The early autumn air is still warm and heavy, even though evening is coming on. The dense ring of trees shuts out most of the view of the heavens, but tangled in the very topmost branches of one mallorn, the silver crescent of the new moon lights up the sky. The clearing is dim and silent. A motionless edhel is leaning up against the trunk of one ancient tree, head tilted backwards and eyes closed. Bare feet are tucked under dark green-clad legs; his white shirt gleams faintly silver.
And into this scene walks a second figure, slow yet proud of stride, his cloak's shifting hue matched to the air as but the thinnest shard of white crescent begins to glow, pale and wan above the great mallorn-canopy. In the ashen cast of the hour even his golden hair fails to sparkle, and the dark bow at his back fails too to catch any glint of radiance, and he passes through the trees like an errant dusk-shadow.
Then slowly does he halt, cloak-tails fluttering and alighting upon the ankles of his tall boots as his eyes, still cool and clear and verdant as Spring mist upon the lawn, fall to a figure standing unmoving against a great tree-bole. And Rosgwaen approaches, footfalls nigh-silent.
"Lothdaimoth..." he begins, voice little louder than the murmur of the wind in the leaves as his eyes traverse the edhel before him. "Has some ill befallen you, cousin?"
Lothdaimoth's eyes yet remain closed, long moments passing before he opens them. The shadows beneath the thickly-grown trees shade his face, hiding the expression in his eyes. Eventually he speaks, in tones as soft as the one before him. "Nay. No ill. Or not as such, though it seemed ill to me." Wearily he lifts his head from leaning against the smooth silver bark of the tree. "Mind me not, cousin. I will be well enough. What brings you here this night?" Slowly his gaze travels around the clearing, alighting upon the ancient tree wherein can be found the crafter's talan. "Surely Caelwen is not here.." His voice is as expressionless as his face and it is not certain if he cares what the answer to his questioning might be.
"Nay. She is not." The wind whistles, soft and thin through a gap in the trees, and below Ithil's crescent shard flittermice take to leathern wing, small shadows beneath the tiny points of light that begin their nightly spill into the darkening vault above. The newly-come edhel follows his cousin's gaze, then hangs his golden head. "She is not," he repeats, yet more softly than before, as his eyes slowly find the shadowed figure of Lothdaimoth once more. "And naught brings me to this place save my own wanderings in thought. What then of your own errand here?"
A humorless chuckle twists Loth's lips. "No more reason than your own. It seems we are alike in that much, at least." A white sleeve ripples with movement as one hand is raised to run through loose dark hair. "I .... wished to be away from the city for a time. Yet there is much to do, and I could not go far. So." He shrugs, still smiling crookedly. "I found myself here. 'Tis quiet at the least."
In the foliage nearby the wavering hiss of leaf upon leaf is heard, perhaps the work of some small night-kelvar in hunt. But soon the leaves are silent, and no more from the creature might be heard. "'Tis quiet, yea. But... alike? Perhaps I would that it were so." And here Rosgwaen sighs, the shine of verdant gems briefly quenched as he gazes again toward the crafters' talan. "I too sought the solace of the dusk trees, for much weighs now on my mind."
Silent steps are taken, even and slow, as Rosgwaen approaches more closely the tree Lothdaimoth leans against and places his hand upon the bole, bark smooth and silvern beneath his long fingers as his eyes assess it absently. "I ask not for your tale, Lothdaimoth. Yet I would hear it, if you are fain to tell."
A sigh whispers through partly opened lips. "It seems I have told more of my life recently than in all the years preceding this. And 'tis not one tale, more the combining of many that weigh so heavily now." Again he laughs softly. "I may as well have Tiina sing songs about me all across the Wood." Sable eyes rest on Rosgwaen's face then turn away, sadness shading them even darker. "I know not where to begin." Again his hand raises to his face, rubbing at his temples, before dropping. "An elleth, scarce older than Cael, seemed to think she... she might care for me. I... she ran off in tears. It is not a thing to make one cheerful."
Rosgwaen's cold gaze softens as it leaves the silvern bole and turns to his cousin, and the shadows fade into themselves and seem almost to vanish as the vaulted firmament is kindled by countless points of light. A hand, long and pale, reaches to rest upon Lothdaimoth's shoulder. "Would that I had counsel to ease you. But alas, for such things are yet foreign to me... and seeing this, perhaps I would seek them not." Then he smiles, small and with no tinge of merriment, as again his solemn voice quietly forms words. "And I expected not cheer, and so am surprised not."
At the soft pressure on his shoulder, Loth looks back at his cousin. "I thank you." He shifts position against the pale trunk with a small scraping noise, and a flake of bark is brushed loose. "It was not of my seeking either. Yet it came." Abruptly, he changes the subject. "If you would say then, why came you hither? What is on your mind to send your steps to this lone spot?"
No words at first does Rosgwaen speak. A single chip of silvern bark flutters to the ground like a lost leaf of parchment, alights upon a great root below, and wings away as a light breeze again picks up... though soon dies as softly as it began, leaving the grove eerie in the still beauty of the gathering night. "We seek not always that which comes to us. For there are many things of late that I wish had come not to me." And no wind blows, and the silence grows deep. "Know you the name of Erethringil? And of Dangelydh?"
Surprise wrinkles Lothdaimoth's brow at the names. Erethringil he had expected, perhaps, but Dangelydh? "Yes. I know them both. Erethringil not so well, though I have spoken with him some few times. But Dangelydh is a good friend of mine and has been." His eyes grow keener and he cocks his head a little to one side. "Why do you ask, mellon?"
"And thus would I name Dangelydh as well." Perhaps Lothdaimoth's intent gaze is clearly felt now, and perhaps this is what draws from Rosgwaen a pause. "Yet I fear he took awrong my words to Erethringil, and seemed to grow wroth." Hinloth's appraisal of the cause goes unspoken, but for a glint of verdant in Golfingund's cold, bright eyes. "And of this Erethringil... what think you of him, mellon?"
"You speak of him to me because he is my friend?" Bewilderment replaces the surprise. "Yet you say not what you would ask of me..." Lothdaimoth straightens a little, still leaning against the tree, but now drawn to his full height. Dark eyes rest on Rosgwaen's face, non-judgemental as yet. "As for Erethringil.." There is a pause while he considers his words. "I have found him to be well-spoken. He seems to me not to be hasty in his thoughts or judgements; and I find honor in his actions. Does that answer you, cousin?"
Now at last does the wind return to stir golden leaves above, sparking now and again in starlight, though soon again it is stilled. And in the phantom silence that follows, it seems almost as if never had the wind graced the darkened grove at all.
"I say not, for I know not. You asked of me, mellon, what lay upon my mind, and to you I said: Dangelydh, and Erethringil." There is a enigmatic air about Rosgwaen's mien as these words fall from his fair lips, and the smile that accompanies them is neither easy nor glad-- though not without kindness, nor perhaps without the barest vestige of humour. "And yea. It does answer me enough. He is well-spoken indeed; fair of speech and, if his speech indeed be truth-- and no reason have I to question that it is so-- fair also of intent. Though hasty I do perhaps consider him. But it may be because upon my tale of years has been graven yet no elleth to fancy... and now, as I have said, I might wish not for such things." The words trail into the dark, and he is silent.
Lothdaimoth's pale face gleams dully in the shadowy hollows beneath the trees. Scarce brighter is his shirt, though as the moon rises, stray beams might light upon it, sending forth a silvery glimmer. Bowing his dark head, a barely perceptible sigh moves his shoulders. Quietly, his words are set forth. "I cannot speak with unbiased tongue to that matter. I..." Words fail him for an instant. "I have seen great joy in those who are heart-bound. Silgelir and.. and his wife were such." Barely does his voice falter in the naming of these two. "Yet for myself, I have found little but pain." Another space of silence and then he continues, more certain of tone. "If he waits, as Caelwen assures me they intend to do, for the blessing of your parents, I cannot think him over-hasty." Now he looks up again. "Please, Rosgwaen. If you would, tell me what you have to say of Dangelydh. He is my friend and I would not have you think ill of him, if that is in your mind. And if not, then perhaps I am too slow to see good this night..."
"Nay. I think not ill of him, and though not long ago did we meet, I name him friend as well. But alas! For I fear words I spoke to Erethringil in his presence touched perhaps upon some unwanted memory in the Laiquendi's heart, and this troubles me, for I would that I might not drag one so merry of countenance into this mire of grief." And the hand slips from Lothdaimoth's shoulder as Rosgwaen's cold eyes fall shut, and his proud head bows, and the tressed gold that lies upon his back seems pale and pallid in Ithil's soft glow. "If there is good to be seen this night," speaks he softly, "then I, too, am blind to it. Yet is not all good in the Golden Wood? Why then does sorrow fall upon me, and now upon you? I know not."
In its own turn, a hand reaches out to touch Rosgwaen's shoulder. "Fear that not. His heart is merry indeed and will not long remain in sorrow." It seems as though the prefect might say something more, but refrains. "And no. Not all is good even here in the land of the mallyrn. For not all is good without, and try as we may, the evil about us presses closer day by day. The sorrow of love unreturned is small in comparison with the death of the first-born; who should not die save by their own wills." The errant wind returns just long enough to swirl under the great trees;& dragging black hair across Loth's face and bending the grass in passing, and then it is gone and all is still again. "But still there is much that is fair, and goodness can be seen all around. Don't let your fea despair, mellon."
Verdant eyes are kindled once more by the starlight as Rosgwaen turns first to the hand upon his shoulder, then to its bearer. His golden-haired head tilts lightly, and a bare smile crosses his countenance. "Fear not. For I do not despair... not yet." The edges of his cloak slowly settle from the wandering wind. "Though neither do I oft find true joy. Yea... perhaps a heart-wound is but a little sorrow. And perhaps even the evils that press our borders are but a little sorrow in the tale of Arda-- and though the waves upon the shore call, I am bound still to this world, and now also by Oath. Even if the defense of the Wood is but a small thing in a greater tale, I would not forsake it." And though at these words might one expect a sign for Golfingund, no change passes over him, and he remains as still as the night around him, and the leaves in the windless trees. "Yet now must I go. Namarie, mellon... and may you find more solace than I." With these words he turns, though takes yet no step to depart.
Taking his hand back and brushing it across his face, Lothdaimoth returns the straying locks to their proper place. "I do not think the enemies that press our borders are a small thing. I have felt the groaning of the earth as she cries out against such evil; and it is no little sorrow." A sudden smile lights up his face, and then is gone. "Still, I find I am selfishly glad you intend not to answer the call of the sea. At least not yet. And mayhap you will find surcease where you least expect it." He makes no move himself, watching as Rosgwaen turns away. "Watch carefully, cousin. I wish to see no others struck down..." And more quietly still, almost to himself, he whispers, "I would that all was as tales tell of the beginnings of time. Have not enough of our people been slain in this never-ending struggle?"
And Rosgwaen pauses, and listens, though turns not towards his cousin. "The groaning of the earth... I know too of which you speak. Harken not to me this eve, mellon, for I fear a fey mood has struck me and turned my words to ill. Yet do harken to this: fare thee well, and take care of thyself. And may your sorrows find their ease, be they named great or small."
As his words vanish into the night, so too does their speaker, and Golfingund's silent stride carries him beyond the boles of mighty trees, silver-flecked with moonlight that casts little shadow across one who steps into the thick of the grove, and is gone.