The early morning gives little light; all is shrouded still in darkness, for
Anor has not yet awoken from her sleep. The Golden Woods are quiet, still, all
is well it does seem. The form of a fleeting shadow can be discerned by the
sharpest eye, yet no race not born first of Iluvatar would notice a movement
here. Like a wisp of wind, this shade moves up the Roadway that oft does
shimmer golden. By the banks of the stream does this shape wait, and with a
sinister hand, does cast back the cowl from his head, revealing the features to be Bregedalagos, if one does look closely.
Lothdaimoth has not been seen much about the City in these past days. Only now
and again has rumor told of him hurrying by. But now whatever has kept him
sequestered must be past, for surely this is his tall form walking slowly down
the road. In the still pre-dawn air, every step, every rustle of cloth, is
easily heard; at least for others of his kindred. His dark head is bowed, in
thought perhaps, for he does not look up even as he nears the spot where
Bregedalagos is standing.
Celebmath comes through the golden roadway, bearing a tablet in hand. The
rustling of the mellyrn is light in the breeze, and Gil-Estel shines brightly,
floating in dawn's ribbon of light. The young Sinda continues to read his
tablet, every once and awhile taking a glance at the scenery spread before him. Joining Lothdaimoth and Bregedalagos, he offers them a nod, while watching the Anor break forth, the fruit shining its rays of glory on the rustling mellyrn.
Among the mellyrn only a faint ouline is seen, the form of a lithe Firstborn,
and from the fleeting silhouette, safely deemed elleth. Her path between the
trees is one well woven, and quietly. Bright emerald eyes peer from behind a
mallorn a few yards from the path, one can be none too careful on a mission
such as hers; stealth is her only companion. Silent she stands, hardly daring
to breathe as her attentive gaze watches the Knight-Bachelor Bregedalagos.
Someone comes up beside him and Lothdaimoth lifts his head. For a moment, keen
dark eyes study Celebmath, and then a grave smile crosses his lips. "Mae
govannen." His eyes flicker to the notepad and then back to the other's face.
"Are you studying?" The light of the rising sun brightens the dimness, and a
tentative chirping is heard from a nearby tree.
The sound of rustling amid the full glory of Anor's majestic rise to the sky
does stir the quiet that did reign before dawn. The Knight-Bachelor's keen eyes
do find its source; Lothdaimoth of the Royal Court. Over to that elf do the
feet of Bregedalagos take him: slowly and with great care. The sound of
chirping causes a glance to the trees, and the form of famed Andeldaiel is seen
to Bregedalagos. He stops his tread towards her, his footsteps light but quick.
His bass voice does reverberate as he speaks in low tones, audible only to his
cousin. "... ... ..., it is a ... ... find ... ..., ... ... ... desired to ...
with ...; ... ... the ... ... ... ... coming ... Caras .... I ... ... your ...
... ..., ... ... ... ... overmuch ... ... .... ... desire ... ... ... ... ...,
... ... want you ... ... happy. ... ... ... bother ... in ..., ... ..., and I
shall ... ... ... ...."
Celebmath looks up, certainly not startled. A polite smile is given, but his
demeanor is calm and collected. "Mae govannen," he replies. Looking down at the
notepad, he shakes his head, his coaltipped inkhorn tracing the runes. "Yes and
no, mellon. It is a poem, of my own construction."
"A poem? Perhaps sometime you would tell it to us." The prefect's smile grows a
little larger. "I don't think.." he pauses and cocks his head as Bregedalagos
stops to speak to someone hidden in the trees beside the road; and then turns
back to the young poet. "I don't think I have met you. I am Lothdaimoth o nos
Raavindonserke, of the Royal Court. Are you one of the Glirdain?" The swift
turning of the planet has brought the first rays of morning shining through the
treetops, and one of them lands on his tall form and sparkles off of the golden
chain hanging at his neck.
"I am a far cry from being named of one of the Glirdain, but I am in the
process of learning." He introduces himself to the prefect, "I am Celebmath,
Edhel o nos Aderthad." Looking down at his poem he nods, "I would be pleased to
recite the poem, but I must warn you, for you will be the first to hear it." He
says stoically, a hint of humor coming from him.
The eyes of the Bard narrow slightly at these words from her cousin, and she
draws a sharp breath; how well did she guess her brother's intentions eariler!
She nods silently, still not a word yet spoken by the golden-haired Laiquende.
An expression which reveals some hints of annoyance, and Andeldaiel begins her
path from the mellyrn, her discovery making her hidden path useless.
Lothdaimoth grins. "Then I am doubly honored, Celebmath. If it is not too much
trouble, I would enjoy hearing your work." An odd, almost lost, expression
flickers briefly in his eyes and then is gone; wiped away by pleasure as a
friend makes her way out of the concealing trees. "Mae govannen, mellon - it
has been too long since I have seen you. How have you been, and with what do
you pass your days of late?" A graceful gesture indicates the younger elf
beside him. "Celebmath has just consented to read one of his poems to me. Do
you know him?"
Celebmath turns his head to Andeldaiel, nodding to her with a kind, gentle
smile, "Mae govannen, mellon," he says quietly, not intending to disrupt the
discourse between her and the Prefect.
Casting a final glance toward her cousin, a slight sigh falls from her lips,
she returns her eyes before her to fall upon the Prefect. The annoyance flees
from her expression and a smile is written there. "Ai, Lothdaimoth, mae
govannen. It has been long, indeed! I have been well, keeping busy with my
duties within the Glirdain. And how have you faired and spent your time?" But
her attentions are redirected as her gaze falls upon the Learner. "Ai,
Celebmath, a poem?" Her eyes alight in anticipation. "Would it be your
assignment?"
Again Lothdaimoth's eyes darken with some ill-defined emotion. "I myself am
well enough." He sighs and is silent for several minutes and then adds
reluctantly, "Although..." perhaps it is a change of subject, perhaps not, when
he finally continues. "You have heard that Caelwen was injured by a wolf?
Mostly I have been with her." Then he smiles again and shrugs, throwing off his
odd mood. "But enough of such unhappy subjects, let us hear this poem." And
with this, he turns expectantly to Celebmath.
Celebmath purses his lips, preparing to recite the poem as instructed. He
begins reciting the lines of the poem in rich Sinda, his baritone voice
cantoring softly.
"Tender and beautiful fronds of mellyrn,
Cry tears of golden splendor in the Spring,
Reminders from the West of Laurelin.
Ancient Children of the Stars, sing loudly
With voices sweet as Illuvatar's harp.
Sing praises of goodness, golden like leaves.
Gentle mellorn, let fate smile upon you,
May thunder,lightning, and storms
Never bother your dear peace,
Nor may you by blowing winds be profaned.
Never was made, a gift of Yavanna,
More fair, splended, or loving.
Andeldaiel blinks at what Lothdaimoth says, an expression of pure question overtaking her
visage. But her eyes are turned from him, and she straightens to pay attention to the
Learner's recitation. Clasping her hands before her, the Bard listens to the poem, though
her eyes are directed downward toward the path, as if she is more deeply listening. As
the voice of Celebmath fades between the mellyrn, Andeldaiel raises her eyes to him.
"Ai, lovely, lovely. Your first task has been accomplish, and very well..." But here her
voice trails and she turns to Lothdaimoth, finishing the thought that her earlier expression
had begun. "No... I had not heard..."
Chiming in in his deeper voice, Lothdaimoth adds his own congratulations to Andeldaiel's.
For a minute, he seems content to ponder the images brought to mind by Celebmath's words,
but finally he sighs again and answers. "We had gone for a walk in the forest, just a
little north of the city. It was very fortunate that some of the Order were so near and
the Lady's Herald as well, for never could I have fought off the beast alone." His head
is bowed again and he considers the stones of the roadway intently. "As it was, Caelwen
was injured quite badly. I .. I was distracted and did not see the creature in time."
Another long pause and then he looks into his friend's eyes with a strange appeal. "Does
it seem ever to you, mellon, that the world is gone mad?"
A few steps closer does Andeldaiel draw to the Prefect, all her own worries
melting from her thought, now only is she focused on this, her friend's
concerns. A slender hand hesitantly reaches out toward his shoulder, as if she
does not know whether this action is appropriate. She tilts her head slightly
to the side as her emerald eyes blink a few times at the question. Tentative is
her voice, though solemn and soft. "Aye... There were times... are times...
that everything seemed so crazed..." Her gaze trails downward. "It is hard to
explain... but to your question... Simply, yes."
A deeper sigh and Lothdaimoth runs a hand through his hair. "I have felt so
recently," he confesses. "So much seems to have gone astray from its appointed
course. And I know not what to do to turn things to their proper place again.
It is like trying to hold back the wind." With a slightly rueful smile, he
says, "I am sorry you have felt the same, but also - I am glad it is not just
myself."
"There is not much we could do to change what has already been done, mellon.
Nothing but draw upon the strengths of our mellyn when we have naught left.
That I know well." Her eyes move upward from the roadway, returning to the
Prefect, and even in them it can be seen the earnestness of her words. It seems
she would not speak further, but then more words fall from the lips of the
Bard, gently lilting, fading among the mellyrn. "One is never alone in their
sorrow or sufferings, for always would their mellyn shoulder part of the
weight... even as one had done it for one of them." Softly does her hand rest
upon his shoulder.
A gentle warmth seeps through Lothdaimoth's shirt where Andeldaiel's hand
rests. Looking away from her, he murmurs, "I thank you." The sun has fully
risen now and a soft breeze blows down the path, tugging at his clothing. "I
have thought... I have felt..." He stops as if not sure how to word his
thoughts. "I feel a need for something to tie me closer to the earth, to remind
me ..." Again his words trail off and this time he remains silent; but one hand
goes up to cover the bard's and then falls.
A wisp of the breeze catches a few of the honey-coloured hairs of Andeldaiel,
and with one hand still at rest upon the Prefect's shoulder, she uses the other
to push these errant strands from her face. Curious is her gaze, and full of
concern. But her pallid brow furrows, as if she does not understand. "What do
you mean, mellon?" she inquires softly. "To remind you of what?"
"That everything is not as it seems, I suppose. That although all seems to have
run out of order and into insanity, there is still health and peace somewhere."
He smiles down at her again. "Do not worry. I have not lost my mind." His dark
eyes are troubled and filled with a strange yearning, despite the easy grin and
comforting words.
"I did not think that you had..." The voice of the Bard trails here, perhaps
drawing parallels to a similar memory in her mind. But she returns her thoughts
to the present, as she cannot dwell in the past, and she removes her hand from
his shoulder, though her eyes remain upon him. "But, mellon... what would this
thing be, this to remind you of hope?"
Instead of answering her question at once, Lothdaimoth asks one of his own.
"Tell me, my friend. Do you find hope and comfort in your songs? Or do you ever
feel you have nothing more inside to strengthen yourself with?" Black hair
blows across his shoulders, but his silver hairclasp keeps it from his face.
Looking into her face intently, as if searching for something, the prefect
waits for her answer. Shadows shift on the roadway as branches tremble in the
slight breeze.
Blinking a few times, her gaze turning thoughtful, Andeldaiel is silent for a
long while as she considers these inquiries. Her gaze falls downward a moment,
watching the dancing shadows upon the road and the way the breeze teases the
hem of her gown, before raising her eyes to the Prefect again. Though now the
emerald reflects question of its own, wonder at his questioning. "Yes... to
both, mellon..." She seems not to know how else or how further to answer.
Lothdaimoth seems given to sighing today, for still another deep breath slides
past his lips. The sable eyes that rest so intensely on hers catch the question
in them and he tries to frame a response. "I wondered - I have thought of many
things; even the Glirdain as my father has always wished. But if one is empty
inside, how can a song that must come from that same empty place fill it
again?" This time he doesn't sigh, only shrugs and looks away.
And this selfsame breeze that finds the hem of the bard's gown finds
too a silver-lined cloak of verdant, setting it to billow behind the broad back
of a newcome figure, tall and princely yet hung with an air of sorrow, the
pallid light of the Sunship upon its early embark glinting from gilded tress
and rayed brooch. Silent and even are the falls of his leathern boots, as seems
ever his wont-- though not far along the Roadway has Rosgwaen traveled ere
these footfalls hold, and his cloak alights upon an ankle. For long does he
stand at a distance, unhidden this time, as his cool gaze falls upon two
figures on the path ahead.
"I can only speak for myself, mellon..." Andeldaiel hesitates, as if she
debates something within her mind. After all, at most of her former words, he
has looked away... "But in emptiness only comes song and verse of lamentaion,
but these writings help me to grieve the hard times, so that I may grow from
them and leave them in the past for... happier days."
But this time, Lothdaimoth doesn't look away. He shakes his head a little, not
so much in negation as in uncertainty and a frown pinches black eyebrows
together. "Yes..." he begins slowly. "But... it is not grieving that I feel."
Movement catches his eye and he turns his head a little, spying the tall figure
of his cousin. A nod is given the carpenter before he turns his attention back
to Andeldaiel. "I cannot explain it, mellon," he says at last.
The nod is by Rosgwaen returned, slow and stately, and leather-clad
feet take up once more their silent tread. The breeze shifts, blowing now into
his fair face, fanning his cloak behind him as he walks like great wings of
sea-foam that rest not even as he stops before the twain of edhil. Verdant eyes
are slowly cast to Andeldaiel with a second nod of stoic greeting, then turn
once more to Lothdaimoth. No words by the carpenter are yet spoken.
A soft exclamation of "oh," falls from the lips of the Bard, her face tinging
pink as she misjudged the Prefect's meaning. She feels the colour warming her
face and would turn her eyes downward were it not for Lothdaimoth's moving
gaze. This she follows, spotting Rosgwaen and returning the nod of greeting.
But her gaze wanders back to Lothdaimoth, then down, and she gives but a nod to
his words, her cheeks still tinted a lightened pink. "Sometimes feelings cannot
be expressed by words; I understand," she says quietly.
Very quietly, Lothdaimoth says, "Guilt, yes. And shame, these things I feel.
And sorrow for what is past. But I have done grieving for now. Although who can
say if such will last." A twisted smile is all he can summon up. "Yet what I
speak of goes beyond all of these." Louder, he speaks now to Rosgwaen. "Mae
govannen, cousin." Dark eyes return to Andeldaiel's face and in his turn, he
reaches a hand out and touches her shoulder. "Thank you," he says simply.
Eyes turning not from Lothdaimoth, a gold-tressed head is tilted for a
time-- then bowed, and the greeting that flows from Rosgwaen's lips, quiet yet
not unsure, seems strange from such a countenance. "Well met, Lothdaimoth." A
silence, then, but for the wind in the leaves above as cold eyes rise to meet
them. "Yet I cannot help but sense, cousin... sense that something is amiss.
Even if in this hour it surprises me not, for I am come to this place in
respite from my own sorrows. Would that rain might fall now upon me..."
Finally raising her eyes from their downward path, Andeldaiel looks to
Lothdaimoth solely. Clasping her hands before her, she says quietly, "Well,
then I... I hope you will find what you need to fill whate'er need you have and
cannot explain, mellon... But for now I must bid you namarie." And with naught
but a slight nod, she slips off the roadway, and between the trees again,
becoming a mere silhouette again beneath the canopy of mallorn boughs.
"Thank you," Lothdaimoth repeats, watching as the bard disappears into the
trees from whence she had first ariven. And in silence he waits until at last
she is gone, before looking back to Rosgwaen. The same faint twisted smile is
then given to his cousin. "You sense rightly, or at least much the same as
myself." He turns and steps onto the roadway. "Walk with me a little?" he
invites, starting slowly down the path.
As if in response to Rosgwaen's wish, a
fat drop of water splashes onto the prefect's shoulder and then another. The
brilliance of the winter sun is dimmed by a cloud. "I feel as if the world has
run mad, as if all of order and peace and hope has been lost." A hand reaches
up and rubs at his forehead as he speaks. "And Caelwen..." he stops, the
aforementioned guilt and shame coloring his voice and shading his eyes.
The beginnings of a winter rain find too the upturned face of Rosgwaen,
quenching his cold gaze and heralding a small, sighing smile, awash in
melancholy. And long does he remain still as the passing cloud sprinkles cool
water down upon the Golden Roadway, heedless even that his cousin has left his
side-- until Anor's light shines once more betwixt leaf and bough, and stares
now upon the shimmering waters that veil the path below. Leathern boots tread
now through paper-thin pools, for the carpenter's gaze has found again his
cousin, and he draws nigh to his side as he speaks. "Much is lost..." A pause,
and again comes Rosgwaen's soft voice. "And a falsehood would it be for me to
say I never have felt as you speak. But still have we Elbereth's lamps, and the
wan light of horned moons, and the gold of mallorn-leaves beneath Iavas' fallow
sunship. ...And I find myself enamoured yet of these things."
"Yes," Lothdaimoth admits quietly. "I think of these things. But still.. They
seem hollow and empty to me now. Yet I do not think I wish to seek the havens,
there must yet be fairness in the world - only... only I cannot see it just
now." Walking together with his cousin, the two of much the same height, his
voice dwindles into the distance and is lost.
