Meduion's lips curled into a grin, looking at Archer's gift to the lady Estenthel of a toy wooden horse with amusement. No practical value, to be sure, but then again, there was no practical value in many of his own arts, with words and books and old kingdoms long past. Still, he thought to himself, he knew just how to offer a gift of his own. The scholar leant back on his hands, looking at the trees that lay upon the plains to the north, and drifted into thought... with typical cleverness, as well as a certain state of mind.
Sael athan in íniath dîn i forodis,
neth dîs a dirdhril eithro nestadril,
a ferwedhitha i dhîr în,
ar vi i thais în seidiata lui an dhîr în,
nestatha hery ar onnatha guil 'wain,
írdhis an 'waith vín,
adh gelir na mâr în.
Wise beyond her years the north-woman is,
young midwife, watcher, healer too,
and soon, to her man, she will be bride,
and him between her duties must she her time divide,
treating flesh and bringing life anew,
a special bond to have for any of our kin,
with a grateful bridegroom-man at home within.
(Sindarin translation with special thanks to Noruien! Seems there's a bonus for anyone fluent in the tongue.)
