"Where is Aule?"

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Maiar embrace after long separations. He has embraced Ilmare many times, after she had spent long spans of time among the stars she loves so well. He embraced her with a pleasure of her presence once more, and as he stands, gazing down upon her smaller form, he knows those periods of separation had been far longer.  But there was not the ache he feels now, the hard squeeze of his heart, or the shortness of his breath. He reaches down, thoughtless, instinctively, and grabs her hand, squeezing with one hand even as the other reaches up to feel and brush away the moisture on his cheek.  His blue eyes drink in the sight of the other Maia, and for a moment, all else falls away from Eonwe but this reunion.  He opens his mouth to speak, but, then closes it, and settles instead for silently holding her hand, there in the great hall of Mandos.

Manwe is gratified and feels relief at Aule's response and behaviour during their talk. However, he thinks it may be wise for Aule to have a companion for his journey to the Garden. A nearby fountain of dark water reminds him of Ulmo, the Lord of Waters, who has been trustworthy and a good friend of the Lord of Arda. He sends a silent call to Ulmo to come so that he can escort Aule to Lorien. Aule is clearly sincere, but he is still affected by the dark power so he thinks Aule may need an escort to be safe. Manwe resolves to explain the situation to Ulmo after he arrives, but now he must speak to the others. He descends the steps from the upper hall and turns the corner to the foyer. He then steps through the doorway and looks upon the group standing there.

 Out of the corner of her eye, Nienna notices a movement at the doorway.  There at last is Manwe, and with him must be …  She looks eagerly for his companion.  But it is Manwe alone standing at the edge of the room.  Urgently, she rushes across to him.  "My lord!"she says with concern, staring into the depths of his blue eyes. "Where is Aule?"

Yavanna turns more as she hears soft footsteps approaching.  Her heart lifts a little to see the authoritative form of Manwë Súlimo, Lord of the West and the very Breath of Arda enter the room.  Always he has been a stalwart of wisdom in troubled times, both for herself personally, and for all of Ea. She opens her mouth to hail his joining them but it closes, the words dying on her lips, as Nienna rushes forward asking for Aulë.  Again Yavanna's eyes grow hard and flat. She turns away from the group, her ears fill with the rushing of her blood as rage and pain sweep through her and the words they speak become dull and muffled as though coming from far, far away.

The swish of fabric and the faint stir of breeze as Nienna rushes back toward the way from which he had guided her catches Eonwe's attention, and he turns his head to watch her even as her excited "My Lord!" is heard. He starts to turn his body in that direction, dropping Ilmare's hand, and  lifting his gaze up in anticipation of beholding again the Lord of the West. Even as he turns, the Herald catches sight Yavanna turning as well, and stops his motion, his blue eyes watching as the light dies in her eyes, her face flushes, and she turns her back to them all again. He looks back at the Vala of Compassion, where she stands with the Breath of Arda, but though his heart leaps at the sight of his beloved Lord, he finds his gaze returning to Yavanna's back, and his blue eyes rest upon her.

 Eonwë's hand leaves hers and he turns, drawing Ilmarë's attention to Manwë's arrival. Her heart leaps to see the Lord of the West again. Her eyes flicker back and forth between her lord and her brother; she must know if they are reconciled. But something is wrong, and not between Eonwë and their lord. There is tension in the air, in the set of Yavanna's shoulders and the tone of Nienna's voice, and any words of greeting Ilmarë would have for Lord Manwë die on her lips as she waits to see how he will respond to Nienna.

 Manwë opens his mouth to start to greet Ilmare who had arrived during his absence, but his attention is turned to the Vala before him. He looks upon the Lady Vala of Compassion and is troubled by her continued obsession with Aulë. He also sees her lack of decorum by rushing to him to ask about Yavanna's husband right in front of Yavanna herself. He notices Yavanna's opening her mouth to speak, but turning away. The Lord of the West understands her sorrow. But he understands Nienna is clouded by the dark power of Melkor's influence. He is gentle with her. "I assure you Aulë is as safe as the rest of you are," he says, looking around the room. As he finishes he thinks of Eonwe as he spots him. "And you need not worry about Aulë. But listen to me, trust me, and do that i ask of you." He turns to Nienna.  "Will you do this for me, Nienna?"

Nienna's face clouds at her king's words.  "… as safe as …?  … need not worry?" she whispers to herself.  What does he mean by that?  Her breath catches for a moment, but her eyes never leave Manwe's own solemn eyes. He has never failed her.  "Yes," she says slowly, hesitantly, biting at her lip.  "I trust you …"  Her shoulders can almost feel the coldness flowing from Yavanna's back.  "What are you asking me to do?"

"And you need not worry about Aulë." Those words from the Lord of the West wrests Eonwe's attention away from Yavanna, and he whirls around to face the two other Valar in the room.  "Safe, " he repeats, "My  Lord, unless the Maker is confined and under guard, no one, least of all you, can be counted safe.  Can it be forgotten what ill has been wrought?" His blue eyes seek out Manwe's, and Eonwe steps forward, raising his hands in a pleading gesture. "Because he is mighty among your brethren, shall my own suffer without redress? Shall we stand by and give him leave to wreak evil as Melkor did before aught is done?"

Ilmarë's brow furrows. So. Her brother was not harmed when he ran here to Mandos to confront Aulë, but it seems things have not been settled here, not in the least. Her own heart clenches when Eonwë speaks of the other Maiar. What has the Maker done to their people? If he has laid a hand to any of them--! She knows she does not yet understand the currents flowing between the Valar in this room, and she casts her gaze again to the Lord of the West, hoping that he will say something to guide them all. She lays her hand on Eonwë's arm in a gesture of support and calm. It will not do any good if he begins to shout at the Lord of the Airs.

 He looks to Nienna, relieved when she assures him he has her trust and asks, "Nienna, I ask you to go to the Guardians of Lorien for me. There we will all eventually meet. I think after our experience here we need a time to rest and heal." He thinks, looking for the right words. "I would like Ilmare to accompany you, in case there is anything you need for the journey." Manwe looks at Ilmare. "Thank you for coming here, i appreciate it." He sends a silent call to Ilmare, to keep Nienna safe and assure she arrives at Lorien.

He turns to Eonwe, stenly. "My herald, have you forgotten you placed your trust in my judgement?" It pains him to speak this way, and he hopes it will be resolved once Eonwe is cured at Lorien. "To satisfy your curiosity, I have not forgotten what Aule has done," He looks around to all in the room. "But you must trust me in what I ask of you to do."

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Shadow of Doubt

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Rhûn Darkmoon and Shawn Daysleeper

Uncertainty is not a feeling Aulë had ever been familiar with.  Yet it washes through him now with the same power as the Spring tides that wash the shores of Middle Earth at this time.  So it is with relief that, as he stands gazing back down the stairwell that he sees the familiar and authorative form of Manwë as he mounts the lower stairs and turns the corner and makes his way up the last few steps to this upper level.

Manwë mounts the last staircase as he returns to the upper levels of Mandos.  Since leaving the destroyed chamber he has been thinking on the bitterness and hate that fueled the bad energies in the chamber, but no more.  The Lord of the West thinks he now can confront the evil in Aulë's form, now that he understands what has caused it.  He arrives on the landing, the light of the outside entering the hallway from the room ahead. Aulë's form blocks the light ahead.  He can hear raised voices issuing from the foyer but what he wishes to say to Aule, he must say alone.  Holding his finger to his lips, he motions Aulë to follow him up do discuss this privately and away from the others.

Aulë stands hesitant for but a moment as the Lord of the West beckons him upstairs.  Resolutely he turns his back on the temptation to confront Eonwë in the foyer again and silently follows Manwë up the stairs to the upper gallery of Mandos, taking comfort from the confident and reassuring manner of the one who leads him there.  He glances around the long open gallery, unfamiliar with this part of Mandos, for it is one he has had no cause to visit.  Long rows of windows gently filter the twilight of Aman and the soft grey stone of the walls cast a soothing atmosphere to the room.  Silently he follows as bid.

The Breath of Arda passes along the hall passing through alternate twilight and dark light filtering through the windows. While the spirits of the dead visit here occasionally, none were here at the moment. He and th Maker were alone. At length he stops at a bench along the wall. He takes a seat on the bench and invites Aulë to sit with him. "Please, here we can talk candidly. Tell me, what has happened?"

Slowly, Aulë lowers himself onto the bench.  He turns his body so he can look at the other vala as they speak although for a moment  he keeps his eyes down as he tries to gather his words.  Where to begin?  What did it all start?  Was it really only from the time the old chamber was discovered?  Or when Eonwe first confronted him? He rubs his brow as he tries to think where all that he feels at this moment truly began.

Finally, hesitant still, he lifts his eyes at last, fearful that he will see the same condemnation and judgment in Manwe's eyes that he had found with Eonwë.  Yet the eyes that look back at him are filled with compassion and concern.  Encouraged, halting at first, the words tumble from  his lips. 'It.. it all seemed so clear to me, at first.  The chamber was discovered and the maiar helping me fell sick.  I thought..'.. he pauses and swallows before continuing, 'I thought that if I cleansed the chambers of the evil within it, then perhaps, perhaps at last I might be forgiven my indiscretion when I thought to create the dwarves.' 

He stops and stares a moment as he realise the utter truth of his words. 'I have always felt a shadow over me, a shadow of doubt.  Am I like Melkor, carrying a rotten taint?  Will I fall as he did?  I wanted to show you, to prove to you that I will fight his evil with my last breath if need be. I.. I wanted to show you that you could rely on me.'

His dark eyes glisten with the strength of his emotion and he turns to stare down the length of the gallery before summonly his courage and speaking again, 'So I cleansed the chambers.  Eonwë arrived and accused me of treachery for doing so and.. and everything seemed to melt and change and nothing seemed right again.  I was coming to see you, to explain and found an evil plant growing near Valimar.  I paused on my journey and walled it up to protect any who might come near it, meaning to continue to you, to speak to you, but... but then I met the Lady Neinna and ..' again he pauses, this time rubbing his forehead as though struggling to recall events. He lets out a long sigh and looks back into Manwe's eyes, 'I.. nothing makes sense.  It is as though I live in a fog.  Nothing is right. I.. I don't understand any of it any more. I thought it was so clear but.. but now I don't understand any of it.'

Manwë listens and thinks over Aulë's response. He had asked him what happened and the Lord of the West sees and believes his sincerity. He needs to think about what he has heard and verify some of this by talking to the others but he is tempted to believe him. "The magic seemed to take something good and twist it. This is what hate does." Manwë begins gently "I do not understand all that has happened, but I want to assure you that I believe what you have said. You have taken the first step back to the light" Manwë smiles "The rest, we will take together."

Aulë stares into the blue eyes of the Lord of the West, his whole being utterly still, except for a small muscle that works in his jaw as Manwë's words wash through him.  'I believe what you have said.'  Deep inside the Smith something kept locked away for all these Ages cracks, and like a dam wall weakened with age and besieged by a torrent, it shatters.  All the pain of believing himself doubted, the need to prove himself worthy that so often had translated into arrogance in his manner, the poisonous seeds of self-doubt from his own thoughts, all, all are washed away by those few simple words.  His dark eyes gleam in the soft light from the nearby windows as he lowers his lashes and humbly asks, 'What would you have me do?  I will do whatever you ask.'

 The Lord of the West looks over Aulë and considers his question. He knows he is still affected by the dark power because he was in the chamber so long. "I am bidding you go to the Garden of Lórien. In the midst of the gardens is the lake of Lórellin. The waters of the lake are bestowed with healing powers to cure the darkness within you." Manwë smiles "but I ask you to wait until I have spoken with the others first. I desire you wait here for my return before your departure." He did not wish for there to be a confrontation between the Smith and Eonwë or Yavanna, nor did he wish for the temptations of Nienna to affect him. He rises and turns towards the stairs back down, but pauses a moment and says "do not worry, we will all join at Lórellin together."

Aulë gives a nod of his head in acknowledgment of Manwë's command.  He rises to his feet and in a gesture never before seen in the Maker, he goes down on one knee before the Breath of Arda, one hand clenched in a salute of respect and allegiance over his heart.  His voice rumbles huskily from the emotions coursing through him as he murmurs, 'As you wish, so I shall do.'

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Memories

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 Rhûn Darkmoon

The souls of the dead seldom come so far below Mandos.  Perhaps it was because it too closely resembles the tombs in which the remains of their corporeal bodies now lie.   Always they seemed to prefer the upper floors where there was light and some semblance of the life they had once held.  It seemed to comfort them somehow.  The silence in the dim, deep corridors was profound.  

Even as he walks Aulë barely disturbs this silence.  The bare soles of his feet make  no sound on the rock beneath them.  His kilt gives a hushed rustle now and then as he moves.  His breath is silent as his powerful body breathes.  He moves with an easy yet powerful stride.  Yet although his body carries him down the corridor his movements seem to lack the purpose and certainty one would expect to see as  Aulë Talka Marda walks the world. 

For as he walks, the Maker is deeply troubled, his thoughts in chaos.  He lifts a hand almost the size of a dinner plate and rubs at his brow as though this might clear his head.  It had all seemed so clear, so certain.  He belonged there.  It was home.  Images flick through his mind.  The sweet curves of Nienna as she lay, her body curled seductively upon their bed, her skin gilded by the flickering flames of the firelight.  The delicate line of her cheek where it curved to meet lips that had surely been sculpted by Eru in person, so perfectly were they formed.  Again his ears heard her throaty, triumphant laughter as he swept her up in his powerful arms when he could no longer resist her allure.  For a moment as he walks, a small smile begins to curve his lips. 

But then they came.  First that sly puppy Eonwë had tricked his way into his presence and dared to stand defiant and accusatory before him.  Then, just as Aulë had thought the Herald would commit the ultimate insult and strike a Valar, there standing behind him, had been Manwë himself.  As he turns a corner of the corridor and ascends yet another set of stairs, he remembers how his heart had skipped a beat as his eyes fell upon the form of Manwë Súlimo, the very Breath of Arda.  How was it that he stood there, at the threshold of the very Chamber itself?  How had he known to come? 

Nienna fades from his mind as memories flash.  In his mind as though only yesterday he could see the radiance that had emanated from the face of the Lord of the West as together they and the others had sung into being all of creation with the Great Song.  He remembered well the compassion in those eyes that seemed to be the colour of a thousand different skies all in one when he had stood before him contrite, and together they had spoken of the creation of the dwarves. Together they had worked through the Ages. Sometimes there had been shared joy with Manwë's deep laughter seeming to boom from the very peak of Taniquetil itself.  At other times they had shared great sorrow, as when side by side they had bound the form of Melkor in that very chamber where he had known such joy.

As he nears the end of yet another long corridor he pauses and looks back the way he had come, blinking uncertainly.  He had felt that it was there that he had found the only true joy he had ever known and yet.. and yet memories now flood through him.  As he stands here his nostrils catch the lingering scent of spring flowers, of pine forests warmed by the sun and soft grasses that spring underfoot.  Yavanna!  That perfume of her passing was unmistakable.  He turns and follows it unthinkingly as he has followed it a thousand times before and his thoughts turn to the one who has is known as Kementari, Queen of the Earth. His Queen of the Earth, and for as far as memory can recall, she had been Queen of his heart also.

As he walks his hand twitches unconsciously at his side as he remembers gently taking her face in his hand, his thumb tenderly caressing her cheek. She had stared up at him, her eyes the deep green of forest depths, and he had bent his head to capture the softness of her lips, her mouth far sweeter than the nectar of any flower.  Now as he walks, his feet move faster, as though remembering, too, the sound of her lilting laughter as she had fled though the woods with him in playful pursuit. A soft sigh escapes his lips as he remembers the feel of her body, the skin soft and the body supple against his, as he captured her in his arms, and there on the sweet-smelling grasses in a waterfall glade they had made love.

And now she had come to him.  She and Manwë had come to him at Mandos. She was here.  His heart quickens as he takes the last staircase two steps at a time. His feet are eager as they tread the last step, and he stands at last in the corridor to the side of the Grand Foyer of Mandos. He moves as though to hurry forward to the foyer, but his stride is arrested as a soft voice carries to him. "..thank you, Eonwe, you are most kind."

Nienna! For a moment he feels the quick stir of his loins that the very thought of her provokes and then it registers in his mind the name of the one to whom she spoke. Eonwë! He pauses uncertainly.  His Nienna is there with that cur! Before he can think or act further other voices carry to him. Ilmare and Eonwë are talking together, although he cannot catch the words beyond her first greeting.

As he pauses, a soft breeze from the open door of the foyer brushes across his bare chest and for the first time since leaving the chamber Aulë becomes fully aware of his surroundings, of himself. He glances down at the minimal kilt he is wearing, and with a thought forms his usual clothing until at last he stands fully dressed, booted and yet still uncertain in the side corridor.  He looks to the door of the foyer and then back down the stairs he has only just ascended.  For the first time in his long life, Aulë Tulka Marda stands unsure of what he should do.

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A Question of Water

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Dinner will be served soon, but Aztryd has one more chore to finish.  She hands Nizl to her new friend, Hjalmarr.  Those two had a fine time together this afternoon.  "I will be back in a moment," Aztryd says.  I just need to get the last load of the heavy woolens that I spread outside to dry."

On her way, she pauses next to the elder, Adelsteinn, and bends down to speak to him privately.  "Elder, I am quite concerned about the well.  The water level is low, and I think it may be dropping.  I don't know whether you have anyone … qualified … to climb down and examine it.  But I fear it may be a problem soon."

Adelsteinn tries to refrain from showing his own concern, but thinks it is best to wait for council from Fafnir. "I do not know if anyone is left to check the depth of water in the well. This is clearly a concern to us." Nodding to Aztryd, he then decides to keep this news to himself as to not spread too much panic.

"Thank you," Aztryd says with a small bow.  She continues out of the kitchen, down the corridor, relieved to have passed her concern on to someone able to handle it.

Hjalmarr dandles little Nizl on his knee, offering her a bit of bread to munch on. In remarkably short order she has turned the bread quite soggy. Then she reaches for his mug of ale, and Hjalmarr quickly pulls it out of the way. He takes a drink from it and eyes the rest of the dwarves. He wonders if they will start making plans and decisions now, and if Elder Adelsteinn has decided he is in charge.

Fafnir feels the heat of the bubbling stew bathe his face in a mist of hot steam, and pulls back in reflex, even as he stirs to keep the supper from scorching. Two days ago, they had meat aplenty. Now, tonight, he had used the last of the freshly killed game, and tomorrow, it would be back to the meat cellar to see what salted provisions would be available. He grimaces at the thought. Even the lean and stringy cows were missing this afternoon, as was the last patrol. Fafnir starts to hum, a tuneless ditty he once heard  in these very kitchens once night, not too terribly long ago.

"Thank you," Aztryd says to the Elder with a small bow.  She continues out of the kitchen, down the corridor, relieved to have passed her concern on to someone able to handle it.

Adelsteinn takes a seat in the kitchen, enjoying the smell of the cooking meal and sipping some ale. Drinking helped him think. He looks up as Aztryd departs. Supplies and water were running low, but where could they go? Their neighbours were not wholesome to the dwarves. With a sigh he takes another drink. He will have to make a decision soon, but wants to talk with Fafnir first.

Grabbing a bit of flour sack which serves as a kitchen towel, Fafnir leans down and pulls the pan of hot, fresh bread from the oven, the tops a little too brown, but serviceable. He had cut the finer flour with coarse ground to make it all go further and mixed it with a pasty concoction of nuts which he had asked yesterday foragers to provide.  The nuts were far from choice, barely edible, but it stretched their staples out, and even with their great stores of grain, flour sugar, and roots, it was in his nature conserve, not squander. He grabs a hot loaf, breaks it apart, and pulls a wad of the center to his mouth, tucking it in as he takes the ladle and spoons a sample into a wooden bowl. There was his greatest concern.  Not the stew, but the water that went into it. Turning to the Elder, Fafnir calls out in a light, easy tone. "Elder, would you come and sample the stew. I think perhaps a seasoning is missing, but I cannot, for the hammer of the Smith, figure out what it may be."

Adelsteinn turns to Fafnir when he is called and rises. He goes to his side at the stew and looks inside. He could tell in his voice there was more to this gesture than tasting the stew. However, he takes the spoon from the pot and stirs the stew.

 Hjalmarr's stomach grumbles at the aroma of the stew. Aztryd has been doing the hard work today, but despite having only carried a few loads of dry washing he feels exhausted. It could have something to do with the little magpie, as her mother calls her; Hjalmarr had forgotten how much energy little ones had. So he lets Nizl chew her bread (and his fingers) and hopes the stew will be ready at the soonest possible moment.

Fafnir turns his body sideways, the aroma of the stew causing his mouth to water, and he watches the elder sample the stew. Leaning in, he locks his gaze upon the face of the brewer and says softly, "I think you need to know, Elder, but when I pull water for our meals, and for Eilif as she helps with the more seriously wounded, I have noticed I have to lower the bucket lower and lower.  I don't want to worry the others, but we are losing our clean water supply."

The evening is clear, with a few bright stars beginning to show in the deepening blue of the sky.  Aztryd pauses to inhale the scent of pine on the fresh breeze, a welcome change from the smoke and steam of the kitchen.  A white shape is waiting just beyond the gate.  An animal? No, a large bird, a swan.  "Shoo," Aztryd says to it with some concern.  "These fellows might try to eat you."  The swan looks up at her intently, and stamps its foot.  Something on its leg catches a stray gleam of the fading light.  "Well, now, swan, will you let me see what you have there?"  And tame as tame, the swan allows Aztryd to walk up to it, and examine the message cylinder strapped to its leg.  "Are you from King Olwe?  I don't know anyone else who uses swans to deliver their messages."  She slides a piece of parchment out of the cylinder. "Thank you very much, swan.  I wish I could feed you, but you really aren't safe here.  Catch yourself some nice fish down at the seashore." Overcome with curiosity, she unfolds it, and holds it up in the fading light.  Her eyes grow wide as she reads, and her breath catches in her throat.  "The others must see this!  Thank you, indeed, swan!"  Quickly, she gathers up her clean, dry woolens, and rushes back to the kitchen.  Behind her, the swan spreads its wings, and soars back toward the west.

Adelsteinn nods, then samples the stew and speaks quietly.  "I have heard about the water before, and water is not the only necessity we are running short on." He nods to the keg of ale nearby. "Our needs will be most dire soon: there are only a few kegs left. I don't know how to break the report of running out of ale." He then speaks louder. "The stew is missing... salt. Yes, adding salt should spice it a bit." he then takes a seat back at the table, looking in his empty mug sadly.

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Swan's Song

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Shawn Daysleeper and AelKennyr Rhiano

Nole was right. The rain returned shortly after full dark.  A steady rain, with its own chill to the air.  But, thankfully, the wind remained tame, and the sound of rain, pattering against the window pane was oddly calming.

By lamplight, Olwe, Lord of Alqualonde dipped his quill into the inkwell and in a flowing script,  pens his message to the dwarves, the Casari in Quenya, of Blue Mountain.  Across the room the fire in the fireplace danced along the wood, the popping and snapping of the flames sometimes breaking the monotonous sounds of the nib of the quill scratching across the vellum.

" From Olwe, Lord of Alqualonde and Tol Eressea, King of the Teleri, unto the ....." he pauses, chewing on his lower lip for a moment as the Teleri king thinks. Do I call them Nogothrim, as they would be known among the people of my brother, Elwë Singollo? Or perhaps by  that which they call themselves, the Khazad?  No, he decides, he will address them as they are know in Westron, and he continues.

"...unto the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains, come greetings." He leans forward, dips his quill into the ink, deftly taps the quill against the well to shake off excess, before he continues. "May this missive sent by swan, find survivors, for by my near kin, Elwing the White has come news that a grave mishap has befallen you, even as one of your own, the Lady Aztryd, is being returned to her people.  This troubles me greatly."

Olwe does not notice as the rain trickles down to a drizzle, nor does he  mark the dying of the flames in the fireplace. Instead he is absorbed by the thoughts he commits to vellum.

"I do not know the extent of the damage done to your home during this vile attack. My niece has given us the impression that you truly live in the ruins of your great settlement, and this makes you vulnerable until the elements and until your enemies, both seen and unseen." 

Olwe continues writing, laying out his offer to the dwarves. Here he pauses, looking up and around the room. Silent.  All of Alqualonde is bathed in a cloud-bound moon's light and a silence.  Dipping his quill again, he finished the letter and rests his quill on the ceramic plate beside the inkwell.  Reaching over the inkwell, he rises from his chair long enough to pickup the small vessel of sand, and sprinkles it across the vellum.

Let them come to Alqualonde, thinks Olwe. Let them come and settle here, recover and rest.  The ancestral home of the Teleri has been too quiet, too long. He picks up the vellum and shifts the sand back and forth expertly to dry the ink before he affixes his seal, the twin swans of Alqualonde. Rolling up the letter, he pops it into a silver case and rises from his desk.  He finds his messenger as he thought he would, asleep on the landing outside his tower, her head tucked under her wing, and loud noises sounding like snores intermittently issuing from her as her chest rises and falls.  "Maisi," Olwe gently calls, "Maisi."

But still the chest rises and falls, and still the head remains tucked, bill to crook of wing, until Olwe bends down and straps the carrying case to her leg.  Then as he rocks back on his heels, he turns blue eyes to meet the small shiny black eyes of the swan. "I know," Olwe says deprecatingly. 

For answer, Maisi shuffles to her feet and extends her wings, flapping several times and tilting her head, fixing a baleful stare at the Teleri Lord.  The answer the swan gives is far from musical,but loud and raucous. Olwe rises to a crouching position, making a calming motion with his hands. "It is not far there, and I can entrust only you, sweet Maisi. Alqua is still resting from her journey, and " here he looks around, although they were the only two upon the landing," you know how your fellow swans are. No, I need a swan brave, and true, beautiful and bold." He watches as Maisi raises her head, stretching her neck out and flapping her wings slowly. 

"Yes, you," Olwe whispers. "Who else may I trust but you?" He reaches out and scratches under her chin. "Fly, my Maisi, fly to the Casari of the Blue Mountain."

Slowly Olwe drops his hand and rises to his feet, watching the swan flap her arms and with a shake of her head, take to the air and with a lazy circle, fly off into the pink predawn. The night had passed as he wrote, and as it gave way to day, Olwe gave way to his exhaustion, entered his tower and sought his bed, to rest, to sleep, to wait.

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Kitchen Song

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Rajani Milton and Lihan Taifun

Aztryd returns to the kitchen work area, her arms loaded  with soiled linens from the pantry-turned-sleeping hall, Nizl  strapped to her back.  Nearly all the survivors are injured  in one way or another.  Broken bones have been set -- or at  least bound up -- she hopes competently.  Today, she thinks  with a resigned sigh, a dwarf who survives, with a crooked  limb, might still count himself or herself fortunate.  Cuts  have been sewn up.  Those will probably heal well enough, as  long as the wounds are kept clean to prevent the rot and the  fever.  It is the burns that look most worrisome.  A number  of people have serious burns.  Burns need to be kept coated  in salves, and protected by clean wrappings.  "Clean  wrappings" means laundry -- what seems like a never-ending  pile of linens in need of washing.  At least, she thinks, as  she dumps her armload next to a waist-high iron cauldron, it  is work done mostly in the kitchen, and not in the pantry.   The air out here is cleaner and more wholesome.  And, she  thinks with a twinge of guilt, she hears less of the  heart-rending moaning of the injured as those tending their  wounds peel caked bandages from raw burnt flesh.

Hjalmarr bends over the fire and pokes at it with a frown.  The cauldron is boiling away merrily, ready for the next  load of washing, and oh, how he wishes it was meant instead  for a bath! Grit and dust from the rockslide he had been  trapped under had made their way underneath his collar and  cuffs and scratched with a vengeance. At least he has been  able to wash his face and beard. He tried yesterday to  navigate the tunnels to his home to find a clean set of  clothing, but had been stopped by a great fissure in the  cave floor before he had even gone far enough to feel his  aches and pains. So he is wearing a shirt from his cousin  the baker, who lies with a broken arm and leg in the  pantry,  and whose home is near enough that Hjalmarr was able to  bring him extra blankets for the cold nights. Hjalmarr may  have his aches, but he is far, far better off than many. He  has been trying not to think of all the neighbours whose  condition he does not know, because they are missing.

He hears Aztryd's boots on the kitchen floor and looks up.  The young mother and her charge are a bright spot in the  day. "Is that the last of the linens for this morning?" he  asks. He stands up with a grunt. "And how is the little  one?"

Aztryd grunts, as she bends down to pick up the jar of  soap.  Nizl, tipped on her perch on Aztryd's back, kicks and  wiggles.  "The little one is fine.  Fidgety, she is.   She's  had too much soft living."  Well, the living wasn't soft  now.  Now it was survival.  Easy enough for Elwing to go  home again -- that island was her home.  Though Elwing need  not have slipped out so sudden and mysterious.   The elves hadn't seemed like panicky sorts, while she was with them.   And what did Elwing mean about getting help from Olwe?   There  was nothing the king, nor any of those elves, could do to  help.  Wearily, Aztryd prods the pile of linens with a  booted  toe.  "No doubt there will be more bandages that need  washing  before these are dry."  She scoops a dollop of soft soap  into  the cauldron.

Hjalmarr limps over to the drying racks to make sure they are properly set up. He pulls a sheet from one of them and lays it  out on a table to fold it. Blood does not come out entirely,  not  with the hot water they are using, but at least the linens have  been boiled. He is no healer, but he has seen over the years  how  keeping things clean makes a difference. He watches Aztryd  deftly balancing soap and baby. "Would you like another pair of  hands to stir the washing? Or to carry the young one? The floor  is not clean enough for crawling upon, but you must have had  her  swaddled on your back for some time." He folds a second sheet  as  he speaks.

The pungent herbs in the soap scent the steam from the  cauldron, blotting out for a moment the mundane odors of grime  and  blood and soot.  The smell reminds Aztryd of other laundry days,  as a child, when she carried small bundles of clean clothes,  while  her mother and her gammy and their clan sisters bent over the  steaming, soapy cauldrons.  Where is her mother now?  Where is  Azagak, her gammy?  The teams searching the tunnels have brought  in another survivor this morning, battered and hungry but alive,  so she tells herself that hope still remains.  Perhaps in some  other hidden corner of the tunnels, another cluster of dwarves  huddles around another fire, fearing they are the only  survivors.  But cold leaden doubt grows in a knot under her  stomach.  The burst of steam passes, leaving her hair and her face damp.

To Hjalmarr, she forces her face back to a cheerful smile.  She  nods in the direction of his folded sheets, saying, "Thank you  for  the help.  It is appreciated.  And I am sure little Nizl would  be most happy for a change of view."  With a practiced motion,  she unties the strap holding Nizl to her back, brings her to her  hip, carries her over toward the old man.  "What do you say,  magpie?" she coos to Nizl, "Would you like to sit with the grandpa  for a while?"

"It is no trouble," says Hjalmarr gruffly. "Better than sitting  about idle and worrying."

He holds out his arms to little Nizl. "Aye, little one, let us  give your mother a rest." He carries her over to the table and  sets her upon it, letting her kick her small legs and arms, which  have been wrapped too closely in one position for too long.  "Oops,  don't chew the sheets, young adventurer." He pushes the stacked  sheets out of her reach with one hand, while keeping her from  scrambling off the table with the other. He sees rather quickly  that more direct action is needed if she is not to crawl  precipitously over the edge of the table and injure herself upon  the floor. He picks her up again and sits down himself on the  bench. He bounces her on his knee. "Would you like a song, brave  Nizl?"

Aztryd smiles ruefully at the old gentleman's efforts to keep up  with Nizl.  Oh, the little magpie is a handful, she is!  Well,  let her be Hjalmarr's handful for a few minutes.  She stretches  her arms, relaxing the muscles in her freed shoulders.  Then,  picking up a pair of buckets, she tromps over to the kitchen's  well.  Endless piles of laundry require endless cauldrons of hot  water.

Hjalmarr hums to the bright-eyed young child. It is good to spend  time with someone who is not weighed down by the cares of survival. Nizl knows nothing   of dragons or cave-ins or death. He remembers his  nephew at this age, and sighs. Where is his nephew now? Surviving,  somehow, he hopes, but there is no way to be sure. He takes Nizl's  small fists in his hands and begins to wave them in time to an old  ballad about Durin's folk when the world was young. The tune is  simple and the words are brave, an old song that everyone on this  side of the mountains knows. Soon wee Nizl is cheerfully gurgling  along with his chanting and interjecting her own pointed  exclamations at appropriate moments. Hjalmarr smiles freely for the  first time since the dragon attack. Well, he thinks, we are not all  dead yet, and we can still make a child laugh. The Maker may have  mercy on us yet.

Does the bucket on the well needs more rope to reach the water level,  with each cauldron of water Aztryd has drawn today? Or does it only seem  so to her tired arms?  No, it is true.  She can see that the rope is now  near its end.  And these latest buckets of water look a bit cloudy, as  if a fine sediment had been disturbed by the splashing bucket.  But that  would only happen very near the bottom of the well.  Aztryd bites her  lip in worry.  This is not a good sign, not a good sign at all.

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Adelsteinn's Sorrow

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Shawn Daysleeper

With the disappearance of the elf, Adelsteinn begins to doubt Aztryd's story again. He is wondering if he really saw the giant swan that day and often rubs his eyes over the course of the last couple days to make sure he is seeing correctly. He is not an old dwarf, still fairly young by dwarf standards. He recollects if he had enough to drink that day , that often improves his mood and senses. Trouble is, he can't remember how much he drank that evening in the kitchen.

He often walks about, investigating the ruins. The dragon certainly did it's work well. There were familiar faces among the dead, including the other council members. It seems he is the only surviving member of the council. "I suppose the power of decision-making rests with me," he mutters.

The only thing credible in Aztryd's story was the note Fafnir found and brought to him. He thinks it is high time he consulted with the others about that note. It is certainly not written by any of the survivors as the handwriting is definitely foreign. It reminds him of the written documents the elves of the Havens brought with them in their bartering of goods. it has been some time since any of the elves have come to Adelsteinn's mountain settlement,  and  there are rumours abroad that they are departing these shores.

To make matters worse, it seemed the dragon found it's way into both of Adelsteinn's secret keg storage facilities. The wooden kegs were burned and many of them buried under collapsed rock and smashed. Also, the dragon set fire to the hops chute and barley stock. "Hundreds of kegs... destroyed." He sheds a tear at the destruction. Not only have his friends perished, but his profession is on the line. He returns to his brewery where a precious few kegs remain in the deep brewing room where he luckily was when the attack occurred. Not only did the dragon take his drinking friends, but also his very livelihood.  "I am not long to remain here," he says sadly as he makes his way back to the kitchen.

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There is No Rain

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Shawn Daysleeper and AelKennyr Rhiano

There is no rain.  Sunlight, weak from fighting the clouds for a bit of sky, filters down upon a Swanhaven wet and weary of rain, constant winds, and lightning.  Birds call to each other, from tree to tree, trills and whistles and bits of songs. But inside the palace of the Lord of Alqualonde, the Teleri King, hears them not.

He stretches for his hands, fingers splayed, toward the welcome warmth of the fire. The morning had not been so relieved of rain, and drenched and soggy, he had taken himself to the woods with bow and arrow, and sharpened hunting knife, to secure needed meat to feed the few that call Alqualonde home. It was a way to avoid thoughts of the moment, the news which rode upon the wings of an elf-turned-bird.  In another part of the palace, Elwing rests, fed and refreshed.  But Olwe does not know if sleep and Irmo's dreams will find him tonight.  He looks over his shoulder into the earnest face of the sea merchant, Nole. His boon companion these many turns of seasons since the Teleri disappeared from their home, and a sailor and a king find themselves bereft of friends and family.  The pop of the fire is loud and yet reassuring. "Finally, a dry afternoon, Nole," he says, by way of starting the conversation. "Think we may be lucky enough that we will have a night of stars instead of storms?"

Nole looks back at his king, smiling a little. "Yes, it looks like it will be a dry afternoon and a clear evening, but clear days following rain sometimes bring high winds." Other than that awkward musician Estelin, Nole was alone with his king. He felt loneliness this winter with the passing of his friend. But he has to look beyond that and forward for he knows his king needs him.

Olwe gives an absent nod, dropping his hands down to rub the palms briskly together, feeling the warmth seeping into the marrow of his bones. "There were times this winter that I wondered if we should be warm again," he murmurs to himself, and then turns a little to include Nole in his gaze.  "The hunting was good this day, friend Nole. Three fat rabbies are in a stew pot, simmering, and by evening's supper, should be tender and falling off the bone. " He sweeps the room with his gaze, taking in his desk, books opened, the palms which have survived the winter, protected as they have been within the palace. "Come, let us sit. I have news and more to share, and your thoughts I would have." He raises a hand, newly warmed, toward the seats behind them.  "Sit, please."

Nole looks relieved at the thought of a warm supper later that day. "It has been quite a miserable winter with the ice and snow, followed by rain." He looks to the chairs. "News to share? I would be glad to hear. I'll be happy to share my thoughts with you." He then takes a seat as instructed.

Olwe turns, and with the easy stride of long legs, crosses over to the other chair and  sits down, leaning back. No wind buffets the palace walls this afternoon. No aching, icy coldness seeps under the doors to the chambers or slips invisible fingers in to lay upon the backs of their necks.  Olwe closes his eyes for a moment, and soaks in the heat from the fireplace, the popping and crackling calming, soothing sounds.

"I thought we might salt the buck I brought down today. Preserve the meat for our trip. " He looks over at Nole. It is good to speak of their departure now, as a real thing that will happen soon, not something delayed time and time again, as they both sat locked in, icebound. He opens his eyes and gaze into the fire, clearing his throat softly. "This morn, as that storm was moving in, Alqua returned to us. " He pauses and turns his head to look at Nole as he adds, "Elwing was with her."

Nole looks at his king and repeating some of what he heard making sure he heard correctly. "Our trip? So we are going to depart? Excellent. Will we still be going to your cousin?" He smiles happily, thinking of the open sea again. He loves the sea breeze and guiding his ship around the oceans of the world. "Alqua and Elwing have arrived as well," he says as his mind comes back to reality. "So Aztryd arrived at her home in the Blue Mountains? I hope nothing befell them on the trip there. The day they departed  seemed like a rough day to fly."

Despite the disquiet at the news his niece brought that morn, despite the itchy desire to be up and doing, preparing, despite the mood that seems to have captured the mind of the Teleri Lord, his lips curve into a smile at the younger elf's excitement.  "We are going to depart, and soon.  Before we grow  roots and plant ourselves like waterlogged living elf-trees." His tone is light, a mock menacing storyteller's tone, just as when he told a very young Earwen stories to send her to sleep.  The smile remains as he continues to answer Nole. "I was going to ask you if we can plan a day of departure, soon as possible, Nole." Then the smile slides from his face. 

He nods in answer to the question about Sylvhara as he speaks. "We will go. Yes, to see how Comet fares.  I know it is not in the mind of Lord Ulmo that we go, but yes, how can I sail away without knowing?" He laces his hands together and leans forward, resting his arms upon his legs. "She would not so callously dismiss me, nor can I her.  And yes," he pauses and looks down at his laced fingers, "Aztryd and Elwing arrived safely at her home in Blue Mountains, but all was not safe there, I am afraid."

Nole thinks of visiting Sylvhara, Comet's realm off towards the south. He remembers Olwe's cousin's kind hospitality and splendid realm, but then came the incident with the poisoned wine, and the touch of the dark ones through whom his beloved king was nearly lost forever to him. He knows he must be more vigilant this time for both himself and his king. "We can depart as early as tomorrow morning. I would say later today, but I do not want to miss a hot supper that you have started for us. Now if Estelin had started it..." his voice trails off but then news of Aztryd stopped him. "Aztryd arrived safe, but it is not safe now? Were they snowed in or something? Elwing is here you said, but did Aztryd return on Alqua as well?"

Olwe shakes his head, raising a hand to brush a stray lock from his blue eyes. The logs in the fireplace shifts and sparks fly up, like fiery fireflies.  "Aztryd remained behind." He draws in a breath, the smell of pine in the air, from the logs burning just beyond them.  "Elwing tells me the dwarf settlement was attacked.  By whom, she has not said. She may not know. But it was fierce enough an attack to damage their entire settlement and leave but few alive. At least that is the impression I have from what little was said." He looks over and watches the flames in the fireplace as he continues. "Elwing was cold, tired, and hungry when she arrived. I suspect she is still sleeping in Earwen's old rooms." He turns his gaze to meet Nole's. "She spoke of the settlement looking 'burnt.'"

 "Burnt?" Nole asks as he follows Olwe's gaze to the fireplace. The fire within reminded him of the attack Alqualonde suffered when he dragon and it's companion visited before. The burning forests, towers and the soot in the air. Ulmo came to their aid that day and sent the invaders off, but where did they go after that? Nole delves into his geography memory. The Blue Mountains were some distance from the coast and would have been too far away for Ulmo to assist. "Perhaps," Nole says aloud, "that the dragon went there following their attack here. Did Elwing see anything there like she saw here that day?"

Olwe's eyes widen at the question before narrowing as he grows thoughtful.  "I did not question Elwing too closely," he says slowly.  "She was cold and spent after her journey back to us. She traveled into the storms that rolled in last night. It could not have been but exhausting for both her and Alqua." He frowns at little as he thinks. "You are thinking the dragon left Alqualonde and, what, turned his rage upon the dwarves?"  He nods as he considers this idea. "If so, then, was the Balrog with him?"

"It is my thinking," Nole begins turning to his king, "that the dragon and Balrog would have left in anger from here, having been turned away by Ulmo." He thinks for a moment. "It would then be conceivable that they would want to unleash their rage elsewhere. It would not take long for that large dragon to fly there. And even shorter time if it is angry." Nole shudders. "I would not know if the Balrog helped the dragon attack the dwarven settlement, but I would think one of them would be enough to ruin it. Did Elwing speak of survivors? There may be some if Aztryd stayed behind. It could be that Aztryd herself could be in great danger if either or both the dragon or balrog returned there to finish off any survivors."

Olwe nods absently as he considers the merchant's words, and then he answers, even as the aroma of rabbit stew floats up from the kitchens throughout the palace, even to where they now sit. His nostrils flare as he breathes in the smell and realizes that leagues from them, in Blue Mountain, the little dwarf mother and her babe may not have so rich a fare for supper. "She spoke of a few survivors she has seen, but tonight we can question her more." He leans back and rests both hands upon his stomach as he continues.  "Certainly, you have the right of it, Nole. Either of those creatures could decimate the settlement. Any survivors are truly blessed by Eru to have escaped. And even should the dragon or the balrog not return, I must wonder at what can be left. They will have wounded, and the dying, and a burn out settlement cannot be expected to sustain them for long. What is there near to them that can serve as safe harbor for the children of Aule?"

Nole looks worried as Olwe thinks he is right. "I would say they are in great peril to remain there, even if the dragon or balrog does not return. Nor would they easily gain aid from their neighbours. The tales and customs of of those I meet on my voyages abroad yield much information. The Blue Mountains border the Noldor realm of Lindon, and the elves there do not look upon dwarves in high regard. It is said because of historic incidents that both sides say they have forgotten," Nole says sadly. "The lands to the east are ruled by the great king of men and the little folk, who do not understand the customs of the Children of Aule." Nole sighs deeply as he smells the rabbit stew. "I fear that any remaining dwarves will not survive long there or in their settlement without good food."

Olwe watches Nole's face as he speaks, his blue eyes thoughtful, a little distant. He sits up and forward as the sea merchant finishes speaking. resting an elbow on the arm of the seat. "It has been in my mind all day to dispatch a message to Aztryd, by one of our regular swans, and offer assistance." He draws in a breath, and the aroma of the stew causes his mouth to  water.  The afternoon is quickly sliding to evening, and supper is a consideration they should take seriously shortly.  "If the Noldor are not moved to help them, nor the men who live near them, we cannot stand by and do naught.  It has crossed my mind that we would sail to Lindon in our journey, would we not? To that outpost there?  Then it is no great matter to meet the dwarves there, at that port, is it? What think you, Nole. They descend their mountain and meet us. If Aztryd can give us a figure, we shall know how many survive at present." He pauses, and his voice drops low. "Have her count the less seriously wounded." He does not have to say to Nole that the more grievous would never make a descent from such a mountain range. 

 Nole nods. "Yes, we write that we could meet the dwarves at the outpost. I do not think the elves there would attack or hinder the dwarf survivors, but they would certainly not aid them either. The mountains are quite impressive, and surely even the most stalwart would not make it down to the coastal outpost if they are very wounded. But we need to know how many to expect, so we have enough supplies." He is not sure what would happen after that, but that could be asked another time. "Perhaps, my king, I will see to the stew and finish cooking our dinner. It will be dinnertime soon."

Slowly, smoothly, Olwe rises to his feet and catches the other elf by laying a hand upon the other's arm.  "Nay, my friend, let us both go, together, and see to our meal. We tempt sorely the weave of Vaire to leave it so unattended lest our musician friend Estelin take it upon himself to check upon the stew and ..." Olwe tries not to grimace,"...flavor it for us.  "We can speak further of these matters and with Elwing, who may be awake by then." Olwe looks away at the mention of Estelin. He cannot tell his friend that the disguised Irmo warned him from sailing to Sylvhara as well. Nor will he reveal to anyone this night that he has every intent of visiting his cousin before they set course, with all possible speed to retrieve such survivors as may be among Aztryd's people.  His heart sinks as he thinks back to Nole's words.  Could it be that, denied their victory, kept from achieving the death of Olwe and waste of Alqualonde, they turned their fury upon the innocent dwarven settlement. Instead, he turns back to Nole with a small smile, all the more painful for the lump in his stomach. "Come, Nole, let's rescue first our supper." And with that, he turns  toward the door of the chambers, and the evening.

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When Things Were Tranquil

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AelKennyr Rhiano

Olwe leaned back and rested his head against the curved tub as the hot water of his bath slowly warmed chilled limbs. He reached from the bar of soap and turned it over and over in his hands, working up a good lather, the delicate scent of the flowers that were added to the ingredients when the bar was formed, now released to mingle with the steam from the water. Slowly he washes away the mud and grime from his body, his muscles slowly relaxing and unknotting.

 Slowly, the Lord of Alqualonde rises from his bathe, reaches over and grabs the soft,  luxuriant towel from it's folded place over the head board of the tub. Shaking it out, he begins to dry off, first his arms, then shoulders, and chest.  A brace of rabbits and a buck..the morning's hunt was not a fruitless one, despite being thoroughly soaked to the bone and sinew. The morning thunderstorm had dissipated into a dreary, constant drizzle, the cold rain find its way instead the neck of his tunic and drenching him from the inside out. He quickly grew soaked and cold and ill tempered, but no one accompanied him, so no one was there to witness breaches of his usual tranquil manner

Not that he has been tranquil in some time. Tranquil was  sitting upon his reading couch in his own palace library, tucked away with a book and a cup of fresh milk, cookies as only his cook remembered how to make from all the times cooks were part of a little elf child's happiness.  Tranquil was walking among his people at the end of a successful fishing upon the seas, and all were home unharmed, Tranquil was resting his head against Tilion's shoulder as they whispered to each other the wisdom of four ages of lovers the world around.

There is no tranquil. He finished drying off, he tossed the towel over the lip of the tub and padded across the bedchamber to where his clothes had been thoughtfully laid out. "Nole," thinks Olwe, reaching down and fingering the rich fabric. Every piece of the outfit had been laid out with consideration and care. Lightly his fingers trail over jacket before he picks up the shirt and shrugs into it.  As he reaches for the jacket, he stops and holds it draped over one arm as he unbuttons it , remembering with a bittersweetness the last time he had worn these clothes.

Earwen had returned home, to Alqualonde, for a visit. All flushed with the joy of the news she brought to her father. "Finarfin had the finest Noldor tailors make this for you, father, " she had told him, as she laid it across this very bed. She had looked up at him with those same eyes from which she had cried tears of pain, tears of joy throughout her childhood in the Swanhaven. Bright eyes, like stars in a winter cold sky, but warm, so warm and alive.  "Try it on, father," she had pressed, and  he had scooted her from the room to do as she had bade.  Finarfin had chosen his tailors well: the clothes fit the Teleri Lord like a second skin. Earwen told her father that she was with child, and then, within the week, she was sailing away again, and all he had as testimony of the visit was these clothes.

As he finished dressing, he thinks back over the morning, Elwing's arrival, and her news.  He thinks back to the night before, and the long talk with Estelin. "No," he had said, time and again that night. "I must go, my Lord. I must. I have heard nothing from her. Please, can't you see how it tears my heart?" And all the time, Olwe knew, deep in his heart, he knew that Estelin did, indeed know how troubled the Lord of Alqualonde was, is, and will be until he knows for himself, sees for himself, that his Cousin is safe from harm. 

He gave a heavy sigh. He was dressed now, and below, in the kitchens, awaits three rabbits, ready for the cooking, the rest of the meat already butchered and wrapped in leaves soaked with oil and herbs and placed in the cold cellar or ready to be salted on the morrow.  He looks about the room. So many memories in the sparsely furnished room.  He has just enough time to start the stew and meet Nole in his private study.  Perhaps, he may even be able to sit down with a book and read by the fire, like he used to do..

...when things were tranquil. When things were tranquil.

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Daybreak Arrival

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 Cinnamon Raymaker and AelKennyr Rhiano

Onward, ever onward, flies Elwing, calling out every so often to the giant swan, Alqua, who is tracking their progress westward to the home of Olwe. Knowing she must be nearing the isle that she now considers her safe haven, Elwing peers ahead, her piercing bird gaze, through the heavy cloud cover in the hope that a sliver of sunlight will affirm her theory. The cold icy droplets of rain batter against her sleek feathered form as she begins her descent.

He spent a sleepless night after the talk with Estelin, and as dawn came, a thin grey sky, with clouds heavy and black, Olwe rises from his bed with a sigh, and shrugs into his hunting clothes.  He has been watching the weather, tracking the storms as there has been little else to take his mind from thoughts of his discourse with the Vala Ulmo, from the worry that gnaws at him as he still has heard nothing from his Cousin, Queen of the Sylvan elves.  Do not go to Sylvhara, Estelin had told him with the authority of a Vala. But how can he not go? How can he bear the silence from across the sea? A night has passed, and Elwing remains with the dwarf mother, Aztryd.  He settles the cloak about his shoulders, and deftly fastens the clasp.

After what seems forever, there comes into view the outline of a familiar looking coastline, together with the bright harbor lights of the Swanhaven, several leagues across the roughly churning waves ahead. Spirits rising, Elwing calls on her inner strength, and with renewed fervor, beats a path through the torrid weather, dreaming all the while of a hot bath and warm food and soft blankets.

The palace was quiet, still and quiet, as Olwe starts making his way down from his private chambers.  His brow furrows as he pauses on the second landing, and looks out over the expanse of the throne room.  For a moment, he can recall past days, seated upon the swan throne, the hall filled with the laughter and sometimes raucous voices of people who were well content with their life, their land, and he hopes, their king.  A thousand jokes were told in those days. A thousand recounts of the fish that escaped the nets, or the maid with the sea blue eyes, or the first steps of a babe. Now, there are only the ghosts of those times, walking in the memory of the Teleri king.

Calling out to Alqua to encourage the graceful beast, she banks left to beat a sway across the wave tops, grazing them with the tips of mighty wings as she fast approaches the shore. Skimming lower, and carefully and accurately judging the distance to the shore, she slows her pace and gracefully drags webbed feet through the water, slowing, slowing, until she reaches the safety of the inner harbor. Seeing her companion land safely beside her, she gracefully beats her wings and calls out to Alqua, "Rest well, my friend!"

Then she again lifts herself through the icy droplets of rain and heads for the palace balcony.  As she hovers above the balcony, she shimmers into her elven form. Bedraggled, cold, and absolutely drenched, she slips and slides her way across the balcony until she is out of the wind and rain. She must find her way to the room in which she knows her clothing is stored.   "Must, get dry! Must get warm," she chatters to herself as she shivers uncontrollably.

Olwe's feet touch the marble floor of the throne room just as the rains came pouring from the sky.  He looks up and across the room toward the balcony.  Another rain, another grey day. He turns in the direction of the kitchens, pausing to  look out across the smaller balcony in the direction of the harbor.  He stops, blue eyes widening, and stares, watching as a swan makes lazy circles, spiraling downward towards the waters of the dock. Alqua, he realizes. She has returned home. He continues to watch her as she descends, forgetting all about warmth, food, or remaining dry. He turns back in toward the throne room and hurriedly makes his way across to the larger balcony.

Elwing looks up on her way through the throne room to her own chambers and sees the familiar and welcome form of her uncle, King Olwe. On his part, he sees her and comes to a stop. Framed against the rain pouring forth from the skies, he takes in her bedraggled appearance, her body visibly shaking with tremors, her hair plastered to her head, and her breath expelling in warm puffs of mist. "Elwing," he says, and quickly unclasps his cloak to settle it about the delicate shoulders. "You should not have traveled in this storm," he admonishes as he rubs the serviceable woolen cloak across her bare arms.

"Greetings, Uncle," she gasps, appreciating the efforts of her uncle to remove the icy raindrops dripping from her form. "I had to return with Alqua immediately as there are strange happenings afoot at Aztryd's home. Indeed, Alqua was in mortal danger of being consumed by Aztryd's clan. I could not let that happen," she gasps, teetering on her feet.

Frowning with concern, Olwe reaches out and steadies his niece, looking down into her eyes. "Alqua in danger?" He starts to wrap an arm her and lead her across the throne room. "Come, we must get you warm.  You are soaked and chilled." The look in his eyes is one of old worry and uncertainty.  "What mean you about 'strange happenings?'"

 Elwing appreciates her uncle's concern and the look of worry in his brilliant blue eyes. She leans into the crook of his arm. "Uncle, all I can report is that Aztryd's home is devastated, the smell of charred remains pervades the air, her gammy was nowhere in sight, and the bustling clan home is almost silent. I do not know what to make of this."

Olwe's arm tightens around his niece protectively as he bobs his head at the news.  They walk in silence for a a few moments. "Charred?" he asks. "Did you see survivors? Are there survivors? What have they told you?" He leads them both in direction of the kitchen.  "Where is the little mother?"

Elwing nods her head tiredly and looks into her uncle's eyes, "There are survivors, Uncle. Several voices I heard. Several came back from a hunting party with food for the group. There may have been some I didn't see. Aztryd and Nizl are both safe. This I know as I listened to the voices before I left. All was calm. " Elwing lifts her head and takes a breath, looking around her.  Elwing hangs her head with exhaustion, teeth chattering and feet numb with cold.

Olwe open his mouth to ask another question, but feels the tremors run through his niece, beneath the cloak  in which she is wrapped.  He steers her toward the kitchen and opens the door. "I want to hear all you know, but that can wait, Elwing. Now  is the time for you to get warm, eat, and rest." He gestures for Elwing to proceed him into the room."I will stoke up the fire in the stoves and heat some of our port wine," he tells her, leading her to the table. "Then, rest for you, Elwing. We can speak of these matters after you have rested."

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Bring the Elf

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Aztryd eyes Fafnir warily, making no move to take his offered hand.  "Alas, it might be difficult for me to accompany you, just now.  Little Nizl has finally fallen asleep, and I would hate to wake her."  She clings protectively to Nizl, sleeping contentedly under her cloak.  "I doubt Elwing will give you any trouble -- yes, Elwing is her name.  And I am sure your voice is honey enough for two."

The sound of voices so nearby reaches Eilif even through the fogs of sleep. Groggily she blinks and moves to look around her, flinching as she unwarily shifts her injured arm. She has fallen asleep over supper, she realizes, for the meal is now over. Thanking the Maker for small mercies, she turns quietly to listen to the others. What has she missed, she wonders.

For a moment Fafnir's hand remains outstretched, and he tilts his head a little to one side at her words.  His gaze flits around the room, resting on no one person, taking in the reaction of each seated at the table.  Lowering his hand, he forces a smile upon his face and a false nonchalance in his voice. "Ah, so kind of you to say so, about my voice," he answers, taking a side step away from Aztryd. "I don't think anyone has ever considered my voice sweet enough to charm an elf.  But," and he pauses here, "of course, there is the dear sweet child to consider.  She has already been through so much." He gives an heavy  emphasis to the word, "So."  He claps a hand on the Elder's back. "Right, well, pardon me all, I have an elf to fetch." He turns and says over his shoulder. "Elwing, you say? Odd name...sounds like a soup." He walks out the kitchen, whistling tunelessly.

Nasi does not lift his eyes from the fire as he coughs to clear his throat and draw attention to himself before he speaks up. "You cannot trust elves you know.  No matter what some say.  Mayhap it would be wise if I were to accompany you? Just.. just to be sure."  His dark cheeks flush as when there is no reply, and he glances up to see Fafnir's retreating back as he disappears through the door.  He had not heard Fafnir's soft footsteps as he  walked off over the crackling of the fire.  Ducking his head shyly, he turns his gaze back to the fire.

Adelsteinn looks after Fafnir as he departs and nods approvingly. He hears Nasi's words about not trusting elves and replies, "Not all elves can be trusted, Nasi, but this elf trusted in Aztryd to bring her here, so I suspect Fafnir will be fine." He takes a drink of ale.

Hjalmarr notices Eilif stir beside him, but decides not to mention it. He will claim she was awake the whole time if anyone asks; after all, he fell asleep too! "And what," he says to Adelsteinn over the rim of his mug, "shall we do with an elf if we fetch her?"

Eilif's dark eyes rest on Nasi as he stands by the fire.  He is still just a blur to her, but she knows by his voice that it is he who stands there.  She lifts her good hand and plays with the braid of her beard thoughtfully, a small smile playing around her lips.  "So that is the way of it?" she thinks and smiles a little more. Well, good luck to him.  There was little enough cause to smile in these dark days.

The corridor was built, like everything his people build:  larger...larger than they are, larger than their lives, larger than their dreams. It is as though his people compensated for their small views by their elaborate, soaring, and huge creations. He stumbles as his foot strikes a rock, and he bites off a curse.  This is the corridor they use now, for foraging forays and to continue the search for other survivors, so the floor has been cleared of most of the large debris,in case they should have to retreat speedily back into the kitchen. In case, and Fafnir's eyes cannot help but travel up the far wall of the corridor and fasten upon the soot stains and blackened stones..in case it came back.

 Aztryd settle Nizl comfortably on her lap again, and lifts her mug to her lips.  She watches the Elder -- Adelsteinn is his name -- carefully.  He sounds like he intends to treat Elwing fairly, but still, Elwing is an elf among a group of dwarves -- and dwarves whose patience has been sorely tried --  and Aztryd feels a responsibility toward the elf who has been like a clan-sister to her.

Nasi glances at the small group seated at the table as he hears the Elder's words.  That Adalstienn disagrees with him does not bother him.  He shrugs a little.  What the Elder thought of elves was none of his business, really.  He notices Eilif's small smile, and he smiles a little in return.  That one had fought valiantly to save lives during the attack and paid for it dearly.  Raising his voice to carry, he turns from the fire and walks over to her, glancing warily at their visitor as he does so. "How is that arm of yours, Eilif?  Have you had it looked at today?"

His eyes linger upon the charred and blackened spots for a few moments more, and then he starts off again,  hands on his belt.  Fafnir thinks back to Aztryd's answer, his lips curling as he does. "Now," he says aloud and looks over at the near wall, where his shadow, cast by the dim light of torches set periodically into set hooks in the wall, looks back at him. "Now, she feels the need to tend the wee one. Never mind that she left the child stewing its own offal while she bandied words with us all." He feels his temper rise a little, and gives his head a shake.  "What unnatural natural response," he turns his head again, and stops, regarding his shadow. "But she sees what they all see, doesn't she? All prim and proper, but hardly respected. Why, she is no better than a runaway wife, and we should send her back to him, with a note. 'Keep better track of your wife, good dwarf.'" 

But then the words of Aztryd, when she told them of how her husband was, how even the babe was not safe, comes back to him, and he feels his temper seep out of him, like warmth from the stone walls nearer the surface, after the sun has gone down.  So he puts the dregs of his anger behind him, on the floor of the corridor and turns into the room, where the elf is supposed to be.

Adelsteinn turns to Hjalmarr. "I am requesting the elf come and join in our discussion." He actually wants the elf to validate Aztryd's tale before he reveals he saw the giant swan outside earlier today. "Have a care when the elf come:, remember we share mutual peace with the elves of the Havens. This elf helped one of our kind."He nods to Aztryd, seeming to notice her gaze. "Now everyone have an ale. it will help the supper settle and also help our wits."

Fafnir pulls up short at the doorway and looks about the room. There, in one corner, is a cot of sorts, and he walks over to it, reaching down.  The mattress bears the curved impression of a body, still warm to the touch even. He wheels about and rushes, feet pounding up the corridor to where it leads to the surface. She has to have gone this way, unless the elf is a simpleton and is lost below.  But, no, elves have some sense of direction, if nothing  else, Legs pumping, he runs as fast as he can.

Eilif feels her cheeks warm at Nasi's approach.  She was unused to any fussing over her.  Now, rather than be enthralled in their visitor as everyone else was, here was the handsome stone mason asking after her wounds.  For a moment the brusque, stoic weapon smith blushes like any shy maiden. "You are kind to ask, Nasi," she murmurs softly, "But they will heal or not.  Fussing over them will help little."

Fafnir bursts out of the ruined and charred entrance into the settlement, into a night filled with stars and icy wind.  Panting for breath, he looks wildly about him, expecting to see...something, anything.  Gasping for air, sucking down lungful after lungful of cold night wind, he leans over and puts his hands on his knees, his chest tight, heart pounding.  He's alone, outside alone. He does not know his body is starting to shiver.  After a few moments, when his chest starts to loosen, and his breathing to slow down, he straightens up and looks after the only path leading down from the settlement. "I would you have taken me, " he whispers, and then he turns, and, wrapping his arms around him, he makes his way back inside.

Hjalmarr can't help but smile at the wee one dozing on Aztryd's lap. It is good to be reminded of children, the hope for the future, at times like this when there has been so much devastation. Though to what world young Nizl will wake, he cannot say. He nods at the Elder. "Aye, it would be wise to hear the Elf out before we do aught  regarding her tale. Though I hope someone can explain about the dragons!"

Nasi clicks his tongue and gently reaches out to turn her a little where she sits so he can examine her injuries. "Aye, but should it heal, we would like it to heal straight and true for we will have need of your skills in the future, methinks."  He nods as he sees the bindings on her arm are secure and then puts a hand under her chin so he can turn her face to the light.  His eyes roam over the wound on her face, and he gives a small nod again before he speaks. "It is healing clean, at least.  There is no infection so the scarring will be minimal" He lowers his voice a little before he continues. "Your vision, it will heal too, I am sure of it.  I.. I am no physician, but I have seen this before with head wounds, when a worker has been struck by some stone or rubble.  It will heal."  He glances to the door through which Fafnir had departed.  What was taking him so long?

Eilif frowns a little at the others words of reassurance. How did he know that it was the vision problems that were worrying her the most?  At this close range though, she sees him clearly and notices his anxious glance at the door.  "He will be back." she whispers softly and then to cover her moment of gentleness, her voice takes on more of her usual gruff tones as she turns and answers the one seated next to her. "What more do you need to know of dragons, old one?  They kill and destroy mindlessly.  Take a walk through our once fair city, and you will learn all you need to know about dragons."

It is a cold Fafnir, a sedate and almost pensive Fafnir, who rejoins the rest of the survivors in the kitchen. In his left hand was clenched a scrap of paper, found in the room where the elf had been kept.  It was after he came back inside, that he thought of all the possible places this elf could have wandered off to, but when he returns to the chambers, and she is still not there, he knows his instincts were right. She has left, and all there is in the room to bear witness to her presence is the note in his hand.  Silently he crosses over to the elder, not looking at any of them, hands it to Adelstein, and walks over to the large fireplace to warm himself. There is something in the complete disappearance of the elf that opens a little part of Fafnir he keeps even from himself: his ever isolation from all the rest of the dwarves. 

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