Spring Brings Babies
Jun 16, 2018 15:57:01 GMT -5
Post by Miriel on Jun 16, 2018 15:57:01 GMT -5
February 24, 3010 Third Age
The City Ethring, Head of the Ringló Vale, Lamedon
Meleth
The City Ethring, Head of the Ringló Vale, Lamedon
Meleth
“Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the Rocks,
Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow Rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing Madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of Roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty Lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and Ivy buds,
With Coral clasps and Amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.”
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the Rocks,
Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow Rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing Madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of Roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty Lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and Ivy buds,
With Coral clasps and Amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.”
Meleth sighed as she rocked her granddaughter, swaying and slowly spinning, lightly dancing over the pale grasses that were springing from the hillsides. Her shoes were left in the carriage, and the damp earth felt a fine welcome on her feet. “Your Grandfather used to sing that to me, when we were young together,” she murmured to the baby. “I will never forget his voice.” Melian's grey eyes were bright and awake, and she clutched a handful of Meleth's dress.
“The closer we get… the more I remember.” The tufts of thick, black hair ruffled in the breeze upon Melian's head and Meleth carefully worked to re-swaddle the child. Though the air on this side of the valley was warmer and the obvious signs of spring were coming forth, it was still cool. Winter had a slight hold on the region. It felt as summer compared to the snow and blizzard of the high pass, however!
It had taken three days up the winding switchbacks. She had thought her son was going to take frostbite for the number of times he had stopped to dig out the wheels of the wagon and the carriage in the blinding snowstorm. She had feared an avalanche, and feared the horses would lose control. Feared her children and her grandbaby would freeze. Yet, extra precautions had been taken. Faeldor had hauled wood from the Gilrain valley and they had stayed warm with fire in the evenings and whenever need came upon them. Nobody had talked or sung those three days as the keen ears of Melanir listened for the whumpf and rolling thunder that would signal the shifts of the snows. The family had blankets and clothing plenty for the temperature. Everyone had come warm and safe to the end, and descended into the vale with delight.
“Spring comes early here,” Meleth smiled to the baby, raising her up in her arms once more, and listening to her gurgle.
“And spring brings babies… you will have cousins soon, I am sure,” Meleth preened aloud, for nobody could hear her from up the hillside where she had gone. Her trunks of stitched baby clothes were in the wagon, waiting.