Nimuviel’s Diary: Page 3

Iavas day 2, I Randír Îdh It is evening. The Elf with the silvery hair goes by the name of Nathoruil, and he is a minstrel. He is also, as I assumed, a kinsman who calls these halls we reside in home, and he has told me that he travelled here with two companions, but has ridden ahead of them. We three – that is, Hiril Aldalin, Nathoruil and myself – have enjoyed a walk by the banks of the river Lhûn and spoke of this and of that, and the lady inquired with Nathoruil after news from the east, from whence he travelled, and he told her that there was no news excepting that which she knew already. I know not what they speak of and dare not ask for fear of imposing, and these two are so kind to me that I could not bear to cause them to frown at me for any reason. Still, the evening is pleasant, somewhat less hot than yesterday, and we enjoyed our meal outside the halls in the garden, where Hiril Aldalin presented us with bread, fruit and wine. We are now all sat underneath the cherry trees: the lady writes her letters, the minstrel Nathoruil is plucking the strings of his harp in a tune that sounds like the sheen of the stars upon still night time waters – and sometimes he hums to it, although he stops when he believes that I listen – and I sit in the last rays of the sun writing down my thoughts. There is still wine and fruit left and we have put it among us in cups and bowls and the bees sit on the rims of the earthenware and try to steal some of our sweet things for themselves. Seeing Nathoruil play on his harp reminds me of my master – who is now away from Middle Earth and upon whom I may not lay my eyes again so long as I reside here still – and how he used to caress his own instruments in the evenings between the trees of Lin Giliath. Nothing have I now to hold or to hear that once belonged to him, no voice to instruct me, no hands that teach by their example, no gaze that can pass judgement without words. No longer his fingers that stroke a piece of raw wood, then pass it to me, then draw me inspiration; no longer his eyes that pierce for my lack of diligence, then embrace me in praise; no more words of tuition, of rectification or of raptures. No more music. No rhapsody. The days that seemed lavender-coloured in my mind and were filled with the industry of his hands have now turned to a pale green, and no more are the evenings we spent between the purple flowers around our workshop. Tonight is an evening that is hot and golden, and with different company. With the fading light of today’s sun I realise I have not thought of my master’s face for a season and find that I have difficulty remembering his features now, and cannot recall much except that his eyes were green and his skin fair. But I remember the little scars on his hands. And his nails that were short with his craft. And his grip on the wood, and his fingers on the strings. The sun has set now. We retire inside for the evening.