The day broke with pale orange light, gently sweeping over the hills, gradually transforming into the pure sunlight that gazed upon the hills that morning. A gentle breeze busily made its way through the trees, carrying with it the fragrance of fresh blossoms from the fields.
It was quiet, save for the calming ambiance of small streams and birds going about on their business.

Occasionally, the silence would break briefly as a horse and cart pulled into the village square, a weary traveler behind the reins, seeking a drink and light conversation at the Kaima Inn.

Not far from the Inn, a fair, young elven woman called Farienthiel (Farien by those who knew her) emerged from a quaint little shop, stepping onto the worn cobblestone path leading from it. The elf wore a blissful smile as she looked up at the sky and absorbed the fresh feeling freely, into her mind, body and soul.
The shop, which was entirely welcoming in its nature, had a certain air about it; that made it seem as if you could see with the naked eye the care and passion that was put in to constructing it. Its appearance gave off the impression that it had many tales to tell, hidden within its peculiarly dustless old wooden beams and boards. It was clear that Farien took great pride and care in keeping it tidy.

The spring atmosphere created a serene feeling around the tiny shop, while the wooden sign above the doorway, which read “The Herb and Lily Boutique” in graceful script, gently swung back and forth in the breeze. As she took a deep, relaxing breath, Farien traipsed down the pathway a little further, before turning to gaze proudly upon the tranquil shop which she had devoted her time and effort to for so many years.


Gazing upon it seemed to transport her back into her most precious memories, both the blissful and the miserable kind. Her memories played through in her head, as if they were the gentle notes of her harp songs; memories of her past lover, Arathas Erestir, and her parents, about her peaceful childhood, and the smiles of her past friends and her family. She reflected upon the tragic fire which had destroyed the previous shop, and had taken her parents down in flames with it.

As she studied the shop top to bottom and back again with her eyes, she was reminded once again of her happiness here, and of her passionate love of the things around the village that gave life and spirit to her home.


The fair young elf walked back into the yard, and soon disappeared behind the small glass door that served as the entrance to the ‘Herb and Lilly’. Before long, she re-emerged from the doorway, carrying with her a lovely elvish harp, and made her way down the short flight of steps leading from the porch.

Farien sat down in the soft grass and calming shade beneath the single blossoming apple tree beside the pathway, and began to play an old tune. The harp’s carefully polished surface glinted in the few rays of sunlight that managed to peek through the green leaves of the tree.
Farien's fingers moved skillfully and with graceful ease across the strings as she played the soothing melody, humming along with it. As she sat and played, she watched the travelers and villagers pass by, each one going about their separate businesses as the time drew closer to noon.

The youth rolled himself from out the the road-side hedge, and dug a leaf from behind his neck. He breathed a worried breath, his hand straying to the all-too-small pouch of gold there, his only inheritance. A fine mist covered everything, and far away noises sounded nearby, a dog barking, the slamming door of a house.
"Well, I'm near a village by the sounds of it." Terebenior nodded to himself, and stretched the crinks out his back.
The sky was every colour of pale citrus, with wide clouds hung low to the horizon, like blankets out to dry. Terebenior pinched himself, and tried to shake off the chill. He had nothing for a breakfast. On the roadside he picked a bit of ragged sorrel, and gnawed at a few raw chestnuts.
Once within the village he made in a straight line for a shop there. The shop looked lovely, which was one thing. But there was a woman singing, an elf rather.
All his life Terebenior had dreamed of meeting an elf. But funnily he always thought of the elf-lords, with their bright armour, and tall horses of war. He'd never considered that there were elf-women.

Terebenior was all to aware of how young he looked, despite his age. He had yet to show anything of a beard, or to bulk up in the least. His voice was still quite high, but would darken frightfully when he was angry.
The youth had stared at the elf for some time already, plucking up the courage to ask for work. Knowing that it looked doubtful he could do more than sweeping and mopping. But Terebenior had a way with him. He could get the most remarkable things done, if left alone.
In the end he presented himself to her, burying the toe-tip of his boot into the dirt. Muffling everything he was saying in the collars of his shirts.
"Ma'am, I'm a hard worker, but the ninth of nine sons. I don't have any work at my family farm, and they can't keep me. Do you have any work?" He dared to look up.
"I'm a terribly good gardner ma'am, and there's nothing as I can't build or mend."
He looked up at her again, and waited. "I maybe won't be staying long in this village, but I could stay as long as you thought you need." He blushed, since the elf was still unspeaking.

Farienthiel kept her head down, appearing as if she was concentrating on the polished silver instrument in her lap, but occasionally she would look up inconspicuously from under her brow, studying the young man who stared at her. She smiled, knowing that he was watching her intently.
Soon enough, he came into the yard and spoke to her. Farien ended her song and looked up at the stranger before her. She smiled at him and rose from her relaxed position under the tree, setting her harp down where she had just been sitting.

This stranger, a young man, looked so lost to her, and hearing him say that he was willing to offer his efforts to her, her interest perked up. Yet so shy, he seemed, blushing and softening his words by masking them with his collar.

The fair elf laughed light-heartedly, wanting to make him feel more comfortable. Nodding in a thoughtful manner, she placed her hands on her hips and was silent for a moment. Her sympathy for him was great, him being the last-born, and having a family unable to care for him. She could only relate to his loss of family, and decided to take him up on his offer.

“So, a gardener, and a skilled repairman, you say? Well I must say that lately I have desired something new to add to this yard. Maybe a garden is just what I need.”
Farien smiled kindly at him as she spoke. “If you would do your very best work for me, then I would be ever so grateful to you. As long as you wish to continue working here, since I see you to be a trustworthy young man, you may stay in the spare room upstairs, and I would gladly share my profits with you, sir. You shall have a warm bed for yourself and share in meals with me, if you wish.”

Farien gently placed a hand on his back and began leading him up the stone path toward the entrance of the shop. “My name is Farienthiel, but you may call me Farien.” The elf looked at the young man as she spoke. “And if I may, I would very much like to know your name; and perhaps a bit more information in general about my new co-worker. What do you say we talk over some tea and cake?” she asked the young man.

This event reminded Farien of the precious days when she and her past lover, Arathas had worked together in the shop. How they had built it up from scratch after the fire, and how their business had been so well off. She was very glad to be working together with someone again.

As the fair elf propped the door open in front of herself and the young man, and bade him go inside ahead of her, a gentle gust of warm wind stirred the wind chime hanging from the top of the door. The quiet tinkling sound followed them into the small building, creating a serenity throughout it.

The shop was neatly organized, every item placed in what looked like the perfect spot. In one corner by a curtained window, there stood three stands bearing fine dresses. One, of pale green taffeta with white beads arranged into flowered patterns down the front, the second was made from fine red silk, with a white sash around the middle. And the last one, the most beautiful; was a long elvish gown made of white velvet and silk, with silver and blue trim.

In a glass case in front of the till were many various bottles and boxes containing remedies and antidotes to many different ailments, and behind the counter, arranged on a series of shelves and cupboards were neatly folded yards of cloths and fabrics. And arranged throughout the shop in vases and baskets, on the walls and some even hanging from the ceiling, were many different flowers, the fragrances of which blended together to make a most pleasant smell to the shop's interior.

Light flowed through the shop, lighting every corner and casting away all the shadows. And it was a place of complete peace, where a person seemed to forget all their troubles, and the conflicts of the world.

The ambience of a dream settled over Terebenior, as he was greeted with generous words and deeds by the elf, Farien.
'Ma'am, Im from a valley far east of here, and through those woods yonder. My grandfather was him that called me Terebenior, an old name, and a proud one, from back when our folk knew kings, and fought alongside them. In the highest days of the elf lords.
"Terebenior means Prince of the Cloud-Vale, ma'am; and my gaffer told me it was the old kings that gave us their leave to call our sons that. There's an axe above our fire-place that came from the old cities, and the ancient wars. That's the gift of our house, when the wars were done."
From a larder Farien brought pale bread, and new butter, and a pot of preserved strawberry. Each of her movements was a delicate and practiced as a dance, and Terebenior stared openly, as one under a spell, with the loveliness of this person, and her open home.
Through the windows the westering sun cast bright shafts upon the floors, which Terebenior noted could do with re-grouting. Good local stone, at a guess, that had been polished with years of the feather-light passing of slippered feet. The elf hardly seemed to touch the ground, as if she was made more of the fabric of dreams, than flesh and blood. She disappeared out of the room for a moment, the sound of a customer arriving through the front door.
Terebenior helped himself to every single slice of the bread, knowing that Farien had sliced it knowing full-well he would. He swung the copper from the hearth, marveling at the genuine iron stoves, and turned the water out to wash up in the basin. Even the wooden dripping-rack was carefully graved, and decorated with painted enamel.
The shutters fretted against their latches in the fitful airs, as Terebenior took stock of the yard. Not well drained enough, and lacking enough sun in the northern corner. Nothing a few days with a good spade couldn't mend. Not knowing where to find a tea-towel he slid the crocks into the sunlight to let them dry, and awkwardly bumbled through the back of the house to find the back door.
Through the crack in a door he saw a painting of a man, an elf. And a mighty one, whose face seemed as kind as the fullness of spring. Under the painting, a posy of flowers. He must have died, or was gone forever. Maybe over the sundering sea. "I wonder if that's what makes lady Farien so quiet, and gentle, and sad?" He murmured, and pulled the door closed.
A cat sat archly on the back-step, no mouse catcher, but a proper wild-cat, who eyed him without any fear or apprehension. "By your leave master." Terebenior bobbed his head, and moved past, into the space of the yard. He toed around the dirt, good and black in places, and a bit pale with blue clay in others. He would need to buy hay from a farmer, to get the soil right, and begin a compost. But he could grow everything the lady needed, easily enough, and forage in the woods, less than a day away, for anything he couldn't. There was a marvelous thing in one corner, a well with a great iron pump, drawing water from out of the earth goodness knows how far beneath. A crooked shed, easily fixed, contained most of the tools he'd need, most importantly a spade. So without further delay, Terebenior begun the trenching of the yeard, to get the drainage right. Before he knew it the sun had sped into the west, and a few stars had begun to brighten in the east, but he hardly noticed, until he realised, with a fright, he hadn't turned a thought to dinner, nor helping to make it. He raced over to the pump, washing hands and boots, and fretted all the way inside.

Close to four hours of the day went by in that time; Farien keeping herself busy by tending to her customers, and working on her latest sewing project.
Throughout the day, she intently watched Terebenior go about the work which he assigned to himself, and was surprised at how focused and determined he was at it. Farien smiled every time he walked past her, either grabbing another slice of her homemade bread or looking through the seed cupboard at the end of the westernmost hallway. And each time, he seemed to forget that she was even there, concentrating only on the task at hand.
The fair elf made her way to the upper floor, and peered out of her bedroom window, which faced the backyard where he was working. She sat by the window and watched him, her head casually resting in her palm. How much work he had managed to get done every half hour was incredible. Farien knew that when he was done, the finished product would be something lovely to behold.

As the sun began its descending journey behind the mountains, delicious smells began to fill the house. Farien had decided to make this a special dinner, and she assumed that Terebenior would be hungry from the hard day’s work, even if he had been satisfying himself with a few pieces of bread. As he entered into the shop through the back door in a manner of haste, she looked up from stirring her mushroom soup and smiled at him.

“Dear Terebenior, there isn’t any need to be so hasty. Supper is nearly ready, and you haven’t missed anything. ” She laughed. “You may seat yourself at any place at the table. Please, make yourself comfortable. ” She said as she lay his cutlery down, and brought a small bowl of fruit salad for him, placing it by the napkin.

“I have already made your bed ready, so I will show you to your room whenever you feel ready to retire for the evening. ” Farien continued to set the table, placing clean white bowl at each of their places. After briefly returning to the stove, the fair elf returned with the warm soup in a large silver pot. With utmost care, she spooned a generous amount into both bowls. The food gave off a wonderful blend of smells from the spices and herbs that she’d added.
She also brought a hot kettle from the fireplace, in which was her very own herbal tea, sure to soothe the aches and pains.

At last Farien seated herself in the chair across from Terebenior. She clasped her hands together and gave thanks for their food, speaking of the fresh herbs from the valley and the fragrances of the flowers. Then closing her eyes, she said a silent prayer in her heart for Tobias, that wherever he was, he was safe from harm and was happy.

The elf smiled and motioned for the young man across from her to dig in, while she smoothed her napkin on her lap and began to eat.
The gentle night breeze came through the open window, gliding through the white curtains and made the fragile candle flames flicker.
“Terebenior, I must tell you that I am very grateful for all the work you have done today. You have indeed shown me how focused and hard a worker you are. You are definitely greatly skilled at gardening and working the land. ” She wiped her fingers on her napkin and topped up his tea. “Tomorrow we shall rise early and go to the valley to gather flowers, as I am in need of more to complete a number of new bouquets, then you may continue your work in the back yard, if you wish. ” Farien folded her napkin back onto her lap and continued eating her soup.

Terebenior entered Fariens' house, to a wave of warmth and fragrance; mushrooms and fresh tarragon, he noted crushed corriander seeds in the mortice, and a silver pot reducing so slowly that barely a mist of steam lifted off the surface of the earthy-golden soup. His mouth watered.
Farien, putting her apron aside, was garbed in pale green, as the earliest grapes, with a belt high on her waist, that winked blue as forget-me-nots. Her feet slippered the colour of fallen autumn leaves. She was completely unaware of it, but as she drew the dinner to readiness, she hummed and murmured to herself, perfectly content and pleased. And presented a meal that was fit for the king of nature himself.
He tried to pick up the fine cutlery with a semblance of the grace with which Farien used them, used to eating from wooden bowls, and great hand-torn ends of black bread. There were little hand mills for salt, more costly than gold where his family was from, and pepper.
Terebenior marvelled at how easily Farien carried the substantial pot in her one hand, serving up the soup. No sign of strain showing, from what must have weighed kilos. He took note of that, never to treat the lady like she wasn't stronger than he could possibly guess. Afterall, the days weren't any safer than they had ever been, and she kept a shop on the edge of the wild, alone, and in perfect peace. There was no evil in the house of Farien, not unless someone brought it with them, and woe to them.

In the soothing warmth, with a cup of tea in his hands, Terebenior felt the spell of the house calling him to sleep; but another part of him was more wakeful than it had ever been, so that he felt, once more, as if he was living a day-dream. He realised that the ceilings were of reeds, that had been woven in intricate patterns, that every beam was painted or graven, but so delicately, and with such pale colours, that he had not noticed until he'd looked properly. Full length curtains, white as new milk, shifted and breathed, and the outside air only now turning chilly set the candles to dancing.
The lady explained she was going foraging the next day, to which Terebenior nodded willingly, recounting in his mind which cuttings he would need for the garden, and which seeds were running slightly low. "Oh yes, milady, that would be good. If I can find a fallow field, I want to bring back straw as well, and maybe cut some grass for a beginning of a compost. I'll be on the lookout for cuttings of all the herbs you could ever want, and there's more than enough room out the back to grow any number of the flowers you think you'd like to use most."
Terebenior felt quite animated now, with the prospect of going out. He felt as if he could up and leave right then. Perhaps it was the tea. Terebenior hardly felt as if he'd worked a moment all day.
"The garden won't hardly be any work at all ma'am, I've a mind to go a-searching for a queen bee, and I can make a hive for you ma'am. Then you'd have all the honey you could ever want, and I could make your candles for you too, and you could sell the honey out the front; I learned to make mead too, Milady, that's honey-wine. I don't know how we'd bottle it right now, but I'm sure there's a potter in the village as could glaze us a few empty bottles in return for some full ones, if you take my meaning.
"I'd like to see this valley of yours ma'am; I can tell it must be a lovely place just the way you say it. I've a great love of valleys my own self, given my name and all. Is there a spare pony in the village I could hire to bring with us? That would make things a sight easier, I can lug a fair bit on my own back, and I don't doubt you could carry more even than me, but a pony would give me a good head-start."
Terebenior let his mouth run free, and the lady nodded at him indulgently, he spoke of his beloved valley, and of the woods there, so close and dark you could hardly spot the sun through the canopy. Of the great wolves there, but who would lay down and sleep right next to the sheep, without a mind to eat a single one of them. "There's rumour back at home, that the wolves were the friends of the elves ma'am. I don't know how much truth is in that, but isn't that a wonder?" He laughed, and clapped his hands, feeling his spirits lift as high as the clouds. He spoke of the few rumbling songs his people sang, less for pleasure and artfulness, but as a way of remembering their wisdom, if it could be called that.
Their houses were built nothing like those of Estolad, but of dry-cut stone stacked carefully, so that every shade of stone winked and shone from the deep walls. Where one wing of the house might be square, the next extension, with the changing fashion, might be round, and a full storey higher. Copper was one thing the Cloudvale did not lack for, so all their roofs were clad in hammered tiles of it, turning to every shade of green and turquoise in the weather. And at least one extension of every house was caved in, so that brambles, and groves of elder-berry shot up in the resulting sheltered courtyards. Those extensions that a family was not willing to allow to fall were propped up with buttresses, so that their houses appeared to have roots running away from them, like uncommonly short and squat trees, with tarnished copper leaves.
Great hanks of drying herbs were hung from every beam and girder of their houses, and dried flowers too. Smoked, or air-dried pork, of which they ate a lot, and dried cheeses hanging in muslin bags. Jerked hare, and every imaginable description of sausage. The men worked tirelessly to have this done, for men did not live long in the Cloudvale; it was dangerous, even for the skilled adults.
"When it was clear I had to leave the valley, and I meant to go, we all said g'bye knowing full well I could perish in the passes, and that there was no returning, not ever. I was lost for long weeks on end, just trying to find a way out of the passes, and I could never hope to find my way back."
Terebenior had worn himself out. Not wanting to turn for bed yet, but feeling his need for talk spent.
"Ma'am. Where in the world have you come from? Was it a great city? The way you make them dresses, seems fit for queens. Specially the tatting, and the 'broidery. Where'd you learn all these things you do?"

Terebeniors' smile gradually faded, for a light had gone out in the ladys' eyes.
A long moment stretched into a while, and the lady remained, unmoving, unbreathing, as if her sight, or hearing was many thousands of miles away.

Then she came to, and in a perfectly calm voice she explained that she must leave, for a while, and was not sure exactly when she was returning.

In the morning Terebenior was alone.

He spent the morning introducing himself to as many of the neighbours as he could. The publican rocked backwards and forwards on his heel, and talked away as if they'd been friends for long years. "I saw ye lad, a-swooning up the road there to miss Fariens'. So you're her gardner are ye? Yes of course I have a good pony. Why yes, of course you can have a lend of him, he needs a good walk, and a feed of fresh grass. You be sure and see he gets a good feed while you're out. The valley? That way young lad. Aye, its' a special place to us all. Off with ye, and good luck finding them bees you mentioned. We'd be glad of a bit o honey round here."

So it was that Terebenior whiled away a long summer in the house of Farienthiel. At night he would come home, to find the fire quietly burning beneath the pot, and he would rush through the house calling, thinking the lady must be home; but it was perhaps a special charm she'd left over her kitchen, and she was not home.
He did indeed find his bees, though he was stung so sorely in the endeavour he developed something of a fever, and had to beg the help of the healer; and from that day he was sensitive to stings, and swole up like a ripe apple. But they came to know him, and the garden thrived with them.
As soon as all the Wives heard of Terebeniors' garden, they all began to appear with cuttings, and seedlings from their own gardens. Often kneeling beside him to lend a hand for an hour of the daylight or more. The only answer they had to where the lady might be, was that she had a way of disappearing from time to time, but never for too long. "Mind you." Remarked Mrs Potter. "It always feels like too long to me. The lady she's been here longer than any of us I guess. It's like if you chopped down the tree in the square. You're so used to seeing it."

He planted neat beds with lavender, and every imaginable shade of rose, some cuttings of which he journeyed a long week to the mountains, to bring back the pretty briar-roses he'd seen there. The sqeak of the well-pump became a familiar sound in the neighbourhood, for the young garden was fiercely thirsty at all times.
The production of honey was advancing very steadily, and Terebenior was hard-pressed to keep up the expansion of the hives. Something had gotten into the bees, they seemed determined to make enough honey for a decade.

After that evening, when Farien had left the shop with barely a word to poor Terebenior, she made her way swiftly to the harbor, taking with her enough food and fresh water to last her a few days. She dearly hoped that Terebenior would be forgiving of her for her sudden leave, but she was sure to return.

Once at the old dock, weathered by the tide and creaking under the lightest of feet, she quietly stepped into a dinghy that was tied to the far end of the easternmost dock. It had been left to Farien by Arathas when he left on his voyage, so that if ever she needed to travel on the sea, she would be prepared. After tucking her belongings into the corner at the stern, she drew in the ropes and pushed off.

The boat glided across the surface of the harbor, the moonlight glinting off it’s almost metallic surface. Farien set her course around the seaway past the harbor, making her way to a small port about twenty miles from Estolad.
It was a place where Arathas had once taken her many years ago, for he wished her to see the sunset from those shores. There, were the most beautiful of sunsets, where all of the dazzling colors cascaded across the shimmering surface of the sea, sweeping gently into the faded purple shadows of the mountain ranges beyond the far shores to the west. It was a sight to behold.

Farien sailed slowly, letting the sea breezes gently push against the single sail, carrying her to her destination.
At sunset on the second day of her trip, the boat finally pulled into the bay at the small port. The elf tied her boat to the dock, and stretched her limbs, eager to finish her business here.

The town was small and quiet, with very few people going to and fro. Many turned their heads to gaze upon Farienthiel as she passed, for it was rare that these people ever laid eyes upon an elf, if ever. She went swiftly, taking alleys and shortcuts to quicken her journey. Her path led her to a small tavern, which was even smaller and more weathered than the Kaima Inn back in Estolad.

Farien stepped into the calm atmosphere of the tavern, which was dimly lit and quite deserted. She approached the counter, smiling at the barmaid who tended it. Her eyes were wide as she stared at Farienthiel, filled with awe at the sight of an elf in the tavern, especially one as lovely as Farien.

“Excuse me miss, but would you be so kind as to send for your landlord, I’ve some important business to discuss with him.” She smiled as she spoke. But the barmaid turned her eyes to the floor, all light fading from her face. Farien became concerned immediately, her expression filling with question and unease.
“Oh…I’m terribly sorry miss, but you see, not four days ago the lord passed on. He was quite ill, you see.” The poor barmaid had such a forlorn look upon her face that Farien decided to linger on the subject no longer.

Her intentions had been to ask the landlord if he had received any word of Arathas’ wellbeing or whereabouts, but she knew no others who would have news. A downhearted sigh escaped her lips as she tried to manage at least a half-hearted smile for the barmaid.
“Ah…I see…I’m so sorry to hear such poor tidings. If you would be able, give my condolences to his relations. Thank you.” She slipped a generous tip to the barmaid before turning out the door, heading back towards her boat. Her visit had been in vain, and she had a terrible feeling in her heart that she may not ever hear from Arathas again.

Hanging her head in disappointment as a silvery tear slid down her cheek, she set sail once again, to return to her home in Estolad, where Terebenior awaited her.

On the pale eve of the next day, Farienthiel returned to the Herb and Lily Boutique, only to find that there was an unfamiliar cottage in the midst of being built in the neighboring lot. With a small grin, the name ‘Terebenior’ ran through her mind.
The fair elf crossed the cottage’s front yard, not even taking the time to look around. She leaned against an old tree that had stood on the lot for years, and with her head tilted slightly to the side, she saw a familiar young man. He was bent over a large pile of logs at the side of the cottage, too busy with his task to notice the soft grey-green eyes that watched him. Farien watched him as he attempted to hold his larger woodpile steady as he reached extraordinarily far to retain a stray twig. Alas his balance failed him and he made quite an ungraceful landing on the grass, as his woodpile followed him.
And she could remain silent no longer, she laughed heartily as the young man rose to his feet, dusting himself off. He turned his head, and his frustrated expression vanished when he saw Farien. The grin on his face was so bright that it seemed to wipe away the dirt and sweat that covered his brow, and he hastily approached her.

“Why, milady Farien! Ye’ve returned far sooner that I’d ‘spected, I must be sayin’!” Terebenior’s eyes were wide with an excitement that Farien had never seen from him. It shone some light on her heavy heart.
“Now, if I may, I’d like to show you the work I’ve gotten done while you were out a-travelin’.” He stood beside the elf, blocking her view of her yard before she got a chance to look over at it. With an eager smile on his face, he gently brought her slender hand up to her face and positioned it so that it covered her eyes. It was quite a ways to reach for him, coaxing even more gentle laughter from Farien’s lips. She placed her hand on his shoulder so that he could lead her back into her yard, to a good place in front of the garden, where her eyes could capture every inch of the garden.
“You may look now, ma’am.” Terebenior said as he stepped aside. Farien slowly removed her hand, and what she saw was extraordinary.

The grass was the greenest it had ever been, even after the shop’s restoration after the fire so many years ago. Every individual blade seemed in perfect array, and trimmed to the perfect length. The old fence was painted white, and looked as new it had when the shop had belonged to her parents. All around the yard, neatly and snugly arranged against the fence, were flowers of every kind and color; there were large peonies that blushed pink as ripe watermelon, fiery orange tiger-lilies flecked with spots dark as the rich soil they grew from, forget-me-nots so blue they could camouflage themselves into the skies. Her eyes wide with awe, Farien turned to the side, only to find even more flowers; amaryllises, sweet peas, birds of paradise, carnations and more; more than she could count, in fact. She swore Terebenior must’ve searched every inch of the valleys, and gone to every flower shop in Lomedor, and brought home every cutting and seed he could find. And it had all come together to be something absolutely spectacular, so much so that it brought a tear to Farien’s eye.

As she gazed up and down the flowers again and again, the young man turned her towards one particular corner of the yard, where there were three clusters of the reddest anthuriums, dancing gently in the warm evening breeze. She knelt down to breathe in their lovely fragrance as he spoke up.
“Those are ‘specially for you, milady. You see, they represent hospitality, and that ye’ve indeed been to me thru’ these past few months. It’s my way of thankin’ you.” He smiled. Farien smiled at him as she rose to her feet, and placed her hands on his shoulders.

“Dear Terebenior, such a gift this is you have given me! You have worked so hard, and I cannot thank you enough for all that you have done. But I too have something to give in return. Stay here for a moment while I fetch it.”
And she swiftly trotted up the path, soon disappearing into the shop. When she reappeared, she held a brown box, with a blue satin ribbon tied into a large bow on the top.
She handed the box to Terebenior and clasped her hands. There was reluctance in his eyes, as if he felt he was not deserving of a gift from Farien. But she nodded and in turn he proceeded to carefully remove the ribbon and lift the lid off. Beneath the tissue, the color of which matched the bow perfectly, there lay a neatly folded shirt. Terebenior’s eyes grew wide as he set the box down on the soft grass and lifted it out. It was a fine garment, made of soft white linen, which held the fragrance of fresh lilacs.

“Why, milady Farien! Never ‘ave I dreamed of receiving such a fine shirt! You shouldn’t have!” the young man exclaimed. But Farien only smiled and nodded.
“Oh but you are, Terebenior! You are far more deserving of this than anyone!” The elf insisted. “Come, put your work aside for the evening. We shall celebrate! Let us take a large basket of pastries and cakes to the tavern, and there we shall share them with everyone! I shall bring my harp along as well.”

And throughout that evening, joyous music and laughter could be heard from the Kaima Inn. And it was perhaps the liveliest the village had been in four decades.

By the following winter, Terebenior’s cottage had been completed, and he had transformed it into his own shop. There he sold his honey and vegetables from his own garden. He offered his gardening services to the villagers and the innkeeper during the spring and summer, and made good profit. He insisted he continue gardening for Farien free of charge, and celebrated his birthday for the first time in years that fall.

After the long, cold months of winter, the warm sunshine began to shine through the valleys once more, and every day, a little bit more green would push its way through the frosted ground. The days became gradually warmer, and birds could soon be heard chirping in the trees, flying to and fro to fetch food for their newborns. The springs first flowers began to blossom, and soon Farienthiel’s annual spring yard sale would begin, with contributions from Terebenior, of course. And she sat beneath her apple tree once more, strumming her harp as the travelers passed…

Curin leant his neck against the relative warmth of his cloak, for the spring air was still chill in the shadows. The grasses were swiftly deepening, and the brooks were all laughing with the melt-waters of spring. And Curin had returned to Estolad to check on the growth of the foal he had commissioned to be bred at the stables.

What he chanced upon was an elf, playing absently her harp, as she watched passers by. Curin stopped, smiling at her, waiting for her to notice he was watching her. He had never had the chance to play his fiddle with an Elf before, and was curious to see if she would be willing.

"Good morning!" Curin smiled, "would you be willing to play alongside me? I have brought my fiddle, all the way from Neiruthaun. I wonder how it might sound beside your harp."

Farienthiel looked up when she heard an unfamiliar voice. Standing before her, with a kind smile on his face, was a tall man with dark hair and a matching beard. His brown eyes seemed to be brimming with experience and knowledge, and he looked as if he had traveled very far, and had explored many places on his travels. He wore

"Good morning!" Curin smiled, "would you be willing to play alongside me? I have brought my fiddle, all the way from Neiruthaun. I wonder how it might sound beside your harp. "
Farien smiled back and gracefully rose to her feet, emerging from the shade of the apple tree. She bowed her head politely and set her harp down.

“Good morning to you, sir.” She said in a friendly tone. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Farienthiel. But I am usually called Farien for short. ” She winked.
“So you are from Neiruthaun, you say? Why, you are quite far from home indeed. ” She laughed quietly. “I think it would be lovely to play with you, sir. Pray show me this fiddle of yours? ” Farien gestured to him with pale ivory hands, which were partly hidden beneath the light fabric of her sleeve.

The dress the elf wore today was shorter than those she would normally been garbed in, despite the chill that the cool breeze bestowed upon the land this day. The garment itself was coloured earthy brown, and extended down only to her knees. The color of the sky seemed to be reflected in the sash that was wrapped around her waist. There were ribbons in her hair that winked the same color as her sash, and a long, thin scarf of light fabric draped around her neck. She wore nothing on her feet, and stepped on the grass with graceful silence. Farien grinned at the noble looking man before her, her kind expression unchanging.

[OOC: My apologies…it’s rather short. But I’m quite limited for time at the moment. I hope you can work with this. Thank you!]

[OOC. long or short, I'm just pleased you replied]

To Curins' deep-seated delight and wonder the Elf was warm to him, and welcoming. Her eyes filled with more age and experience than likely all of Curins grandfathers put together. In spite of the chill she dressed lightly, but Curin had heard that the Eldar do not feel the cold, nor tiredness. She smiled back and in a fluid movement she was on her feet, and stepping out into the sun, so that she glimmered. She bowed her head politely and set her harp down.

“Good morning to you, sir.” Said the elf, her voice filled with notes more variable, and more musical than a choir of mortals. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Farienthiel." Curin bowed his head, touching his forehead and heart with his sword-hand. "But I am usually called Farien for short.”She winked, to Curins delight, he felt like a child that has been noticed by their hero, and a glowing emotion was shining inside of him. He felt the weariness of his travails, and all of his cares lose their hold on him.
“So you are from Neiruthaun, you say?" Curin was amazed that someone had heard of his home, and hoped that she had seen it, or perhaps she had heard news. Long had it been since he smelt the salt-tinged air, freshened by the fragrance of the gigantic redwoods; long had it been since he tasted the flesh of the quails, or the salmon in the rushing streams. He desired to hear the nasal piping of the geese of Neiruthaun, the Emblem of his Nation, and to hold a thing wrought of the copper-colored iron of his home. In his dreams he saw the drifting banks of fog and mist that roved through the mighty forests of the red-pines, the Neiruthaun, from which the valley had been given its' name, but he had not set foot there in long years. His heart trembled, and he longed to blurt out the thousand questions that were wont to rush off his tongue. But then, Curin thought the very next instant, she was Eldar, she might have bee there when his most ancient ancestor was in his nappies. "Why, you are quite far from home indeed.” She laughed quietly, and again Curins anxieties lost the pain of their grip upon him. They were not put aside, not forgotten, but his cares became bearable. “I think it would be lovely to play with you, sir. Pray show me this fiddle of yours? ” Hands as pale and delicate as doves moved as she welcomed him further, asking after the fiddle. Curin reached behind him, to where the case was hanging from a baldric.

"I am honored Farien." Curin smiled, a flash of white teeth through his slightly unkempt beard. "I heard your harp long before I saw you. I have never seen its kind before." Curin peered at it, marveling, wondering where in Arda such things were wrought, and how old that example might be. "Does it have a special story of its own?"He wondered aloud. "I am Curin, Curin of Neiruthaun. Here, let me show you." The case was fashioned of plain timber, if diligently oiled, with no embellishment or decoration of any kind. But it was clear that the case contained something very precious. Curin unbound the leather thongs that held the lid closed, and in a practiced motion, had removed both fiddle and bow, and let the case hang behind him.

The fiddle of Neiruthaun was not the elegant kind of elves, nor even the gracefully waisted description other Houses of Men played. It was an ancient instrument, simpler, but also nearer to the human heart. It was an instrument wrought in the flower of humanities awakening, and its voice was what their voice had been when the Elves discovered men, long ages ago. Curin wound the toggle at the end of the bows hand-piece, drawing the precious horse-hairs taught across the bow. The fiddle of Neiruthaun was played settled against a knee, which Curin now did, and drew forth a single note. A note deeper than it might be assumed the fiddle could produce.

This was the first note he had been taught by his tutor. It was called Longing for Home, or The Wind. The fiddle sighed and moaned, the sound of salt-air moving through giant redwoods, and the cries of gulls in the distance. This was the first note of the Neiruthaun fiddle. "Farien, I know of a song, one that I have heard versions of in every land I have passed though, perhaps you know it?" Curin struck up the opening notes. It was a season-song, a song of spring. Some folks had turned it into a wedding song, other into a birthday song. It was a song of living things and changing weather. The fiddle hummed, its voice that of a tree that has suddenly awoken, and realised it desires to sing. The sound of it sometimes nasal and dry, sometimes as deep and soft as a mothers goodnight whispers. Curin had closed his eyes, and with each sound he saw in his imagination what he related it to. He smiled.

[OOC: Ha...long post! I'll be honest...I forgot about this site for awhile. But I'm back!]

"I heard your harp long before I saw you. I have never seen its kind before." She saw the man’s eyes travel to her harp, gently lain in the soft grass. His eyes filled with an evident wonder at it. "Does it have a special story of its own?” He wondered aloud.
"I am Curin, Curin of Neiruthaun.” Farienthiel curtsied to him gracefully in the fashion of the elves, crossing her right foot behind her left, spreading her skirt and bending her torso before bowing her head. Farien stood up, still smiling, as Curin spoke again. “Here, let me show you." Farienthiel nodded, beaming as he brought forth the instrument.
Farien was immediately fascinated by its unique shape, and its rich tone also, as Curin coaxed a low note out of its smooth body. It was like nothing she’d ever laid eyes upon. She could tell, by looking how Curin’s fingers moved so effortlessly across the strings, how much he loved his fiddle, and that kind of passionate bond between player, instrument, and melody had always thrilled her.

"Farien, I know of a song, one that I have heard versions of in every land I have passed though, perhaps you know it?" He inquired, beginning to draw the bow across the tight strings of his instrument. Farien had only ever heard her father’s stories about the faraway lands or Neiruthaun, and the picturesque cascades of the landscape that her father had described so many decades ago were only retraced with detail and filled with color, brought to life again from the depths of her memory as the gentle notes of Curin’s fiddle swept through her mind.
She recognized the song immediately, a very traditional tune; one that she’d heard and played many times before, throughout her long life. The elf knelt beside him, and settled her silver harp in her lap.

Farienthiel picked up the tune quickly, and decided to improvise, weaving a lovely harmony through Curin’s notes. Farien was impressed at how lovely the two instruments sounded together. It was a unique and foreign sound, but it was lovely. The instruments greeted each other in joyful song, conversing back and forth with the tempo, and coming to life as their players connected to the complex network of music, their expertise adding touch and charm to the melody. It would’ve melted the heart of even the noblest kings in all of Arda.

It was then that two young children came to lean on the fence and listen to their song.
“Look, Kaleb! That’s the kind elf lady I told you about!” cried the first child, pointing her tiny finger towards Farien, her innocent eyes wide with excitement. “But I’m not sure who that man is, on that strange fiddle…” The other child, a little boy who looked to be a bit older, interrupted her, nudging her with his elbow. She scowled.
“Annabelle, you silly duck! He’s a noble warrior, of course! From far across the sea, who has come on a difficult quest to save someone! Or maybe he came to commission a huge warship with all his gold!” He mussed the little girl’s hair. She swatted his hand away and crossed her arms defiantly. “And how do you know that? Didn’t papa ever teach you not to judge a cover by its book, Kaleb? You play knight with your friends far too much.” She glared at him, unaware that she had her words mixed up. Kaleb laughed.
“You mean a book by its cover, Annabelle?” he said through hysterical laughter. Annabelle bonked him on the head.
“Ouch! Hey!” he said with a wince, rubbing the spot where she’d hit him.
“You know what I mean!” Annabelle let out a sharp sigh, storming away in a rather comical huff, her small hands balled up into fists at her sides.
“Hey! Ann, wait up!” He called, running to catch up with her. Soon they were both out of sight. Farien laughed at the comical display, and the little boy’s assumptions about Curin. She had to admit, he did appear to be of noble blood.

Soon after the children had left, their song came to a close, ending in a loud staccato chord. Farienthiel set her harp down, and laughed, her voice like bells, and brought her pale hands together into a soft clap.

“Oh Curin! How lovely a fiddler are you! That was absolutely exquisite!” The cheerfulness in her expression couldn’t have been matched by any fair maiden who’d ever walked in Estolad or Lomedor. “Never in all six-hundred years of my life have I heard a fiddler who played with such passion as you. Thank you for sharing your gift with me, it was a sure pleasure.” She nodded towards him with respect, and reached for her harp once more, remembering his inquiry about it earlier. Farien stroked the silver strings with affection, as she often did before playing it.

“I have had this harp since I was 70 years of age, in elven years that is. You would have considered me only a child at that time. Therefore, it has been in my possession for approximately five-hundred and thirty years.”
She looked up briefly, watching Curin’s reaction to that number.
“This harp was made by the elves of Yomeniampa, and was made to last for centuries, using specially crafted materials.” She plucked three strings, producing a lovely C chord.
“It was love at first sight for me, the first time I laid eyes upon this very harp in the window of a store in Lomedor. However, it was far too expensive, and my mother and father and I could not afford to buy it. So that’s when I began to work in the shop we owned and lived in. I sold flowers, which, to our delight, became very popular with the villagers and with travelers passing through Estolad. It greatly helped our business, and my mother and father were very proud of me.
“Three months afterwards, we were finally able to afford this harp. As you can probably assume, I was delighted. They presented it to me for my birthday that year.
Immediately I began to play it, every day, for hours on end. At one point my fingers even bled…” Farien paused, laughing as she reminisced within her memories.
“When our shop was burnt down years later, I was able to recover it from the blaze, but I had to take it to the elf city Yomeniampa for repairs…” She paused again, her smile fading a little, some of the cheerful light disappearing from her eyes.
“My mother and my father died in that blaze…bless their souls…” Farienthiel closed her eyes, saying a silent prayer in her heart. A chilly breeze blew through the trees that moment, stirring the elf’s golden hair, blowing strands across her face.

When she opened her eyes moments later, all the cheerful light returned to her eyes, and she grinned again.
“Curin, do you enjoy tea? Is there a certain flavour you prefer? I shall start the kettle if you’d like.” Farienthiel gazed at him, wondering if he’d like her herbal blend.