"Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto."
TS. Eliot, East Coker, Four Quartets.
Rivendell By Snowballjane
It is years now since the last of them left. Since the great doors thudded closed, abandoning these rooms to silence and slow time.
At a first glance there are few obvious signs of decay. Empty bookcases of fine wood still stand tall in the libraries. A mere handful of books were left behind, duplicate copies that no-one wanted. They lie abandoned on the tables covered in a dense layer of dust.
Paintings and tapestries and furniture are all still to be found here. Fading a little, but still objects of great beauty and matchless craftsmanship.
No-one sees them or appreciates their artistry. They no longer have use or meaning.
The Hall of Fire is cold and dark. For thousands of years the flames burned in this hearth offering warmth and solace. Now there is merely ash. No-one comes here for peace and thought any more.
And there are other halls, rooms and ancient corridors. Most are cobwebbed and deserted, filled with the silent echoes of long past story-telling, feasting and singing.
There is life here. Birds have made their nests in the high windows, stealing threads from once-lush fabrics. In the kitchens mice swarm in and out of the nooks and crannies. A family of foxes has taken over rooms that were once home to the master of this house. The cubs play in the bottom of a wardrobe and chase around elegant chairs.
The presence of these creatures spells the end for the Last Homely House. They will gnaw and nibble at its splendour. When the doors shut they did not seal this place off from the careless vandalism of the turning seasons.
Tendrils of ivy reach through windows where frost has cracked the panes.
Eternity dwelt here once, but the elves grew weary and are gone. They went elsewhere to be lasting and beautiful. Perhaps they remember this place with fondness, but they can never return.
The End
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto."
TS. Eliot, East Coker, Four Quartets.
Rivendell By Snowballjane
It is years now since the last of them left. Since the great doors thudded closed, abandoning these rooms to silence and slow time.
At a first glance there are few obvious signs of decay. Empty bookcases of fine wood still stand tall in the libraries. A mere handful of books were left behind, duplicate copies that no-one wanted. They lie abandoned on the tables covered in a dense layer of dust.
Paintings and tapestries and furniture are all still to be found here. Fading a little, but still objects of great beauty and matchless craftsmanship.
No-one sees them or appreciates their artistry. They no longer have use or meaning.
The Hall of Fire is cold and dark. For thousands of years the flames burned in this hearth offering warmth and solace. Now there is merely ash. No-one comes here for peace and thought any more.
And there are other halls, rooms and ancient corridors. Most are cobwebbed and deserted, filled with the silent echoes of long past story-telling, feasting and singing.
There is life here. Birds have made their nests in the high windows, stealing threads from once-lush fabrics. In the kitchens mice swarm in and out of the nooks and crannies. A family of foxes has taken over rooms that were once home to the master of this house. The cubs play in the bottom of a wardrobe and chase around elegant chairs.
The presence of these creatures spells the end for the Last Homely House. They will gnaw and nibble at its splendour. When the doors shut they did not seal this place off from the careless vandalism of the turning seasons.
Tendrils of ivy reach through windows where frost has cracked the panes.
Eternity dwelt here once, but the elves grew weary and are gone. They went elsewhere to be lasting and beautiful. Perhaps they remember this place with fondness, but they can never return.
The End