< Previous
AelKennyr Rhiano
The walk back to the palace has been pleasant. Elwing's gentle touch on his arm feels much like his own daughter's, so long ago, when, as a young woman, they would take walks through the Swanhaven under the twillight skies of the Undying Lands. She speaks pleasantly, keeping the conversation light, and Olwe smiles and replies at the right moments. But his eyes search for the traces of his Brother, Elwe, in her features; fleeting moments when the tilt of her head or a gleam in her eyes are familar and evocative of the eldest brother, long gone.
Elwing the White, daughter of Dior and Nimloth, and through Nimloth, granddaughter of Lúthien, daughter of Elwe, then called Elu Thingol, and Melian, the Maia he loved. He could see no traces of her human origins in her clear, bright face, and the laughter which bubbles from her so near to the sweet sound of Earwen's that it pulled at his heart.
Even to Alqualonde came the tales of her, and Olwe remembers well the day he learned of the Destruction of Doriath, where once Thingol ruled, and of the loss of Elwing's parents and her brothers. He gently places his other hand atop hers and pats the small hand beneath his own.
As they moved into the kitchen, Olwe walked slowly around the room, taking stock of the supplies. Choosing a bowl, he rummaged through the still well supplied pantry and emerged with the dry ingredients he needed. "Have you had waybread," he asks, placing each ingredient on the table. He speaks more to himself, than Elwing, and continues to pace the room for the proper utsenils and the remainder of the needed items. He looks down at the table where all the ingredients were lined up and claps his hands together, rubbing them. "I am fairly certain I remember how lembas is made, " he says, glancing up at Elwing, who has known pain and suffering, loss and fear, and for a moment, the light teasing words die from his lips.
He looks down quickly and asks her in a false jovial voice if she would see if the stove had any wood or need he to fetch some. His hands move sure of their actions, as he measured out the ingredients, hearing her light step in the kitchen. He chatters to her of life in Alqualonde, her cousins, whom she has never met. But his mind slips off to what she told him as they sat looking out over the Sea of Swans. "Echuir is the daughter of Elmo....." In the mortal world, somewhere was the daughter of his other brother, another line of the Teleri. Where was she? Was she safe?
The ingredients now folded and made into dough, he sprinkles flour upon the table and dumps the dough ball onto the table where he starts kneading it. Not only was there the daughter of his other brother, but a young Teleri...a fisherelf...somewhere, somehow this Teleri survived whatever befall the rest. For a while, at least....his mind ran over the faces of the teleri fishers...he could be any number of them, this fisher elf.
Pounding the dough flat with his knuckles, and keeping his voice level, the Lord of the Teleri, dusted with flour flying up from the table, asks the Protectress of the Silmaril to look in the small cupboard by the washsink. "There is some miruvor left, " he says lightly. "Pour us some of it, and tell of thy travels, Elwing, whilst I prove a king can also be a cook."
And while he hears her rummage for the decanter of the cordial, he crosses to where a flat pan hangs from a rack, takes it back to the table and flattens out the dough. Someone had kept a fire burning in the stove, thankfully, and so sipping the pan into the oven, he stands with his back to Elwing and closes his eyes in brief prayer, "Please, Father of all, please let them not fall to that darkness which claimed me."
Slowly, then, he turns and joins Elwing for a sip of cordial and to wait for the bread to bake and her tale to continue.
> Next
Elwing the White, daughter of Dior and Nimloth, and through Nimloth, granddaughter of Lúthien, daughter of Elwe, then called Elu Thingol, and Melian, the Maia he loved. He could see no traces of her human origins in her clear, bright face, and the laughter which bubbles from her so near to the sweet sound of Earwen's that it pulled at his heart.
Even to Alqualonde came the tales of her, and Olwe remembers well the day he learned of the Destruction of Doriath, where once Thingol ruled, and of the loss of Elwing's parents and her brothers. He gently places his other hand atop hers and pats the small hand beneath his own.
As they moved into the kitchen, Olwe walked slowly around the room, taking stock of the supplies. Choosing a bowl, he rummaged through the still well supplied pantry and emerged with the dry ingredients he needed. "Have you had waybread," he asks, placing each ingredient on the table. He speaks more to himself, than Elwing, and continues to pace the room for the proper utsenils and the remainder of the needed items. He looks down at the table where all the ingredients were lined up and claps his hands together, rubbing them. "I am fairly certain I remember how lembas is made, " he says, glancing up at Elwing, who has known pain and suffering, loss and fear, and for a moment, the light teasing words die from his lips.
He looks down quickly and asks her in a false jovial voice if she would see if the stove had any wood or need he to fetch some. His hands move sure of their actions, as he measured out the ingredients, hearing her light step in the kitchen. He chatters to her of life in Alqualonde, her cousins, whom she has never met. But his mind slips off to what she told him as they sat looking out over the Sea of Swans. "Echuir is the daughter of Elmo....." In the mortal world, somewhere was the daughter of his other brother, another line of the Teleri. Where was she? Was she safe?
The ingredients now folded and made into dough, he sprinkles flour upon the table and dumps the dough ball onto the table where he starts kneading it. Not only was there the daughter of his other brother, but a young Teleri...a fisherelf...somewhere, somehow this Teleri survived whatever befall the rest. For a while, at least....his mind ran over the faces of the teleri fishers...he could be any number of them, this fisher elf.
Pounding the dough flat with his knuckles, and keeping his voice level, the Lord of the Teleri, dusted with flour flying up from the table, asks the Protectress of the Silmaril to look in the small cupboard by the washsink. "There is some miruvor left, " he says lightly. "Pour us some of it, and tell of thy travels, Elwing, whilst I prove a king can also be a cook."
And while he hears her rummage for the decanter of the cordial, he crosses to where a flat pan hangs from a rack, takes it back to the table and flattens out the dough. Someone had kept a fire burning in the stove, thankfully, and so sipping the pan into the oven, he stands with his back to Elwing and closes his eyes in brief prayer, "Please, Father of all, please let them not fall to that darkness which claimed me."
Slowly, then, he turns and joins Elwing for a sip of cordial and to wait for the bread to bake and her tale to continue.
> Next