If the room was any smaller, the top of the loom might very well have touched the ceiling, but elves never cared for enclosed spaces. This was especially true for those who had lived through the early days of Arda, when the only roofs they knew were the tender boughs of the young trees growing around them. Mirdanel was one such elf, thankful for the tall, open arches of Imladris’ great rooms and halls. It wasn’t Menegroth, but nothing ever would be again, and Elrond has built a worthy home for himself and the Sindar who dwelt in his realm.
Mirdanel softly hummed one of Daeron’s lullabyes as she worked, her hands moving tirelessly over the loom. The tapestry she wove was soft, made of silken fibers dyed in subtle shades of dove gray. It was a departure from her earlier works, but one she wanted to express a different sentiment: perhaps some form of nostalgia, or... foreboding? She wasn’t sure.
The fabric glittered with tiny beads—stars above a shimmering mist, and two trees rising above it all. She would embroider them later, adding wires of silver and gold, or gems to represent sun and moon, and beads dangling like leaves from the branches. For now, it was still only half-formed.
Melui the golden hound paced into the room and stretched, yawning, before lying at her mistress’s feet. The breeze blowing in through the open windows brought with it the scent of budding spring blossoms. Pausing, Mirdanel leaned over to scratch behind the dog’s ear. “You have been gone some time. Did you enjoy your walk?” Melui didn’t respond except to wag her tail. A yes, in effect. Mirdanel smiled, then turned to look over her shoulder.
“This is an unexpected visit,” she said to her guest, still stroking Melui’s soft fur. “Did this one lead you here?”
“Good day, brennil nîn,” Fenion stated, stepping forward upon Mirdanel’s greeting, a smile bright as midsummer upon his face. “That she did, she was sniffing around the kitchens with me,” the young elf grinned, raising a red berry to his lips, as he stepped forward to observe the craftings of the elder. Wintry mint chilling his mouth, mingling with the scent of blossom on the breeze. Fenion had long ago begun slipping the golden dog treats from Lord Elrond's kitchens to befriend her, and they were in fine regard with one another.
Her words were invitation to Fenion enough for his intrusion upon her solitude as he walked to Mirdanel’s side, standing with one hand upon his hip, fingers brushing the flute which protruded from the sheath upon his belt.
Open palm held out to Mirdanel, full of wintergreen berries, the last fruits of the previous season before the blossoms would tumble to the ground and new fruits would come into abundance. “The warmth of the sun surprises me today; yesterday it was retreating. So brisk. What’s this you craft? It looks not like the others you have made,” he hummed warmly, phrases going straight from one thought to the next.
He bent to observe. Grey upon grey upon grey. “How many shades of storm will will you weave within? And what is the meaning of...” his fingers wiggled near the beaded sky. It seemed a gloomy twilight, not that which she was often taken to weaving in the years Fenion had observed her. “Ah but it is foreboding, why do you not weave greens in the springtide, and flowers, and blue skies?” Saying likely too much, as usual, but Fenion found amusement in riling the old elves from their stupors, and he cocked an eyebrow down upon the weaver.
Mirdanel hesitated only a moment before accepting a few of the proffered berries from Fenion's hand, but they came to rest in her cupped palm like little red jewels glinting against her pale skin as she looked contemplatively over the half-formed tapestry.
"It is different from the others, gwinig," she said, knowing he didn't love to be called a baby but also finding amusement therein. He knew it was in good humor, at least--she was Ages older than him, and if he could needle her about her age (even in subtle ways) then she could return the favor. "But one ought to know that they mustn't critique an artisan's work before it is completed. Some of the color it now lacks will find its way into the composition, but all in due time. There will be jewels and beads throughout to give color and light, but I wanted the palette to be more subdued this time. Sometimes art is meant to encourage contemplation and reflection over simple nostalgia."
She ate one of the berries, chewing quietly for a moment to contemplate a response to his other comments. She didn't speak as quickly in her age as she did in her youth, and she knew Fenion well enough to know he liked to try and get a rise from her if he could. Mirdanel wasn't entirely immune, but he hadn't managed to rile her yet today. "Perhaps it is foreboding that compels me," she said in a somber tone. "It is known that fell things are multiplying in the shadows outside of the confines of our borders, and no action is taken to hinder them, whether by us or by the mortals of the realm. Perhaps I have seen what inaction can do... the far-reaching and long-lasting consequences it can have.
"Or, perhaps I ran out of all my green thread and am using up some of the other colors in my stock," she said, the gravity in her voice lifting in an instant as she turned back and grinned at Fenion. "Not everything has to mean something. It is possible to let thing be what they are, no more and no less."
Fenion huff lightly under his breath upon the oration of gwinig. He was not the youngest to walk walk the halls of Imladris in the least. He was grown to adulthood before the children of Lord Elrond made their first cries. Truthfully he had been brought into the world within the second age, though it be in the last years of which.
The young elf was of the blood of the Noldor, pure and true, of the unblemished line of Gondolin, though he knew the keeper of their realm came of many lines, from the three houses of Sindar, Noldor, and Vanyar in his blood. Maiar from the blood of Melian, yet greatest was the blood of the line of Hador, the race of men. A fraction more Sindar flowed through is veins, yet culturally he had been raised Noldor. In truth the Lord of Imladris should take the lore of all accounts to mind when it came to decision making, for he was of each.
“Lord Elrond is wise,” he answered Mirdanel, not stilling in speech until he had his own say on the matter. He was defensive of Elrond’s cognition, and satisfied in all manner with his Lord’s actions. “You may see with your own eyes that no action is taken, but I have no fear. The realm is under his keen eye and hand, and we know not which designs he has, which actions he takes for the betterment of all. He would never fall to the same avaricious deceits which burdened your Thingol’s realm of old. He has always been much involved outside the realm; thrice has he defended us from the assaults of the north and the south. The first of which, upon the founding of Rivendell before my birth, Lord Elrond has fought with Gil-galad against Sauron’s deceit in Eregion, and later struck him down alongside the kings of men in Mordor. And even in this age, the Witch King had been banished from the North Lands by the might of Elrond. He awaits the best time, and you will not see him bend to the same distractions which bring down old the realms of old Sindar Kings.”
Fenion thought for a moment on the Sindar rulers of the east. Mirkwood. He had been to the realm once or twice and seen King Thranduil upon his throne, vain in his seat. It reminded him of the stories of Thingol. Of rulers who dwell only within their own caves, un-roused by the devastation around them. The devastation of which Mirdanel spoke of.
“Iaurpen,” Fenion began trying to remain lighthearted. He was not truly upset at the ancient one of which he called her, for the way she spoke of his own years. “By midsummer the chammomile will burst and you might have both tea to calm your nerves and a dye bath of lovely green for your silk. I shall ask Aradeth to set aside extra in the kitchen gardens for your green threads, that you might stitch trees which blossom green as the spring of the earth.”