================== Eldarin Calendar in Sindarin ===================
IC time is: Dawn About 6:05 AM
IC day is: Ormenel Heavens-day
IC date is: 14 Firith Fading
Moon phase: Full HIDDEN
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: Tue Nov 19 10:01:53 2002
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Oak Garden
Here nestled deep within the towering Mallorns is a grove of Oak and Yew trees. Grown for purposes of resource and armament, this crop of trees looks oddly minature, for though of normal sized Oak and Yew, they are dwarfed in comparison to the mighty Mallorn surrounding them.Here and there, you can see elves moving about tending to the trees and fallen lumber. A pathway leads westward, back to the vineyard area.
Slanting through leafless winter branches, the pale sun's rays cast odd shadows over everything within this grove. The air is chill, as befits the season, though nothing near to the biting cold of regions outside the sway of the Lady of the Golden Woods.
From the direction of the vineyard comes the sound of pleased voices, soft laughter and (as the sofar unseen speakers draw nearer) faint rustling footsteps. At last, two quendi round the bend - one taller, his head bent towards his shorter companion, whose copper curls glint in the weak bars of light that stripe the woods.
He sees them not for a time, this figure who lingered here ere the new twain arrived. For his verdant eyes, half-closed, find not even the shadows of a winter's sun, nor the naked yew-boughs that cast them with thin branch-fingers. Indeed, beneath a bare yew he stands, thin brows lowered as if in thought; mien alike to winter's chill yet tinged with a pensive edge. No word nor song is by him whispered. No movement is by him made. Until, in time, a wandering breeze finds the hem of his cloak, like ripples on a calm lake of verdant and silver.
Caelwen, still smiling, lifts her eyes up to Lothdaimoth's face again for a while before glancing down, idly shuffling her feet through the autumn leaves that fall in this grove. A half-skip forward she takes, giggling a little, and her gaze finds then her brother. "Oh, Caranteil, look, 'tis Rosgwaen. I was going to go find him in the city. Ro-gin!" she shouts merrily to the silent and still edhel. Her hand lifts, sleeve swinging wildly as she waves.
Lothdaimoth's head lifts as well, dark eyes searching the woods for a few seconds before lighting on the carpenter. "I am glad. I had some few things regarding which I wished to speak with him as well." A sideways glance filled with affection and humor slides toward Caelwen, and he says with overdone solemnity, "Perhaps I should play a tune that you might skip to?"
Slowly green eyes regain their focus, finding in time the pair of newcome edhil-- and, in especial, the waving arm of the copper-tressed cennan. Perhaps, unless it be no more than a leaf-shadow flickering across his fair countenance, it seems, for the briefest of moments, almost that a corner of a lip turns in a small smile. Yet soon it is gone. "Mae govannen, mellyn." A nod. "Many are the days that have waxed and waned since last our paths crossed." A cold gaze, yet no colder than the thavron's wont, finds his cousin for a time.
"Yes, please," answers the younger, bright eyes glinting up at Lothdaimoth as she half-turns toward him while speaking and walking. "I don't think I've heard you play since before Imladris." Caelwen whirls again to face her brother, step hastening as she approaches him. Her smile almost laughs between the teeth. "Aye, isn't it lovely to have him home again? What are you doing here? More wood from the Foresters?"
From the West, a figure emerges, almost like one coming from a mist, but no mist exists. With lightest of steps upon the garden earth, the figure comes closer the group. His face is cowled, leaving no hint of what might lie beneath, though light like the moon as moonrise can be seen flowing from underneath it. It is not so dark, there. In his right hand is a staff that seems to have been worn with many passing ages of the Sun and Moon. His cloaks encircle him and seem both to be part of him and hide him. Then he comes nigh unto the yew tree. With a voice as ancient as the water and equally as musical, he says, "Verily, long have I wandered through all the trees of Lorien, and verily also am I come upon great ones yet unlike e'en the Mallyrn. But in all my wanderings did I least of all expect to see others who breath in the air. For, I came hither with but one intent that I might meditate upon subjects weighty and poems vibrant and strong, for behold I am always yet struggling to write that poem that shall do justice to the Lady fairest though saddest of all." He bows low, "Natheless, I m come upon you and now desire no solace of natural quiet, but instead desire now much to behold thee and speak unto thee, for contact hath alluded me for so long, and it occureth unto me that what is a poem if no ears prick unto it?"
A soft chuckle. "Then I will. But perhaps not just now." Lothdaimoth's strides remain the same, even and long - and Caelwen reaches her brother first. "Mae govannen, cousin," he says as he stops near the other two. A flicker of laughter lights his face as the young potter bounces and his mouth opens as if he would say more, but just then someone speaks from behind and he turns. Open mouth transforms into a smile of welcome. "Have you a poem then to charm our ears, mellon?"
Leaning upon his staff, the very ancient elf ponders the request with great gravity. For a time he as immobile as the highest of the mountains. But then, soft, he speaks in reply, "Verily, for many long ages of Sun and Moon have I but some small, though rude, knowledge of poems. Indeed, in Menegroth I did deliver them unto Melian Fairest and her King, Thingol. And verily did all the ears of that age harken unto me. Wherefore they should do so, it seemeth me not meet, for my words are rude and simple, like untended gardens grown wild and free. Yet, it seemeth me also, that with this broken and ugly speech could I, for thee, craft some small poem. Name then unto me thy desire? Shall it be of great deeds? Of simple desires? Of bees flitting amongst strong flowers? Name unto me the subject, and propose unto me a theme. Like the Holy Ones, I shll do with it as I may."
The youngest elf here watches the eldest with eyes wide and smile waning only a little. Caelwen eases a half-step closer to Lothdaimoth, new-fallen yew leaves complaining loudly, but the elleth does not speak.
A solemn nod of greeting at Lothdaimoth's words, and a verdant gaze turns to the Indiri anew. "Yea. 'Tis well indeed to have the both of you once more beneath the eaves of the Golden Wood." But silence falls upon Rosgwaen for a time, and he speaks no more-- until, from the dawn-shadows of the West, a cowled figure appears.
"Verily, mellon," comes the Indor's soft voice, little louder than the hushed murmur of the leaves beneath his sister's feet. "And strange that you would speak of such. For of late I have come to know that words unharkened-to are as words unspoken." Now eyes grow distant, and his voice comes as if from far away. "But as for myself, no theme may I propose unto you... for of that which I would wish, I still speak not."
The slanting sun has risen further, finding an opening between two branches, and now falls full upon Lothdaimoth's face. "Then it falls to me. And I would hear ... tell me a tale of Lorien, for I have been too long away." One blue-clad arm rises, a long-fingered hand resting briefly on Caelwen's shoulder before falling again to his side.
The elder elf's cowl falls upon his choulder as if a hand had reached up and threw it back. There, fair and ancient Teltion's visage can now be seen unhindered. Telion turns first to Rosgwaen, though the others are still heeded, "I deem upon thy heart, belike a heavy burden is there growing. Verdant as thou art, young Rosgwaen, and with fairest speech as if again Doriath were new ysprung, yet art thou like unto us all, subject to the same great joys and the same great sorrows. My heart telleth me that thy heart is like a willow, still living with vibrance but with the drooping of something .... I know not. Mayhap I speak of things for which I have no right, great or small." He shakes his head and offers Rosgwaen an apologetic look. He turns to Loth and Cael, 'Shall I then deliver unto thine ears a tale of when we first laid our eyes upon Her in this Wood?"
"Yes, yes!" Caelwen answers hastily, after a fond glance is cast toward her sombre brother. "I should like to hear that very much, Uncle Telion." Her hands clasp demurely before her waist, but the Indiri's eyes have crept furtively toward Lothdaimoth again.
The ancient Poet-Laureate moves over to a table upon which he rests his staff. He takes a seat nearby on some sort of fletching equipment. He clasps his hands between his knees and falls silent. With a voice like the rushing wind he apologises, "Verily, my words are so very simple and rude. I beg thee to grant unto me all thy forgiveness. For in the suddenness of the moment, there is no time to smelt order and form out of these ore-like words. Thus, are they raw and not filled at all with the vibrance of well-wrought words. Natheless, when thou art ready, so then shall I begin."
A tinge of the barest of half-smiles crosses the thavron's countenance at his sister's words, and glance-- yet though his eyes seek hers, they turn soon away, finding the elder once more. "Far indeed is your sight, and your speech all is in truth-- both in its matters of joy, and of sorrow. But fear not of true words, for what right might one have if not to speak of that which is so?" And here Rosgwaen pauses for a time, chill gaze rising to alight upon a distant mallorn-leaf as it turns and twists in the faintest gust of dawn breeze. If indeed he heeds the Laureate's next words, they go by him unmarked.
Taking no thought or time to look for a different seat, Lothdaimoth folds himself onto the ground, stirring up brown and drying leaves. Wrapping his arms around his knees, he looks up at the elder with respect and interest. "Do not apologize, any words you might speak will surely find ready ears whether they be rough or smooth as honey." A glance cast over his shoulder finds Rosgwaen and rests there for a minute, as if in promise - or request, before returning to the poet.
Caelwen, too, slides to the ground, stretching her legs before her and leaning back, hands buried beneath the leaves. A nod tips her head into a bit of sunlight, and her hair sparks fire while the elfstones on her brow laugh at it. Again she holds her peace, watching now Telion.
"Yea, indeed." Sudden words, as the speech of one woken from long thought, yet no quicker than the Indor's wont. A solemn nod of the head toward the elder, and Rosgwaen, too, lowers himself to the mould beside his kinsmen. "My own apologies, Uncle Telion. For much weighs now upon my mind, yet fain would I be to hear your words, no matter whether they are by you named fair or foul." Silent then the thavron falls, eyes seeking the poet as the chant is begun.
The Ancient Poet closes his eyes and nods his head, almost as if sleeping, though sleeping is far from the usual kenning of elves. And his lips open, and breath flows out in a chanted song-poem. Suddenly, as he chants, images of his chanting appear around him to punctuate and illustrate:
And those days,
What joy had we?
Though we thought
Our lives complete
Soon fair vision
Taught us new.
The Ancient Poet continues his chant:
Under the trees,
Rude songs we fashioned,
Under the leaves we danced
But then new upon
A fair vision chanced
And never again
The same were we.
The Ancient Poet smiles as he continues his chant. The images about him begin to show, in the cavorting images of sylvans, an image of great golden beauty walking like a dream:
Under the trees,Flowing tresses of gold
From some olden, far off
Riverbed -- running, flowing
Golden as the sun,
Came upon us
In our hour, and sang.
Caelwen's lips are softly parted, gaze unblinking, breath nearly stilled as she listens and watches.
Lothdaimoth's eyes sharpen, the pictures evoked by the words taking all his attention. Or most of it anyways, for he spares a second to smile at Caelwen's rapt face.
The Ancient Poet sways from side to side as his narrative continues under the trees,
And there she stood
Tall and beautiful
And we much desired
To serve this fairest vision
But sorrow was
There within her eyes
And we knew not why.
Now too the eyes of Rosgwaen fall closed as Telion continues, a deep breath by the Indor drawn and silently released. No heed now is paid to the twain beside him, and his quenched gaze catches not the smile upon his cousin's face.
The Ancient Poet stands up suddenly, his arms outstretched:
Like a THUNDERCLAP
Love for her o'erpowered us
And lo! we her servants
Have ever since been
And she our fairest lady
Watches over us in Love.
The Ancient Poet sits back down:
And though we know
A Heavy wight this way comes
Yet are we girt by her love
Like Melian's Girdle
But stronger still --
And whate'er it may be
So shall we face it
Trusting in her
Love.
Here, Telion falls silent and closes his eyes again, as if in the sleep men know.
Like a child watching fireworks, Caelwen startles when the Poet stands of a sudden, leaning a bit further back with her lips parting wider as if in laughter, though no sound from her is yet heard. She misses Lothdaimoth's glance entirely.
Rising to his height, Telion moves a weary left hand to hold his sagging head. His right hand snakes out and take sup his staff again. Then his whole body leans against the staff. With deep sighs that seem to shudder with the very weight of the world, Telion murmers, "Verily, it hath been many ages of ages since I have last recited unto any ear that can perceive. Ohhhh, how I did mistake the energy of it. I must away and rest, s that my simple, rustic body might recuperate that which it hath lost in the telling of that unwrought, unworked poem. I beg thy leave and thy forgiveness."
Telion fades then from view, backing up. His cowl seems to once again find its way upon his pate. Then, with a suddeness perhaps only Elves can effect, he is gone.
Caelwen's gentle voice gives the first reply. "Rest you, then, uncle, and thank you for the gift of your song." She sits up straighter, still watching him for a time, ere her easy smile and glittering eyes turn again to Lothdaimoth.
And as the thunderclap of which the poet speaks seems almost to flash before his closed eyes, for a time Rosgwaen's fine brows lower in almost a wince. But soon it is gone, and his mien becomes impassive once more, eyes opening at last, slowly, as the chanting is ceased, and the elder speaks again. To which the Indor returns: "Rest well then, mellon. And my thanks indeed, though I found your poem neither unworked nor unwrought." But quickly is Telion gone, and Rosgwaen's words fade into the wind.
No words at all does Lothdaimoth speak, content to allow the others to say the words that he also feels. For long moments after the elder has left, he sits still seeing the visions wrapped around the now-told tale. At last he stirs himself and stretches a little. "I am glad to have found you here, Rosgwaen. I had thought to speak with you," he says at last.
A green gaze turns to Lothdaimoth for the first time ere Telion's poem began. "You sought me, mellon? I fear I know not your reason... though it is well to see you again. Long have you trod such distant roads." The dawn-wind stills; a single, last yew-leaf falling through stayed, shadowed air, coming to rest at last upon a hoar oak-root. Yet no more words are by the Indor spoken, and his eyes seek his cousin's, no mood writ therein.
Caelwen's eyes turn at last from Lothdaimoth's face to her brother's familiar features. She tucks her legs up cross-legged, and searches the leaves for a particularly brilliant and unblemished one, which she then commences to brush against her rounded nose once. She does not add to the conversation.
A faint wrinkle of frown mars the Counsel's face. "Yes... too long. I am glad to be home." A shrug dismisses this and the frown vanishes behind a smile which in turn grows more eager the longer he speaks. "I received a gift of vines from the Imlad vintners, and I had thought to see how the flavor of the wine might be affected did we grow them upon fencing as they do. There are trellises around Dinlom Mallorn are there not? I think I have seen them carven there.."
"Yes, there are," Caelwen pipes up suddenly, allowing the leaf to flutter to the ground as she looks up to her brother. "And they have grapevines growing on them."
"Yea, there are indeed... yet long ago were they planted thus, and long too have the the vineyard-grapes grown as they will about the mallorn boles." Seemingly twined in thought is Rosgwaen's quiet voice, until here it pauses, and his eyes gain a shade of distance for a time. "Have you sought yet the rede of your fellow vintners on this matter?"
Lothdaimoth nods. "I have." A rueful grimace alters his smile. "There was somewhat of an argument.. but at the end it was agreed. Of the vines I brought back, half will be planted about the mallyrn; half about trellising." His hands trace enthusiastic gestures through the air and animation transform his face. "Tis what I asked for at the first; you see, it will be a small planting and thus if the grapes grow less well or the wine suffers from the trying, it will not be of great consequence."
Caelwen falls silent again, and still, as her attention is stolen by the enthusiastic Vinter. Her smile waxes strong.
Silence, from the Indor for a time, and stillness. And then-- a nod; slow, contemplative, as a fair-tressed head is lightly bowed and returned to true. "Wine is the favoured craft of much of my kin, yet it is not the craft of my own hand. I rue any change, cousin, any passing of time... yet if the vintners deem your means not unwise, then how might a carpenter name them thus?" His gaze seeks Lothdaimoth's, then turns to the cennan.
"Then you will build them for me? I need not so very many." The counsel stops to think, words mumbled under his breath as his brow knits in a thoughtful frown. "... feet each .... vines.." And at last he looks up again, dark eyes focusing once more. "I think some 60 feet should prove ample. Know you the far end of the vineyard? There is a clearing there that is allotted for this experiment. Did you build them in 2 or 3 rows some feet apart, I think it will answer."
"It will be just like the vineyards in Imladris," Caelwen says very softly, almost to herself, with her head down and curls shielding her face. Her fingers pinch and twist a fold of her skirt.
Imladris. This word at least catches the thavron's ear, and as again the wind rises, chasing across the winter mould a leaf curled in crisp death-throes, his eyes remain upon the Indiri still. But his sigh is stolen away by the wind, and he soon turns to his cousin anew. "Yea. I will build them." Simple, quiet words, neither eager nor grudging. "How soon have you need of them? For I am laden now with much craftwork, yet there are those matters I might turn aside for a time, if you soon have need of these trellises."
Yet soft as they are, the young elleth's words are caught and sable eyes go to her face. Lothdaimoth reaches out to touch the back of her hand with two fingers, waiting for green eyes to lift to his. "All is well," he says softly after a long pause. "Do not fret."
His hand falls away and he returns to the discussion at hand. "I thank you." He stops again to think and at last says slowly, "I dislike interrupting your work, cousin. But the sooner the better. Already the grapes have lain wrapped in the ground while I was away for this past time. It does them no harm, but I would like to plant them as swiftly as may be."
Caelwen's eyes do lift at the touch, looking for a moment into a sable pair. "I do not worry," she says, lightly. "I was just thinking." And her face turns away, to Rosgwaen.
"Then I will hurry indeed, and bring with me my fellows to speed this work. And worry not, for interruptions: for much of the work I speak of is but for the Bardic Congress. And though I deem I will display there my work... I deem, too, that you know already my thought of such occasions." The barest flicker of a half-smile, fleeting away ere almost even it is come. "And your trellises will turn me from these works no longer than will my own thought on matters that have come to pass." The thavron looks not to his sister, nor even his cousin, for his gaze finds a silvern bough of golden leaves far above, and there rests in soft silence.
And "thank you," come the quiet words again accompanied by an echoing smile, though it be larger and more lasting than the carpenter's. "I know... and as well, I would have this finished before then." With a lithe graceful motion, Lothdaimoth stands to his feet. "Then if we are agreed, I will start again for the city." He dusts the sides of his pants of with swift pats and looks down to the two still sitting. "Walk with me?"