Seeking the Counsel of Manwe

Played by:
AelKennyr Rhiano
Rhun Rhiano
Shawn Daysleeper



Aule's leather sandals whisper softly against the polished stone floor of the corridor, for all that his is a tall and heavy form.  The lightness of his step speaks of both strength and urgency.  Walls of the finest stone and marble pass by him, but for once the Maker is oblivious to the beauty of the stone or the skill of the artisans.  He casts a sidelong glance at his companion.  Eonwe!  His memories of their confrontations in the depths of Mandos are vivid. Yet here they stride together, urgently seeking the counsel of the Breath of Arda.

He casts a sidelong glance at his companion

Manwe rests upon the seat of Taniquetil, at the top of the Holy Mountain of Aman straddling the Girdle of Arda. He reflects on the events that occurred in the Chambers of Melkor. "All of this happening, under my very nose!" How did all of this escape his vision? Have the long passing ages of Ea stunted his ability to see the every angle of the world? In a frustrated breath he calls to the air element, for he is it's master. With nothing but a thought the air of the empty hall swirls about him, weaving around the statues around the room's circumference. The excited air causes the flame before him to rise, illuminating his face and all in a blaze. With a slight motion of his hand, the wind ceases. As all falls still he hears the footsteps of ones approaching from the corridor. He quickly subdues and hides his frustration, seeking not to show any weakness to his brethren.

He reflects on events..

Together they walk, the soft slap of leather in tempo with the louder, firm claps of well worn boots, lovingly polished to a high shine. The cloak worn by the Herald of Manwe swirls and swishes with each step, fanning the cool air of the hallway.  Blue eyes the color of glittering gems sweep from side to side but remain fixed ahead of them as shoulder to shoulder with Aule, Eonwe walks down the curving corridor that opens into the throne room of the Mighty Lord of the West.  Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the visage of the Smith, the dark, unruly hair sweeping about him like a living mantle.  He starts to speak, to tell the Vala beside him that Manwe is present, but stops, for like him, the Smith would surely already feel the comforting presence.  All the Ainur shine bright, like stars in the undying twilight sky above them, fixtures in the firmament of their minds, their beings...All but one.  All but one.

He starts to speak.. 

Aule rounds the final curve on the corridor, and, as always, stops in awe as he gazes upon the throne room of Manwe Sulimo, the very Breath of Arda. The ceiling of blue marble cunningly wrought and lit to look like clouds scudding across the sky soars above the curving beauty of the interior.  Nine giant thrones of the Aratar are arranged in a majestic semi-circle on a raised dias.  All the thrones are occupied by an equally larger than life stylized representation of the Aratar.  All but one.  Aule swallows hard.  "Please Eru, let there not be yet another seat become vacant," he prays silently to the One above them all, for one of these images is for Yavanna, his wife.  Yavanna who cannot be found.  Desperately his eyes seek and find Manwe, seated up his throne.  He must be able to help.  He must!

...the throne room of Manwe Sulimo

Manwe looks up at the two that come before him. Eonwe! Eonwe has come, and he stands beside Aule. It was not long ago they lived in despise of each other. That was when they were under the influence of the black magic of Melkor. Now, with Eonwe cured and whole again, he feels better. The Breath of Arda remembers the days when Eonwe was sent away, he pushes those memories aside as his Herald stands before him. Rising, he asks, "Eonwe, my Herald, and the Maker, to what do I owe this pleasure?"

Eonwe!

Eonwe checks himself, coming to a stop a step ahead of the Smith of Arda and turning back to look at Aule, puzzled, until he follows the Smith's gaze. Behind the throne of the West, ringed round in a semicircle and seated upon giant, imposing thrones of gold are faceless seated statues, representing the Arator, the mightiest of all the Vala.  One of those faceless forms represents Aule and another Yavanna.  There amongst the statues one throne sits vacant, for the statue representing Melkor was long ago destroyed, the throne all that stands in testimony to his place among the mighty.  Eowne stretches out a hand, almost touching the arm of the Smith, and then lets it drop slowly.  His blue eyes soften as he studies the Vala, and his own heart feels heavy, leaden.

"Eonwe, my herald," calls Manwe, and like a sunflower turning its face to the sun, Eonwe turns around to face the Lord of the West. Despite the grim reason for their presence, tha Maia's heart leaps at Manwe's voice.  Eyes shining, Eonwe steps forward, his footsteps all the lighter for being in the presence of his Lord, his heart, though still troubled, stills and quiets. Coming up to the eternal flame, symbol of the Imperishable Flame, Eonwe drops to one knee. "My Lord Manwe, " he says, and his voice, from long centuries of serving in that hall, rises like incense filling the chamber. "My Lord, the Lord Aule comes before you and seeks urgent audience with the Breath of Arda. Please, my Lord, it is of great urgency. May the Maker step forward?"

".. it is of great urgency...

The Maker of Arda is not one who is familiar with feeling helpless.  Through his might and power, his skill and craft he had shaped the very lands of the world.  His hands had formed the sweeping gentle curve of valley, the majestic ragged peaks and the wide flowing plains.  Yet now he stands in this room, a room he had frequented often over the ages, and feels like a child waken by nightmares and seeking reassurance from a loving parent, so small and helpless does he feel.  He watches as Eonwe steps forward and addresses the Lord of the West, and is humbled that by the sincere concern in the Maia's voice as he addresses his Lord.  The affairs that concern Mawne are vast and heavy, Aule knows.  Will he have time for the Maker?  Will he know how to help?  Anxiously, Aule awaits upon his reply. 

.. so small and helpless did he feel.

Manwe listens to his Herald's plea and motions him to rise. He studies the Maker a moment, seeing him standing further away, as if laden with a heavy burden. He wonders what could have brought him to his halls. It touches him to see that Eonwe himself accompanies the Maker in this task, and  that the Herald requests the Lord of Arda's assistance. It pleases him to see these once hostile beings have come together into his presence. "Please, Maker, I stand here now, and I listen to what you have to say. For do you remember my promise I made to you in the caverns of Mandos that I will listen to your concerns?"

Missive Received

Played by:
AelKennyr Rhiano


Olwe, Lord of Alqualonde and Tol Eressea, King of the Teleri, the last of the Eldar clans to come to the Undying Lands, crosses the room on legs well accustomed to the gentle rocking of the ship.  Looking out a thick paned window, he watches for a few moments as the sunlight danced upon the waves. Occasionally, a dolphin would lift up out of the water to join the light in a playful galliard, stately and yet at the same time unrestrained.  Then his attention is pulled away by the sounds of someone nosily emptying their stomachs.  With a sigh, he turns back to the window and opens the porthole to let in the fresh air.   

Stowing his things away in the drawers built into the walls of the cabin, he feels the ship rise and fall with the waves, his feet and legs compensating for the gentle lurch with practised ease.  Somewhere in the distant was the call of a gull, giving them a final farewell for this trip back to Alqualonde. 

He hears the muffled voices of dwarves, some complaining already of the journey, he fears, judging only from the tone.  He heard them as they went below at the start of this journey, whispering to each other in their own language, Olwe assumes. It certainly was no elven tongue, for the sounds were hard and sharp, without music. He has heard the tongues of the second-born, their language dull and flat upon the ear, a disharmonious sound, but far from the cacophony of the dwarven tongue. It shall be a long voyage home, Olwe thinks, crossing the cabin to the desk so cunningly built into one of the walls of the cabin.  Sitting down in the cushioned wooden chair beside the desk, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a folded piece of parchment he had hurriedly stuck there.  Long elegant fingers unfolded the note, his brow furrowing as he remembers the contents, the one line that gave Olwe such pause: 

 "I will explain in more detail my need to leave when I am able, but for now, this will serve to cover my absence." 

The handwriting was curved, tense, the letters folding in on themselves. He holds the parchment and brushes his thumb across the signature on it.  The musician Estelin, who is no Teleri musician, but instead the Vala Irmo, Lord of Dreams, of Visions. The same Vala who, several turns of the seasons ago, disturbed the peaceful life that Olwe had known for ages with visions of a terrible and consuming Darkness, waiting, watching, growing. So easy to forget that the humble, quiet, shy minstrel was the Lord of Lorien, so easy to forget why the disguised Vala travelled with him.  And now his protector was gone, away.  Had he really gone to gather tales, or was there a higher purpose?  Slowly Olwe refolded the letter and placed it on the table. 

It doesn't matter where the truth lies, Olwe tells himself. Nole received the news that Estelin was staying behind readily. And with Apakenwe, the disguised Nienna, missing, there were truly no one else to question Estelin's words.  

Except Olwe.  And whatever questions Olwe has, they must forever rest in his heart, for a Child of Erum has no business in the affairs of the Valar....no business at all.

Open Ocean

Played by:
Jasper DragonHeart
Shawn Daysleeper


Nole writes in his personal log about leaving the Grey Havens. He is anxious to be back in Alqualonde and is quite happy that Miro is on board. He does feel a little uneasy about not being captain of a ship in voyage and he cannot remember when this had ever happened before. He also writes about the dwarves and his experiences in town. He writes all this so that he can reflect back on this trip with Miro, hopefully not the last. He feels the motion change as the ship goes from smooth to more rough waters. He suspects they have passed out of the mouth of the Gulf of Luin and into the seas off shore of Middle Earth's northwest shore. He goes upstairs, for he needs to give Miro directions across the open water.

...he needs to give Miro directions.

The early morning fog has seared away to reveal an achingly blue sky with nary a wisp of cloud to be seen.  Progress down the waters of the Gulf has picked up the further from harbor they sail.  The ship's canvas has filled, and Miro could feel the vessel as though a living thing, chaffing to be free of the warm shallow waters of the Gulf and escape into the freedom of the open ocean. Now as they pass the headlands that stand silent sentinel on either side, the ship heaves and lurches forward beneath his feet as the sails are caught by the full force of the open ocean winds, and Miro laughs aloud from the sheer joy at the feel of his craft in full sail.

Miro laughs aloud..

Miro cannot help but feel for the wee folk who accompany them on this journey. Not all will revel in the feel of the ship as it dances upon the waves.  Even in the calm waters of the Gulf the distinct sounds of the copious emptying of dwarven stomachs had been clearly heard. But even his sympathy for the small group of survivors cannot dim the shining joy in his eyes as deftly his hands adjust the run of the ship to the ocean's demands.

Nole sees Miro at the captain's wheel. He seems so natural there. Nole goes up the stairs and stands beside him. "Greetings Miro." he says and bows a little, the wind of the open sea blowing the hair across his face.

Miro 's hands that had held the helm so lightly tighten as movement on the deck below catches his eye.  Nole! His eyes follow the movement of the Teleri Master Mariner as he mounts the stairs to the upper deck, taking in the graceful movements of his lithe form, and the sweet melody of his voice as Nole greets him.  A stray lock of his fair hair flashes and shines like spun silver as the capricious ocean wind ensnares it and drapes it across his face.  Without thought Miro reaches out a slender hand and gently tucks it back behind his ear, letting his fingers linger a moment as he marvels at the silky softness of it.  As the realization of how familiar he is being with a Teleri Prince hits him he lets his hand drop, face flushed as he turns his eyes back to the distant horizon.  "Good morn to  you."  He nods towards the horizon. "We are clear of the Gulf at last."

"We are clear of the Gulf at last."

Nole smiles as the other elf pushes back his hair. He tries to hold back a blush, but he feels his face go warm even in the cool breeze. "Yes, we are clear of the Gulf." 

He looks at the ship, but remembers Miro's face. He realizes he left his charts below deck as well. Nole thinks, "Miro is often in my thoughts, I can't believe I left my charts below." He realizes he will have to stay by Miro and use his sense of direction to guide them home. "This is not necessarily a bad thing," he thinks. "Your ship, she is doing so well," Nole says, wondering about the change of subject.

"Miro is often in my thoughts..."

Miro smiles with pleasure at the compliment.  This ship is another of his own design, built to carry cargo yet move swiftly upon the ocean for time is money when it comes to business.  He turns and looks at Nole, feeling his pulse leap a little at his nearness. "I was going to ask you what course to set, now we are clear of the Gulf, but would you like to take the helm and set it yourself?  She is a feisty one but only needs the lightest touch."

Nole wonders at Miro. They have only known each other for a few days, yet he has inside feelings that here is a sort of kindred spirit. He looks to the wheel. "Yes, I would like to steer her." He smiles.

Miro steps to the side to make room for Nole to take the helm. "She is all yours," he murmurs, smiling as he gives a small bow. "As am I." the words continue silently in his head.  He catches himself up short and stares at the tall silver-haired elf in wonder.  Now where did that thought come from? Impossible! A humble shipwright is beyond the notice of a Teleri Prince. His heart flipping and flopping in his chest like a landed fish, his tongue now cleaved to the roof of his mouth Miro waits silently for Nole to take the helm.

Miro waits silently..

Nole takes the helm of the ship: it is exactly as Miro described it, light to steer and quick to respond. He wonders, though, about the elf beside him. He felt this way before once, this love. He shakes his head in his thoughts. Miro is helping his king with their mission and his home is in the Grey Havens, where he has a strong business and is a favorable shipwright. Alqualonde is in ruins. Nole has nothing to offer to him in the empty city. This is but a temporary crossing of paths, and soon times will change and quiet Nole's love again.

Miro stands close beside Nole as he takes the helm, his ocean-blue eyes watching the deft manner with which the Master Mariner handles the ship.  Aye, this one knows what he is about when it comes to handling a ship, of that there was no doubt. For the moment there is just the two of them on deck.  The small group of adventurous dwarves that had been on deck when the ship first left port had gone below to settle in, and Olwe is nowhere to be seen, so for now it is just the two of them.

Miro shifts his feet a little upon the deck as he feels the ship change course under Nole's guidance, turning her prow with a sure hand for Alqualonde.  Again his natural exuberance takes over. It does not matter what the end of the journey brings. It does not matter that Nole is beyond reach. For now, he has this moment: this moment with Nole by his side, the wind in their hair and the sun upon their skin as their ship leaps forward eagerly on her new heading.  His smile is wide and infectious as he turns to Nole. "Now we are in your hands entirely.  Take us where you will upon this wide ocean, Prince Nole.  Take us home to Alqualonde."

"..Take us home to Alqualonde."

Nole guides the ship towards home. When he hears Miro's words, "Prince Nole," he raises an eyebrow. "He thinks I am a prince?" he thinks silently. He was going to speak about that, but Miro's voice in his head is in perfect harmony with the rhythm of the sea. There will be another time to clear that up, he thinks. For now, he wishes this moment would not end.

Farewell to Mithlond

Played by:
AelKennyr Rhiano
Belenos Rhiano
Rhun Darkmoon


Eilif places a steadying hand upon the ship's stern rail as, with a creaking of timbers and rope, the elven craft eases into the Gulf of Luin, the deck rising and shifting beneath her feet as the vessel rides the small waves. Behind her the sail, pale in the early morning light, flutters slightly as the Gulf breeze catches it, pushing the ship out from the harbour. Her dark eyes are wide with wonder as she watches the harbour behind them seemingly rise and fall, but she knows it is the ship that is moving, not the land.

..pushing the ship out from the harbour...

Eilif glances at her two companions, the tall dwarf, Fafnir, and his now constant shadow, the darkly handsome Nasi.  They were the only other dwarves on deck of those who had boarded.  Most had sought the refuge of below decks, welcoming the familiar closed-in feeling that resembled a little like their beloved mountain tunnels.  The thought draws her dark eyes back to the view behind them.  This is why she had come here upon the upper rear deck, to see her beloved Blue Mountains one last time.  There they were, still hazy in the early morning light, looming behind Mithlond with a presence both eternal and majestic.  Home.  They had been home her entire life.  Would she ever see them again?

Home.

Overhead a white bird calls out, but the sound is not the gentle lilting of the sparrows in the forest, or the constant inquiry of the snow Owl who used to roost somewhere not far from the entrance to their mountain home.  The shrill sound is one, though, Fafnir has come to know in his time in Mithlond.  Seabirds, he names them.  But he does not lift his amber eyes to the skies above to see the bird, and so he jumps and bumps into Nasi as there is a thick plopping sound. Inches from their feet, was a thick whitish goo.  He gives a soft grunt of displeasure, but quickly lifts his gaze from the offal to the purple haze of mountains. There, there was Gamilfun, the ruins of their home, and he finds as he stares, his vision blurs.  Lifting a hand to rub at his eyes, his hand comes away moist.  Tears?

Blindly he reaches out for the hand of the one next to him, for Nasi, and his body leans towards the stonemason even as the deck lifts and drops, an up and down motion most unpleasant.  His feet do this small dance of balance and awkwardness as he tries to find his ….”sealegs.”  Mithlond lies stretched before them, the port like a hungry maw, and the arches like eyes raised in eternal questioning.  Would they ever see this elven port again?  He takes in a deep breath, salt and the soap both he and Nasi used to wash up this morning mingles with a sour smell that he ignores as best he can.  The bones of his father he is leaving behind. The bones of his mother.  As he watches them slowly pull away from the port, he wonders where his bones, when the time comes, where they will be left behind.

“One of the merchants, that man with the foul smell about his breath, dared to ask me if I were not some Halfling get of an elf with a dwarf,” he says softly to his companions.  He slowly reaches into his pouch at his belt, and draws out a small leather sack. “I find I am less insulted now.” He bounces the sack in his hands a couple of times, and then, he draws back his hand, narrows his eyes, and with a mighty heave, sets the sack whizzing over the railing, arching up for a few moments before dropping with a loud splash into the sea. “Fare thee well, Mithlond,” he says.

"Fare thee well, Mithlond."

Nasi 's wide nostrils flare as he inhales the now familiar salty tang of the sea air.  It was lighter now, as the light fog that had swathed the harbour in the dawn finally lifted and was blown away by the Gulf breeze, revealing a day that promised to be warm and clear.  The fog had seemed to suit the sombre mood of the small group who had made their way to the docks one last time, to board the ship and continue their journey to their new home.  Little had they said as they'd stowed their remaining belongings below deck, guided by the tall dark elf who now stood at the helm of the ship, but Nasi had seen in their eyes their great sadness at leaving Mithlond.  It was as though it was the surrendering of their last unspoken hope that they would ever return to Gamilfun.  While on these shores, he supposes that hope had remained.  Most who had boarded had chosen to remain below with their belongings, claiming various reasons from not trusting elves to not wanting to get in the way as the ship departed, but, noting their slumped shoulders and downcast looks, Nasi suspects it has much to do with not being able to bare seeing their beloved mountain home slip away below the horizon.

..Nasi had seen in their eyes great sadness..

Nasi is jostled from his thoughts as Fafnir bumps against him, and he turns his dark eyes to look upon this one who stands beside him.  His breath catches a moment as it always does as he regards him.  Tall, well-dressed on this day of leave-taking from their homeland in a snowy white shirt and black jerkin, Fafnir shows little effects now of his injuries from the dragon attack.  But no, that is not quite true, for they all still suffer from that day.  That day is the very reason for this voyage, for leaving their ancient home.  That day is the reason for... are those tears that course down his beloved's cheeks?  He nods knowingly as he feels Fafnir's hand fumble for his, and curls his fingers around it firmly in reassurance.  He watches in silence as Fafnir fumbles for a small bag of coins and listens to the bitterness in his words before Fafnir heaves the bag overboard.

Nasi knows that throwing money away is not something his tall husband-to-be would do lightly, but he knows too, that the elves of Mithlond have mostly been just as unkind as many of the dwarves of their former home.  He squeezes his fingers again around Fafnir's and nods.  “Aye. Fare they well, Mithlond, and fare thee well, Gamilfun.” He turns to look at Fafnir, his ebony eyes gently regarding the clear golden honey of his beloved's. “They are both behind us now.  It is time for a new life.”

Eilif turns at the words of her two companions, shifting her weight on her feet a little clumsily to balance on the moving deck.  She pushes the hood she still wears back a little.  Will there ever come a time she does not feel the need for it in public, as she does now? Determinedly she resists the urge to finger the scar that runs from brow to cheek.  Quietly she regards the two as they stand there.  Yes, these two will do well in a new life in a new world. Although she knew neither would probably admit to it, both possessed courage in great measure and they had each other.  "It is a new life for us all, even those who have chosen to remain behind.  Had we but known it, our lives changed forever when that dragon appeared. It is doubly so a new life for you both."

...these two will do well in a new life..

Fafnir turns at the pressure of Nasi’s squeeze, his eyes still moist, his gaze seeking reassurance in the strong, rugged and sturdy features of the handsome stonemason. He thinks back to the night; the baby, Nizl’s strong and healthy wail and his mother’s whispered lullaby to lull that fretful tot to sleep.  There are no babes aboard this ship. Nor old jewellers  according to the rumor spread to him by the slender, comely tavern barmaid who helped him find the band that adorns his Nasi’s hand even now. Word had it that the elf who carved the runes into the ring has a new assistant, and Fafnir doubts not the truth of it.  Well, and good, the young dwarf thinks.  “I doubt not that Aztryd will fare well,” he murmurs softly, “And he will never lack for clean small clothes, for I warrant they shall keep each other very well.”

He squeezes Nasi’s hand again as the wind fills the sail, and he glances over his shoulder at the tall elf at the wheel of the ship. He turns eyes the color of amber to gaze at Eilif, face deep in the shadows of the hood, behind her, slowly growing further and further away from them, the elven port of antiquity. He gives a nod at her words and then, not pausing to think, he reaches out and tugs at the hood, so that it starts to slide back, to expose her face. “It is a new life for us all, Eilif,” He says, and his voice is gentle.

He tilts his head as he regards her. “When will you see the mark you bear is not a scar or a brand forever marring your face, but a beauty mark? Are we,” he pauses and drops his voice further to keep his words between the three of them. “Are we elves, preening, or dwarves, children of the Maker, who place store in the beauty of our crafts?”  Even as he asks, though, his eyes slide from her face.  “Well, for those who have any craft of which to boast.” He looks up but not into her eyes. Rather he focuses his gaze at a point over her shoulder. “Some of us must content ourselves with wedding and bedding talent.”  He gives a roguish smile and leans over to kiss Nasi’s cheek, taking that moment to hide the real meaning of his words in his gaze.

Nasi lifts his free hand to run it nonchalantly over his mustache to hide his smile at Fafnir's audacious gesture, but then, hearing his words and seeing the wisdom in them, he leans over to complete the task. Pushing the hood completely clear of her head, he pats her shoulder with a wide strong hand as he says, “Your scar is a mark of courage, Eilif.  Not many could face a balrog and dragon and live.  It should be worn proudly, not hidden from view.”  His dark eyes gaze solemnly into hers a moment longer before he nods, as though the matter is settled and drops his hand. Lifting his eyes to the slowly receding mountains he continues. “We all carry scars from that life, although not all are seen by the eye.”  He squeezes Fafnir's hand again although he does not embarrass him by looking at him and making his remark too personal. “I say a new life will be a good thing.”

Eilif is still staring at Fafnir, caught off-guard by both his gesture and his words as Nasi reaches over and pushes her hood back completely from her face.  At first she glances anxiously at the tall elf behind them and beyond.  He might see. Others might see...  But then, their words slowly filter though her initial shock.  "We all carry scars from that life," he had said.  Looking now at Fafnir's roguish smile and Nasi's kind eyes, she knows the truth behind those words.  Her voice gruff she murmurs, "Aye, well, if you and your future husband can have the courage to dare to show my scar when I wear such a sharp blade at my side, then so can I."  With that she fumbles at the lacing of the cape that bears the hood, unlacing them until it is free.  She holds it up for a moment, letting the wind catch the fabric and then releases it, watching as it goes fluttering over the side and floats gently to the frothy water in the wake of the boat.  She turns from watching it sink and looks at her companions again. "Aye, 'tis a new life for us all."  She pauses and looks pointedly at Fafnir. "You may have had no craft to interest a traditional Khazad community, but we are no longer going to be in a traditional Khazad community, are we?"

"We all carry scars from that life," he had said.

Fafnir watches the hood dance upon the breeze, fluttering, twirling, a madcap frenzy of motion before it drops to the water and spinning, in the wake of the ship’s passage.  As it sinks, he turns his eyes back to Eilif.  “Traditional,” He says, and gives her a brilliant smile, one that does not make it to his eyes, but it will do. It will do.  “No, by the Maker’s hairy left ear, we left that with the carcass of that dragon,” he answers her.

He reaches ups and tugs thoughtfully at the left side of his trimmed beard.  “We left it with most of my hair, “ he thinks to himself, and his hand slides up to rake through his short hair.  Then he turns to Nasi, and says, without preamble, hurriedly. “A king, a ship captain, a dwarven elder, and two terribly handsome dwarves…put them all together, and what do you think you get?”

Nasi 's grin flashes whitely against the backdrop of his dark face and even darker beard.  The smile is all the more startling because of how rarely it is seen.  Now though he laughs aloud, a deep booming laugh as he watches Eilif's cape flutter away on the wind.  The laughter trails away, but the smile remains as he turns to look at Fafir, his eyes still merry but puzzled by the other's question. “You have me lost for answer on that, my sweetheart.”

"You have me lost for an answer on that.."

Fafnir looks over at Eilif. Forgotten is the pitch and roll of the deck. Forgotten is the journey down the mountain to Mithlond. Forgotten are the sleepless nights, the combing through throngs of unfriendly elves to find the very rare friend like the barmaid. Forgotten is the “traditional” Khazad community and his father’s deep disappointment. With a wink at Eilif, he turns and grabbing the stonemason, he pulls the other closer and presses his lips, first firmly against the lips of the other, feeling the bristle of whispers, the smoothness of skin, the sweet taste of lips that are his to claim.  As the kiss ends, he looks into Nasi’s eyes. “The answer is simple, my Nasi.  You get three individuals who can fight over who gets the pleasure to marry two heroic dwarves. Though, mind you, I would wager a king trumps an elder, but we can settle for the captain to do the honors, and the King must settle for throwing the wedding celebration.”

"..we can settle for the captain to do the honours.."

Eilif stares at Fafnir for a moment, open-mouthed in surprise.  Well, well, so it doesn't just take a dragon to draw his courage out.  The ship bucks and lurches beneath her feet unexpectedly as a wave, larger than those previous, passes under it, and she grabs at the rigging rope in front of her to steady herself, feeling her stomach do a small flip-flop.  She takes a deep breath to steady herself, and then, caught up in Fafnir's infectious high spirits she grins across at him. "Well, there will not be many eating at the feast if this keeps up, I'll wager."  The grin broadens as she hears the muffled but distinct sound of lost breakfasts below deck.

Nasi 's feet adjust to the unexpected rise and fall of the deck without thought.  Long days spent nimbly working on scaffolds and rigging with his stonework stand him in good stead now upon the ship's deck. He gives it no thought for his mind is utterly caught up with Fafnir's words.  A wedding celebration?  An Elder, a King and  ship's Captain?  By the Maker's beard!  Of course!  They can marry on the ship! With a whoop of excitement he grabs Fafnir and crushes him to him, leaning down to kiss him fiercely before lifting him bodily and spinning him around, laughing, as he staggers a little with the ship's movement.  Setting him down again, his hands still upon Fafnir’s shoulders to keep him steady on his feet, he stares at him, his dark eyes dancing with joy. “You have no need of a trade, my sweetheart for you have a wonderful mind full of wonderful ideas!” Impulsively Nasi drags him to him and hugs him fiercely again, his strong arms squeezing him tightly to him.  “By the Maker's hairy toes, we shall marry onboard. We shall start our new life together!”

"By the Maker's hairy toes.. "

Morning of Departure

Played by: 
Jasper DragonHeart


The tall elf  moves without thought to adjust his balance against the gentle rocking of the deck below his feet.  At this early hour, the soft creaking of the ship's timbers and the ceaseless lapping of the wavelets of the harbour are the only sounds other than the whispered rustle of soft leather as Miro fastens his belt around his waist.  He glances down at his attire and nods in satisfaction.  A soft studded leather jerkin overlays a dark shirt: serviceable and practical for a sea voyage, but both made of the highest quality materials. Below these, sturdy dark pants lead down to tan leather boots.  A sailor spends much time on his feet, and although Miro often prefers to be barefoot on deck, when boots are necessary these were the best for the task - supple, well-oiled to protect against saltwater and of a well-made comfortable fit for his long elven feet.

The tall elf moves without thought..

He lifts some coin from the desk next to him and drops it into the moneypurse that hangs from the belt, closing it securely and patting it in place.  There is more, should he need it, in the chest at his feet, along with clean clothes, boots and other personal belongings such as he has chosen to take on this voyage.  He reaches down to secure the chest but pauses as an item catches his eye.  Bending his tall frame he pushes aside a spare shirt and lifts the small metallic object.  The finely worked metal gleams dully in the muted light of his cabin.  He runs his long, slender fingers across the smooth, aged surface, tracing the delicate patterns edged there, in a gesture both affectionate and familiar.

Finally he presses his thumb to a hidden catch along the edge.  With a soft 'snick' of metal against metal the object separates to reveal itself as a small double sided case, the two sides secured together by a delicately made hinge.  Inside are two miniature paintings.  As always Miro's eyes are drawn first to the fair beauty of his mother. With one finger he traces the fall of a lock of hair across her cheek, smiling as he does so, for he remembers the day this portrait was painted.

"You are so fair and beauteous, I would paint you as a Princess or Queen," the artist, whose name now is long forgotten, had pleaded.

"I am neither of those things!" Her voice had been much sharper than Miro, then a young boy still and hiding shyly behind his mother's skirts, had ever heard it. Her blue eyes, normally so serene, had flashed in warning that she would brook no argument. "I am what you see before you.  You shall paint me thus."

And he had. He had captured perfectly her features and her character: the strong jaw and resolute chin; the full, soft lips that held a wistfulness in how they didn't quite smile; the calm, steady gaze of eyes as deep a blue as the distant oceans.  Eyes so much like the ones that gaze upon her now. He had rendered perfectly the silver flow of her hair, worn loose and tucked behind one ear, tousled by the harbor winds as she had journeyed to his house for the sitting, one rebellious lock insisting as always on falling forward.

Again Miro runs his fingertip along it as though he would tuck it back with the rest of her fair tresses, and he smiles as he does so. How many times had he seen his father do just such a thing, only to have the wayward strands fall forward again soon after?  He turns his gaze now to the other face looking back at him.  "Papa," he murmurs softly to himself.

The elf in the portrait is much younger than the parent Miro remembers, but the resemblance in the handsome features is unmistakable.  There is the same straight nose, high cheekbones and strong chin that Miro recalls so well, the same features that lie so noticeably upon his own face. The hair in the portrait is dark and straight, not threaded with the silver of age, as Miro remembers it. Likewise the face is smooth and not yet lined with time and worries as it had become.  Most of all though, the dark eyes are the same, for they had remained unchanged by time or circumstance.  Those eyes could look right though you, prompting a young boy to believe there was no use in hiding a misdemeanor that his father already clearly knew about, and often prompting merchants to believe there was no point in trying to hoodwink such a clearly all-knowing customer.  Miro had seen those eyes light with an amber fire whenever his mother entered a room. Those same eyes had looked upon him with a gentle kindness and love.

While willing and indeed encouraging for his wife to have her portrait painted, his father had steadfastly refused one of himself, claiming he had neither the time or inclination for such things.  It had only been after his death, when Miro had been sorting through his parents' effects that he had discovered this small portrait tucked at the bottom of his mother's finely-worked Jewel box. Like the box that contained it, it was clear that both were from a time long ago, long before the life they had settled to here in Gray Havens.

From a time long ago.. 

Gently Miro sets the case upon his desk, staring down at the images of his parents for a long moment as his fingers trace gently along the top.  Where had they come from?  What adventures had they lived before settling into this elven port. Both had remained steadfastly silent on any life before his birth. He lets his hand drop to his side with a shake of his head and then smiles back at the two faces gazing back at him. "Well, now my own adventure begins."

With one last look around his cabin to ensure all is neat and secure he turns to make his way up to the deck.  His feet carry him nimbly up the stairs, his soft boots almost silent upon the timber deck.  A light fog envelopes the harbour. Tiny silver droplets of mist cling to the rigging and swirl around his face and settle on his long dark hair as his movement stirs the air around him.  He breathes in the familiar harbour scents; the air a tangy mix of brine, decaying fish, timber and rope and from someone's nearby garden in the township, the faint smell of honeysuckle.  He turns and makes his way to the stern of the ship, leaping up to stand upon the rails and look out over the still sleeping city.

He breathes in the familiar harbour scents.. 

"Home," he whispers to himself.  It has been his home all his life.  This city with all its diversity of peoples and races, cradled here between the mountains and the Gulf of Luin, had been first his playground and then his school room.  Here he had roamed as a young boy, climbing trees, watching round-eyed, the ships come to harbor and unload all their mysterious goods, or charming the merchants in the markets with his wide blue eyes and angelic smile for a free apple or pastry.

Here too, he had learned his craft.  At times his father had brought him to this very harbor, and together they had walked the piers discussing the vessels docked there.  The older elf had a knowledgeable gaze and was quick to point out woodrot in a vessel long at sea, or faulty design that left it awkward upon the waves.

Here Miro had seen travellers of all kinds, for many were drawn to the port city.  Elves, human, even the small Khazad were not strangers to him, although he had never seen so large a group together at one time as they who have been staying at the Green Leaf Inn, and had come last evening, eyes rolling warily as they felt the ship move beneath their feet. to stow their belongings for the departure this morning.  Wherever his parents had come from before his birth, this was the only home he'd ever had.  Home. Would it still be after this journey? He shakes himself at his fanciful thinking.

Home.

"Keep your head out of the clouds and on the business at hand, young 'un."  He smiles to himself as his father's brusque but not unkind words echo through his head.  He was right though.  He had to remember this was just a business trip. He was delivering his clients to their destination while their ship was completed.  Their ship.  He heaves a sigh at the thought.  It would be hard to let his ship go, when the time came, yet the price negotiated would more than pay for him to build a replacement.  Yet what honor that his design is not only approved but sought after by the legendary anc..  He catches himself, for he is about to name Olwe of Alqualonde as ancient again.  "One does not impress the one by insulting his brother." He chuckles to himself and then pauses.

Did he want to impress Nole?  The answer came back a resounding affirmative.  Long had he anonymously admired the shipmaster's skills on the rare times he had seen him in port. The skill with which he had handled his craft had stood out from the general ragtag of traders who usually docked at these shores.  That admiration had deepened into a strong respect as they had talked together on the swanship yesterday after Olwe's departure.  His is not the graceful mantle of Kingship that rested so kindly upon his brother's shoulders. Rather he has a quiet yet authoritative way about him.  Captivated, Miro had talked with him until the sun threatened to sink below the distant mountains, the day slipping away unnoticed.

"And there will be more days in which to talk." He smiles again at the thought. Upon the ocean, beyond the Gulf, they had a journey to make, people to deliver to a new homeland and see settled, and a return journey together after that to collect the new ship.  Beyond the Gulf!  Impulsively Miro leaps down from the stern railing and sprints to the bow, taking the steps in one mighty leap, his feet landing with a thump upon the deck.  With the nimbleness of one who has done such a thing many times before, he clambers up to walk along the bowsprit, his body balancing easy as he stands there and gazes into the sunrise beyond the Gulf.

Beyond the Gulf!

His heart beat with excitement at the thought.  Yes, he had sailed the coastline before as he traded or delivered ships, but always land had been in view.  Never, never has he been out to sea.  Never has he seen foreign shores.  Most of all, never has he seen the fabled land of Alqualonde, home of the Teleri, his mother's people.  Had she come from there?  Miro shakes his head at the fantasy.  No, surely if she had come from Alqualonde she would never have settled in a Middle Earth port city such as this.  Soon he would dock his ship upon those docks that he had heard about in myth and stories. His ship!  He shifts unconsciously in his excitement and nearly loses his balance upon the bowsprit.  He windmills his arms a moment to catch himself before giving an excited nervous laugh.  That would be one way to impress Nole, have him arrive to find Miro dripping from an unexpected dip in the harbor!

Deciding that it would be better to be on a firmer footing he makes his way back to the bow rail and settles himself there to watch the sunrise.  Alqualonde!  The word makes his pulse leap and his heart thud.  Completely forgetting his earlier admonishment about keeping his head out of the clouds, he leans back upon the wide rail, resting on an elbow, his long legs resting before him and dreams of the mythical Swan Haven as he watches the sky turn from purple to rose and gold.  Behind him the city began to stir.  Fires were lit, morning meals prepared and eaten.  Carts were loaded by yawning merchants to take produce to market.  Soon his passengers would be arriving and there would be the work of settling them, showing Nole and Olwe around the ship and finally, casting off.  But not yet. Not yet. For a few moments more, Miro let himself remain lost in his daydreams of an ancient city and the handsome Prince mariner who would take him there.

Miro let himself remain lost in is daydreams

Morning Comes with Velvet Wings

Played by:
AelKennyr Rhiano


Morning comes to Mithlond like the night ended.  Fafnir knows. Restless, he stretched out beside his beloved stone mason, an arm tucked under Nasi's head, pulling him tight to nestle close.  He knows the hour at which the last patron of the tavern left,  his voice lilting and melodious even after the owner had thoroughly been in his cups.  He listened as the barmaid, his one fast friend in this ancient elven port, sung to herself, heard the moment she doused part of the fire in the hearth. A smile had curved his lips, and he shook his head. She had been warned by the thin faced owner not to bank the fire by dousing part of the logs with water many times, and while he knew the wisdom, he also know the fetching slender elf had spent hours upon hours at her duties, only to stagger home, collapse into dreamless slumbers for a few scant hours and return again. Who would spend more time coaxing a fire to embers, when bed beckons urgently, he thought as he heard the faint tinkling that signalled she had left for the night.

She had walked out of his life, too. No more would he see her cheerful face, watched her as she cooked the meals and tried to teach him to wrangle strange consonants and syrupy vowels to approximate elvish speech.  No more would he have someone to confide in, to keep his secrets....well, some secrets.  He turns his head and watches Nasi, as his chest rises and falls in such steady rhythm. He hardly knew her, but in the time spent here, all his innermost feelings for the stonemason came tumbling out of his mouth, like a babbling endless brook, and patiently, with a smile, she listen to him.  For the first time in his life, he had a friend, a true friend.

And now he would leave.  Back to silence, back to self containment. He gives a small nod, and turns his head back to focus amber eyes upon the ceiling above them; the snores, snorts, grunts, shifting of fabric and bodies all unheard by him as he settles into contemplation.  Sleep, elusive, settles her hand upon every brow but his as the night creeps away, and Tilion's vessel makes the last leg of its journey across the sky.

It is for the best, he tells himself.  He thinks back over the band of dwarven survivors. He can trust Nasi. He can trust the stonemason's love, and his goodness, and Yes! By the Maker's left eyebrow! his common sense. He can trust in Nasi's love, which is both a comfort and a discomfort.  No one has ever seen Fafnir for Fafnir before, or wanted him for no other reason than to be with him.  It was a heady feeling, one that leaves the young dwarf with a number of conflicting feelings. He wants this dwarf beside him. He wants a life with the stone mason, the feel of the handsome dwarf's body, curled up next to his, this night and every night forward.  

But he also fears it.  Since they have become inseparable, Fafnir has become distracted, unfocused, stammering and flushed. Emotions strange and wonderful  steal his thoughts away from necessary considerations, and while a little part fumes at this undisciplined bent, another rejoices.  

He blinks as above him he can make out the whorls and knotholes of the wood beams holding the roof up over their heads. Where did the time go?  Earlier in the night, the babe Nizl cried only once, but Maker! what lungs on the bobkin!  He heard a hushed voice that had to be Aztryd's.  Were the rumors the barmaid told him true? About Aztryd?  And that huffy little jeweller in their group?  He didn't know. He wouldn't know until they were aboard that floating behemoth of a ship.  But their company has splintered. Some refuse to leave, no matter what Adelsteinn says. 

Their numbers dwindle, this time from fear not death.  The results are the same.  

Beside him, Nazi gives that broken, half snort, wakes enough to wriggle and squirm closer, and with his free hand, Fafnir tucks the coverlet around the stone mason, and watches the handsome dwarf fall back to sleep.  He leans in and kisses the broad forehead and rubs his bearded cheek against it, marvelling at how content the simple action makes him feel.  

Our numbers are smaller, he silently reflects, and so, so for a dwarf of little talent and much ambition, I have a chance to be more. Adelsteinn still listens to him, he thinks, and Eilif seems to measure his words well. Besides, what will benefit Fafnir cannot but benefit them all. Once they board that ship, their fates are intwined, like the wire  the farmers use to contain their cattle or oxen.  Intwined and sharply pointed.  He can help Adelsteinn contain and direct the actions, and direction their new community will take. He can be an elder, in time, in time.  He rubs his hand across his beard as he silently makes a mental promise. And I will, Nasi, I will. You will see. No more mucking up the mistakes and misteps of fat fools. This time I will be one of those with full bellies and importance.  You'll see. You'll see.

And it begins...today. Today.