================== Eldarin Calendar in Sindarin ===================
IC time is: Late Afternoon About 5:33 PM
IC day is: Oranor Sun-day
IC date is: 17 Firith Fading
Moon phase: Waning Gibbous 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: Wed Nov 20 13:51:06 2002
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Vineyard
The rows of grapes you expect to find in a vineyard are not present here, instead, the plants grow wild, among the tall Mallorn trees. Here and there, many elves are harvesting grapes for the winery to the north. Souhwards, the road you're on runs off to the feet of a young mallorn.One elf farmer in particular stands nearby, working amidst the bountiful vines.
The sun turns golden and thick as it falls towards the rim of the earth, angled rays filtering through tall trees and lighting up all they touch. As day draws towards evening the air turns cooler, stars begin to appear in the darkening sky and the bustle of the day turns as many seek shelter from the coming night.
Crouched near the workers is an idle figure. Unskilled with wood, Lothdaimoth offers not the aid of his hands; rather his is the eye that will guide this building of arbors long un-used in Lorien. Bare feet bury themselves in long grasses, his dark clothing making of him a shadow in the fading daylight. "Aye," he says in response to some unheard question and waves a hand. "Along there."
And at this reply from the vintner, a black-tressed carpenter nods, slender arms carrying a bound lot of oak-rods to one of his fellows not far away. And a strange contrast this twain of thevryn makes: one dark of lock and light of build, the other sturdy among his people, with a plait of pale gold reaching almost the middle of his broad back.
And the voice of the second is soft, perhaps little-heard above the scrape of his thin knife over a dowel of oak, and the tap of Maegalad's mallet beside him. "My thanks, Annundil." The rope fastening the bundle is by the Indor-- indeed, "the Indor," though but for the dagger at his hip and the strange, noble bearing that was his wont before even the rune-graven weapon hung at his side, perhaps few now would think him such, clad in his work-leathers-- untied, and long-fingered hands trail over a single stave. A pause, as if in thought. And the stave is by Rosgwaen taken, his knife now placed upon the mould, and a small saw taken up.
Yet the sound of the work draws one not a worker and not an overseer. The hem of a green gown hits about the ankles of this entering elleth, and for now she merely stands a bit apart from the work (realizing what is going on), arms crossed haughtily. Although she does not speak yet, her expression conveys perhaps more disdain than her words could ever say. Athrelei stands motionless, quite the picture of disapproval.
Despite the lack of speech and quiet approach, Lothdaimoth turns his black head to look over his shoulder. "Mae govannen, Athrelei," he says cheerfully. An inner joy seems to bubble up, lighting his face even when no smile tilts his lips. "The work goes well apace, as you can see. And as promised, tis but half of those vines I returned with." A teasing wink is thrown towards the other vintner before he returns to his watch.
In rhythm almost with his apprentice's mallet-tap is the quiet hiss of Rosgwaen's saw, little more than a finely-serrated knife graven with many runes, as it passes through oakwood, a fine powder falling upon the Indor's thighs as he kneels before the bottom of a half-finished section of trellising. And with each thrust and draw of his saw, soon are formed fingers and valleys now and again upon the oak-rod, as if soon might they come to mesh with those on the like-made staves that already stand. No heed pays he now to Lothdaimoth's speech, nor even to the entrance of his Dinlom kinswoman, for his green eyes come not now to full focus, and it seems that his mind is bent upon his work.
"I can /see/ it just /fine/, /thank/ you." Now the voice of the lady-vintner is heard above the work, its sharp tone perhaps seeming to cut through the air. Still are her arms crossed, stance and accompanying attidtude unchanged despite the Counsel's cheerfulness. She is taken aback by his wink, and this makes her frown all the more. "At /least/ you are keeping to the compromise," she murmurs, with a half-hmph trailing her words. Yet her dark eyes catch upon the form of one of those working, and she doesn't quite know a reaction for this. So instead, she keeps her current temperment, mumbling another few words. "Mae govannen, Indor."
Not disturbed in the slightest, Lothdaimoth simply laughs. Shaking a stray bit of hair out of his face, he says, "Of course. Although I was deprived of being born among those most fortunate of quendi and am not a Dinlom, yet I did learn as a child to keep my word." More and more swiftly does the sun sink, and now it hovers on the bare edge of the horizon; gold and orange fire licks at the sky and turns tree branches into black silhouettes.
Rosgwaen stands now, carven oak-stave in hand one hand and mallet in the other, fitting the former as a cross-piece to those wooden rods already driven into the ground. One tap of the mallet at the first joining-point, a second-- and at the Dinlom vintner's mumbled words to him, he turns, speaking with a solemn nod of greeting. 'Mae govannen, Athrelei.' A pause, as cold eyes measure her mien. And when next he speaks, his words are hushed beyond even their wont. "... ... ... know ... ... troubles ...-- ... ... ... ... ... well. ... ... ... told ... the ... ... ... ... ... ... ... unwell..."
"I deem I know that which troubles you-- for it troubles me as well. Yet I was told that the vintners judged that this course was not unwell..."
'How was I to know if the compromise had been swayed afterward by that... that...' She seems to be attempting to conjure a name, and finally she seems to remember. '... that Rorfimir or that Khwiniol.' A frown and another half-hmph are given in the direction of the counsel-vintner, and Athrelei takes a few steps toward the workers, or more specifically, toward Rosgwaen. Her voice is quieted as well, though the mumbling has cleared. "... this ... was not ... ... heart, .... ... ... ... ... ... ..., and ... are ... ... ... ..., perhaps ... compromise ... ... worked than ... ... ... lot ... ... ... .... ... ... how ... ... ...: ... ... ... ...... these," she motions toward the wood pieces being fitted, ".... ... ... ... ... agreed ... ... me."
"In this compromise was not my whole heart, Indor. For when insisting against a thing, and we are pressed by many oppositions, perhaps a compromise is better worked than to have the lot forget of our words. This is how worked the settlement: I spake against these... these," she motions toward the wood pieces being fitted, "trellises. Yet the other vintners agreed not with me."
"We would have done no such thing," says the Counsel, also vintner, with quiet dignity - his smile growing somewhat the less. "Should there have been need of further speech, you also would have been informed and your opinion again required." Dark eyes rest on the two who murmur quietly, yet he attempts not to hear what they might speak. An evening breeze whispers across the field, catching playfully at his hair and splaying it over his back. "I thank you again for your graciousness in compromising that an agreement could be reached."
"... ... ... ... place, ... ... ... ... ..., ... become indeed that ... which ... ... ...: ... ... ..., the ... ... ... the past, ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ..., it ... ... ... ...." The Indor's verdant eyes seek Athrelei's for a time in quiet solidarity, yet soon they turn, and fall upon the counsel-vintner. 'In these recent days of sundering, I am glad of any alliance. To speak truly, my heart misgives me on the matter of the trellises-- yet my duty is also to the Thein, and I would not forsake them.' Now Rosgwaen turns to his work once more, mallet tapping for a time at the trellises joinings to bind them fast, hands pressing to the joinings when the mallet's work is done as the fair-tressed thavron's lips move in a silent chant.
"It may be our place, in times such as these, to become indeed that for which we are named: the Silent Echo, the last voice of the past, that even must that past fade and be tainted, it will not be forgotten.""
"... ... ... ... not ... ..., ......" But here the lady-vintner's words trail off and a nigh silent sigh gives she, perhaps unascertainable, and her molasses-coloured eyes move back to the Counsel. 'You are quite welcome, Lothdaimoth,' she says, tone a bit muted though not less intense for its lower volume. 'Since there is nothing more here for me to do, I must be on my way," says she simply, and lending not another word and but a nod toward Rosgwaen, she slips from the vineyard in the same silent flourish with which she entered."
"I would that we not become silent, Hir..."
Nodding silently to his cousin, as the other fits wood to wood, Lothdaimoth seems both to agree in part and accept where he does not. Overhead, multitudes of stars twinkle brightly; glad cheer that the sun is gone and they once more rule the skies in company with the waning moon. And silver light rather than gold now fills the vineyard and limns the figures of those who work or watch there. "Namarie," he says at last, the quiet word following Athrelei as she takes her leave. "Soon will be the planting, if you wish to come again."
'Fair you well, Athrelei.' A nod of the thavron's fair head in parting.
And he adds, too late, as already she strides away: "... believe ... ... .....,
kinswoman... alas ..... ... ........... holds ... ......."
"I believe as do you,
kinswoman... alas that now circumstance holds my tongue."
Verdant eyes turn to Lothdaimoth again, but only for a time. For soon
once more, as the voices of Annundil and Maegalad rise in solemn chant,
Rosgwaen's gaze falls again to his work. A wood-joining is pressed within the
Indor's hands for a time, eyes falling closed-- until he crouches to the mould,
a second rod taken in his hands, his saw meeting oakwood anew, the tips of his
golden tresses errant in the darkling wind.
The sky slowly darkens, the stars growing ever brighter; and still Lothdaimoth
crouches beside the on-going work. Now and again, his soft voice can be heard
and sometimes he arises to confer with others as the fencing begins to
lengthen. And overhead, the jewel-spattered heavens whirl in their slow eternal
dance towards day.