Havens by AdmirableMonster

Exchange

  The autumn winds are not yet chill, though the scent of sea-salt on the breeze gives them a briskness unique to Sirion.  Dírhaval taps out a dreamy rhythm on the inside of his elbow, thinking of ways he might pen a verse to be performed this evening at one of the bonfires.  Harvest festivals bring groups of people from far and wide, and he dreams of his poems traveling back with the folk of strange lands, spreading his words and his name across the world.

“Poet!” someone calls, and he blinks the cobwebs from his eyes.  A woman in soft dyed green robes is calling out to him from her stall, where she is surrounded by stacks of beautifully-woven baskets.

Waving a wistful farewell to the wind, Dírhaval obeys her summons.  “My lady?” He is no bard, and his bow is a little awkward, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“I want to purchase a poem for my sweetheart,” she says.

This is the first time anyone has asked Dírhaval this, but he is not unwilling.  “I am sure I can pen a lovely one,” he replies.  “Are you offering me a basket in trade?”  In truth, they are very lovely, and he could use a new one for fetching and carrying around the house.

“Aye.”  The woman puts her hand on a fetching basket of light browns and greens, woven  in a swirling, diagonal pattern that makes Dírhaval think of a cable-knit sweater.  “The willow is from Nan-tathren.  Elves plucked it, they say.”

“Elves?” There are Elves in Sirion, but outside of a few other places in Beleriand, Dírhaval has never heard tell that they trade much with Men.

“The survivors of Gondolin.”  The woman nods.  “So they say.”