It had been too long since she had taken up her harp. She had not touched it since the music contest after the Tourney, and that had been several enquiër ago, even before her second departure for Lindon. But something akin to inspiration had seized her in Lindon, upon seeing the rolling hills and forests decked in the garb of high summer around Mithlond, and she had hastily penned some verses to a ballad in her free hours there. It felt as if it should have some music, so Uilossiel had taken her harp and several leaves of parchment with her on her free time this afternoon.
It was late afternoon, and the Valley was resplendent in the golden light of summer. She could see the tree-tops below, as well as the buildings of Imladris, from her perch on a rocky outcropping some ways above the waterfall. It was a favorite haunt of hers, reached by a winding dirt path that led through beech groves and to a secluded spot overhung by honeysuckle and a slender birch tree. Uilossiel unpacked her harp and a worn piece of manuscript paper, on which were written the verses for the song. Furrowing her brow slightly, she plucked some chords uncertainly before settling on a key and rhythm for the song. In a few moments, she was lost in the familiar world of music, all but unaware of the outside world. She scribbled down some notes on the lined paper, so that she might not forget the music, and continued to work out the composition to her satisfaction.
Music offered her a certain solace that she could not find in her books - she could open her heart through song, confiding to her harp the things she could not to anyone else. Setting the finished manuscript upon her lap, she propped her harp on one knee and began to sing in a quiet, but clear voice:
“Where rowans bend their lissom boughs
With rubies decked; and emerald gleam
Of sunlit leaves surrounds the eye
So that the world transfigured seems;
Where all shines in living beauty,
There come away, my love, with me.
“Where ferns in living filigree
Of brilliant green bedeck the glade,
And flowers like living jewels among
The waving grasses bright are laid;
Where sunlight dapples leaf and tree,
There come away, my love, with me.
“Where song of thrush and coo of dove
Do snare the unsuspecting ear,
As from each shadowed branch and bough
Sweet melodies unseen appear;
Where nature sings in harmony,
There come away, my love, with me.
“Where summer spreads her riches wide,
And gold and sliver gleam the days,
Illumined by fair Arien’s light,
And softened by Isil’s cool rays;
O let us steal away to there,
That we might in such beauty share.”
She coloured a little at the refrain of the song, but reminded herself that she had merely been following convention, as this particular ballad form was often infused with the subject of romance. Inwardly she protested that she had no-one in particular when penning the verses, and that the refrain was a poetic conceit, something that a minstrel might have sung to a fair lady without feeling more than courtly admiration. And what did she know of such matters beyond the pages of her books? The years of her girlhood were long since past, and even then the youths had ever favored her younger sister Tinwen, who was gentle of manner and fair of face.
It was difficult to trust anyone not to leave her again, after her brother Tancamir had been lost. So she had avoided close attachments in her youth, preferring to find solace with her books, or with her harp. Those that loved much, lost much as well, and she would rather be lonely than be hurt again. But as she put her harp down, picking up the paper to correct a few lines of text, she felt a slight unease. For as she had been singing, her thoughts had wandered first to the sunlit glades of Lindon, and then the thought of Lindon had brought to mind the grey eyes and kind face of one who had lived there, once. She shook her head. She would not entertain foolish thoughts like these when some of her House were abroad, and perhaps in peril. Her duty to her work, and to her House, must be foremost, and whatever feelings troubled her would subside under the press and grind of daily life. And if they did not, she would confide them only to her journal and harp, which would not speak of them to others.
Humming the melody of the song to herself, Uilossiel continued to play upon the harp, surrounded by her music which would neither condemn her feelings nor encourage them. The forest was filled with music as the sound of harp and song mingled with the distant rushing of the waterfall.
