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