turns her eyes to his shoulder to hide her _expression and the tears that wet her lashes. She shudders as if she weeps, and a muffled voice emerges after a time. "I spoke too soon... I ought to have tried to learn of your thoughts first. I am sorry."
"Don't cry." Lothdaimoth's other arm curls around so that as she holds him, so he holds her. Very softly he strokes her curling hair. "Caelwen, do not cry. Tis naught of you..." and as he told another before her, he says again, "I .. I had not thought to love again." Unseen, for her head is buried in his shoulder, a mask of sorrow descends on his own face, drawing lips downward and shadowing his eyes.
Caelwen wriggles a little closer, rocking herself briefly against him as she vents her sorrow in silence. Her voice betrays her, scarred with tears. "Is it possible at all for you, Lothdaimoth?" A sniffle, her arms drawing ever tighter and her head bowing slightly against his stroking hand. "I ought to have asked you that first."
This conversation seems punctated by long pauses and now is no different. Again long minutes pass with not a word from either one, the bubble of brook seeming suddenly loud in the distance. Until very quietly, Lothdaimoth admits, "I do not know. I had thought not, until.. Liskelindele..." At her name he stops again, swallowing before continuing and the next name is spoke hesitantly. "Erethringil said .. one should not close one's heart to the future and..." Another of those interminable silences, yet he seems a little more at ease for whatever reason. The night breeze sweeter, the stars brighter. A little closer still he holds her and when he next speaks, his voice is conversational and dark eyes gaze only at the distant stars. "You remember Melae, of course?"
Caelwen relaxes slightly with time, just keeping near him with her silent shuddering waning, then ceasing entirely. She lays her head aside on his shoulder and sniffs once, her voice sounding vaguely tired. "Aye, of course I do," she answers huskily, and waits. Though her form grows less tense, she does not ease up on her embrace of him in the least.
The years, though they seem so few compared with the thousands yet to come, and aid from friends have robbed these memories of much of their pain, leaving only a mingling of sorrow and joy. "When she chose Silgelir, I thought I wished to die. I was very young." Lothdaimoth's voice turns to self-mocking. As if he is so old now. "And then he died. And .. and she chose to sail West." For the first time, the deep tones falter. As she grows calm, so his hand ceases its motions, coming to rest at last along the line of her back.
And now Caelwen's hand lifts, trailing his cheek lightly ere turning and lifting higher to stroke his hair. "I am so sorry to hear of it," she murmurs, voice still husky. "How young were you? Aiya.." Her face tightens once more in pain, then eases again, no further tears showing.
"I don't remember," the counsel replies vaguely. "It was some time ago." Bending his head, the touch of her fingers on his face and hair and he shivers. A silent shadow floats between them and the moon, an owl hunting in the night. And in the distance, singing begins - interspersed with laughter.
Her fingertips turn to trace his ear timidly, the touch barely there at all. Caelwen relaxes further, resting against him, and a half-dip of her head is almost a nod. "Time does help, then, I suppose," she says idly, her lashes finally lifting to gaze secret to his face, the stars making mirrors of her eyes.
Lothdaimoth's head drops still further until his cheek rests on Caelwen's hair. One hand raises to capture hers, stilling it. "Yes," he says at last. "Time helps - some." The ragged edge of memory grates a little, and finally he stirs, moving to put her from him though his hands remain, one on her shoulder, the other lightly cupped about hers. "Caelwen, please. I cannot decide this now. I.." Unhappily he searches her face. "I cannot say what the future might bring, I do not know. If.. if you could put these .. feelings of yours away. If they are not lasting... I can promise you nothing and truly, I do not wish to bring you pain."
Caelwen's form tenses in a snap. She remains there as a fair, dusty thing carved from marble, her hand curled in his as she meets his gaze, watching him with an odd sort of poise. Her lips part as though to speak, but for a long while she just looks at him in silence as the faraway singing dies and even the trees cease their restless gossip. Her voice finally speaks, low but certain. "I cannot promise you anything like that, Lothdaimoth. But I have vaguely felt my whole life that I have cared for you more than you have for me, and I swear it has never yet bothered me." She leans forward and her tone gains a reassuring note to it. "I do not wish for you to bear this trouble. Do not worry over it. It is mine alone." Her brows both lift, and now she studies him with concern.
And he manages a bit of a laugh. "Not worry? Silly. You ought to know I worry over everything..." Slowly, almost reluctantly he lets go of shoulder and hand, reaching for forgotten papers. And standing in one swift motion he remains there for a long moment, looking down at her. While they have talked, and sat, and talked again, the moon has slid behind the jutting trees, creating silver outlines against the stars. "Then we will see," he says enigmatically before turning and striding swiftly from the garden.
Caelwen's hands both return to her lap, and the young Silvan is calm as he looks down at her, watching him in return. She nods once only after he speaks, a shifting of shadows across her. "Aye, then," she adds after him. "We will, I suppose." Her eyes follow him until he is gone, and again her head bows, a peace descending over her as she lingers there in silence.