A Ship and a Sail

Played by:

AelKennyr Rhiano
Jasper Dragonheart
Shawn Daysleeper

Olwe, Lord of Alqualonde and Tol Eressea, and King of the Teleri, turns his head, blue eyes following the motion of the wings.  He gives a soft gasp as the young shipwright turns the wheel, and the wings respond readily, dipping gracefully.  His eyes follow the graceful wings and lift briefly to watch a seagull fly across the sky.  Here, before him in a royal majesty, this young elf has taken the craft taught the Teleri by the Maia Osse and risen it to the highest of art and form.  Slowly he turns his attention back to Miro, tilting his head a little as he considers the ship upon whose deck he now stands.  "Your father," he asks, his voice calm and tranquil as a pond, deep and rich in its tone.  "Your father, lad, must have been a fine shipwright, but I warrant that he is surpassed by his son. You did say he was a shipwright as well?"

Slowly he turns his attention back to Miro..

Nole feels excited at the innovations Miro is showing him on the new swanship. For a moment it reminds him of when he and Felsa worked together to build the ship that now lies so damaged in the harbor. That is a sad memory. Felsa is gone, as will  be the old swanship. It is time to move on. He has rising excitement as he looks about this new design, and he is eager to feel how she handles upon the open ocean. He looks around more and asks, "When do you think she will be ready to sail?"

"When do you think she will be ready to sail?"

Miro releases the ship's wheel, centering it and the wings to their standard position as he does so. He steps back from the helm, his long slender fingers trailing along the curving sweep of the crescent moons in a caress that speaks more eloquently than words of his great love for this ship, and turns to face King of the Teleri and his brother.  He nods a little absently as he answer's Olwe's question. "Aye, he was a fine shipwright, with a keen mind and sharp eyes for line and beauty."  He lets his eyes sweep the length of the ship a moment before they rise up to the sail bearing its crest, billowing so bright and new against the clear blue sky, "But he had no time for dreams, he always said.  Dreams are dangerous things, for fools, and this ship was my dream so it was never built in his lifetime."

Miro turns to Nole and smiles a little wistfully as he answers him. "I have asked myself that question I think a thousand times over the years.  When would my swanship finally sail the mighty expanses of Ulmo's domain? Now I believe I have an answer." He glances again at the unfinished equipment at his feet, and his mind and demeanour are again those of a Master Shipwright as he quickly assesses the work yet to be done.  She will take a se'nnight at least, two if she is to be properly sea trialled.  But no more than that."  He turns his gaze back to Olwe. "But you need a ship fit to sail well before that, I believe?"

Olwe nods at the answer to his question, and his eyes scan about them to locate the wrecked swanship that gave fuel to the creative flames deep within the passionate heart of the shipwright, long ago, when he was but a child.  Narrowing his eyes, he stares hard at the wreckage. In the long years of abandonment, trees have grown up, and brush and thickets. But as the Teleri king stares, he makes out the all-too-familiar curve of the bow, the hull shallow compared to this ship, and so much more like the ship upon which they left the Swanheaven.  Teleri, he thinks, for though the turning of ages has seen swanships in Middle Earth, yet, their designs were different from the swanships of Tol Eressea and of Alqualonde as...he takes a breath, the conversation between Nole and Miro barely registering.... this was different than any other he has ever seen.  He turns his gaze back to the shipwright, studying carefully his features.  Why does this elf look so familiar?

Why does this elf look so familiar?

He clears his throat and answers the question he thought he heard. "No, no, I hope it would take less than that to repair our ship, friend. We needs be ready to sail in a day or two." He turns to Nole. "I worry how we will accommodate the dwarves in our craft.  I am not sure how the Khazad will fare with wide expanses of water. Aztryd seemed to be quite displaced with the idea of sailing, if I remember from the way she recounted how she arrived in Alqualonde."

Nole falls quiet as he listens to Olwe and Miro make plans. He looks over the ship again and takes in her beauty. He then finds himself admiring the elven shipwright who built her. He sees his deep blue eyes. Nole has a new admiration and respect for his abilities as a shipwright. Upon recognizing Olwe's question, he nods absentmindedly and murmurs, "Yes, she was."

Miro looks from one to the other and shakes his head a little. "I have encountered some of the Khazad from time to time, as they have come to the city to trade.  I have yet to see one venture past the harbor arches, so wary are they of the ocean's depths, let alone board a ship.  They seem to place great store on size and sturdiness, and I believe your small group is taking all their remaining worldly possessions with them when they go with you.  I fear it will be a cramped journey and an overloaded ship they would be trusting their fate to, if they were to return with you on your craft, even if she be repaired."

Miro ducks his head a little at his boldness of speaking so to royalty, let alone one whom he has admired and respected as a personage of legend from the time he was a small child. His long dark curls swirl about his shoulders with the movement as he beckons them to follow him as he moves to the rail of the ship so they may overlook the plainer craft moored on the far side of the dock.

Miro nods towards the ship with his chin as he speaks. "She be plain, but sturdy and well-tried.  I use her for when I trade along the coast, although she is more than strong enough for the open ocean."  He turns his gaze from the ship, his deep ocean blue eyes meeting the clear sky blue gaze of Olwe's. "Majesty, I would not risk so many passengers on so small a craft as your swanship, even if she were repaired.  These waters..." he turns and looks towards the open ocean in the distance beyond the entrance to the Gulf. "These waters are not as gentle as those of the Blessed Lands when the swanships carried so many of your people to Aman.  Nor do I wish to rush the build of this ship, upon which we stand.  But, I believe I have a solution to offer, if I may be so bold?"

"She be plain, but sturdy and well-tried..."

".. I believe I have a solution to offer.."

The smell of fish, salt, and pitch mingles and tickles at Olwe's nose, as he watches the wind lift the tangled locks of the shipwright.  The eyes, so blue and so intense, draws Olwe's attention.  Felsa's eyes were blue, he remembers, and he casts a side-wise glance at the sea merchant, Nole, who, in turn, is silently watching them both.  He watches as Miro crosses the deck and turns his back to them to indicate a second, plainer ship.  Crossing the deck to come up beside the shirtless shipwright, Olwe scans the line of the second ship.  "We did not know their condition, nor how many we should find," answers Olwe, his eyes scanning the other ship.  "I had not known what we should find, only that we should give aid. We are not used to rescuing the Maker's children and restoring them to our Swanhaven." 

He looks over at the younger elf, and tilts his head. "What do you propose, young Miro?"

"What do you propose, young Miro?"

Miro's blue eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles a little ruefully, "Aye, sadly our race has had little experience in rescuing theirs, so it would be impossible to know what to prepare for." He turns his gaze again to the other ship, "I could help you, if you would permit. While my workmen finish the work on this ship, I could take you and your passengers to Alqualonde on my trading vessel, if you would show me the way. She is sturdy enough to perhaps reassure your anxious passengers, and big enough to accommodate all without danger of overloading. It would take less than a day to provision her, if you give me numbers of how many would be travelling " He stops and smiles as a thought occurs to him, "Although methinks I would double the usual supplies based on what I have heard of hearty Khazad appetites."

Miro stops a moment as another thought occurs to him and he runs fingers that tremble a little along the smooth surface of the ship's rail, "I have never sailed beyond the coastal waters. I have never sailed the open ocean, let alone taken the Straight Road to the West. I.. I don't think I would even know how to find it."  Sighing he looks back up at the Teleri King, "But what I have is here for your service, if it might aid you, as am I."

"But what I have is here for your service..."

Olwe's eyes are drawn to the ship anchored close by, studying the sturdy ship as he mulls over the younger elf's words.  Certainly the artisan touch and craftmanship of the shipwright is as plainly stamped upon the features of the vessel just beyond them as it was upon the swanship upon whose deck he now stands.  There and here were traces of the handiwork of the master shipwright.  "A cargo vessel?" he guesses softly.  "What does she usually haul?" he asks curious as he steps closer to the younger elf, inspecting the ship closely.  "Yes," he says, not giving Miro a chance to answer immediately.  "Yes, somehow I cannot see Eilif faring very well upon our smaller swanship's deck.  Nor," he admits with a rueful smile, "nor, I admit, would I relish the idea of a return voyage with our seasick musician upon our smaller, more delicate craft."

He turns and looks over Miro's shoulder, carefully studying the expression on Nole's face before looking back over at the young shipwright.  "The Straight Road will not be needed, my friend. The correct course Nole can easily guide you  to and through, if it be you who will captain the ship. I should be glad, indeed, if that were so." He gives a small smile, glancing back at Nole.  The wind sweeps up off the water, and peppers Olwe's hair with droplets that catch the sun and reflect its beam like little jewels.  "You are most generous, my young friend. It is commendable."

Nole stands a little aside and behind his king and Miro. He listens to them discussing the plans and feels pleased that Miro may be travelling with them. He is glad that Miro will not be leaving him so soon. With that worry aside, he looks at the ship some more while they talk. He grins a little at the mention of the seasick musician. After their discussion he nods. "Yes, I can guide us to Alqualonde across the mortal waters."

"...I can guide us.. across the mortal waters."

Miro blinks as he looks from one elf to the other, for a moment thinking that the shrieking of the seabirds overhead has caused him to mis-hear, but no, Nole had confirmed what Olwe's had implied. "Across the mortal waters?" He blurts out. 'What.. what do you mean? Alqualonde is in Aman, is it not?"

Eyes the blue of the sky meets Miro's puzzled gaze. As the wind whips his hair about his face, Olwe raises a hand and pulls errant strands from around his mouth. "Alqualonde has been a part of the mortal realm of the Children of Eru for three passing of the seasons. Three summers, three autumns and three winters has the Swanhaven been part of the whole of Middle Earth and beyond.  It is the time of a great Darkness, the time of great shift and change across the world Blessed Illuvatar gave will to be sung into being. I have,"He pauses and draws breath, beginning again, his heart tightening as he says the words. Three turns of the seasons has not lessened the ache as he speaks. "I come to find  my people, my Teleri, who, in a flash of light was taken from the Swanhaven as it sat, in peace and blessed beauty in the lands of the Valar. I come, driven by the dreams sent me by Irmo, Lord of Visions. I come, commissioned by Lord Manwe, to be the Hope of Valar and unite our kindred clan."

He swallows, the wind about him, suddenly cold despite the heat of the day. "I come because if we do not rise as one, elves and men and dwarves, and other beings who have come into being in all these passing ages, we shall be swept away  as though a great hand has swatted us aside as if we were but gnats."

He looks back at Nole and then turns slowly to Miro. "Three ages has creation seen since first the Ainur sung the great song.  It is the Dawning, now, of the Fourth Age, and everything we know is about to change."

"...everything we know is about to change."

Nole listens thoughtfully to his king's words and remembers their purpose here in the Grey Havens must be finished before they can continue their mission. They must finish the task of the dwarves before seeking out and uniting the other races. "Perhaps, my king," he says, "you should let the dwarves know they need to prepare to depart. If I may, I would like to remain behind with Miro and familiarize myself with the Swanship, if you do not mind?"

".. I would like to remain behind with Miro..."

Miro turns and smiles at Nole, his heart thudding a little in excitement.  "He really likes it," he thinks to himself as he listens to Nole's request to remain behind and study the ship. "By Ulmo's foaming beard, he really likes it!" Nor does the thudding abate as he contemplates further time spent in the handsome mariner's company.  "Duck your head in a bucket of water, Miro and make sure you are not dreaming," he says to himself silently, for surely none of this could be real.  But no, there he is, the handsome sea-captain he has long admired, not only sea-captain but brother to the legendary Olwe himself.  Realizing he has been staring, he ducks his head bashfully and then turns again to Olwe to await his reply.

... surely none of this could be real.. 

Three ages have passed, and now a fourth one dawns, but here upon this swanship, none of that carries import in this one moment. In this moment, a young talented shipwright, with features that continue to haunt Olwe's memories, turns and gives a shy smile. Not to Olwe, but to a shy and stalwart companion over the passage of these three years.  As Olwe watches, a smile of his own curves his lips.  Is it his imagination, Olwe thinks, or in Nole's words is there a desire to be more often in the company of the handsome Miro.  Bowing his head, Olwe knits his brow and purses his lips, as if considering Nole's words.  Finally he gives a nod. "Yes, yes, I think you have the right of it, Nole. The sooner we have the dwarves prepared, the better it will be. And they should know by now their wishes in this matter. Yes, I believe your place should be here, with this talented young elf.  I shall return and speak with their elder Adelsteinn." 

He looks back up and over at the shipwright. "I thank you for your generosity, and I would be a foolish elf, indeed, not to take what is so freely and kindly offered. I trust, then, Nole and you to handle the practicalities of the voyage.  I, in the meantime, shall attend to practicalities of a different stature."  

"I thank you for your generosity..."

He gives Miro another long, lingering stare, softening it with a smile of warmth.  That face, those eyes, Olwe thinks to himself. How can it be they are pricking my mind when I have seen not this elf before. Then, biding both elves farewell, he descends from the great swanship, and with resolve to put aside the cobwebs of  unease, makes his way back to the inn.

Shipyards and Sails, Part II

Played By:
AelKennyr Rhiano
Jasper Dragonheart
Shawn Daysleeper



Miro flushes with pleasure at the small gesture of encouragement from the Teleri King.  Nerves and excitement war within him for the swanship has long been a dream of his, a dream he has finally been able to bring to life, and now, now he is about to show it to King Olwe himself.  And Nole!  By Eru, how long has he admired the noble Master of the swanship whenever he sailed into port, and now, now he was about to show him his own designed ship.

Miro nods respectfully to Olwe and turns to lead the way.  As he turns he feels his breath catch in his throat as it always does when first he looks upon the ship.  Power and grace mate in every line of the vessel, from the elegantly curving neck of the swan figurehead, along the sweeping length of her hull through to the flaring beauty of her wings at the stern.  He leads them toward it without thought as he gazes at his ship, passing the workbench where his discarded shirt lies, now utterly forgotten.

Miro 's long muscular legs carry him swiftly across the dock to where the ship rests in the drydock, securely cradled by her support beams.  Caught up in the grip of his passion for the vessel, he explains some points of her new design as they walk. "You will see her freeboard is much higher than the original ships and she be wider in the beam too, to compensate for this.  The deeper hull gives a good strong footing for the mast.  Combine that with the strength of the new timber used, and I defy any storm to break her.  Once she be launched she'll ride at the same height as my other craft on yonder dock."  He stops at the bottom of the gangplank and stares up proudly along the lines of the hull for a moment before lifting his hand in invitation. "After you, Majesty."

"After you, Majesty."

Upon her sails are blazoned the crest and arms of Alqualonde, the wind off the ocean filling the sails and tugging them, as if giving a lover's promise of delights if only the Beloved would but follow.  Olwe. Lord of Alqualonde and Tol Eressea, King of the Teleri, lifts his sea blue eyes and takes in the ship before him, his breath catching in his throat as he does. This ship's design bespeaks a the legacy given the Falmari by the Lord of the Waters of the World and his Maia, Osse, when, turns of ages ago, first they were taught the craft of designing ships.  His eyes lingers on the size of the ship, so much larger than the original swanship design, yet capturing the ethereal grace and majesty.  His eyes follow the lines of the length and breadth, of the wider and deeper hull, of the trim and tack. 

Dimly he hears the words of the young shipwright and reluctantly tears his eyes from the ship to watch the younger elf come to a halt at the foot of the gangplank.  The blue eyes of the shipwright are alight with a passion and a certainty, and Olwe stares for a long moment at the face.  The features are almost familiar. There is something in the set of the mouth, in the tone of the voice. Something in the pride, which warred with a wish to please Olwe. Every glance the younger elf gives to Olwe, and especially to Nole seems, to the Eldar King, to be one of longing to please both he and Nole, but also  a desire to achieve a desire, a prize, a goal.  But staring at the chiseled features of the young shipwright brings no answer to Olwe, no explanation for this knowing of this unknown stranger.

Olwe clears his throat and looks again at the swanship.  "How did you settle upon the idea of making the freeboard higher?" Without waiting for an answer, he starts up the gangplank.

Olwe.. looks again at the Swanship

Nole's eyes follow Miro as he leads him and his king to the ship. As they reach the ship, the mariner in him becomes enthralled by the swanship. It looks like no other he has seen before. He nods approvingly to what Miro says as his eyes take in this very different design. He watches as Olwe goes up the gangplank to board the ship, and he eagerly follows.

Miro's hair lifts around his shoulders in the gentle breeze that gusts from across the waters of the Gulf of Luin as he follows the others up the gangplank.  The timber beneath the bare soles of his feet are warm from the morning's sun, and he feels the familiar lift of his heart as he steps over the gunwale and onto the deck.  His ship!  His dream, come to life at last.  The deck shifts and lifts slightly beneath him as the ship moves restlessly, like a living thing longing to be free, fretting against the lines that hold it tethered to the dock.

The deck shifts and lifts beneath him...

Miro's eyes lift to the height of the mast as he answers Olwe, "The mast needed a deeper footing, so there was less stress on the upper levels in high wind and storm, so the ship had to be bigger, the hull deeper. Always in the past, this has proven difficult because a bigger craft is harder for one man to sail alone. But this beauty,".. he reaches out a hand to stroke the sturdy timber of the mast in a gesture that speaks of a deep love and respect for his vessel, "This beauty is both bigger and yet still manageable by a sole mariner."

Graceful, Olwe steps aboard the swanship, nodding absently at Miro's answer, blue eyes intense as he processes the response.  Nodding in agreement with the young shipwright's answer, his eyes sweep the length of the deck. 'This is a longer deck, too," he remarks, and turns in a slow circle to take in  the expanse of the ship.  Looking over at Miro, he clasps his hands behind his back and asks,"So, you say only one could sail this ship. What is the optimal crew for the vessel. How many would it take to fully man her?"

...his eyes sweep the length of the deck.

Nole looks surprised at the thought of being able to manage this great ship alone. "How could I manage a swanship of this size? Surely reefing the sail would require more than one?" He looks at his king, then to Miro, wondering what wondrous means the shipwright managed to weave into his swanship.

"How could I manage a swanship of this size?.."

Miro's ocean blue eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles at their questions. "One. Despite her size she needs only one.  Unless of course, you wish to have a cook on duty, but as the sole mariners of the original ships had to manage their own meals, so too, can a Master of this ship. But here, please, follow me, and I shall show you how it is that one elf alone is all that is needed." He turns to lead them to the upper deck.

Miro moves with an easy familiarity, his feet nimble and sure as he takes the steps to the upper level in twos.  Here, he feels alive, truly alive.  So many times he has stood here at the ship's wheel where now he stands and dreamed of a far horizon on an open sea with this ship leaping towards that horizon like a joyous living thing beneath his feet. With a hand he indicates the device at his feet.  The plain raw timber speaks of its unfinished construction but eagerly he explains its purpose. "This device.  It is as yet unfinished, but when it is fully built, it will work a system of lines that lead to the bigger one at the stern." He turns and points to another similar, larger device mounted at the rear of the ship. "With this device, which will have handles on either side, one man can reef even so large a sail in the fraction of the time it takes to do so on the original ship.  Reef and raise.  There is a lock catch on the wheel to hold the ship steady while he works, but this ship will not be caught with  full sail in a storm as yours was. One man alone can manage her and manage her better."

It is as yet unfinished...

 "One," the shipwright answers, and Olwe's brow creases as he bends all his attention, now, upon the younger elf.  Cocking his head as he listens, Olwe lifts his gaze to watch the younger elf nimbly mount the stairs to where rests the ship's wheel, an cunningly wrought elaborate design.  His eyes widen as he see the cresent moons, the gold of the metal pulsating with a light of it own, no reflection of the daystar vessel of Arien.  Intrigued, the Lord of Alqualonde crosses the expanse of the deck on long legs, striding quickly, mounts the stairs and stands before the device still unfinished.  

Gazing upon the object as Miro talks, he follows where the shipwright points to the larger object at the rear of the swanship.  Curious he crosses to the larger device. There, as with the smaller device, a grooved wheel, sanded and but still unpainted, lies suspended, a cunningly shaped cylinder, shaped and fluted so that the middle is thinner than either end,  rests in the center of this wheel, mounted upon two posts.  For long moments his eyes trace the riggings, his brow furrowed in thought.  

Finally nodding, he turns his gaze to the shipwright. "I find the design idea, indeed, sound of theory, and practical in application," he says softly.  "But, Miro, this design I've not seen on any ship.  It does seem to me that you have observed a swanship in distress in a storm, and that experience has driven this solution.  But such storms as took our ship." he pauses, ducking his head as a faint blush colors his cheek. Looking up, he catches Nole's eyes before looking back over at Miro. "But such storms as laid injury to our ship, surely they are not such common occurrence, for Lord Ulmo much loves our people and favors us with good winds and gentle seas often."

"...for Lord Ulmo much loves our people.."

Nole approaches the device Miro shows him, and his eyes take it all in. He nods thoughtfully as he looks from it to the one at the rear. He then sees the wings. "The wings" he asks. "On other swanships, the wings are located under the prow. Why did you choose to put these on the back of the ship?"

He nods thoughtfully...

Miro's eyes turn to the Teleri King, and he gives a small shake of his head and then points with his chin towards the distant rear of his shipyard where, in a corner almost lost in a copse of pines, lies the remains of his parents' ship. "Not I. No.  My parents had a swanship. A storm such as they have never seen before beat them into port here. The.. the ship barely made it, and like yours it was dismasted and terribly damaged.  It has lain in the back of the shipyard as long as I remember.  I.. I played in the wreck as a young child and later looked at it with new eyes as I learned my craft."

"...My parents had a swanship.."

Miro turns and smiles at Nole, pleased at his sharp, knowledgeable questions. But when he turns to look at where the delicate wings of the ship tower behind them, and his voice is almost a whisper as he replies, "A swan has wings so she can fly. They should not be huddled against her chest or flared out in nothing more than a display of vanity." He steps to the wheel and reaches out to unlock it. Turning it delicately he glances back over his shoulder and nods to the wings, "Watch."  As he turns the wheel further the wings at the stern move. "They work as both rudder and sail, depending on their position via a series of mechanisms deep in the hull.  They can be raised to catch the wind, or lowered to catch the waves, depending on need." He tilts the wheel towards him and the wings dip accordingly. He grins at the others.  "Bigger, yes, but by no means slower or more cumbersome.  This beauty will dance upon the ocean with the swiftness and grace one with wings should have."

Soap and Sorrow

Played By:
AelKennyr Rhiano
Belenos Stormchaser (BelenosStormchaser Magic)


"Where did that girl git?"  The old woman swivels her head toward the solid wooden door, tilting her head once again, straining for the sound of light footsteps on the stoop.  Nothing. Nothing but the sounds of crickets, rubbing legs together in a soft song heralding the coming of late evening, the coming of darkness.  A bird gives a lazy trill and then the sound, lonely, fades away.  The old woman shifts in her rocker and struggles to her feet.  Looking about her cottage, she spies the front room with a critical sharp eye. Shuffling across the wooden floor, she winces, as the day spent in the garden, rising and kneeling, pulling at weeds and digging up roots and tubers and potatoes has left her with swollen joints; swollen knuckles, swollen knees, and swollen ankles.

"Where did that girl git?"

She had sent the girl out for more water from the stream, and while the befuddled young woman was gone, she had hobbled out and around to the back of her cottage, fetching the washtub.  Today, it seems the tub was made of stone, and she had to stop often, carting it back inside.   The sweat stained the back of her undershift and a thin tickle sill rests between her sagging breasts.  It has been a long time since she has used this wooden tub.  After the death of her man, she put it out back, and left it there, preferring the river water and the stream bank to bathe herself and wash her clothes.

She gives the wooden tub a hard stare, noticing how the seal between the wooden planking has worn thin through disuse, and some water was squeezing out.  She crosses the room to the now empty kettle. "That girl best be here soon," The old woman mutters.  "The water be plenty hot half a crow's song ago, and I will be having her bathe proper here...tonight...whilst I watch.  Daft child!  Skin gone gray and hair seems all lank from dirt and sweat.  Who gone and let her run wild and without a care like that, all growed as she be?"  Once more she turns to the door.

Yavanna stares up through the forest canopy at the soft purple of the twilight sky, the bucket forgotten at her feet. Something.. something about this time of day pulls at her. At times it seems this is when she feels most herself, whoever that self is, yet also sometimes unbearably sad. Around her an early evening breeze stirs the forest, and the trees seem to rustle and sigh sadly as they behold the one who is Yavanna Kementari, Queen of the Earth, for there is nothing majestic about the woman standing daydreaming at the stars.

Yavanna lifts a long finely-shaped hand to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.  Hair that had once floated about her in a silver halo, seeming to dance with a life of its own now hangs lank around her shoulders, dull, dark and heavy as her heart.  The face she turns to the sky, once so fair as to outshine the very pearls of Alqualonde for sheer beauty is now dull, the skin darkening more each day, the exquisite tracery of artwork upon it becoming blurred and shadowed.

Yavanna shakes her head as though to shake the feeling in her heart and, sighing, stoops to lift the bucket to return to the cottage.  As she walks the path her once sure and strong footsteps are heavy and awkward as the weariness of her spirit reflects upon this mortal body she wears.  At last the cottage is before her and with a last heft of the bucket, she pushes the door open and steps into the soft glow of the fire-lit room.

The old woman hears the sound of weary footsteps scant seconds before the sturdy door opens in, and the girl, the object of the old woman's fretting, steps in, her hands wrapped around the handle of the bucket.  Birdlike eyes take in Yavanna's appearance for a moment before the old woman's lips form a round "o."  There is not a spot of grime or a speck of dirt on the girl's garments, yet her skin is an ashen grey, as though the younger woman had been with the menfolk, toiling in the fields. And the hair!  The hair which had been so golden, a halo of sunlight framing a face that both is youthful and aged at once, the hair is now dank as though with sweat and oil, drooping around a face that seems to grow more melancholy in mood daily.

Each morning, the old woman watches as the younger one takes herself and a load of soiled linens and clothes down to the riverside, and hours later, the girl dutifully returns, clothes damp upon her body, a little bit of water about her face and nape of her neck, her hair half wet.  The laundry, too, has the appearance of being washed. Yet, daily the girl grows dirtier and dirtier.   "I'll not have it," she says aloud, unaware she has voiced her resolve aloud.  "Where have you git off to, girl? You been gone for neigh on a good part of the even, I tell you. Daylight beat you home."

Yavanna jumps nervously and slops some of the water from the bucket on the worn wooden floor. "I.. I was looking at the stars," she offers by way of explanation, carefully setting the bucket down in its place lest she spill even more. As she straightens her eyes are drawn to the large wooden tub in front of the fireplace, which was not there when she left to fetch the water. The fact the water in it is steaming with heat tells her how long she has been gone, lost in daydreams, for there was no water boiling on the hearth when she left. Flushing to realize how long she had dallied her eyes dart to Arianna anxiously.

"...I was looking at the stars."

The old woman's lips purse into a thin line as she watches the water slop over the side of the bucket and splash upon the floor.  Leaning over a little, her aged eyes are sharp enough to see a bit of dirt upon the floor.  "Watch it, girl!" she barks, her voice strident. "You near about drowned that bit of dirt you missed in your sweeping this morning!"

She straightens up, and as she does, she feels a pull across her lower back. Hand reaching around to rub at tightened and complaining muscles, she lifts her gaze to meet the younger woman's face. The blush is unmistakable in the dusky cheeks.  Heaving a large sigh, the woman nods her head toward the bucket of water. Her voice drops to a more kindly tone as she turns her head to indicate the tub. "Put that bucket yonder, near the tub. You might find that water a wee bit warm. Though, girl, you dallied long enough that I be surprised there be any warmth at all."

Yavanna stares at the old woman, her brow wrinkled in confusion. "Me? But.. but I bathed this morning in the creek when I washed the linens."

Crossing her arms across her chest, the old woman draws a noisy breath, sucking it between her two bottom teeth, and exhaling explosively through her nostrils. "You did, indeed, wash the linens, and girls half your age and a quarter your long height can do as well, girl! " She cocks her head and peers closer at the garments the other woman wears. Spotless.

She waves a hand in the air dismissively. "Na, na, it is better than you did before, I give you that.  I near about gave you for soft in the head, a pretty thing with nar between the ears."  She turns and hobbles painfully over to the table where she and Yavanna take their meals.  Breaking the home baked loaf of day old bread, she holds out the heel to Yavanna. "Gone near about all day to fetch one pail of water. Still you must be hungered. Eat, child. A bit of bread won't cramp you in the tub."  She crosses the distance back to the Vala, her eyes peering intently into the other's.

"...Eat, child."

Yavanna looks at the offered bread, but, her mood from the forest still upon her, her stomach tightens rebelliously at the thought of food. She shakes her head listlessly even as she tries to muster a small smile to show her gratitude for the old woman's rough kindness. "I.. I'm not hungry," she murmurs as she turns to the tub and slowly starts to disrobe. She knows she had bathed that morning, but she can not bring herself to argue with the kindly crone who has taken her in. Meekly she lets her garments slip to the floor, standing unselfconsciously naked before stepping into the tub and settling into the water, her knees tucked up under her chin for it is clear the tub had not been wrought with one of her height in mind.

...her knees tucked up under her chin...

With her back to the old woman, Yavanna cannot see the look that crossed Arianna's face.  Drawing in a sharp breath, the old woman forgets the pain in her lower back, the ache in her bones, and the swelling in her joints.  As the young woman complies, even without being ask, a knot forms in the woman's throat, and  her knuckles, large and bulbous, turn white as she closes her hand upon the pro-offered bread, crushing it into crumbs in her hand.  The pieces shower down to the flower, the crust making a soft sound as it hits the floor, but she does not hear it.

Instead she stares at the curved back of the Giver of Fruits. She should feel some sense of shame, at the other's dejected demeanor, she supposes, but she instead notes with satisfaction that eases her sense of guilt that the skin submerged in the water looks to be turning a healthy pinkish, even as dusky as it is. Nodding to herself, she thinks, "She will forgive me, poor faint-minded, when she has a good scrubbing. Who can feel good, covered in dirt?"  Then she remembers the bread in her hands and has the presence of mind to blush herself.

Opening her hand, she left the crumbs fall to the floor. Clearing her throat, she hobbles over to the tub and grabbing the edge, lowers herself painfully to a kneeling position on the floor. "I-I had a might accident with the bread, child," she says gruffly. "Mind you see it clean later."  And with that she reaches out a wrinkled and spotted hand to awkwardly pat the younger woman on the shoulder. "Tain't no shame, child, that nobody taught you how to proper clean.  Here, now I show you, and you knowed next time."

"...Here, now I show you.."

Yavanna stares into the rising steam as her body relaxes in the hot water.  There is something familiar about the soft firelight, the heated water enveloping her.  Familiar, yet different.  Yes, the old and faded rug shimmers and shifts to become a snowy white fur, gleaming golden in the firelight; firelight that shone from an intricately carved white marble fireplace rather than the blacked rough stone one before her now.

Yavanna no longer hears the old woman's voice as the aged wallpaper of the cottage fades before her eyes to become the richly patterned fabric of a palace wall.  The voice she hears is not rough with age, but smooth and deep, velvet upon her ears as it whispers softly to her.  His hand, gentle and tender despite its size and strength, caresses its way across her skin as it guides the honeysuckle-scented soap on its path.  "None shall bathe you, but I," he whispers softly, his breath warm against her ear as he raises his other hand to lift the heavy weight of her hair from her neck and leans forward to press his lips against the warm skin there before murmuring,"Your body is mine and mine alone to glory in, sweet wife."

...the cottage fades before her eyes...

The old woman waits a few moments, but Yavanna does not answer. Feeling the grinding in her hip and one knee, she sighs dramatically and leans over to snag the washcloth she had earlier placed on the hook that is attached to the side of the tub.  Reaching down beside the tub, she grabs the rough shaped soap, one of the last few remaining bars she had made right after the death of her man.  Wrapping the washcloth around the bar, she submerges both in the hot water and with her two hands begins to rub the soap briskly with the cloth as she brings both the bar and the cloth up out of the water.  Watching the lather foam, and breathing in the soft scent of heather and lavender, she cannot take the silence and starts talking.  "Now, girl, you list what I'm saying.  It is essential that you do not go light on the soap. Why, whilst you're here, maybe we can do a bit of soapmaking.  All we need is right here, after all. I can learn you how my gran did it, with some thyme and some oil pressed from vegetables right out yonder in the garden."

The old woman pauses, looking down at the cloth, sudsed and hanging, dripping foamy soap into the water.  She tightens her grip too much, and the soap slips out of her grasp and plunks into the water.  Frowning, Arianna turns to Yavanna, and with one hand, runs her fingers through the limp locks.  "Now, first, girl," she says and with her hand, she lifts the dulled tresses and settles the younger woman's hair across her far shoulder. "First we scrub-a-dub-dub, and then we will wash that fine hair of yours.. Awh, girl, you will shine like a new copper co--"

She stops.  She stops and the cloth grows cold in her hand.  "Scrub-a-dub-dub," She used to sing, ages, and ages ago, but not to a young woman, thin of white and near helpless. Not to another woman's child.

To her own.

She stops and the cloth grows cold in her hand.

Yavanna blinks as the falling soap splashes some droplets upon her face.  Dazedly she looks around her.  There is no palace, no fur rug and no tender hands caressing her body.  She shakes her head a little to clear it.  Has she been daydreaming again? Or is it remembering?  It is the same man, she knew.  By now his voice, his touch is so familiar to her.  Her breath catches in her throat as she recalls his words. "Wife," he had said.  Wife.  Her heart hammers painfully in her chest, and her mind skitters away from the tumble of questions that whirl through it.  Wife. Wife.  The single word hammers at her mind, at her memories like a battering ram.  "No!" she gasps aloud without thought.

There is no palace...

Yavanna blushes at her outburst, for surely the crone will think her completely lost in wits.  What has the woman been saying?  Frantically she searches to recall, trying to find something, anything to distract from her cry.  She looks over her shoulder at Arianna and musters a weak smile. "Scrub-a-dub-dub"? That sounds like something I have heard sung to children."

"No!" gasps Yavanna, and startled, the old woman rocks back on her heels, feeling the sharp twinge of pain in her arthritic joints. Clutching the cold washcloth in one hand, she grabs the side of the tub with the other for support. "No, what?" she asks, her voice made harsh by her surprise.  She stares hard at Yavanna, her shrewd eyes narrowed in concentration.  "Yes," she answers, firmly. "You be in the tub, and you and this soap are going to make an acquaintance."

Angry with herself, she shoves the cold washcloth into Yavanna's hands and struggles to bring stiff joints to obey her as she rises, with grunts and groans to her feet. "Forgot  my bristle brush,"  she mutters, and with a hand again at the small of her back, she turns her torso to one side and then the other, hearing a rewarding pop followed by several cracks and blessed relief as her back pops, and muscles relaxes.  Hobbling to where her washbowl sits, she reaches out and picks up a well worn wood brush with boarhair bristles.  "Scrub-a-dub," she then says, her back to Yavanna. "It is something mothers sing to children." She nods.  "But such nonsense. Such nonsense. My man, he used to say, 'Arianna, woman, now what's a little silliness going to harm.  Don't be daft woman, she be a wee child.'  And she do loved the silly songs. Why we...we..." She stops, and closes her eyes.

"Well," she says after a moment of silence. She slowly turns, and in her aged eyes shines tears she refuses to shed. Slowly, painfully, she makes her way back to the tub and kneels back down, biting back a gasp of pain. "Long time ago, girl," she says gruffly and dips a hand in the water to find and grab the soap.

"Long time ago, girl."

Yavanna nods mutely as she hears the pain in Arianna's voice.  Resting her chin on her knees she feels the sorrow keenly in the room.  Her mind thinks again on the man who has loved her and called her wife.  So fleeting, those glimpses, so blurred as if from some other place and time.  So.. distant.  Sighing wistfully she murmurs, "It seems much was a long time ago."

Her mind thinks again on the man who has loved her..

Elwing Reflects

Played by:
Cinnamon Raymaker



Tired from a day full of collecting bounty from the plants in Alqualonde, Elwing takes a leisurely stroll across the solidly built walkways which mark the surrounds of the harbor of the Swanhaven. The swans are settling for the night in their small groups and preening themselves as if they have not a care in the world. 

Elwing calls to her near neighbors in recognition that they are her only co-inhabitants of Alqualonde at this time. Hearing only good tidings of safe weather and plentiful food sources from her friends she relaxes somewhat.  

Not one to fear loneliness, Elwing moves out to the point further from the harbor and sits on the cool grass quietly contemplating the darkening skies overhead which promise to be full of brightly shining stars.  Looking toward the ocean, she smiles whimsically as she thinks of the task her Uncle has set himself - then she shakes herself as she realizes that Aztryd and Nizl are depending on Olwe to return them and their clan to safety.  

Wishing she knew what was going on she sighs and lays back on the cool grass at the edge of the point. The sky is becoming  particularly beautiful this night, she thinks to herself. All seems calm - though underneath her calm exterior a tempest is raging. Sighing loudly to herself, Elwing breathes in the salty air, something to which she has become accustomed at home and away from home. The sea is important to her, but so is her long lost husband. What is she to do? 

It has been so long since Vingilot has disappeared from the skies and so many other emergencies have been forced to the forefront of her existence. Isn't it time that she at least retraced her tracks and tried to discover what has happened to her beloved? After all - he carries the hope of the elves!

Elwing promises herself she will retrace her steps just as soon as Olwe returns.

Shipyard and Sails

Played by:
AelKennyr Rhiano
Jasper Dragonheart
Shawn Daysleeper


Grey Havens.  The dwarves, Eilif had informed him, called it Mithlond.  A city alive with elves and humans...and dwarves now, too.  Healthy and thriving, well kept despite the signs of its great age in the moss that covers the grey stone walls here and there.  The salt in the wind, however, tastes much like the salt in his beloved Alqualonde, and the cries of merchants, the yells of neighbors, the smell of pitch and meat and clothes being dyed were both comforting and painful.  Here most elves spoke Common and Sindarin, but if one sets aside that detail, Olwe could have closed his eyes and been back in Alqualonde....

The Alqualonde that was. The Alqualonde before the disappearance of the Teleri.  Once more his mind casts back to his dream and to the young elf who is the cause for this morning trek with Nole. Looking over at his companion, Olwe draws in a deep breath, smelling the scent of iron, of wood, of paint and tar.  Coming up to a stone entrance, he looks over at Nole. "Is this the place?" he asks.

"Is this the place?"

Nole leads his king following the directions Miro told him the night before. This morning Nole and Olwe went beyond the lighthouse on the north of the Gulf. His shipyard should be just through here. "Yes, this should be the place," he says as he steps through the stone entrance and looks around anxiously. Since dinner last day he has been anxious to meet Miro again. Not only is he interested in seeing the ship, but he also wishes to abate his feelings. These feeling he has not felt for many a year. Looking in the area beyond, he sees to the right an open smithy with a familiar figure within, and he smiles.

...he sees a familiar figure..and..smiles

Miro leans back from his desk with a groan, arching his back and stretching tired muscles.  He lifts a hand and pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and finger to try to ease some of the ache behind his eyes, for although the morning sun shines brightly outside his small office there has been no sleep for him during the night.  Since leaving Nole at the Green Leaf Inn the previous evening Miro has worked through the night, checking detail, fixing small flaws and fussing over the Swanship.  Now, although still not quite sea-ready, at least as far as he could see, the ship was as perfect as it could be, and he has paused in his work to take a hasty meal.

With a tired sigh, Miro drops his hand to the desk, running over in his mind again all his preparations. His fussing stops mid-thought, as his eyes light upon the small portrait that sits on his desk in a delicately carved frame. Smiling he reaches out his hand and lifts it, running a long slender finger over the features of the woman's face that smiles back at him in a gesture that is both familiar and filled with love. Gently the finger glides down the shimmering length of her long silver hair, hair that proclaims her Teleri heritage, and along the delicate line of her jaw before tracing up to her deep blue eyes, so like his own.

Miro's own lips curve, echoing the smile as he whispers softly, "Well, my lady mother, who would have thought this day would come, when your son is to show the legendary King Olwe his swanship." His lips curve more as a thought occurs to him. "He was your King, wasn't he, and I suppose that makes him mine, too, as I am your son."  He lifts the portrait to his lips, whispering, "I hope ye be proud of your son this day." Gently he sets it back down in its place on his desk and rises to his feet.  There is still work to be done this day.

Miro slips through the open doorway and strides across the small distance between his office and the shipyard forge.  The breeze from the Gulf of Luin is light and gentle, but past experience tells Miro it will not be enough to offer respite from the forge.  With a casual gesture he strips his shirt over his head and tosses it onto a workbench before bending to work the bellows, the well-formed muscles of his back flexing and shifting beneath his skin as he bends to his task.  In no time the coals are glowing brightly, and a fine gleam of perspiration sheens his bare skin, clearly defining the muscular build of one who spends most of his days doing such physical work.

...a fine gleam of perspiration sheens his bare skin..

Miro hums to himself as he gives the bellows one last pump, a tune he had often heard his mother sing.  Now he was working again, his nerves about the impending visit ease, and he loses himself in his task, finding the peace within that is always his while he works.

Long, tapering and elegant fingers reach out and brush the still cool and ancient wall of the stone enclosure, the lichen, wet and spongy beneath his touch.  Slowly, Olwe allows his gaze to travel over the shipyard, noting with a nod of approval the tidiness of the place, the neat appearance and the apparent industry,  as well.  He ignores for a few moments, the sounds of the bellows, the heated answer of coals, and studies the environs of the enclosure. Just beyond, in the distance rose the mountain range, and if Olwe were to cock his head just slightly, the rustle of the leaves tumbled and tossed by the wind off the harbor answer the steady pump of the bellows.  A sea gull calls, and without thought, Olwe turns his head towards the sound.

There, standing at the forge was the young shipwright, bare-chested, sheened in sweat, hair curled about his face.  Olwe takes a step and then stops, his eyes narrowing as he stares, transfixed, at Miro's unruly mane.  For a moment, his breath catches, and his heart thumps painfully in his chest.  There was a time, a place, a moment, turns upon turns of the years...upon ages ago, when a mane of unruly hair was spread out upon his pillow, and a face, both mysterious and familiar from passionate moments spent tracing the features, looked up at him, breathless.   Her lips were broad, and curved , sometimes in a teasing manner, sometimes in pleased satisfaction.  "I am with child," She had said that night.  "Now, no one can deny me. I am your queen."

He shakes his head, as though to shake the memory, and tears his eyes away from the shipwright, looking anywhere, but at him, anywhere.  The blue eyes lift, and just beyond the lone elf, there, cradled in a wooden platform, there stood...a swanship.

Nole follows his king's gaze to the swanship beyond Miro. He wonders at Olwe's hesitation but finds himself drawn to Miro and the ship. Bringing himself to their purpose, he remembers the plans Miro showed him the night before. The ship looks perfectly constructed and completed. Nole wonders what he could be building at this time. He finds himself hesitant as well. Normally when on an errand of Olwe's, he has no trouble doing whatever needed. But he has trouble interrupting the shipwright. Holding back his feelings he approaches, and manages a weak, "Greetings Miro, we came to see your ship as we discussed. But... perhaps we are interrupting something?" Nole sighs and waits anxiously unsure what to say next.

Miro straightens from his task at the greeting, barely heard over the roar of the forge. He loosens the kerchief at his neck to wipe his brow and reties it before turning to look in the direction of the call.  Nole!  And Olwe!  KING Olwe! Miro ducks his head and his cheeks flush as he remembers his words of the previous evening.  Old, he had called him an old king. And ancient! But worries about offending kings fade from his mind as he finds himself gazing into Nole's sea-blue eyes.  He steps forward, away from the heat and noise of the forge to greet him. The warm smile that has been spreading across his lips wobbles and slips as, away from the heat, the sea-breeze now chills his sweat-damp skin, reminding him of his state of undress.  He glances over nervously to where his shirt lies on the workbench on the other side of the smithy, the smithy that now seems a hundred leagues wide.

Miro shakes his head and smiles ruefully. Well, there is nothing that can be done about that now.  Taking a breath he worries for a moment how one is supposed to greet a King and his brother.  Finally, weakly, he murmurs, "No, you are not interrupting.  Greetings. Welcome to my shipyard."

"...Welcome to my shipyard."

Olwe hears the exchange between the two other elves, but his eyes are riveted upon the safely cradled swanship.  Realizing that Nole has stepped forward and both shipwright and sea captain are paces away, Olwe moves forward, blue eyes studying the ship carefully. The ship, larger and more powerful, is also elegant and graceful, sturdy and powerful.  His gaze lingers over the masthead, a swan. and then travels up to the sails.  Stopping, barely daring to draw breath, his eyes widen. Here, here in the Grey Havens, here in this young elf's shipyard, stands a swanship, and its mast bears the standard of Alqualonde.

Turning his gaze back to the two younger elves, he moves to stand beside Nole. Now that he is a few feet away, he can see the features of the shipwright. His hair is dark, and hers was silver, like moonlight upon the water.  His face is more squarish and masculine, and hers more heart-shaped and delicate. How is it the mere sight of this boy brings to mind that woman, above all elven women, she who dared to claim she loved him. She who dared to leave him.  He swallows, and lifts a hand to point at the ship. "How came you by that standard the ship bears," he asks, surprising himself as much as anyone, with the question.

"How came you by that standard the ship bears?"

Nole feels a little relieved that his king and Miro are together discussing the swanship. He begins to think the initial stress of the encounter is over. However, when Olwe mentions the standard of Alqualonde, he reluctantly draws his gaze from Miro to the swanship and looks at it more fully at last. There indeed is the standard of Alqualonde on Miro's ship! He wants to add to Olwe's question, but he decides not to at the last moment. He waits for the answer from Miro.

Miro turns to look at the standard displayed boldly upon the ship's sail, the Standard of Alqualonde.  His eyes still on the ship, he answers, his voice slightly wistful, "I found it, in one of the maritime histories held in the city archives." This much is true at least. He had gone there after his father's death. Sorting thought his parents' belongings, he had found it, emblazoned in pearls and precious gems upon the lid of his mother's jewel box and he had sought to identify it. "I thought it.. right.. somehow, that a swanship should bear that standard, in honor of its connection to the legends of ancient.. err, of yourself and Alqualonde."  He flushes at his gaff and thinks desperately of something to distract. "Perhaps I could give you a tour of the ship?"

Crossing his arms across his chest, Olwe regards the young shipwright, his blue eyes meeting the sky blue eyes of the younger elf.  An eyebrow lifts, and a smile tugs at the corner of the King's mouth.  "Oh, ancient legends to a young drake like yourself," he answers teasingly, his blue eyes alight with merriment.  Clearing his throat, he indicates the swanship with a tilt of his chin. "So, lad, this is your swanship, and a finer sail I have never seen." He uncrosses his arms and claps a hand to Miro's shoulder. "Shall we see this ship of yours, then? Lead the way."

He studies the young man as he speaks, and casts frequent glances at the sail.  Maritime histories.  So, so Olwe and Alqualonde are the stuff of musky books and legends.  "Lead on," he repeats, and pushes troublesome thoughts away.

Nole finds himself pleased at how well Olwe and Miro seem to be getting on. He is also just as keen as Olwe to see the swanship closer. "Yes, please, lets take a tour of the swanship."