6
The moon's tedium wore upon him. He saw white buildings rising above the churning dusk: Gondor. Someday the land would find redemption, someday the valleys would be exalted from their current unrest, the darkness would be chased from its tower of secrets and magic, no more the cells of Sauron's proliferation.
That was his dream, and the dream of all the other peoples of Middlearth.
Denethor waited, he would find a way; for now he watched the sullenness of night swelter.
There is a valley that dips and transcends in its sinuous curve to another dimension where moments are not separate—they run together and the song of the trees is evident in every ear bestowed upon the plain by a thousand years of reverie.
It does not flourish but remains as it had for centuries uncountable; no dates are found here and the minutes are free and easy.
The mallorns rise beyond the darkness that is pervasive and grotesque—it fails to twist the silver boles into phantasm and wreckage. Only it is a sad place, peaceful joy makes it home here but wisdom makes the land sad—here is the only beautiful shipwreck which has marooned itself in memory.
Galadriel knows. These golden hazes which are not intrinsic in this forest will decay as Mordor grows beyond its stronghold and ravages the world.
Things will change. Galadriel knows.
The image of Luthien resides here; she no longer dances, her gravity is as her father's.
She was born to bear the brunt of a failing world.
Do her foremothers regret?
Morning is fading, midday vanished with the end of the beginning, night will ride to its precipice, shine brighter than any dusk, then fall. Fall.
No fireworks will blaze, just the silence.
Music was alive under the eaves of a very different wood; the lute's singing mingled with arpeggios of another kind—an old tune for which the trees would disown all other sound: laughter.
They mingled and lapsed and rose together, they coincided and ran quick: in the smallest instant were born notes like imagination.
Celebrations of the New Year by the elvish calendar. Merry sentiments ran riotous and the leaping flames banished ghouls from the undergrowth.
There was a festive intimacy in the air—rare in large congregations but it was present. Thranduil found the spirit of elves as admirable as he had always thought it was, they found light and magnified it, and souls that were inimitable, unfathomable but with the power to light up the night. There was something gorgeous about it all, he would never leave it.
Bright shapes danced, faces were unforgettable and changing as they moved amongst the groups, laughter was prodigal, faces and silhouettes, some more familiar than others to the king's eye. He searched the crowds for something dear to him: his son sat in a corner with Menellir, their conversation was more reserved rather than boisterous: no sweeping arms punctuated sentences, Thranduil watched his son rest his chin on his hand, elbow propped on a knee, he liked to watch the mundane closeness of his life; days were often too hurried.
A voice called to him, he turned his attentions to a rather engaging conversation, again concerning only mundane things. But he liked these things, he liked the nuances life was enmeshed in; there was a simplicity in it all that was too endearing to pass by.
---
They were both swept from idyllic conversation into a vague swirl of gold and chatter: the clearing was full and yet airy with dancing.
She said something as they twirled, it was lost in the
cheerful quagmires of dialogue, he leaned closer—
"I said: odd that you two are so quiet on an evening like this." She smiled at him, her voice carried hints of amusement.
"Well, not anymore," he answered as he spied Menellir's receding form.
"You ought to make the most of occasions like this."
"Oh, but I have better things to do." His reply was flippant, mirroring hers' well.
She laughed, like bells; he felt the gentle tinkles down her backbone.
"Is the rest of the year so boring that everything that happens tonight must be laughed at?" Legolas was casually conscious of their immediate environs, for now the dance belonged to them only—this is the way every couple should feel. Two pairs of feet stepped light and sprightly, perfectly in step with the music.
Elestir cocked her head, "No, it is just you that I find funny. In any case what is worth laughing at should be received as such—there aren't enough laughs to go around in this world."
She was an eternal optimist and would have plenty of time to demonstrate to the world this rare value as she was showing him.
This is rather short but I just wanted to demonstrate life and its plain eventfulness. Not everything is significant and I wanted to give a decent portrayal of the years also I wanted to show that it isn't just Imladris and Mirkwood that are dynamic, changing places. Additionally, one of the vignettes give Arwen gravity.
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ok, this is important. i was planning on revamping the thing, paring it down as nobody seems to like it except for two readers whom might be three things: sympathetic, similar to myself, or, my favourite--geniuses like me (joke!).
however, it's taking too long, so LegolassQ and Qwe and hopefully Moonyasha (this is for you too if you're still out there) can have this one first and subsequent chapters while i replace the rest slowly, or rather--as fast as i can.
this is just for you guys!
& anyone, stalker or bored reader, if you are there, review, even if you have to flame.