Evening

Evening came downtumble—intimate, and the last light was tremulous as I rode with the others, the horses nickered and no one spoke: quiet is a kind of wisdom that comes with age. The sky swirled with scanty tealeaves, birds really, we entered the hunting grounds—Lord Elrond's, these people took no more than was needed to sustain themselves, and every kill was as gentle as sleep, I have watched them hunt, but to kill is necessary, to kill so as to be allowed to eat, eat and drink from the earth and…live.

There is always the faint beauty of the unknown in places which are not home, even if the destination be the Last Homely House: so we go.

We dismounted in a square of light that came spilleth through a high window—some marvelous architecture which enabled it to be so, I had always suspected it to be somewhat intentional, this suspicion which lessened the magic not any less.

It was an anomaly—we usually arrived in the morning.

Murmurs were about us, someone took the reins of my horse—then they were gone, tails and hooves in the dim metres away from us.

Two familiar figures stood under the archway, like live feathers and they rustled with the voices of mithril and velvet. A silhouette I was uncertain of stood by them, shorter and not quite old though quite desperate to be as I had found later.

He was a lake, a pale lake and the rosy light made his face home as last light left it; dark eyebrows and I could see he was not quite one of us, nor was he altogether, though mostly human.

"Old friend…you arrived rather later than expected," this was Elladan, half impatient, mostly amused, and a deluge of other greetings came forth from two mouths.

"…this is Estel."

Elrohir fluttered an arm over the dark head, then squeezed the shoulder, a very slender squeeze from a very slender hand, slip of the moon. Elf-hands.

Estel: I am eight—

Still childish voice.

--and have lived here all my life. Would you like to see my ears?

Elladan and Elrohir laughed, the Mirkwood contingent behind me smiled and murmured and leaned into each other to whisper—I know them, wood-phantoms—Estel did not bristle, this apparently happened often.

He lifted a hand—plump like a newborn flower—and raised the thick fringe: the ear was rounded, or perhaps a little pointed.

I: How very unusual—

I continued; less patronizing I told myself

--so you are not an elf, and who might you be?

"Estel," and he was confused. I already knew his name and I asked, why? Came the laughter again, like wind.

So we did not really understand, neither of us did the other, it was only later that I realized this was the most succinct truth I have ever heard.

The company entered the warmer halls; it was autumn now, red leaves gathering crimson, words failing to hold her mellow dirges, gather the discordant season and prevent her from falling out of love. The wind sent summer spindrift and empty-eyed, she left; but we were not, eyes still full, we celebrated.

The night was full of symbols and I saw something new and as yet unidentified in the plumeria which made its descent drifting by me, the petals I confused with the wings of a butterfly, wind-borne and eager as though freed from a long-shut box. Perhaps it was both; some symbols possess a kind of duality.

More exuberant dances faded to slow circles stepping back and forth to a more slumbersome lute as night wore on, I sat on the winding arbour and listened to Estel's intermittent chatter. In between I told him tales concerning Glorfindel—often a blaze of magic and chivalry more often the marigold, sometimes a dandelion. We discussed the personalities of various flowers.

I: I am unsure of what you would be…something young…

I glanced to my left, he was slumped over, asleep and the dark head was a slight warmth pressing into my side—it was late, nearly moonset. I tightened the circle of my arms about him and wove through the musk which breathed all over this garden, this blue mist speaketh of wine and nighttime and the belief that the sky extended far beyond sight.

Couples dipped and fell into each others' arms, silk plucked chords unharsh and insubstantial in their softness, skirts and hair intermingled—neverending youth. I thought about the boy. I did not retire him to his bedroom—the corridors were myriad and many silent doors—we went to the library.

The doors and carpets sighed.

I selected a volume which I could not read for the window pandered to me; I watched for sunrise and when it came I felt myself inflamed by his light.

LegolassQ, I'm uncertain if you know this: this is a rewrite of my story--Ever more--so as to make it more accessible, judging from what certain reviewers say, the story needs it. So I'm trying a new format.

Everyone else: please review. I'm down to begging.

Here, just answer this if you'd be so kind: what's the mood like?

Still, no obligations. Thanks.