Songs of Love in Firelit Halls
Hall of Fire
The flickering light of the fire illuminates the room in a warm glow. The firelight plays along the polished wood of the walls, picking out highlights of the carvings of vines and flowers that decorate the Hall, and lining the many comfortable chairs in changing light. The fire burns always in this Hall, crackling from within a large hearth of marble at one end of the room. Songs in this Hall come to life, and dreams seem more real than the waking world.
The firelight gleams from the polished stone of the hearth, and glints of the metallic flecks running through the marble. Wide enough that a tall man couldn't span it with his arms outstretched, and tall enough that he could walk into it without bending. Wood, large and small, is stacked near at hand to feed the flames should the fire grow too low. Fire tools, cunningly wrought by the elven smiths in patterns of vines, are racked on the other side of the hearth. Among the tools are a number of iron mulling rods, meant for heating in the fire and then dunking into one's drink to heat it.
Flanking the great hearth are two pillars, one on either side of the fireplace. Made of the same marble as the fireplace the pillars are carved from base to crown with interlocking patterns of leaves, vines and flowers. Lit by the fire's living light, the flowers reflect back gold and orange and red. Even in deepest winter, the stone flowers bloom like living blossoms.
The Hall of Fire is, at the moment, quieted. There were perhaps a few residents of the last homely house dotted throught it, but it was fairly silent. Until Istotarnon arrives, at anyrate, equiped with his small harp in it's leather case. Silently he heads towards the fireplace and it's twin marble pillars, pausing only to acquire a glass of Eldaril. Poetry did tend to be thirsty work, after all. Slowly he sinks down onto the floor, leaning back against one of the pillars flanking the heart. From the leather case he draws the small harp, strumming a few notes before he begins his first piece of the night. It wasn't original.... but, well, he's still working on those.
Snow-white, snow-white, O Lady clear
O Queen beyond the Western Seas
O Light to us that wander here
Amid the world of woven trees...
Ist-Amra sits not far from the hearth, though closer to the windows, resting again after a session at the training ground. Her clothes are growing wrinkled and dirty as she prepares for the trips to map herbs.
Afternoon lends its air of sunlight and tranquility to the Hall of Fire, its warmth an understated contrast to the winter-infused countenance of the elleth who now enters from without. The dark, shining waterfall of her earthen-brown hair is wild and windswept, dancing languidly over silvery-blue clad shoulders. The gentle flush of winter's kiss lingers in her fair cheeks and lips alike...lips that bloom into a delicate smile when the refined articulations of a harp's song float to her ears.
Quiet is the sigh that Amarelei allows to slip as she falls into a chair by the fire, briskly rubbing her pale hands together before the roaring fire. After warming herself by the fire a moment, the sparkle of contentment lights her green eyes as they turn to regard Istarnon and Ist-Amra. "Mae govannen, mellyn," she says through her growing smile.
Gilthoniel! Oh Elbereth!
Clear are they eyes and bright thy breath,
Snow-white, snow-white, we sing to the
In a far land beyond the Sea.
O stars that in the Sunless Year
With shining hand by her were sown,
In windy fields now bright and clear
We see your silver blossom blown.
O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!
We still remember, we who dwell
In this far land beneath the trees
Thy starlight on the western seas.
Istotarnon concludes his first selection on this afternoon, quite happy to be inside the Hall of Fire.... since the journey from Lothlorien had been neither easy nor warm. Leaning over his harp, he reachs for small glass of white wine, taking a sip. "Mae govannen." He replies, offering the new arrival a smile.
Ist-Amra smiles, eyes closed, listening to the recitation. As he concludes his reading, she opens her eyes and gazes upon this apparent stranger to the Valley. "I know that I have been at my duties most diligently, but are you new here?" she asks the edhil.
A thin veil of enchantment falls over Amarelei's features momentarily, only to lift anew as the notes of Istarnon's song fade away on the air. Her former smile lifts once more the corners of her blushing lips in silent approval of the poet's recitation.
"Aye, I am, good Elleth. Newly arrived from the woods of Laurelindorinan; here to learn what I can at this great bastion of knowledge." Isto replies with a smile, using the archaic name of the golden wood.
In Dwimordene, in Lorien
Seldom have walked the feet of men.
Few mortal eyes have seen the light
That lies there ever, long and bright.
Galadriel! Galadriel
Clear is the water of your well;
White is the star in your white hand;
Unmarred, unstained is leaf and land
In Dwimordene, in Lorien
More fair than thoughts of Mortal men.
Martion slips into the hall just then and looks around.
Chuckling, Ist-Amra mock-bows as she rises to get herself a glass of wine and some cheese. "Ist-Amra, Cunir o Imladris, at your service," she intones in a stately voice, then winks to the Gweithir as she sees him enter.
Martion calls out in a merry voice to Ist-Amra, "any wines to recommend over there tonight?"
"Then allow me to extend my warmest welcome, Istotarnon," Amarelei lilts in tones warm and clear, far brighter than her characteristic alto when lifted in such a greeting. "For a voice as fair of song deserves as much. Your verse is inspiring." Her compliments are made simply and yet intended no less, as Martion's entrance draws her smile.
"Ah well, I had the red last night, Martion, and awoke clear-headed. that is perhaps the best I can speak of any wine I have encountered," Ist-Amra replies, jesting. "May I pour you a glass?" she asks him.
Martion nods with a smile to Ist-Amra, then surveys the room. After a moment, he calls out to Istotarnon, "A fine song from what I could hear from the hall. Have you more than one string to your bow?"
"Istotarnon: linnor, glirion, talagan, a Pethron at your service, Ist-Amra." Istotarnan offers in replies, along with with a smile towards Amarelei. "Many thanks, though I'm not doing more then repeating other's works right now. It will be sometime before my Noldo-quenta is finished." And with that, he goes into the next poem, accompanied softly by his harp.
A Elbereth Gilthoniel
silivren penna miriel
O menel aglar elenath!
Na-chaered palan-diriel
a galadhremmin ennorath
Fanuilos, le linnathon
nef aear, si nef aearon!
Rising from her chair with movements well-calculated, Amarelei's smile falters a bit until it appears more a wince than the expression of mirth that resided there mere moments before. She strides stiffly towards the service cart, taking into her hand a crystal goblet with a slender stem. Her fair hand floats indecisivly over several wineskins, and finally she opts for a clear white whine.
The Lhimbadhril's eyes stay intent on the task of pouring, but her ears stay attuned to the proceedings in the hall.
Ist-Amra pours a glass and hands it to the Gweithir, then offers some to the others, "Might I serve the poet as well?" Surprisingly, she seems merry for one who has spent so many hours of late stringing her own bow, though a frown creases her brow as she sees the Galthor wince.
Gliding silently into the Hall, the Ethir Lanthir makes a straight line for the cart as well. He remains silent as he observes the goings on, and proceeds to pour himself a glass of wine as well, nodding in greeting to Amarelei, as well as any others that catch his eye.
Martion takes the wine, stipping it, listening to the new singer sing. His is obviously a connoisseur's attitude, both toward the wine and the song: in either case, he seems to approach them gradually but with full attention.
Istotarnon shakes his head, motioning towards the glass of Eldaril sitting on the floor near him. "Nay, good elleth, 'tis not neccessary. I've all I want for now, though I thank you anyway." He takes a small drink from the glass. "Have any of you heard the story of the fall of King Finrod Felagund, the lord of ancient Nargothrond?"
Amarelei tucks her chin to her chest in a modest nod. "Ethir," she intones softly with smile disarming in aspect and friendly in intent. The young maiden fair lifts her goblet to her lips, the gilded green sparkle of her eyes peering out over its rim. Again an approving smile graces her face, this time with regard to the flavor of the wine. Gingerly she steps aside from the cart, the brightness of her features a testament to her mood.
Martion nods then. "Ah," says, "A good wine, almost as good as the song. Mind if I sing one?" And he places his barely touched wine down next to where Ist-Amra is seated.
Blushing slightly as the Ethir enters, Ist-Amra smiles shyly at him, murmuring a greeting so soft that it is barely heard. None left to serve, she returns to her chair, hiding behind the glass as she drinks deeply of its contents, with barely a look to the Gweithir as he steps close to her.
Lanthir pours himself a glass of dark red, which he promptly raises to his lips. He offers a smile to one elleth, then another. Standing apart still for a moment, he turns his attention to the main attraction and observes from a distance.
"If you wish..." Istotarnon offers in response to Martion, as question regarding the fate of Finrod didn't recieve much of a reaction. And although he does pause to take a small sip from his wine goblet, he doesn't put the harp down. "Do you need accompanyment?"
Martion smiles just a touch. "That depends. I think Finrod's fate may have been too somber a subject ... I have something lighter that my cousin Rhunedhel wrote, but ... do you play in the pentatonic scale?"
The wine brings a corresponding blush to Ist-Amra's cheeks, and she seems to grow ligh-hearted once more. "Ah, light tunes are what are needed in winter. Save somber songs for summer."
"But it's such a great piece of work... Somber, perhaps, but very stirring." Isto shrugs his shoulders. "Another time, then. Perhaps an excerpt from the Lay of Leithian; Beren's song of Luthien as he went in search of Draugluin..... and no, I'm afraid that I don't. My appologies.."
Peace sweeps over Amarelei's countenance like a breath of springtime air in months of winter's starkest cold, as she falls back into a well-cushioned chair across a small table from from Ist-Amra. Any trace of pain seems now to have vanished, replaced by respectful attentiveness to the discourse between the Gweithir and harpist.
Martion walks over to the harp, and with deft movements begins adjusting it to a totally different scale. "This one I think I will dedicate to all the happy couples in the valley," he says with bright eyes, "those betrothed, those yet-to-be-betrothed."
Martion says, "And of course those soon-to-be-married!"
Lanthir takes a long draught of his wine and, after refilling his glass, glides over to where the throng is gathered and takes a half-seat, leaning on the wall. He says nothing; just watches the goings-on, and awaiting the upcoming concert from the Gweithir.
Words spoken in introduction to song soon to fill the air bring a wistful glimmer to the forest depths of Amarelei's eyes. Her attention, though remaining with Martion as he steps behind the harp, seems shared with a faraway reverie, the inner focus of her eyes shifting to a fond image painted upon her thoughts.
Martion begins singing softly, his hands deftly bringing music to suit the mood ...
Love and life are tangled twins that never part:
Through grief love's gladness
Shining through sadness
Illumines the heart.
Joyful, gentle, patient, peaceful, hot as fire:
Love's tender tether
Ties you together
Transcending desire.
At the mention of betrothal, Ist-Amra smiles and her gaze remains on the Gweithir as he steps to the harp. Though they flicker to the Ethir once, noting his silence. She seems to have a puzzled look on her face, as she often does when love is mentioned.
No vow is vain if kept with care though storms may rage:
Love faithful, fearless
Pure still and peerless
Endures through each age.
From love comes life and babies born to cherish:
Your garden grows
Realm of the rose
And never will perish.
Martion has sung each stanza in lower and lower tones. Now he lets his voice rise again as he sings the first stanza as the conclusion.
Love and life are tangled twins that never part:
Through grief love's gladness
Shining through sadness
Illumines the heart.
Martion lets the last chord fill the room, then damps the strings.
Dark, willowy lashes flutter softly against fair cheeks as the gold-flecked green of Amarelei's eyes disappears behind her eyelids for a heartbeat. Though silence remains upon her own voice, her rosy lips move subtly along with the flowing stream of the Gweithir's song, falling still in a gentle smile as the harpstrings fall silent.
Long distance to Galindrion: Amarelei hugs tight! "I's okay. :) Just kinda hangin' in the Hall of Fire, drinkin' some wine!"
Ist-Amra's eyes grow dreamy as Martion sings his cousin's song, her mood seeming to grow more pensive as it seems she considers the words and takes them to heart. She fingers the pendant on the chain 'round her neck, fingertips tracing the etched rose.
Lanthir closes his eyes as the song begins. He lets himself drift up and to when and where the melody carries his spirit. Only after it is over does his spirit seem to alight back upon him. He opens his eyes then; eyes typically bright and mirthful, or at the least very intent. Eyes that now are simply somber and pensive.
Martion rises then, slipping from the harp, and stopping only long enough to retrieve his glass of wine. Lifting it, he raises it. "A toast!" he calls out, downing the glass before he ever gives anyone the chance to imitate him, and slips from the room.
Elgaraf passes Martion on the way into the great hall. He nods a greeting to the edhel and proceeds to the food cart. He snatches a peach off the cart and looks around at the others as he flops down on a seat. "Mae govannon mellons," he says with his usual cheerfulness. He takes a bite out of the fruit and pauses. "What is with all the long expressions?"
Istotarnan does raise his goblet up in imitation of Martion's actin, taking a small drink before he positions his harp back in its playing position. "Are there any requests?" He asks the small group that's appearantly gathered in the Hall of Fire now. And where they all came from, he still wasn't quite sure.
Shaken free of her reverie, Ist-Amra's smile returns, and she nods to the edhel as he enters. "Just transported by a song, is all," she replies, her gaze falling at last on the Ethir as she motions for him to join her.
Suddenly the Lhimbadhril awakes from her daydream. And as her presence of thought returns to the current hour, she lifts her glass in response to artion's toast, her gaze flickering over the faces of the others in the hall before alighting upon Elgaraf. "
Lanthir blinks as Martion makes his fast drink and faster exit. He raises his glass and takes a draught as well, nodding to the new arrival. "Mae govannen."
Suddenly the Lhimbadhril awakes from her daydream. And as her presence of thought returns to the current hour, she lifts her glass in response to Martion's toast, her gaze flickering over the faces of the others in the hall before alighting upon Elgaraf. "I speak not for the others, but as for myself....aye, the Gweithir's song has brought to mind both a fond memory and a letter that needs writing. If you will excuse me....namarie, mellyn." Stiffly the elleth rises from her chair, taking difficult steps toward the door.
Elgaraf nods and waves goodbye with the peach he holds. He wipes his chin to prevent dribbling juice on his tunic, before looking at Isto. "How about something with a little more bounce to it? Something to drive back the night and the cold, and remind us of a fair spring?"