~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ The Epilogue ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~


The Canary carefully took hold of the top of the fence and placed one foot on a slat halfway up. Pulling herself up, she held the position just long enough to kiss the Swan on the cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered. He nodded as she stepped back down onto the ground. The Canary was dressed not in her customary yellow but in a gown of white. Still, it was adorned with feathers – a subtle hint to those who might just have a clue, for her face was not masked and no lute did she carry tonight.

“Please don’t be upset,” she finally said, looking up at him upon his perch. The Swan looked down over his shoulder and smiled.

“I’m not upset. Not at all,” he assured her as he stretched his leg down, testing the distance between his foot and the grass below. Darkness had settled over the lawn, and those who were still enjoying the festivities were doing so inside, out of the chill of the evening. Keeping his balance, he lowered his harp in the Canary’s direction, and she took hold of the splendid instrument as the Swan reached behind his head and untied the ribbon that held the feathered mask in place before retaking the harp from his former partner. “I’m happy for you.”

“Honestly?”

“Yes, honestly, now stop pouting. Here,” he said once he reached the ground on the other side of the fence. The Swan slid the mask through and into the Canary’s hands. “You should have this.”

“What if you want to use it again?” she asked, her fingers brushing the downy feathers.

“I won’t need it anymore. I’m going home,” he said in a quiet voice, pushing the mask toward her insistently. “Visit me in Lothlorien?” He hadn’t meant it to be a question, but it only made sense that now he had to ask and could not simply expect it. “Both of you,” he added.

The Canary smiled back as her fingers curled around the feathered mask. “Of course.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ The Prologue ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~


“You’re what?” sputtered the Swan.

“That’s marvelous,” nodded the Raven.

The Peacock patted the Canary’s hand. “I’m very happy for you.”

“Are we invited?” grinned the Meadowlark.

“I thought, if it was allowed, we’d hold it right here,” the Canary said. “Of course, I expect you all there – sans masks,” she winked.

“Splendid,” said the Raven.

The Peacock retrieved fresh parchment to begin to plan the occasion.

“Is there going to be cheesecake?” wondered the Meadowlark.

“I’m sorry,” chuckled the Swan in a nervous sort of way as he walked to the brandy and poured himself a large glass. “I could have sworn that I just heard you say you’re getting married.”

The Canary chirped, “I am.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ The Story ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~


Sitting on a high fence in a position unattainable by a man was a minstrel of Elven heritage. He was masked, white feathers with a hint of grey covering half his face, and there were more of the swan plumes woven into his silvery mane.

In the moonlight he strummed his harp softly, for the music inside the hall was what others, inside and out, were dancing to, and he was alone with his thoughts for the moment. Across the lawn he was spied by an elleth who was fair as she was ancient, and she glided through the grass, seemingly disturbing not a blade as she moved. “May I join you?” she asked as she approached.

Looking around, the Swan saw no others near. He nodded and took his hands from the strings, using one to steady his instrument, while the other was offered to the lady. She took hold of his hand and stepped on one of the slats of the fence. Moments later she was perched next to him on the fence, though his relaxed pose with one leg balanced along the top of the fence and the other hanging off was countered by her proper position, with her toes pointing to the ground and her ankles crossed, hands folded atop her pale blue skirts.

“I’ve not heard you sing this eve,” she said, attempting to strike up a conversation. The Swan merely shook his head. “Why not share your voice?”

“I’ve been lacking inspiration. Weddings are a difficult time to create songs with so much energy circulating in one place.”

Tilting her head slightly, the lady asked, “Why not sing one you already know?”

“Because you’ve heard them all before.”

“I never tire of your voice,” she pressed on. The Swan smiled and lowered his eyes to his harp and stroked the strings. “Perhaps I might suggest a tune, one we could both sing?”

Without having to be told which song she was requesting, the Swan began to play, and in a soft, yet clear voice, sang only for the lady to hear:

“When I first saw her standing there
Glit’tring maid with golden hair
I thought to myself – Im-poss-i-ble

Smile warm and face so fair
Into her eyes I’d gladly stare
I thought to myself – Im-poss-i-ble

The thoughts I had – were they love or lust
But I had to know – I knew I must
Yet my own words – I could not trust
I could say only one thing –
Im-possible!


I think that she knew,
For it was then that she came.

I do not know why,
But I called out a name.

It was not her own,
Though she smiled all the same.

And said these words to me:”

The Swan continued to play as the lady beside him sang now, and each of them stared into the eyes of the other as she did:

“It feels I know you from somewhere
You cannot know the load I bear
If you do then – It’s possible


If we had one life to share
Will you love me? Will you care?
If you do then – It’s possible


These thoughts you have – they seem quite rushed
And I must tell you – I’m feeling flushed
Yet something inside tells me it’s just
I am feeling them too and –
It’s possible!”


The harp song stopped abruptly, and the Swan reached his fingers forward, touching the lady’s cheek with the back of his hand. “I’ve missed you, my love,” he said.

“Come back to me, then. Come back to Lorien,” she whispered for his ears only. “I know you love to sing, but I miss you more than you can imagine. You sleep on the road, housed at inns or sleeping in the woods. I awake each morning to hope I shall find you beside me and not an empty space in our bed.”

“I will return home soon, my love,” he promised, withdrawing his hand before anyone could spy them. “Thank you for singing with me, my lady,” he said as he helped her back down from her perch.

“Thank you for allowing me the privilege, my lord,” she answered, and then in a much lower voice as she stood very near to him, she looked up and said, “I love you, Celeborn.”


~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ The End ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~