The cool dimness of evening settles over the vineyard like a thin blanket. Of
the many elves who work here, most have left - heading for other places, other
entertainments. But a few still remain and among these is a tall figure clad
mostly in green. Beside him is a shorter elf, her hands making quick restless
gestures to accompany the rise and fall of her voice. Lothdaimoth nods, and
occasionally his deeper tones underlay hers. "... night and the cooler air
sinks down. The vines prefer warmth and so they are planted on a hill..." As
you draw nearer, more of their speech can be determined.
And as cool as the dusk that settles now upon the twisted vines are the
bright, verdant eyes that fall upon them. Almost absently their wandering paths
amongst the mallorn-boles are traced by the gaze of an edhel clad in the simple
raiment of his woodshop, as unshod feet step silently from the lane and onto
the green lawn. Indeed, distant does Rosgwaen seem indeed, as if his mind
treads paths his feet tread not-- yet not so distant as to espy not his
ebon-tressed cousin amongst the greenery laden heavily with its fruit. "Mae
govannen, Lothdaimoth," he speaks, soft as is ever his wont. "I thought to
visit your vineyard while I might, ere telain-craft fills soon my hours."
"I see. And what of..." his head turn in the midst of speech. "Mae govannen,
cousin. Are you so busy then?" A smile flashes in the dimness before he turns
back to his companion and finishes his question. "What of the shade from the
trees, that makes it cooler does it not?"
The vintner also pauses, a smile playing about her lips while Lothdaimoth
greets his cousin. A nod is given the carpenter. "Aye, it would. Save that the
trees here - as you can see - are widely spread. And their leaves grow thin.
Where necessary, we prune the branches back to make certain sufficient sunlight
reaches the vines."
The vintner's nod is by Rosgwaen returned, slow and stately, yet no
words to her are yet spoken. And in the distance, a bird raises lilting voice
in a last hymn to the Sunship, wholly gone from sight as the Wood is painted
grey-- grey, save for lamps that flicker to glowing light in Caras Galadhon,
seen now between shivering leaves as they whisper in the wind. And the City
from afar seems an echo of the stars that soon will kindle above. To
Lothdaimoth again does Rosgwaen turn at last, forsaking the sight of the
swaying lamps for a time. "Truly I know not. For never before have I crafted
telain, and I know not how many suns might sink before my work is complete.
Many new paths of late do I tread..."
And forsaking her instruction to follow her fellows out of the vineyard, the
elleth murmurs a word to Lothdaimoth before quietly slipping away. "Yes, I will
come," the prefect replies before turning all his attention to Rosgwaen.
"Telain? Oh, for Goerhim. I had heard of this, it will be soon now? I am glad."
Absently one hand reaches out to curl around a tendril of vine, his eyes remain
intently on his cousin's face.
"I seek to begin soon upon it. And though I would speak that there are
other matters of which I am unsure... perhaps this would be untruth." A fair
head gains slowly a tilt as Lothdaimoth's eyes fall so intent upon the
thavron's visage, yet for a time he speaks not, and his own gaze seems lost
upon some unseen vista in the gathering night. "Yet I fear too much does my
mind take now to these matters, and I will ask you now that which should I have
sooner spoken: how goes the vineyard-work?" A step forward then is Rosgwaen
taken, and he lingers no longer by the most distant of the grape-tendrils, but
stands now closer before his cousin.
Lothdaimoth allows himself to be diverted for the time being. Without seeming
to notice, he has moved a little closer to the grapevine nearest him; and now
stands almost enclosed in a leafy embrace. "Very well, thank you." His dark
gaze remains on his cousin's face and after a bit, he returns obliquely to an
earlier subject. "Some time ago, you spoke with me about a certain thing. Have
you found an answer to your questionings, cousin?"
Dark now is the night, for the hour it full-come, and no more than the
finest shard of Ithil's crescent hangs like a sickle o'er the field of stars.
And to these stars does the thavron's chill gaze rise, his gilded queue
blanched to pallid silver in the wan light... until his eyes fall closed with a
sigh fainter than the stirring of the wind, and the most small and strange of
smiles fleets across his countenance. "But do not answers bring more
questions?" Clear and cold his gaze lights anew, and falls again upon
Lothdaimoth, intent now upon his dark eyes. "And with those questions more
answers yet. And so shall I say that I have found both. For matters there are
which I am sure of... and matters there are that bring me doubt."
A grin dances through the darkness. "I am glad you have so clarified matters.."
Lothdaimoth's voice is sly, almost teasing; but almost at once he is serious
again. "I have found it so, also." He takes a single step away from the
clinging vines, nearer the carpenter and briefly lays a slim hand on his
cousin's shoulder. "Yet all will become clear. And it is not as if you lack
time or must needs fret and worry as do the second-born with their shortened
lives." It is surely a trick of the light, but the leaves appear to reach after
his tall form as he moves away.
Small and tight is Rosgwaen's smile at this, and swept away as quickly as it forms. "Even Moedhim names me slow at this. Yet you speak truly, mellon-- no hest of passing hour falls upon me, save that which I would bid myself. And I bid myself not. Things shall come of their own time..." A fleeting nightwind sets curling vines to sway where they hang from mallorn-boughs, and upon leathern wings does a flittermouse wheel among them, dodging vine and trailer with uncanny ease ere it vanishes into the starlit dark. "Yet what of you, cousin? How do past days find you?"
A nod and slow minutes pass in silence. The calm even tenor
of the night is perhaps especially noticeable here among the growing plants. At
last words come, equally slowly. "I am well. I find much to comfort me here and
ease beyond my expectation." He tilts his head back and stares up at the stars,
his long hair falling like black rain down his back. And again a hand creeps
out to subtly caress the reaching vinery. Looking back with a smile, he says,
"I fear I distressed your sister somewhat. She had made me a gift and was
perhaps a little disappointed that I had not so great a need of it as in days
past. Yet I treasure it and more for the thought than the craft, though that
was very skilled."
"If your vines find you well, then I deem this glad indeed." Verdant
eyes rise again to the stars as Lothdaimoth's do, yet unlike his, they fall not
from Elbereth's lamps. "Which gift do you speak of, mellon? Tell me of it, and
I will tell her of how you treasure it. Moedhim spoke to me of late of a
basin... but I deem this his manner of jest." Silent then the thavron falls, as
if in thought, and the light of the scattered stars that line the vaulted
firmament above is reflected coldly in his gaze.
But instead of speaking, the prefect turned vintner withdraws his hand from the
clinging vines and begins to untie a small leather pouch at his waist. Bringing
out the tiny disc that Caelwen had given him scant days prior, he holds it
cupped in his hand for a long minute before holding it out to Rosgwaen, still
cradled in his palm. And as before, the small round thing, its twisted threaded
design defying the eye to follow it, radiates a sense of peace beyond any here.
"This," he says softly and no more, still holding the object in his gaze. Until
finally, "A basin?" Dark eyes lift to Rosgwaen's face, dark eyebrows raise
inquiringly.
Eyes lower at last from the stars, and look upon the cennan's medallion
as it lays upon his cousin's palm. "I know not always of Moedhim's mind. For
fain am I of him, and he speaks that he is fain of me as well, yet unalike we
are. But, this..." And his eyes grow intent, and fall more heavily upon the
small piece he holds in hand. "It is a thing of beauty indeed, or at least do
my own eyes deem it so. Treasure it well, even if only for the thought, for
much of her fea does she fuse into aught that she designs. But now must I be
off, for soon must I seek for Goerhim's talan-site. Namarie, cousin." With
these words does he turn, and his eyes seem distant once more as they look to
the stars while he walks, and is soon gone into the night.
"Farewell." For longer yet, Lothdaimoth rests his eyes on the small thing in
his hand before returning it to its place and lifting his gaze to watch
Rosgwaen go. Until his cousin's tall form is gone, he stands yet motionless;
but then, in the ever-darkening night lit only by the faint moon and silver
stars, he begins to walk again among his grapes. And again it seems that as he
reaches out to them, so do they return his greeting - or maybe it is only that
they waver in the faintest breeze as he passes.