"Seek Manwe"

Played by:


AelKennyr Rhiano
Rhun Darkmoon

"Seek Manwe.  Seek Manwe." The words beat the rhythm of his feet as his long muscular legs carry him up the mountain, lungs pumping, arms swinging like pistons at his sides.  With a grunt he leaps a fallen trunk, his feet hitting the ground running on the other side. He had also said, "Be at ease."  But being at ease is impossible until Yavanna is found, for the one plunging headlong through the forests of Taniquetil is none other than Aule Tulka Marda, the Smith of Arda.  Scorning the easier winding path of the established road to Manwe's lofty mansions, Aule has chosen instead the steeper, direct route of straight assent.  Now, nostrils flare as his lungs work to gulp in enough oxygen from the high mountain air, long hair streaming behind him, waving and flicking as he jinks between trees, his dark eyes perceive a thinning of the forests ahead. Yes!  There, very close now, through the trunks he can see the walls of Manwe's palace.  Soon!  Soon he will have help.

Soon he will have help.

There is no sunlight in the Blessed Lands, nor midnight skies, but an eternal twilight bathes the Undying Lands, and every breeze that blows across the face of the earth begins and ends in Taniquetil, in the hall of Manwe, for he it is who is Lord of Air, first among the Valar, and he it is who knows better the mind of Blessed Eru.  And once again, the Maia, Eonwe, is Herald of the Lord of the West.  Once more he is at his Lord's command, and his heart swells with  sweet contentment, for the duty was bestowed upon him at the beginning of time, and now, after all that has happened as the mortal world sees the passage of seasons, all that has happened has instilled in the Spirit that is Eonwe a sense of his fulfilment, of his being...of his fea, as the Firstborn call it.

It is satisfying to take on flesh, to dress himself in mortal rainment, and as he does so, he pays more attention to the fabrication of skin and muscle, organs and tissue than ever he has before at any time.  Closing blue eyes, he concentrates until his form becomes solid, and his stomach gives a satisfying growl of hunger.  Ducking his head for a moment, a small smile crosses his lips.  Ah, hunger...that means...he pauses to think...food. He lifts his head and in the distance, a whirl of motion catches his gaze. Someone approaches...

The Maker! Aule!

...a whirl of motion catches his gaze.

Aule breaks through the treeline at last and stumbles to a sudden halt upon a paved road.  Vision blurred with the haze of fatigue, he stumbles to a standstill, bent over, hands upon his knees, as he pants to catch his breath. Sweat dripping from his brow, he stares down at the subtle beauty of the softly coloured stonework that seals the street around the palace, aware of nothing but the stone and the thundering of his blood in his ears. Finally, his pulse having slowed to a more reasonable rate, although the muscles of his legs quiver in protest he stands straight.  He pushes his thick hair back from where it had swung forward around his face and gasps in surprise for, standing nearby is none other than Eonwe, the Herald of Manwe.

Aule's throat tightens as he remembers their last encounter at Mandos, while both were still under the influence of Melkor's dark magic.  His face flushes with shame as he remembers his words and actions at that time, for they were not the true words and actions of the Maker of Arda, nor if he were honest, were Eonwe's words and actions true of the Herald of Manwe. So much had been done. So much had been said.  Was it all beyond repair?  No! The reply echoes in his mind instantly.  For if he cannot repair things between himself and this maiar, what hope has he of repairing things with Yavanna.  Humbly then, he ducks his head in greeting, forcing a small uncertain smile to his lips, as his deep voice rumbles, "Hail, my friend."

The Herald of Manwe slides his feet  shoulder width apart in a long kept habit of preparedness, and under his billowy cloak, which flaps in the gust of wind caused the Maker's arrival, his hands slide to either side of him, where rests a long dagger.  His blue eyes narrow as he watches the Vala, and his body tenses.  Long standing and honed battle training urges this physical body of his to tense, to prepare, but for what?  His mouth goes dry as he watches Aule bend over and rest hands upon his legs, gasp for breathe, such as mortals do.  Why is he here? Eonwe asks himself, and as his blue eyes rest upon the Maker; all too sharp are the memories of the recent past rise up, like bile in the back of his throat.

He remembers, too, his time in Lorien, the garden of the Vala Irmo, Lord of Dreams and Visions.  He remembers his healing, the sweet song of healing that restored him and broke the hold the dark magicks had, dark magicks left by Melkor himself.  The words ring out in his mind even as they were sung by him:

"I am I. I am my Lord, I am my brothers and sisters. I am all the Valar....

Even Aule the Smith.

Aule. The Maker. The Smith. Even he is part of the Song.

And so am I."

It is his greatest truth. It is the base melody of the Great Song. It is what reunited him to his lord's side.  So, Eonwe asks himself as he hears the Maker greet him with greater kindness than ever he has shown, why is he caught up in tempest of feelings when he hears the Maker say, "Hail, my friend."

For a moment he stands transfixed, and then, shaking himself, like a dog coming out of a lake, he slides down to one knee, and bows his head. "Hail, Lord Aule, Maker, Smith of Arda. "

The forest behind him seems to breathe with a life of its own as one of the soft mountain breezes whiffles through it, while nearby a dear and fawn pick their way through the forest in search of tender shoots.  In the distance, one of the mighty eagles of Manwe soars upon the eddies of mountain air, seemingly unaware to the happenings far below it.  The whole world seems oblivious to that which unfolds between the two beings upon the otherwise deserted street at the side of the palace of the Breath of Arda.

The whole world seems oblivious to that which unfolds..

Aule's brow creases in a frown.  This one kneeling before him has served Manwe loyaly through the Ages, no less than Aule himself has wished to do.  The memory of those dark times in Mandos are still with him, but seen now with a mind clear of the influence of dark magicks.  No, this one should not kneel to him.  He steps forward the few paces between then and reaches out a hand. "Do not bow to me, noble Eonwe, for I am as flawed as any other, as you now well know.  Rise, please."

The Maker steps close and the worn boots come into Eonwe's view. He hears the words, but for a moment kneels there, transfixed by the tone as well as the message itself.  There is a gentleness in the Maker that Eonwe has never before experienced for himself, a kindness his children, the Khazad, the dwarves, speak of in their mountain homes. He knows. He has heard their reverence of Aule brought to the ear of Manwe upon the winds of the world.  They would call out to Mahal, the Maker, when one of them left their mortal existence, certain that their spirits would reside in halls set aside for them. They speak, to their children and children's children of how they will aid the Smith in the rebuilding of Arda after the final Battle, proud, so proud of their heritage as children of the Smith.

Looking up, Eonwe sees the hand stretched out to takes his, and the words that flow from his mouth surprise even him as his hand reaches out to clasp the Maker's, and smoothly, elegantly, with the grace of a warrior, Eonwe rises and blue eyes meet the eyes of the Smith of Aman. "I bow in reverence, my Lord. I rise as friend."

Aule's fingers clasp firmly around Eonwe's, and his eyes follow the graceful movements of the Maia before him as he rises to the full height of his physical form.  "You were there." His voice is husky as it is deep. "You saw the disgrace I brought upon us all, yet still you accept my hand and name me friend. It is beyond what I deserve."  He releases the other's hand gently and drops his gaze.  When he continues his voice is barely a whisper, filled with shame. "I.. I cannot find her, Eonwe. I have searched the entire length and breadth of Aman, but I cannot find her."

'...I cannot find her.'

Eonwe's eyes widen at the Maker's news, and he takes a step back, his surprise evident upon his face.  "You mean.." his voice trails off and softens.."You mean Lady Yavanna."

It is there in the tone of the Maker's voice, in the sweat drying upon his skin, in the very way he had rushed up to Eonwe. The Herald bows his head in thought, remembering the last time he saw the Giver of Fruits and all Things Alive and Growing. "She was in the great entrance of the halls of Mandos with us, " he says slowly. "I saw her turn away and leave when no one else was looking. But I..I thought she may have chosen to return to her palace."  His eyes search those of the Maker's.  "And you cannot feel her presence, nor touch her spirit?"  His tone is hushed, but there is a disquiet rising up in the Herald of Manwe.

His eyes search those of the Maker's.

Aule shakes his head and looks up at Eonwe, his dark eyes pleading. "I cannot feel her or reach her at all.  She is nowhere. Nowhere. I.. I need help. I need to speak with Manwe."

Eonwe nods once, his mind whirling as he instinctively reaches out in his mind for the bright essences that were the Valar, and his brother and sister Maiar.  He could feel Ulmo in his underwater palace. He could feel his sister Ilmare, singing a star to shine all the brighter.  He could feel the Lord of the West, still seated in his hall. But he could not feel the radiance that is the Valle Yavanna.  Reaching out, he dares to place a gloved hand on the back side of the Maker's forearm, shaken at her absence.  "The Lord Manwe is still in his hall," he says, his voice soothing, though this physical heart he has created quails at this revelation.  "I will bring you to him speedily." He takes a few steps towards the stairs leading up the great hall and pauses, turning to the Maker. "She must be somewhere, my Lord," he says, and fails to keep the uncertainty from his face. "Whatever has happened, Wherever she is, she will be found, and you will be reunited. "  He pauses again, unable to help himself, a wonderment in his voice. "You love her." It is a statement, not a question. He searches the Maker's face.

Aule's eyes drop to where the Maia's hand rests upon his arm, moved beyond words by the gesture.  He nods his head jerkily, and his eyes blur with unshed tears as he looks back up at Eonwe, and his voice is raspy with emotion as he murmurs. "One would be hard put to believe it in view of recent events, but yes, I love her. I always have." He swallows hard as he bites down hard on the outpouring of regret that threatens to spill out. Instead he states simply, "I need her, Eonwe.  She MUST be found.  I need Manwe's help." He pauses and his voice is low and humble as he continues,"And I need your help."

'... I need your help.'

Reaching Out

Played by:

Rhun Darkmoon
Shawn Daysleeper


Restlessly the ocean beat upon the rugged shore, its agitation contrasting starkly with the gentle light that bathes the cove.  'There should be wind, dark clouds and thunder,' thought the watcher as he stood at the edge of the forest.  His dark eyes are troubled as they watch the waves hurl themselves against the rocky shore.  Sighing deeply he lifts his eyes and lets them roam around the wild coastline.  It was hard to imagine that once a beautiful elven city had stood in this place, for now it seemed a place of wild things, untouched by a civlised hand. Yet, it was here at this very place that Alqualonde the Swanhaven, had stood though the Ages until the decision had been made to move the city to the mortal realm.

..once a beautiful elven city had stood in this place..

Standing there in the eternal twilight that clothes the Undying Lands, Aule Talka Marda lets his mind wander in memories of that fair city.  Wide leafy avenues paved with precious gems, elegant homes and beautiful gardens had lain spread before the graceful, towering palace of Olwe, King of the Teleri, Lord of Alqualonde and Tol Eressea.  The city had framed the famed harbour, home of the majestic Swanships of those sea-faring elves. Truly the harbour city had been a gleaming pearl adorning the shores of Aman. Yet its beauty had not prevented it being witness to great sorrow.  Many had died in the Kinslaying of long ago, and Olwe, too, had known the mysterious loss of his Queen.

"Is that why I've come to this shore?" He wonders.  How long has it been now that he has searched for his wife, his own Queen? Again time has become a blur for the Smith of Arda.  Not so long ago, ensnared by the dark magick of Melkor he had lost track of time and reason in the depths of Mandos, but now there is a different reason.  The very length and breadth of Aman he has traveled in his search for her, his Yavanna, Kementari, Queen of the Earth.  His heart constricts painfully in his chest as again he remembers those emerald eyes as he had seen them last, liquid with pain.

'Is that why I've come to this shore?'

Where are you? Again he asks the question that has driven him in his search for her.

"Where ARE you!"

He gives voice to his desperation, but his cry is swallowed by the wash of the waves upon the empty and silent shore. Did he cry out the same, Aule wonders.  Did that tall, elegant elven King stand here, too, in his fair city and cry out his grief and loss for his wife, just as he is doing? He had never found her, Aule knew.  Somehow, somehow he had lived on, without his Queen, guiding his people with a loving hand, always faithful and loyal to the Valar.  How did he do it? How did he carry on without her?

As he stands there, his legs tremble in protest at the long days of punishing searching. Letting himself rest a moment, he lowers his body to the ground. He leans his back against a bolder, folding his long muscular legs in front of him, and resting his forearms upon his knees. What do I do now?  What did you do, Olwe of Alqualonde? What did you do when your Queen could not be found?  His shoulders slump dejectedly as he stares out over the cove to the distant ocean beyond.  How did you carry on, without her, yet carry on you did.  In the end, you took your city and what was left of your people to the mortal realm, where even now you continue in your service to us in the fight against Darkness.  Even now you journey with one of us, our beloved Irmo, Lord of Dreams...

What did you do, Olwe of Alqudlonde?

His thoughts trail off and he sits, utterly still, hardly daring to breathe.  By Eru's Light, why had he not thought of this sooner?  Where do all the Valar go to heal but Lorien. Lorien that is anything and everything they need. Lorien, the place of healing, shifting to be whatever the seeker needs it to be.  Lorien, presided over by Irmo!  His heart thudding painfully, he takes a few deep breathes to calm himself.  Closing his eyes, breathing evenly as he relaxes his body to aid his focus, he reaches out his mind.  In his mind's eye there they all were, the light of every Valar, laid out like a beautiful celestial array in a velvet sky, the golden glow of Manwe Sulimo shining brightest of all.  Automatically he seeks the one he knows best, but as has been the case for so long now, she is not there.  Clamping down on the despair that threatens to well though him, instead he searches for Irmo.  There!  Yes, there, steady and constant is Irmo.

Taking another deep breath and letting it out slowly he composes his appeal.

Far away in the mortal world, Estelin stirs in his sleep. He hears the appeal of Aule calling to him. He wakes in the darkness and ponders the concern that Yavanna is missing. The urgency and desperation of Aule's plea reminds him of the grave situation before, when it was Aule and Nienna who were missing, sealed away by the Fallen One's magick. Sitting up in bed, he sends a simple mental reply to Aule. "Be at ease. I will search for her. But you must seek Manwe and tell him of this.  He needs to know. He may be able to help."

After sending his reply, he recalls the happenings within Melkor's chamber. His sister was there, enthralled by dark magick. He is anxious to make sure that something bad has not happened to Yavanna also. He is anxious to begin his own search of the multi-dimensional planes of Lorien. For his gardens shift and change to accommodate the healing needs of the perceiver, and Aule stands no chance of finding her there alone. In fact, he realizes his own search would take a very long time. He turns and sees Olwe and Nole. They are set to sail tomorrow on Miro's ship. While the boon of Manwe Sulimo is important, that he protect the champion Olwe, the prospect of a missing Valar worries him more. Forming a plan in his head, he rises and looks once more at the sleeping king.

Taking a spare bit of parchment, he pens Olwe a message. With difficulty, he holds the pen as he manifests his thoughts before him. "As a musician and bard, I have become quite intrigued by the story of the dwarves of Gamilfun. As I am not desiring another sea journey so soon, I have decided to journey to the Blue Mountains to see the ruins of the great dwarven city for myself in search of inspiration for an epic tale. Do not delay your return to Alqualonde to await news of me." Thinking a moment, he suspects Olwe will be the only one reading the message, and adds, "I will explain in more detail my need to leave when I am able, but for now, this will serve to cover my absence." He then slips the parchment gently under the king's pillow and gathers his few belongings, taking care to not handle the items noisily and clumsily.

With a final look at the peacefully sleeping king, he slips downstairs past the snoring dwarves and outside the Green Leaf Inn. The stars above blazed forth from the blackness beyond as he shadows through the sleeping city of Grey Havens and out the north gate. He follows this route a ways, trying to make sure that any witnesses would see that he did indeed go towards Gamilfun. A short ways out of town, and as the coming dawn begins to illuminate the sky, he turns from the path and assumes his ethereal form. Within moments, his view turns from the fir-clad slopes of Lindon to the majesty of Lorien. "Well now, lets get started," he says to himself as he gazes over the complex dimensions of Lorien.

Things Left Unsaid

Played by:

AelKennyr Rhiano


In the market area, behind him, a fishwife hisses at a cat, who hisses back at being denied an unsold fish. She waves a knife, from the sound of her threats, and her skirts swirl about her, like banners flapping in the breeze, as she chases off the animal to the laughter and hoots of fellow merchants.  Sounds of shops closing – wooden crates being packed, delicate breakables being wrapped in straw, last desperate calls to sell perishable food at greatly reduced prices—they rise and fall, like the gentle rise and fall of the damaged swanship upon the ebbing and flowing tide. The wood of the hull rubs against the stone of the dock, and that sound blends in, too, with the sounds of a thriving city turning weary thoughts to home and hearth and a sleep well deserved.

Out past the mouth of the harbor a dolphin makes a joyous leap out of the ocean, turns and twists in midair and dives back into the dark blue water, with a distant, barely discernible splash, but one heard by the elven ears of the Lord of Alqualonde and Tol Eressea.  Blue eyes the color of the sea observe the playful antics as a brief smile curves his lips.  Lifting his gaze he watches Arien’s vessel drop heavy in the sky, slipping ever closer to the horizon and to its final docking for the day.  A bird calls in the distance, and the smell of suppers being cooked, and the soft calls and exchanges of farewells and good nights drift here and there in a port city still alive and well. A heavy indigo mantle drapes across the sky hard on the trail of the setting sun. The day is nearly spent, and even as the sun sets, the moon rises, guided by the Maia Tilion to makes its nightly journey across the sky. 

Slowly, Olwe, King of the Teleri elves, drops his gaze, the soft swish of the tide like a lullaby to the Lord of the Swanhaven.  Though the harbor is of stone and not moved by the kiss of the ocean, the dock beneath him seems to rock gently in response, an eternal dance between sea and shore played out. Soon he, Nole, the young shipwright Miro, and the Khazad survivors would be sailing upon the waters of the world, returning to silent Alqualonde, to quiet Alqualonde.  The heat of the day, baked into the stone of the harbor, filters up and warms the bottom of his feet, penetrating his sturdy boots, but the breeze that whips up off the water bears the promise of a cool night.  Windows will be left open, Olwe thinks, and by simply walking back the houses, hearing wives talk to  husbands, mothers scold recalcitrant children to bed,  lullabies being sung, dishes being washed, fires being banks, one can paint the picture of the ancient famed port city in a blanket of impressions.  

It used to be so in Alqualonde. But those memories, that time seems like an age past.  It has been three turns of the seasons here in middle earth, but in his ancient heart, it feels to Olwe that he has mourned the disappearance of his people for a lifetime.  

What will the survivors of Blue Mountain think, these heartsore children of the Smith, when they reach his beloved Swanhaven, see the blackened, melted, twist slag of ruin that was once Tilion’s Tower, see the scarred and pockmarked palace, hear the silent whispers of a glittering and ancient  elven city  calling out for the return of her people? Will ghosts walk the empty streets, and populated the empty shops for them as well?  Olwe draws a heavy breath and lifts his gaze back to the sea, slowly turning into a dark and deep reflection of the starry dusky sky.  They will return, now, to Alqualonde come morning upon a different ship from the one in which they had sailed. Nole’s ship bears the marks of his pride, Olwe tells himself. He has cost his dear companion, the sweet-soiled Nole, his most treasured possession, his swanship.  “I was vain and prideful, and full of my own need,” he whispers, walking further down the dock, to the end, and staring out over the mouth of the harbor. “I dared to defy the Lord of the Waters of the World because I wanted, I needed, I thought I had the right to demand to satisfy my own need.”  

And, in the end, Lord Ulmo has been proven to act in Olwe’s benefit, sparing both the Lord of the eternal Swanhaven and his faithful friend, Nole, from exposure to the plague that was sweeping through Sylvhara.  Comet, his beloved Cousin, was as safe as she could be, in this dark and uncertain time, and they met here, in the Grey Havens.  It was a feckless act, and as reward, he surely earned the displeasure of the Valar and the disdain of the Maia Osse.  “I am sorry,” he whispers. “I was prideful and stubborn, and I cared naught for any word that crossed its purpose to my will.”  He has no idea if the Lord of Waters heard him or even cared enough to listen, but still he spoke, alone, on a different dock than the one where he spoke in such arrogance.  “I ask forgiveness, Lord Ulmo.  Forgive a wayward and frustrated child. For after all these ages, when my years are placed beside the eternity of the Vala, I am but a child learning to walk unaided.  My memories blind me, at times.  My memories of the peace that was my beloved home, of the joy that was my people, the love that was our air and our water, I feel my reason flee. I could not bear that I should lose another kin, especially not Comet. Not her.”  

She has grown, his Comet, his cousin. Playful girl no more, nor has been for, lo, many, many turns of many, many years, yet his mind still sees her as she was when first he saw her. His mind reaches back, back, turning back the years like pages in a book.  And there again, he sees her, her parents. When first he laid eyes upon her, he was a king without a queen, a father mothering a motherless child, his daughter Earwen.  His queen was gone; she who sat beside him upon a glittering throne of her own, she who had come to his bed, stirred his heart and his passion such that together they brought into the world a daughter of exquisite beauty and constant curiosity, she who had sworn to him that she had looked into her very soul, her fëa, and there she saw his face, his name a bright flame deep inside her. 

But her words were not true. She was not true.  Distant and beautiful she had been, upon the docks of Alqualonde, that last time, her blue eyes distant, seeking another, unrepentantly wanting other than her lord and husband. She gave a toss of her head, and her silver hair flew about her in a tumble of waves and curls. Even at that moment, at that moment when her betrayal was clear and known to him, even then he had to curl his hands in to a fist to keep from reaching out and feeling the silken strands one last time.  The words were few between them, that final time. The words were, in truth, pointless. Both of them knew she was leaving the Swanhaven, and him –especially him- for all time.  Both of them knew she was leaving with a light heart, with no regrets, no guilt.  Both of them knew his heart was leaden, cold, and full of doubt and pain.  They turned their backs to each other as night fell, and parted, but he looked back, one last time to see her walking away.

The next day, Quildohtar found Olwe in his study and reported that the queen’s ladies could not find the queen anywhere in the palace. He had made a search of her, high and low, throughout Alqualonde but she was nowhere to be found. He had his king’s champion call off the search and ordered the ladies to now attend his daughter, the Princess of the Teleri.

“There is no Queen in Alqualonde,” he had said to his Champion, Quildohtar.  “There will never be a queen by my side again.” And with that he ordered his Champion to leave him, and spent the day in his study.  

In the distance, from the direction of the Green Leaf Inn, the sounds of raucous laughter, and snatches of an elven drinking song pull him back from memories of ancient times, ancient hurts, to the present moment. Night has settled its cloak upon the world, and Tilion’s vessel is beginning its traverse across the sky.  For long moments, Olwe, Lord of Alqualonde and Tol Eressea, watches the ship of the Maia, his heart full of memories and soft aches.  Do you see me? he wonders as he watches the moon.  Do you see me, Tilion? Beloved? Then he draws a deep breath and pushes down, down, ever down, the loneliness and emptiness inside him, turns, and with a determined stride and a gentle smile upon his face, he makes his way to the tavern.

Soap and Sorrow - Part II

Played by:
AelKennyr Rhiano
Belenos Stormchaser

Leaning over a little more, the old woman allowed her hands to remain submerged in the hot water, the warmth easing the arthritic knuckles of her hands. She closes her eyes a moment, and gives a sigh of relief.  She opens them, and her sharp eyes rest upon the back of the young woman huddled in the tub. If the girl stays through to the autumn and even winter, perhaps she can take baths like this herself, with the daft child's help.  She reaches down and chases the soap for a moment, until her fingers close firmly about the bar.  Just think!  A tub bath instead of filling the wash basin with lukewarm water and trying to spot bath.  Bringing the soap out of the water, she reaches down for the brush, which she had dropped on the floor beside her.  "Now, girl," she says, her voice soft and gentle, like it used to be when she was bathing her man, in his latter days.  "You take that hair of yours and pull it off your back. Tonight we will get you all scrubbed up," she stops to rub the soap against the bristles of the  brush, and drops the bar back in the water,"and now tomorrow, tomorrow, I have that soft soap. You know, the one that is for your hair. Well, girl, tomorrow, we will be brushing that hair out, 100 strokes of the brush, and then we can go down to the little river, down by the waterfall, and we will wash it proper. Now that soap is for hair.  Won't clog it with oils and fat, don't ye know.  And then, and then we will rinse it out proper like." 

"..Tonight we will get you all scrubbed up."

She applies the brush to the young woman's back and starts to scrub, one hand clutching the brush and the other hand steadying her by grasping the end of the tub.  She eyes the hair and then asks the young woman, "Now, now, you be telling me true, you ain't put some kind of lightener to your hair, girl? Something that done faded or washed out now?  I knows some men looks for honey gold hair, but if you get any of that concoction from that old gabby gammer in town hard by the thread dyers.....well, she is a might proud, TOO proud, if you ask me. And her wares have been known to cause hair to fall out." She nods and dips the brush in the water.

 "Ock, aye, I remember the mayor's wife..real proud of her red hair, which tweren't red, you know, unless it came from a bottle. Well, one time, she bought some of that fair brass color from that old...old..." she turns her head and spits at the memory of the woman who always looked down upon her and her man.  "And next thing you know, her head was shinier than a silver mirror."  She gives a little chuckle.  "I don't know if it ever growed out."

Yavanna lifts a wet hand to draw the heavy fall of her hair clear of her back as instructed. Tucking it forward over one shoulder, she lifts a lock and stares at it as the old woman talks about soaps, turning it this way and that with her long finely shaped fingers. The hair glints red and gold from the nearby fire and she blinks at it as though seeing it for the first time. It WAS darker than before. It wasn't dirty, she knew, for, despite the crone's concerns she did wash it daily when she made her way to the small riverlet nearby. But it was definitely darker and.. more limp, heavy. She remembers as she stares at it, a time when it danced around her shoulders, seemingly with a life of its own. She remembers how much he used to love it, tangling his fingers in it as they made love. She remembers..

Yavanna shakes her head as again her mind takes that painful path.  The movement causes the hair to slip from her grasp and she lets it fall to lie with the rest, heavy and damp upon her shoulder.  Searching for a distraction from her thoughts, she turns her head and looks back at Arianna a moment as she asks, "You have mentioned a husband?  Where is he now? Is he off hunting or trading?"

The old woman meets Yavanna's eyes for a moment and then wrenches her gaze away, her eyes glittering with a sudden spring of tears. "Na, na, he twasn't one much for hunting.  He'd do it, doncha know, when we needs meat, and to fill the smokehouse, but by Aule's nose hairs and Manwe's spit, he'd come home all sad-eyed and just be list about the place.  Didn't hold much for killing things, you know."  She stopped, and dropped the brush into the water, resting an aged, spotted hand upon Yavanna's shoulder.  "Tis the way with a good man. He does what he needs, despite the twist to his heart." she says softly.  "Shore, shore, in those days, I be handier with a bow, but he twasn't about to let me into the forest on my own.  'Woman,' he would says, 'My job is to feeds my family.'  'Oh, is that so?' I would sass back...I was a mite proud in them days. 'And what you think my garden does..hmmm?' And he would just scoop me up in them big arms of his, kiss me firmly, and I would forget all about what started me fussing."

..her eyes glittering with a sudden spring of tears.

Her eyes see again the shoulder she holds, the tub, the warm quarters of the house she and her man built a long, long time ago.  "One day, child, pretty thing you are, you going to have a man look at you that way. Melts your heart, it does, and makes your knees go all weak and your body tingles. That be what a good man does."

Yavanna closes her eyes and listens as Arianna begins to answer her question, relaxing into the warm water, grateful that her mind has something else to focus upon.  She inhales deeply, her nostrils filling with the fragrant steam from the bath. "...by Aule's nose hairs..." the other woman says and her eyes fly open as she gasps aloud.  A pain tears though her, starting deep in her chest and forcing itself through her flesh as though determined to leave her rent asunder. Water splashes unheeded upon the floor as her hands grasp the side of the tub, holding white-knuckled as though to keep from being swept away by the torrent of abysmal pain that surges through her.

...her eyes fly open...

Arianna jerks her hand back and leans back on her heels, her other hand grasping, white-knuckled the wooden side of the tub, driving a splinter into one of her fingers, but she felt it not.  Her eyes flew wide open in panic and surprise at Yavanna's reaction.  "W-wha..." she starts to say, her mouth forming a wide "o."  What is wrong with the child? Her mind races.  Is she falling into some sort of distempered fit?

The water sloshes over the side, some landing on her dress, soaking it, but again, it is noticed not.  "Calm, calm down, child!" She calls out in a sharp voice, her panic making her voice shrill.  "What has a hold on you?" She barks out, and with her own hand, she pulls herself forward, resting her stomach against the worn wood as her hand again grasps Yavana's shoulder, this time forcefully, shaking her.  "What , what, child, has some god or other cursed you?" she asks. 

"Calm, calm down, child!"

Gods!  Gods of the elves, Gods of men, the one God her man held to and taught her about. The Valar, the gods of a million races.  Which one has cursed this child, the crone thinks, and a cold harsh stab of fear chills her to the bone. What if this be one of the god-accursed?  What has she brought into her home?

Yavanna takes a sudden breath as Arianna touches her shoulder, not realizing until then she had been holding it. What had gotten into her? Drawing in slow deep breathes, she fights to steady her racing pulse. Slowly she forces her fingers to let go their death grip on the side of the tug and turns to smile a wobbly uncertain smile at the old woman, her mind racing for an explanation that would not leave the other thinking her totally out of her mind. "I.. I had a cramp," she murmurs at last before turning to again wrap her arms around her knees. 

Yavanna's mind is racing and skittering like a horse spooked by the wind.  Every time she approaches it to look for the cause of her pain it jibs and shies away, panic-stricken.  Confused, still breathing hard despite her efforts to calm, she leans her chin on her knees.  Maybe she was mad.  Maybe that's why she had been abandoned in the forest.  Maybe Arianna would do the same if she knew. Maybe.. Sighing, exhausted, but unwilling to risk abandonment she tries again to reassure the old woman, her voice firmer now. "I.. I'm sorry I alarmed you.  It.. it just caught me by surprise."

Maybe she was mad.

The old woman watches her, hand still upon the younger's shoulder, watches the rapid rise and fall of the younger woman's breath.  Narrowing her eyes, she clicks her tongue against her upper teeth, and sucks in air to make a harsh noise.  "Now, you be thinking me a fool, girl," she says, her voice still harsh with fear.  Looking down she leans forward and peers at the area of the back she had just scrubbed. Red it was, to be sure, but the overall tone of the skin was just as gray as when the older woman started.

The water, too, was sudsy, but there was no trace of grime, nor was the water dirty in the least.  Frowning, the old woman stared again at the back, lifting her hand to lightly trace over the intricate leaves and vines inked upon the girl's skin. Is that fading, as the days go by, or is my eyes failing me, Arianna asks herself, and that, too, causes a different stab of fear. Alone, all alone in this cottage hard by the forest, she has only her wits, her strength and her senses, and now, now, she sucks in a breath,  Blessed Eru in whom her man believed, what be her fate if all fail her at once? 

Her hand shakes as she lightly brushes her pruned fingers across the younger's back.  Could it be the ink was fresh when first the girl came?  And now it fades as it should?  She takes a deep breath and nods.  It must be so. It must surely be so. But then...then...how should it be the daft creature's very skin grow all dusky?  She bites her bottom lip, concentrating. 

You be a strange one, girl," she says aloud.  "A mystery."  She shifts her weight and is rewarded with the sharp stab, like needles, from legs that have fallen asleep.  "Oh!" she calls out and clutches the tub. "Oh!" she calls again, the pain sharp. "Vaire take my old bones," she mutters.  "And Yavanna be cursed for letting this old woman get so old." She feels tears well up, a mixture of fear and aches and pains combining to undo her steely resolve.

"..Yavanna be cursed.."

Yavanna's whole body flinches and she barely manages to stifle another gasp as Arianna utters the name of Yavanna.  What was wrong with her?  And who were these people the old woman spoke of?  Why did she react so strongly to their names?  Questions sprang fast and furious through her mind, yet her tongue refuses to give voice to them, instead choosing to stay heavy as lead and unresponsive in her mouth. Casting around frantically for a means to end what had become a very uncomfortable conversation, she seizes upon the old woman's complaints. "You are weary and .. and the water is growing cold.  Perhaps we should finish for tonight?"

The woman rocks back forth, hissing as the needles of pain stab up and down her legs. What, is the girl so daft that she can't see me all hobbled with pain? Arianna thinks, but then she looks again at the younger woman.  Her expression in her eyes...so at a lost, so distant.  It is not that the girl appears unfeeling, the older woman decides, seeing the tightness about the younger's eyes, the lines about her mouth.  She reaches out a hand, fingers curled in a claw. "Well, girl, don't sit there in the cold water like a frog on a stump, with your mouth just flapping.  Stand up, stand up. Can't you see I'm all ..." she stops and sucks in her breath as the muscles of her left leg cramps.  "Dark Lord take us both, git up and help me!" she said, sharply, and then reaches down to claw at the leg, unable to ease the cramp.  "Wits, girl, wits, wits, use them!"  Helpless, she crouches there, not quite sitting, not quite kneeling.  "Git me up."