Nestled between steep-sloping walls clad in the ever-dark green of hemlock and fir, the north fork of the Taurduin plunges over a series of limestone terraces, her water cascading like white lace as it splashes on its inevitably downwards journey. The craggy outcrops of yellowish pale limestone are porous and jagged on outward faces, but inside worn smooth above by the river's touch over the ages. The fall's foot, ever-clad in a shroud of mist, is of churning white water, but the bubbles and foam quickly dissipate into ripples and finally smoothness as the water spreads out into a small pool scooped out of the rock. Further down, the waters overflow a final smooth lip of limestone and tumble along their way through the woods. In the cool of the winter, ice has crept along the edges of the reflecting pool, but further up the rushing water remains free. Dark green contrasts starkly with pristine white where snow has collected on limbs of fir, and beneath them the sheep and goats of Amon Thranduil stay close together for warmth, nibbling at bales of hay set out to tide them through the winter. Enfolding the emerald glade of evergreens like a vast cloak of depthless blue, the sky spreads clear and cloudless overhead. Shining brightly in the winter dome is the sun, her bright yellow rays streaming through the icy air to catch on the cascading water and near-transluscent limestone casting rainbows in the shimmering mist. The water of the pool is of deepest, iciest blue, slipping chill and silent under a cover of ice as it travels downstream. Above, where the spray has frozen and taken root, glimmering icicles reflect the light with such enthusiasm that the whole wall seems covered in sparkling bright gems.
Afridious looks at the beautiful river, and marvels at it's beauty. He looks over and see a fair maiden across the river. He smiles at her, and takes a deep breath of air. The smell of pine always awakens his senses.
The snow-chocked sky, framed by the spiry sillhouettes of firs marching solemnly over the hillside glows a swirling silver-grey, the moon's light hidden behind a myriad of flakes that fall, each unique, each perfect to the dell below.
Nearly hidden beneath a coverlet of snow that blankets her shoulders and head, a maiden sits with perfect stillness by the fall's foot, just out of reach of its stinging spray that even in the chill of winter roars with reckless might.
Falling snow and predawn darkness hang, soft but insistent, about the woods; and the rushing of the falls dims hearing, and sets even the keenest ear bewildered. And it is under this shroud that one of tall, elvish form approaches, lacking in deliberate stealth, but not easily marked all the same.
But he approaches, winding with deliberate step towards the snow-flecked water; and his stride is possessed of a fluid grace, unhurried yet not slow.
Yet soon there is a sound that springs from his passage, and it rises gently above the din of the water. Song, a faint melody, a pure tune given heady voice by fair lip. And it announces clearly the presence of Glorfindel, elf of Imladris that walks now beneath the Greenwood.
Afridious walks over stepping stone across the fast running stream to greet the maiden, and other man. He speaks softly,"Hello, I am Afridious, you two are?" He smiles a bright gleaming smile that seems to spread across his face.
Glorfindel continues his course, placid, tranquil steps carrying him in time nigh to Afridious and Eilialhenel; and his voice breaks now in speech. "Good morn," says he, and the words are as music, unfettered by the chill snowfall and unhindered by the rushing of the water. And his gaze musters with warm regard to the other elf, and he gives a small bow of archaic form. "Well met, Afridious. I am Glorfindel."
The heavy down-plunging of the falls, sculpting limestone smoother than ever another hand might, speak with a voice as sweet as any ears might hope ever to hear. Sweeter still the mingling light, growing ever brighter despite cloudy protestations, and creeping slowly over the scene at once tranquil and raging.
A growing song the maid hears, and not that of the cascading river, but one sung by a voice far fairer than most to be found walking the forest nowadays. She turns her head, slowly, her snow-cap undisturbed, and with great glittering eyes looks up at the noldo wreathed with hair of gold. She regards him, and the other, silently for a moment, before a warm smile breaks on her face.
"A good morning, if snowy," she says, and then with a curious look at Afridious she says slowly, "And I, Eilialhenel. Well met to you both!"
Afridious nods to the lady and the man,"I must leave you now. I am needed by others for now. It's been a pleasure." He walks off into the snowy distance..
Soft light -- as the mustering of day, and yet not that, not yet -- wreathes Glorfindel's peaceful form, and dances bright in his visage; and his eyes of blue -- the coming of summer's noon, gold-flecked and deep -- turn now to Eilialhenel, twinkling faint, writ with fair, contented mirth.
"Good morn, Lady," says he; and again his body dips in the archaic bow. "You are of Aran Thranduil's folk, surely?" he adds but a moment after, careful gaze locked upon the elf-maid.
Eilialhenel shifts slightly, and then light as the kiss of a warm spring breath she is upon her feet, and smiling brightly. A little shiver, and her white garb is gone, revealing a cloak of more somber grey, like the shadows deep in the recesses of a mountain cave.
The rising sun, certainly a bright face smiling somewhere behind the clouds that hang so grey in the sky, must warm the air, for the falling crystals are becoming soft. Like crystals of falling light, they are, leaving their mark on all from breathing tree to immovable rock, even if that mark is not visible to the eyes.
"And how did you guess that?" is Eilialhenel's merry reply as she curtsies briefly, her speech accented with the tones of a wood-elf.
Making his way along that riverside with footfalls as soft in sound as the falling of the frozen precipitation is another of the local folk, and as soon as the pair of elves talking along the riverside come into his sight, he pauses and smiles slightly, watching the scene before him before coming any closer.
A faint smile tugs at Glorfindel's lips, curling rich red skyward and sending the shadows of early morning's light playing fitfully across his fair features.
"Oh," says he with a soft laugh, the gentle ringing of distant bells that weaves -- seamless -- into the rush of the falling water. "That here you sit, tranquil amongst the falls; and such a fair place must be a well-kept secret! But come, do I guess rightly?"
Eilialhenel's laugh is of pure delight as she skips a few steps backwards, leaving not a footprint in her wake upon the wet snow. Her hands clasped before her, she now bows, cloak swirling with a dramatic flourish about her frame.
"But of course!" she exclaims, though she pulls a small face. "Amon Thranduil's folk in name, perhaps, but rare is it that I venture in the hill itself. Even this rain, I prefer to the dwarf-dwelling like halls of my king." And she laughs again and throws her head back to embrace the sky and the tears it sheds.
"A cold, grey sleet falls upon me,
I'd rather have snow, but so it must be,
for though endless nights delay the morn,
still winter's sun is bright and warm!"
is her chant.
Bright and airy springs forth the laughter from Glorfindel's lips, a ringing response to the sudden song. And then he replies; and bound about his voice is the singing of harps, the crying of the songbird.
Snow and sleet, gifts of the same hand
a gentle fall upon the white-crowned land
And know -- even now as their fingers chill
With their touch, summer shall bring flowers to the hill!
"Ah," he subsides softly. "Long it has been since I last walked beneath these woods -- or saw the halls of your king; dwarfly or no, I would find them again."
Now stepping nearer and bearing a broader smile is Rhuarc, who announces his presence with,
"Indeed, the cold sleet falls upon thee,
But the cold this day will not harm me,
For great luck is upon me this morn!
The sight of this fair maiden should keep any heart warm!"
He stands now before Glorfindel and Eilialhenel, and nods to the visitor in greeting. "You don't have much further to go, then, traveller, there are paths close at hand, and the gates aren't hidden."
The nights are long, midwinter, and the sun will make the most of her time. How even just the faint glow of diffuse light upon naked trees brings them into relief upon a backdrop of flat storm clouds! Perfectly still, enduring the rain, great tall fir trees with cones hanging tassel-like upon sagging fingers - dark and glistening wetly in a landscape seemingly drab and grey.
Not unlike in coloring, perhaps, save in the flush of her cheeks, but imbued with life and light that echoes silvery-stars, Eilialhenel now smiles even wider. "Aye, he speaks truely, even if he might not come up with rhymes all his own. The doors to Thranduil's halls are but a few moments' walk away."
Glorfindel wheels about on graceful heel; and his cloak of rich green flares fitfully about him, revealing a tunic white as the snow underfoot, gold-threaded. And his gaze turns with this motion to Rhuarc newly-come.
"Hail, warrior of Thranduil," says he; and his eyes dance across the other's form, taking in fine garb and glittering mail. "Then thither I shall go," he adds, glancing from Rhuarc to Eilialhenel, and back -- "By your leave, Captain," and this last comes with a small smile, a twinkling gleam to his azure eye. "My thanks." But he is clearly at a loss for the other's name; and he pauses thoughtfully.
Rhuarc laughs, and bows to Eilialhenel, "Consider it a bit of flattery, as I desired to make your lyrical scheme seem all the more brilliant by my imitation." He laughs, "The rhymes of all my own that sprang immediatly to mind were of the sort that I should best save for our unfriends in the southern woods, who always seem to squeal in..." he pauses and shrugs, "Delight, I'm sure, at the sound of the fair voice of Rhuarc," he smiles laughs lightly, and adds with a nod to Glorfindel, "A name which fits me much better in most situations than 'Captain.'"
"Then well met, Rhuarc; I am Glorfindel, of the household of Elrond Halfelven," replies the golden-haired with a soft laugh; and yet his eyes are hard, glittering cold. "A welcome to these woods most unfriendly was I given by those that you speak of. It gladdens me to hear that the valor of this land yet keeps them at bay. But no need to talk of such now!" he laughs again, and the warmth has returned to his gaze. "I will away to your King's halls, and pray that I meet you both again soon." And with a swift bow to elfmaid and elf captain, he turns about and is lost in the snow, a fading image of gentle light.
