Currents of cooling air spill unseen down the gentle slope of the vineyard. The
great trees that arch overhead are thinner here, and their very branches seem
more graceful and airy. Shadows moving swiftly and surely through the heights
may give some hint as to why, for here and there, where they have passed, a
spangle of starry sky is seen where none was before. No limbs fall, only an
occasional golden leaf drifts downward towards the other reason: grapes planted
amongst their towering brethren, grapes that also need the warmth and life
provided by the sun. And more shadows, twin to those above, move purposefully
through the vines. For it is spring, and flowers sway gently among the leaves.
One of the vintners, a tall black-haired also-Counsel, crouches to pick off a
cluster of flowers. Letting it fall to the ground, he stands and moves on to
the next plant, long agile fingers breaking another flowering limb off and
dropping it.
And here might be seen another shadow in the starry night, a phantom on
the vineyard lane: tall and lordly of gait, slow and silent of footfall, golden
tresses nigh as silver as his shining circlet when lit by Elbereth's lamps
above. And with each even step, and the trailing tendrils of the cool
night-breeze, his cloak of verdant silver-lined billows and flickers in the
dark, almost alike to the wings of the flittermice that wheel and turn now
beneath vaulted firmament of the darkened sky.
As verdant as his cloak are his eyes, and bright and cold like the
stars above as they fall now upon the crouched vintner. For to this vintner now
he steps, slow and soundless, until at last soft words trail into the darkling
air: "Mae govannen, cousin. No surprise is it to me that I might find you here
this eve."
Lothdaimoth turns his face up a brief moment. A smile crosses his star-lit
visage before he lowers it, and busy hands take up their task once again. "Mae
govannen. Pardon me that I cannot stop, but speak as you will. I can still
listen." Moving gracefully among the flowers, his long fingers snap first one
and then another of the thin limbs off, letting them fall as he moves until the
ground behind him is littered as if with snow. And all around in the still,
clear night, others do the same. In the distance, a single voice lifts in
wordless song - some time passes and others join.
A flower does Rosgwaen watch as it falls to lie among its brethren, and
the night wind now blows a dusting of petals o'er the grey of his leathern
boots. Yet then does song begin, and tilting his fair head the thavron hearkens
to it... and long does he remain still but for the flutter of his cloak,
listening as fair voices rise and fall in the dark. Many moments pass ere his
gaze turns again to Lothdaimoth, and he speaks. "No pardon needed, mellon.
Though perhaps I might ask your pardon instead, for much has come to pass, and
I know not of which to first speak. But let me begin with that I find most
strange: Sain-estel has spoken that you have counselled her to travel to
Imladris."
Again the vintner's head turns upwards and his hands still. Looking back, he
finishes and stands to move on to the next - but a few strides away. Behind
him, the grapes twine dark in the starlight, flowers still clustering among the
leaves; not so thickly as before. "I did," he says calmly, bending once more.
Further words are left for his cousin to speak.
"I fear for her, mellon." Still soft are the Indor's words, and no
rumour of mood might be read therein. A single step toward Lothdaimoth he
takes-- but there pauses, and raises his face to the nightsky, as if to bathe
in the starlight that blanches further his pallid mien. Slowly do his eyes fall
closed, and slowly once more they open. Yet he looks not to his cousin-vintner.
Not yet. "Even our own Wood has proven for her not wholly safe, and still is
she in fear of such things. I fear for her in the wilds between the Wood and
Valley... and for what she may find in the Valley itself. Many fair things, I
doubt not-- yet there, too, I am told, are the Engwar and Naugrim freely
harboured."
"The road is dangerous." Lothdaimoth's tone is also even, his emotions pent
away. For now. "I would be the last to deny it." He is quiet again while the
flowers on this vine also are thinned. Quiet while he moves on to the next.
Quiet as the song rises and falls for a time around them, its haunting beauty
filling the night. "Yet I feel a greater depth of experience will do her good."
Now he glances at his cousin, sable eyes going to the circlet on his brow. "My
congratulations, cousin." A smile, genuine though small, lightens his face
before he returns to working. "She is young and this is a weight of
responsibility she has not known before. 'Tis true some of the second born live
in the Peredhel's valley and others travel there. Of the Naugrim," and his
voice becomes even more dry, perhaps a hint of distaste enters it at the word.
"Of the Naugrim, I cannot speak. I saw none on my visit. But think you, mellon.
As Indiri, she must speak for and to all of her people. How can she wisely
advise them of what she knows nothing?"
"My thanks." A deep nod is given in return to the new vintner's smile.
And while sincere, no more of this matter is spoken, and he sighs in the dark
as song rises anew, venturing only the most hushed of words to Lothdaimoth as
if loath to break the strands of Elvish song. "She is young. But who may be
named eld, save for those in whose eyes still lingers the light of the Trees,
or those lived within the Girdle of the old King's betrothed? And from the
latter might we learn, cousin, from tome and scroll. And once learned... I deem
we can speak that we know. Time flows unheeding, and history is doomed to turn
upon mighty wheels. We must not forget the lay of its spokes, lest they turn
toward us unlooked-for."
"You speak truly. The old scrolls and histories have much to teach us." A light
breeze scuffles through the highest branches, showering Lothdaimoth with a fall
of shadow-born leaves. This row is done also, and he straightens, looking full
into Rosgwaen's face for a minute before he heads for the next. "But only if we
listen to all of our past, and not set portions of it aside because they please
us not." His hands are neither hurried nor slow as they move among the
flowering vines. "And also, there is much that can be learned from those living
amongst us who have seen the passage and weight of many years. Do not discount
their wisdom, cousin. Master Elrond is wise in many ways."
"I doubt not his wisdom-- nor do I doubt what many griefs befell the
Greymantled King in the halls and forests of Doriath. And from his lands are
come in part those who now I am bade lead, and Sain-estel as well. May the
Half-Elven do what he deems right for his people, but I must do now what I deem
right for mine. Perhaps even he sets aside those tales that the Dinlym
remember, or forgives overmuch those who would bring grief upon the Eldar."
Hushed still are his words, and soft still his footfalls, leaving no print upon
fallen petals as a twain of steps are taken towards Lothdaimoth. Again comes
the wind in the vines, swaying tangled trailers that seem almost to reach like
eerie hands to the hems of Rosgwaen's cloak. But he heeds them not, for his
eyes now are upon the stars.
A slow nod of agreement comes, even as Lothdaimoth speaks words that end in
opposition. "You must. And so must she. And I do not presume to say that the
Peredhel is right or wrong in his choosing." Despite the subject, despite all
he has been taught, his face and voice continue serene. And blossoms, white in
the faint silver light, fall to the ground as softly as the light itself.
"Still. In all our histories is it told that not all are alike. Even among the
first born great griefs have been caused. Yet would you condemn all for the
error of some?" He stops and stands again, this time to stretch; hands on the
small of his back. And before bending to his task again, he looks up at the
distant stars. "And our most beloved star came from just such error and pain."
Returning to work with a dismissive wave of one hand, he continues in quiet
speech. "But even the best and most complete of scrolls can never compete with
the truth of the thing itself. Let her see the second born, the Naugrim," Again
a faint wrinkle in his hitherto even tone. "I will make no push to change her
mind, but let her see for herself, so she can speak with authority greater than
any that comes from reading."
"Nay, cousin, I condemn not all, for it escapes me not that Bright
Earendil is named also the Flammifer of Westernesse; yea, even so do I name him
in my own speech. And among the Secondborn may be heroes, and among the
Firstborn villains. And so do I speak: our people go West. Our old Kings are
dead, our old kingdoms fallen. I would but seek to cut our losses, for risk and
chance we cannot afford." Wan and pale are the stars above, and mirrored below
are a firmament of petals white-- for a moment, would one heed fully the
chanted lay that rises and falls in the night wind, perhaps he would think
himself not below the stars, but among them.
But for now, perhaps, such thoughts are not for the young lord who
stands before his cousin, a pallid vision in the silver-black of the hour. "Can
you judge the minds of men, mellon? They are unlike our own. And I wish not for
Sain-estel to go among them, to subject herself to such dire chance at their
wiles, and for no more reason than to later tell her tale of woe."
The end of this row, if such twisting tree-borne planting can be called a row,
has been reached. Lothdaimoth stands to his full height, bare half-inch shorter
than his companion; though this could be the result of bare feet measured
against booted. Or perhaps the softness of the ground sinking beneath him. A
sudden cheerful smile transforms his somber face. "You need not fear for her,
cousin. Not in such as you have spoken. Think you she has no mind of her own?
Nay, she is inexperienced, but not lacking in intelligence." Slowly, he begins
to walk towards the next row, but other elves already stand there; laughter and
talk drifts back as they relax. One turns and waves. "We are finished, mellon.
Go, there is no more needs doing tonight."
Stopping his progress, the Counsel turns and nods toward a nearby mallorn. One
with no grapes, but a small table set up, wine, fruit and bread upon it. "Men
may not be like us, we may not approve of all they do; but they are not yet so
powerful that they can delude the First Born. And she will not be alone." The
table is reached and a glass poured. "Would you like a drink, cousin?"
A solemn nod at this offer is given as silent footfalls tread now to
the table, and the faintest of smiles, fleeting like the wind in the vines.
"Nay, mellon, I doubt not she has a mind of her own." The thavron pauses, and
the glass is slowly raised to his lips for a light sip. "Yet must one partake
of poisoned leaves to assure all that they remain envenomed? I would that she
might forget not those who have walked this path before her. For powerful or
weak, pardoned or unpardoned, they have slain Firstborn. And I fear to see any
of our people among them, but none moreso than my near kin. I fear for you as
well, mellon. Ill may come of this." A second sip, and the glass is set by him
soundlessly upon the table, eyes bright and intent as they rise to seek the
Counsel's.
"Comfort yourself, mellon. We are not making a journey to a village of humans.
We are going to our kin, Quendi all. It may be that none of the second born
will even be there at the same time as we. And if they are; again, it will not
be her alone amongst a horde." Lothdaimoth seems to have cast off his
solemnity, for his face is openly cheerful as he pours another drink for
himself and takes a cracker. "Also, though it may ease you not at all, those
men who reside in the valley are named Elf-friends. They are somewhat more
worthy of trust than others."
"I am not comforted, I fear. For tidings of this journey sit not well
with me, and still do I hold to that which I have spoken." And away the thavron
now turns, his pallid face rising once more to the stars above. Yet beneath the
mighty mallorn-boughs are they hidden partly from sight, glinting now and again
from beyond the silvern edge of the leaves that shroud them, almost as a
firmament of tiny lamps whose hoods can quench not their brightness. Words fall
at last from Rosgwaen's lips, soft and distant. "Yet neither will I let this
matter sunder kin from kin, for such things of late are never far from my
thought."
Lothdaimoth listens to his cousin's concerns intently, although the smile fades
not from his face. Under this tree, which alone of all others here has not been
pruned to allow sunlight through to the vines, the shadows are heavier, deeper.
One hand reaches out to rest on Rosgwaen's green-clad shoulder. "I understand.
But it must be her choice. I have given her my opinion; I will not try to suade
her any further. Will this content you?" A call in the distance brings his head
around. "I must go.. I will talk to you again." Long strides take him out of
the shadows into starlight and across the field.
Yet shadows are paid by the carpenter no heed, for now his head tilts
as if in consideration of his cousin's words-- though as from faraway a second
vintner calls to Lothdaimoth, Rosgwaen's chill gaze turns to him anew. "I
cannot say, mellon, whether this contents me or leaves me in unrest. But fare
you well, and may indeed we speak of this again."
And for a time the Indor watches his cousin depart, until the tall
figure at last is gone from sight. Though no movement does Rosgwaen make, and a
still, silvern figure he becomes among the twining shadows and twisted
trailers, silent but for the whisper of the night breeze upon the hem of his
cloak.