Dawn on the first day of Spring, lively and sweet; in the woodlands of Lindon, Oronor and her wife, Eiliandil, takes a stroll to the shore. Among the seagulls another voice cries out, a baby alone among the seaweed and the rocks, well-bundled in a blue cape embroided with the name "Filorandir".

The name makes little sense to the two Elven-maidens, but they care little. Baby Filorandir it will be, and they will bring him home and raise him as their own. They will keep watch over him as they tend to the land, work the wood, paint the light playing in the leaves or sing greetings to the birds returning from their winter in southern lands. He will play with Oronor's tools-- and hurt his thumb quite nastily once-- and leave hand paintings all over the pale walls of their lodging, not understanding why Eiliandil is cross that he used all her rare pigments from the other side of Ered Luin.

Other children joins them, but Filorandir remains the first-- and the last, as they all grow up and part their ways, to military exploits or famed scholarly endeavours. Filorandir remains and works the land and dreams of capturing the colour of the evening sky in Autumn, the green-blue-grey of the sea at dawn, the pink of smiling lips by the fireplace.

Soon Oronor is called to help with the ship-makers of Celondim, and both Eiliandil and Filorandir come along with her. There they settled for a few years, tending the land as they know best, helping to keep the ebbing and flowing population of Falathlorn well-fed.

* * *

High afternoon in the fields up the Crafting Terrace in Celondim, and a young Elf toils alone in a secluded corner. The sun shines on his back, bright and warm, and beads of sweat glides off his brow. A strand has escaped from the loose bun of his black air; endlessly it falls in front of his eyes and endlessly he pushes it behind his ear, smearing his cheek with mud and dirt.

His tunic, once chestnut brown, is now nothing but a collection of stains, and his back hurts from sustaining a squatting position. Yet still he toils; even when his mother walks out from the shed and calls to him.

"Filorandir, come away to the shade!"

But he doesn't hear her, his blue eyes all set to the red roots he is so very carefully extracting.

There's a swordsmith in Duillond that promised him anything for a vial of crimson dye; he has no idea how to make it, but if he manages, he plans to ask for a kiss.

There are many pretty Elves to pine for this side of the mountains, but none of them holds his attention for long. Ever his mind regains control of his heart, and the fields or the workbench call louder than the would-be lovers. It’s easiest, at least, to focus on the plants and the stones and the soil than to think he might be, perhaps, the very reason why everyone ends up leaving.

* * *

A merry night in the Hall of Fire, several months later. Filorandir stands by the fire, wishing he wasn't there-- wishing he was back in the little room the librarians have him use, wishing he was still hunched over his workbench, cutting up, grinding, distiling, studying; lost in the acrid scents the scholars complain about, the strong stench that sticks to his fingers, his hair, his clothes and betrays his occupation.

His mothers returned from their tradition of summering in Imaldris weeks ago. Filorandir alone remained in the Last Homely House, and had meant to look for the elusive winterbloom in the Vale. But the librarians won't let him take a moment's rest, and his mothers insisted he attends social functions as well. His fingers smooth the hem of his tunic, over and over again, as he listens to songs and poems and hopes nobody notices him or, even worse, talks to him.

All the lords and ladies have him feel underdressed, restless and wild; all the warriors make him feel leaf-thin and irrelevant; everyday the scholars remind him of his modest origins, his lack of education and-- worst in their eyes-- his lack of interest in their erudite affairs.

To whoever he talks, Filorandir can't help but tell about dyes and colours and pigments and how awe-inspiring Eriador is; a child's tale to these Eldars in their twilight and the very same mistake that he's been making over and over again since they've left the homestead in Lindon. Everyone smiles politely when he tells them whether their colour is blue or red or purple or green; he fears they do not care much. Still, he tries. He has to try. His mothers would be crushed to hear that he is not having a grand time. They're the only ones to answer his letters.

No matter what, he still has to try, right?