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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.