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."