The path is narrow, winding gently up-hill through the rich, yet subtle colours of Narbelleth. A bronzed land this - leaves, grass, remaining petals all lightly painted with hues of amber and russet and glowing scarlet. Even under feet that tread so lightly there is a faintest crunch of dried leaves – barely audible save to those most keen of hearing, as the cool-tinged wind changes direction, whips up apace, and blows those same leaves into swirling clouds about our knees.
All stand alert to the change, so as Anor sinks below the western horizon many draw deep breaths of the intoxicating air, laden with the final mellow fruitfulness of the season. Time to light the torches!
There is a hush over us all...anticipation… then the lights, flickering strongly in the deepening gloaming as one passes the illumination of their torch on to the next, so that all the procession winding down the hillside to the vineyard below become as twinkling stars. Each edhel holds aloft their single torch against the darkness of night and of the waning year. Blessings to Yavanna for the abundant harvest….and may we to whom this land is loaned, tend it well, that the following year exceeds even this.
And then we sing….
“YOU sing!” Gaerdir interjected, looking up from his work tending to the grooming of Sudal. He made a wry expression at me, then turned back to the mare, biding her lift her foot so he could check the hoof for any damage.
I chuckled at the thought.
“Ever do I sing, Gaerdir, though that mostly in my own heart and thoughts. That way others are not caused grief. “
“Aye, Aearlinn. That is most considerate of you.”
Picking up a currycomb I continued my own tending of Faereth. All the horses of the Mithdireth were being tended to this day, in preparation…..Our Hirgonui had yet to say which of our mounts we would take with us into the north, though common sense suggested it would be wise to take those less likely to draw the unwanted eye….no formal parade nor embassy from Lord Cirdan were we about to undertake, but a mission most secretive.
“Then you all sing…” Gaerdir prompted, his deft hands not missing a stroke as he worked his way over Suldal’s fetlocks.
“That is so….”
Again my thoughts were at the festival at my grand aunt’s vineyard, twenty leagues inland from the coast.
“The singing is as one, after the first note is given, a wordless song of heartfelt thanks to She who is the Giver of Fruits. As the first of our kind sang before words came into being, do we sing at times of such praise.”
I looked meaningfully to my work companion, sure he understood and indeed, had participated in something similar.
He nodded.
“And as the music fills the twilight, joining with the late birdsong, all ascend to the hilltop itself, taking seat upon one of the many cirth-carved wooden benches. So we sit in a circle…owners, workers, visitors, friends. All are as brother and sister under the caring embrace of she who never forsook these lands, and whose beauty lingers in all that grows. I do oft think of her yawing…” I flashed an almost apologetic look, that I should speak so of Yavanna. “ And drawing part of the strength she puts out back into herself. Though…no Valie would need do such I am sure.”
Faereth swung her silvered head round and softly butted my hand, looking for the apple I always brought her. Impatient was she, and not willing to wait until my work, and tale, were done.
“I know that feeling. I have felt similar…that there is a time when all is gathered in – when we reap what the previous seasons, year….yeni have sown and draw it close.” Gaerdir looked up, youthful enthusiasm echoing in his wise words. “Though it can seem at that moment life is on the wane, yet we have grown much, and the lights we have lit will burn all the brighter.”
I smiled merrily at the apprentice. For all my training in lore, sometimes others spoke forth what I saw not.
“Lights of Mithlond… heading into fell Angmar!” Gaerdir reached into his own pocket for the apple reward for Suldal. “There, my friend. Your patience is rewarded!” he spoke softly to the pale gold mare, and rubbed her ears affectionately. “Though like I, I fear your lot will be to maintain the peace here in Thamas Lorn,” he whispered to the horse. “And I know…Ollaer looks askance at us, particularly when she carries that bow of hers…but at least she will not get all the apples...I keep them hidden!”
That toothy grin of his lit his face, as he looked over to me, but he shook his head. He was spent with asking when he could ride with the Hearth, and would wait upon Curugirion’s decision in which manner his training should progress.
“There will be other such missions, Gaerdir,” said I.
“There will be other such festivals, Aearlinn, “ he swiftly retorted. “And fear not. For Daen and I shall look after all in the Herth’s absence”
Was that meant to make me feel at peace?
I halted a moment, before concluding my description of the celebrations.
“The best of the wine; that deemed the sweetest and richest, is poured by my aunt into small wooden bowls – plain, save for a carving of vine-leaves round the brim – and passed along the lines that the last in the procession is served first. And we wait, so all may take that draught together...and then…”
“Then is the merry making, and the general wine and a feast and music and dance!”
“Indeed, Gaerdir. How predictable are we Falathrim! But it is memories such as these that will be the little light I carry with me into Angmar. The dark, knowing naught of joy, will not claim me, nor any I ride with if it be within my choice.”
Gaerdir looked to me a long moment, his expression unfathomable. Finally he spoke.
“You will not lose them to Angmar, Pethroval. The light within each burns brightly. But...should the direst need arise then….as a final weapon to take up….you could always sing!”
He laughed. So did I… until my attention was caught by Ollaer herself, waving over to the stables and calling to me with some urgency.
“Hir Curugirion calls for you to attend a muster in the main hall as soon as you may!”
With a quick grimace at Gaerdir, I put down the comb and hurried downhill towards the house. No time to change my attire, no time to do aught but run a hand through my hair and hope there was not straw in it…. Curugirion was calling us to muster, and that could only mean one thing!
