Post by rayf on Dec 3, 2008 20:34:36 GMT -5
The Twins:
“It feels like an age has passed since we last saw Farran,” Utherion sighed as he sat with his brother upon a grassy hill looking out to west, taking in the sea with his eyes.
“Not possible,” Uthellyn shook his head. He nibbled at a hot biscuit as he, too, surveyed the sea to the west. “We haven't been alive long enough for an age to pass.”
Utherion rolled his eyes. He turned to face his brother, looking into the face that was the mirror of his own. “You know what I mean.”
“No, I don't,” Uthellyn argued. “Either an age has passed or not. And obviously, it has not.”
“But it has been a long time.” Utherion took a biscuit from a small basket set between the two of them. A small fox stalked a field mouse just a stone's-throw from the brothers.
“Four hundred and twenty-two years,” Uthellyn answered nodding.
“Four hundred and twenty-two?” Utherion laughed. “Not about four hundred and twenty years, or close to four hundred and thirty years; but four hundred twenty-two.”
Uthellyn nodded, beaming a smile at his brother and raising a wine-skin to his lips.
“You are truly something, brother.” Utherion laughed and accepted the wine-skin from his brother.
“Well,” Uthellyn continued to argue, “four hundred twenty-two is neither about four hundred and twenty nor is it close to four hundred and thirty; it is as it is, four hundred and twenty two.”
“How many days?”
Uthellyn shrugged, but his usually pale cheeks brightened red.
“How many?” Utherion pushed.
“Two hundred sixty-two.”
“Hours?”
Uthellyn shook his head, taking the wineskin back from his brother.
“Well, then,” Utherion managed through fits of laughter, “at least there is some hope for you after all.”
The hung lazily in the middle of a bright blue sky. Beyond their little picnic ground many of the elves of the fair city of Celondim prepared for their journey into the west. Crates were being moved on the docks as ships moored to the piers, or filled and set sail.
“We are headed the wrong way, are we not?” Uthellyn asked.
His brother shrugged. “They feel the need to leave, to seek what is rightfully theirs. We never have really been one in heart with them, have we?”
Uthellyn removed the gold braid from his black hair. His hair flipped about as he shook his head. “Not as father tells it. The elves of the Wood love this Middle Earth perhaps a little too much.”
Utherion lifted the javelin that lay in the grass next to him, feeling its weight in his smooth hands. “Perhaps a little too much,” he echoed in agreement. “Then perhaps they are headed the wrong way.”
Uthellyn drew a flute from his pack and played a few quick notes of a light tune. “No right or wrong in it, brother. No ill will to our kindred. They do what they must, as do we.” He set in with the remainder of the tune now.
Utherion could no longer hold his thought or his mood. He put the wine-skin to his lips once more, and then let his brother's tune fill his heart and his mind. He smiled and began whistling to the tune.
“In the morning, then,” he told his brother. “We shall pay Farran a visit and see about this band she runs with.” Then he fell silent and once more whistled in the sweetest harmony to his brother's tune.
“It feels like an age has passed since we last saw Farran,” Utherion sighed as he sat with his brother upon a grassy hill looking out to west, taking in the sea with his eyes.
“Not possible,” Uthellyn shook his head. He nibbled at a hot biscuit as he, too, surveyed the sea to the west. “We haven't been alive long enough for an age to pass.”
Utherion rolled his eyes. He turned to face his brother, looking into the face that was the mirror of his own. “You know what I mean.”
“No, I don't,” Uthellyn argued. “Either an age has passed or not. And obviously, it has not.”
“But it has been a long time.” Utherion took a biscuit from a small basket set between the two of them. A small fox stalked a field mouse just a stone's-throw from the brothers.
“Four hundred and twenty-two years,” Uthellyn answered nodding.
“Four hundred and twenty-two?” Utherion laughed. “Not about four hundred and twenty years, or close to four hundred and thirty years; but four hundred twenty-two.”
Uthellyn nodded, beaming a smile at his brother and raising a wine-skin to his lips.
“You are truly something, brother.” Utherion laughed and accepted the wine-skin from his brother.
“Well,” Uthellyn continued to argue, “four hundred twenty-two is neither about four hundred and twenty nor is it close to four hundred and thirty; it is as it is, four hundred and twenty two.”
“How many days?”
Uthellyn shrugged, but his usually pale cheeks brightened red.
“How many?” Utherion pushed.
“Two hundred sixty-two.”
“Hours?”
Uthellyn shook his head, taking the wineskin back from his brother.
“Well, then,” Utherion managed through fits of laughter, “at least there is some hope for you after all.”
The hung lazily in the middle of a bright blue sky. Beyond their little picnic ground many of the elves of the fair city of Celondim prepared for their journey into the west. Crates were being moved on the docks as ships moored to the piers, or filled and set sail.
“We are headed the wrong way, are we not?” Uthellyn asked.
His brother shrugged. “They feel the need to leave, to seek what is rightfully theirs. We never have really been one in heart with them, have we?”
Uthellyn removed the gold braid from his black hair. His hair flipped about as he shook his head. “Not as father tells it. The elves of the Wood love this Middle Earth perhaps a little too much.”
Utherion lifted the javelin that lay in the grass next to him, feeling its weight in his smooth hands. “Perhaps a little too much,” he echoed in agreement. “Then perhaps they are headed the wrong way.”
Uthellyn drew a flute from his pack and played a few quick notes of a light tune. “No right or wrong in it, brother. No ill will to our kindred. They do what they must, as do we.” He set in with the remainder of the tune now.
Utherion could no longer hold his thought or his mood. He put the wine-skin to his lips once more, and then let his brother's tune fill his heart and his mind. He smiled and began whistling to the tune.
“In the morning, then,” he told his brother. “We shall pay Farran a visit and see about this band she runs with.” Then he fell silent and once more whistled in the sweetest harmony to his brother's tune.
