Second Age 1620
Barangolf grasped Duirronith’s hand with his own, tugging her up into the beech tree beside him. She peered down onto the path below with keen eyes.
“Not here yet,” She murmured, shifting her weight beside her friend. The branch shook with her movement, casting leaves onto the loam beneath them. A robin darted away from the tree with a twitter of annoyance.
Barangolf laughed. “Let us hope they were not waylaid.”
Duirronith snorted. [i]Waylaid[/i]. There was nothing within Greenwood the Great that could properly be said to [i]waylay[/i] anyone, unless it were the Elves themselves waylaying any strangers who stumbled into their home. They were aware, of course, of the fighting in Eregion but thus far none of that had touched their land.
It was more likely that the others had been [i]distracted[/i].
“If they are too distracted to join us then I believe it is acceptable to begin without them,” Barangolf suggested, patting the basket balanced on the branch beside him.
“I have no quarrel with that,” Duirronith agreed. She reached for the basket and began to rummage around until she found what she sought. “Ahhh.” She sighed, holding aloft a wineskin.
“They only have themselves to blame,” Barangolf grinned, searching for the wooden goblets they had packed. He held one goblet out toward his friend, and she gently tilted the wineskin -- gently, gently -- and then paused.
Below them two other Elves their age could be seen picking their way through the ferns and snarled tree roots, hands clasped together in affection.
Duirronith jerked the wineskin away from the cup and splashed wine down onto the couple below them.
Yells of surprise greeted this action, and the couple looked up to see who had assaulted them so rudely.
“Duirronith.” The taller of the two chided, his face etched into a frown, “What a waste of good wine.”
“Did you at least manage a taste?” Barangolf called out, “Wine rain is unexpected, but it is only a waste if you fail to catch any on your tongue.”
Duirronith shoved the wineskin back into the picnic basket with a pleased smirk. “If you had kept up with us…” She let that thought trail off with a shrug.
“I only wanted to show Hwinnion a bluebird’s nest.”
“And then a kiss.” Barangolf finished. “Ah, Barathor, you are truly predictable.”
His older brother glared up at the pair in the tree, gripping Hwinnion’s hand all the harder. She, however, gave the two a smile.
“Predictably lovely.” She shook her dark curls, flinging droplets of wine onto the ferns and lichen. “Just as spending time with Duirronith predictably leads to need of a bath.”
Duirronith opened and closed her mouth indignantly, unable to find any retort.
Barangolf laughed. “But come and join us before you search for your bath. There is plenty of wine left!”
Barathorn gripped one of the beech tree’s lower branches and hauled himself up. “So I will, Limlam,” He said, using one of his brother’s childhood nicknames, a testament to the fact that his garrulous nature had begun at an early age.
Hwinnion climbed up behind him. “Promise the rest of the wine is for our stomachs and not for our heads?”
Duirronith handed the basket to the other maiden, “I am not sure I can make such a promise.”
But as the evening waned they drank and they sang and they laughed. The darkness in other kingdoms (even kingdoms as close as Eregion) seemed far away and love and cheer seemed like it would last forever.
