Harsh Realities

Played by:
AelKennyr Rhiano
Belenos Rhiano


Yavanna pushes the food around on her plate listlessly, her stomach a hard stone, her throat too closed with fear for her to swallow any of it.  After her first blind panic in the morning, she had managed to calm herself enough to know she could not just go charging off in her night clothes.  She isn't even sure if she could go charging off fully clothed.  A quick glance across at her companion from beneath lowered lashes only increases her fear.   Arianna is far from a young woman.  Hardwork, loss and time has all taken their toll on one who would once have been an indefatigable worker.  But Yavanna has seen the grimace and catch in her movements from time to time as a hip or her back clenches in painful spasm.  She has seen the once strong hands, now riddled with the blue veins and swollen joints of age, tremble as the old woman attempts finer work.  How can she leave her to cope alone?  How can she walk away from the one who has taken her in, clothed her and fed her, when she had been so lost?

Sighing, she looks down in shame at the untouched food upon her plate.  Yet even the thought of staying, illogically, still makes her heart hammer and a fine sheen of perspiration break out on her skin.  She must go! She must!  She glances over at Arianna again and slumps further into her chair. She must go, but how can she?

...she looks down in shame...

Arianna forces a bit of hard bread into her mouth, and instantly coughs, her throat closing in protest at the dryness. Her fingers try to curl into a fist which she turns sidewise and lifts to cover her mouth, but the joints, swollen and arthritic will allow nothing more than a partial closing of her hand, and it looks nothing so much as a hand but more like the withered claw of an old raven.  Leaning forward toward the table, her eyes tear with the force of each hacking cough as she reaches out, blindly, for the chipped clay cup of watered ale.  But while her hand finds it, her fingers, thick with age, stiff and unbending, fail to close about it, and instead she sends it, and the contents, spilling across the wooden table. Pounding the table with the same hand in frustration, she coughs one last time, onto her plate, and the bread pieces fly from her mouth, and she can suck in sweet air.

It had not been a good morning. It is not a good night.  She was awoken from dreams this morning....sweet, sweet dreams, of long ago times, when her man was alive and filled with life and sweet honey love.  Dreams where she knew no pain but the monthly woman aches that told her she was fertile and part of the creative forces of life.  Dreams where she could feel the breath of her man upon her ear, the touch of his hand upon her skin, and the thrill of their passion in the soft, and still nights.   She awoke to the sound of the door crashing open on its hinges, and the cries from the young woman across from her.  The scream...the gut wrenching, fearful, painful sound one that still echoes in her ear.  It was the sound of a soul torn in two.  Arianna would know that sound.

It was the sound of a soul torn in two.

She has given such a sound, such a sound, twice in her life.  And now, blinking back the tears that stand in her eyes, she turns her still blurry gaze upon the girl across from her.  "Girl," she croaks. "My cup. Fill it, please."

Yavanna's eyes darken in concern as she watches the old woman cough.  Swiftly she reaches for the pitcher of watered ale and rights the empty cup to refill it but she stops in mid-movement and stares at her hands.  Her skin is darker still.  Despite the day spent by the river, taking her time and scrubbing their linens and clothes to an inch of their lives, still her skin has darkened further.  Biting her lip, she remembers herself and fills the cup, pushing it closer to Arianna and watching her carefully, resisting the inclination to drop her eyes to her lap again.  She did not want to see her hands.

Gratefully, Arianna reaches for the cup, closing both hands around it and slowly, so slowly, lifting it to her parched mouth.  Her throat works noisly with each swallow, and she drains the cup, setting it back down on the table with exaggerated care.  Reaching down she takes an edge of the tatter jerkin and lifts it up to dab at her eyes, that, still blurred with tears, are blind to Yavanna's motions.  Slowly, now able to see, she lowers the fabric and flattening out her hand as much as the joints will allow, she strokes the skirt of the threadbare shiny cloth. "This was my man's," she tells Yavanna.  He would wear this when the cold snaps like it done this morning.  And at night, he would come in with firewood and make such a fire as burn all the chill off. "

She pauses and looks over her shoulder a little, at the fire roaring in the fireplace now. "Why, girl, you be done him pride with the fires you learnt to set. " She gives the younger woman a small smile.  "He would smile and tell you how you done right well, on such a night as this."

"He would smile and tell you how you done right well.."

She lifts a hand, pushes the plate away and drops it back into her lap to rest atop the other one that has been stroking the worn leather. "Such nights like this can set a body to strange dreams...strange dreams.  Why, iffn we gots a full moon, the blood gets all stirred, "She pauses and glances at the other woman. "And then, no telling what nonsense you be dreaming. You may even dream answers to questions you ain't knowed was in your mind."

Yavanna grows very still at the other's words.  How could she know?  Sighing, she gives up on any pretense of eating and pushes her chair back from the table, turning it so she can stare into the leaping flames of the fire.  "Dreams are not real," she murmurs softly. "They are just dreams."  She stares into the fire silently and then, without looking at Arianna asks, "Who are Yavanna and Aule?"

"Who are Yavanna and Aule?"

Arianna watches the younger woman as she turns to face the fire, her bird bright eyes regaining their intensity.  "Dreams," shesays, and leans back in the chair, folding her arms.  "Dreams may be the realest things they is, girl." She rocks a little to and fro, watching Yavanna carefully.  "They tells us our heart, you know, if we has sense to listen.  They tell us of who is thinking of us..." her voice drifts off, and for a moment her gaze grows distant as her mind, and heart remembers..."who be thinking of us, even if they has gone from this world."

"Dreams may be the realest things they is, girl."

She shakes herself and leans forward, reaching out with a hand to pat at the table lightly.  "We can't be living no silly world where cows gives cream and not milk, or rabbits give us golden eggs, or fairies leave us good king's silver under our pillow." She huffs and leans back again. "But there be no living if there be no dreaming.  Thank Irmo for dreams, girl. Makes the ugly in life bearable."

She stops, and then, looks at Yavanna.  "What...what did you ask?  Who is who?"

Yavanna catches her breath and turns to stare at the crone, her heart in her mouth.  Irmo!  Why did that name resonate so strongly?  Why does the face of the stranger she had met in her dreams leap to her mind when she hears it?  Her heart hammering, she blinks rapidly as she continues to stare at Arianna.  Finally, she shakes her head as though to clear it of the image that shimmered there.  "I..." She pauses and coughs a little to clear her throat, "I asked how were Yavanna and Aule?" She bites her lip again as her heart hammers harder as she voices those names, but desperate for answers, she blurts out,  "And.. and how would Irmo know of them?"

The old woman squirms a little in her chair, leaning slightly to one side to ease the dull throb in her bad hip.  She casts a glance at her rocking chair, but does not move.  Taking in a deep breath, she thinks for a long moment upon her answer, while the sounds of the night fill the silence. Then after a loud pop from the fire, she purses her lips and starts to reply, pausing only to lift a hand to her mouth to cover a belch.  "Pardon, that, girl, at my age, out beats in. Well, now, to  understand, you have to know the old ways...not the ways of us humans, mind...but..." her voice drops low, almost a whisper, " of elves. You meet any?" She does not stop long enough for an answer but continues.

"Now, my grammy told me when I was a wee thing that all the world was created with a song, and all my life I's been waiting to see if someone can sing a song that makes life easier...which they ain't and it ain't. But that's how the world started...a song.  And that elven God Eru was there, and he had all these magical beings called the Ainur who were the ones who did the singing.  And after everything started, each of them Ainur...had a special task.  Some were Ainur, which means they got to do the everyday things...like fetch and tote and do what the Valar says.  The Valar were different.

"They were supposed to make every single thing in this world, make it so that when the elves came, and we came, we could live.  They mades the oceans and the mountaints, and the trees, and...everything but us. Eru made us." She closes her eyes and drops into the story with a sigh of pleasure. "Now..Irmo...his job is to bring us dreams and sleep, and...and ideas...we have visions, and that is how we create new things.  But Yavanna and Aule....well, they are...they are special."

The fire pops and crackles.  "Yavanna is Aule's wife, you see. I reckon ain't been no time when that tweren't so.  She it was done created all things that growed from the ground, and all animals.  And if the elves ain't wrong..special tree people who will rip a man's head from his body if he takes too many trees from this world.

"Aule, he...he a bit of a ...well, girl...he's like a man. They get some fool ideals of doing things better, and all they muscles make up for all their lack of thinking things through. He made the world, the ground and mountains, and that stuff...oh and caves...and he made smelly old dwarves, with their long beards and short legs and bad tempers."

Despite herself, Yavanna finds herself enraptured with the old woman's tale.  Easily she could picture Aianna as a child, sitting wide-eyed listening to the telling from her 'grammy,' and the corners of her lips lift in a small smile until she hears, "Irmo.. his job is to bring us dreams."

The smile slips, and her eyes widen as all the panic from the morning returns with a rush.  It was in her dream she had seen Irmo!  The Lord of Dreams had come to her and called her Yavanna.  No!  Immediately her mind rebels against the idea.  No! Why the idea  is preposterous!  Her touch kills things, not make them grow.  She was no Valar.  It was a dream!  Just a dream!

 "It was just a dream!" With a start she realises she has spoken the words out loud.  Looking down to where her hands were folded so still in her lap, she continues quickly, "I mean, you must have had wonderful dreams from stories like that."

Yavanna's hands lose their stillness as one begins to pick restlessly at the plain brown fabric of her skirt.  "You have been so kind to me.  I.. I do not recall having a 'grammy' or a mother or father, for that matter.  But if I did, I could only hope she was as kind as you.  This cottage..."  She pauses and glances around at the worn, sensible yet comfortable room, ".. it.. it is like home to me...".. her voice trails off as her throat catches, unable to continue.  She must leave. She MUST.

"... it is like home to me..."

Slowly, Arianna struggles to her feet, leans across and picks up both plates, ducking her head and turning half away from Yavanna so that the other cannot see the expression upon the old woman's face. The worn leather surcoat brushes against the softer fabric of Yavanna's servicable skirt as the old woman sways a little, getting her balance as she bites back a moan from the pain that shoots through her hip.  When she turns back, the face is kindly, the eyes soft. "But, girl, remember or no, a mother you has...or had...somewhere in this world."

She turns away and hobbles across the floor to where the wash tub sits upon the worn and sturdy wood  work table.  "Aye, mother and father, poor child.  know them now or not.  And out there.." she pauses to cock her head towards the door, "other there is any number of people looking for you." She starts to say more, to scold and warn the younger woman against the perils of the world, but instead edges away from that talk.  Daft child, she thinks, surely Varda will protect her. She came to me near naked and yet safe.

She turns back and reaching the tub, submerges the plates after scraping the remains of the meal into a clay pot.  "Now these, scraps go out into the back in the morning, away from the leaves we gathered up. Leaves be dirt in the spring.  These scraps be good for feeding squirrels and what not. Want them tame enough to lay a few traps to catch for meat."  She pauses, realizing that she has to tell the young woman the reality of their situation, that Yavanna will never enjoy that meat.  Not here, not with her.  "You been right sweet. A bit soft, but tain't no shame, pretty as you be." She keeps her back to Yavanna." But this ain't home, is it child?"

"But it ain't home, is it child?"

Yavanna lifts her eyes to follow the old woman's movements, listening numbly to her words as she speaks.  Do I? Do I have a mother somewhere?  Surely I must have once.  But who searches for her now?  Surely by now they would have stumbled upon the crone's cottage, just as she had?  Is anyone worried about her?

"Lord Aule is beside himself!"  The words from the dream echo in her head, and desperately she shakes it.  No!  NO!  She springs to her feet, her chair clattering against the plain wood floor of the room.  She must leave!  "You.. you are right."  Her whisper is barely audible and heavy with pain.  "You are right. It is not my home.  I.. I thank you for all your kindness, but I have imposed overlong.  My family will be worried: you are right."  She smiles, over-brightly as she speaks the lie. "I.. I will leave in the morning.  I should get some sleep now.  Goodnight."  

Abruptly, without waiting for a response, she swiftly covers the distance to the stairs and ascends to her room.  Standing, heart still hammering.  Not her room.  Not her bed.  Not her home.  But she will remain this one last night.  She will remain and wait until morning.  She will lie in the bed that is not hers and pray she does not sleep, and if she sleeps does not dream.

A Dream

Played by:
Belenos Rhiano
Shawn Rhiano 


Layer upon layer, dimension on dimension, Irmo searches the Gardens of Lorien for any sign of Yavanna. The Gardens are anything that a dreamer or one in need of healing needs it to be. He does not know what Yavanna needs so he does not know where to look.

Each dimension is an entire world, every bit as large as Middle Earth or Aman. Irmo's search has so far proved fruitless. Time is passing, and his concerns increase. Trying the same approach over and over is not working. He knows that she prefers her physical form, so that she can carry out her tasks and care of her aspect of Arda. And Irmo has learned, as Estelin the Teleri Musician, that physical forms have limitations. She has to sleep sometime. In her sleep, she would dream. This would be a good aspect to focus on, her dream energy. He will seek her as she dreams.

Far from Aman, far from the one who seeks a dreamer, deep in a forest, huddled in a small room beneath the thatch of an old cottage lies a woman. The old dry wood of the camp bed creaks in protest at the shifting weight of the woman's body.   In the room below, snores break from their steady rhythm, and Yavanna freezes for fear she has woken the old woman.  After a moment though, the rasping breathy snores resume, and above the woman relaxes and slowly eases her body into a more comfortable position.  The world outside the one small window in the room is dark this night for Tillion's vessel has already docked below the horizon, giving way for the approaching passage of Arien and her charge.  Now, in the pre-dawn the world is dark and silent.  Now, at last, her mind as worn out from questions with no answers as her body is from the day's labour, at last, Yavanna slips into sleep.  

He casts about with his mind knowing that she must sleep. She must...   finally, Irmo senses her. Weak. Distant. Surely it is her. But then it vanishes. He casts his mind back to where he had sensed it. And yes, there it is. It is a familiar feeling.  A distant and flickering glimmer of her.  Excited, he directs his mind towards it, seeking her, fearful she would vanish before he can pinpoint her more accurately and maybe approach her.

Yavanna shifts restlessly at first, her fretful mind disinclined to surrender its worrying so easily.   Slowly, she slips deeper asleep, and at last, she dreams.   At first they are disjointed and broken, as her mind clings tenaciously to control.  Finally though her breathing evens out, her body and mind both relax, and the disjointed scenes take solid form as Yavanna walks through a leafy forest.  Her footfalls are silent for the forest floor is carpeted with soft green moss.  Around her the trees tower majestically, the base of each trunk wearing a skirt of delicate fronds for ferns dip and rustle lightly around her all about.  She gasps for she knows this place.  This is where he had chased her,  and they had made love.  This is the grove where first he had marked her so she would never forget that day.  She lifts a hand to her face to trace again the delicate patterns his fingers had wrought upon her skin as her eyes cast eagerly about for him.  Is he here?  Surely he is here!  

But the one she seeks is not dreaming. He is not even asleep.  Restless and impatient with waiting, Aule Tulka Marda is pacing his room in the house of Eonwe the Herald, anxiously awaiting the summons from the Lord of the West.  

Irmo senses her, vaguely at first but then more strongly.  He casts his vision to look for her.  He is frustrated at not being able to see her.  Her dreamworld is a forest, great trees reaching high and ferns draping their bases. His mind is close, and he can see more clearly, and Yes! There she is!  Tall and fair haired, with the fine tracings of the artwork Aule had placed upon her ivory skin so long ago. Yes! It is the form she prefers. It is her!
  
Despite herself, Yavanna cannot help but smile at the beauty around her.  As she walks she lets her fingertips trail against the velvet fronds of the ferns, and they seem to dip and bow in greeting at her passing.  No brown shrivelling at her touch here.  No dropping of leaves and curling to die.  This place has known such happiness.  Yet why, as she walks it, does her heart ache so?  Why does it feel she carries a leaden weight where once joy had shone so clear and bright?  A frown forms on her sleeping face, and she whimpers, her hands clutching fearfully at the pillow.  No! Her mind shouts at her.  Do not seek that!  Movement catches her eye, and she turns, her heart leaping. He has come!  

Irmo is so, so pleased to see her, so relieved. He scarcely remembers the mission set upon him to find the Lady of Fruits. He is also glad she seems unhurt. He has heard about the events that transpired at the Halls of the Dead in Melkor's old chambers from his brother, Namo. He had feared that she may had been ensnared as well. But to find her dreaming in this ethereal forest of beauty and life brings him great relief.  At first he is lost for words, but then he notices her quick movement. Irmo calls out to her. "Thank Eru. Lord Aule is beside himself," he says as he reaches his hand out to her.

It is not he who comes, but another.  Her emerald green eyes widen as she beholds him for she knows him.  She knows him!  Smiling, he holds out a hand to her and calls to her, but the words he speaks send her heart pounding, her blood roaring in her ears, and her mind screaming for escape.  No.  No! NO!  "NO!" Her voice is ragged in her ears, and she looks about her, dazed, panting in panic, and she is sitting rigidly upright in her bed.  There is no forest.  There is no one calling her.  It was just a dream.  Just a dream. 

"Yavanna." He had called her Yavanna.  No! Please, no!  Desperately she looks about her.  No. "No!" she gasps again.  Uncaring if her noise wakens the crone, all she knows is she cannot remain still.  She must flee.  She must get out of the house. Pulse racing, heart still hammering, barefoot, and still in her night attire, she takes the stairs two at a time, finally landing on the floor below and rushing to the door.  For a moment her fingers fumble, and she struggles with it in desperation.  At last it is open, and she is outside.  Her chest heaving, she gulps in deep lungfuls of the clear crisp pre-dawn air.  Panicked beyond words, not even knowing truly why she feels as she does, she looks over her shoulder.  The dream has gone.  The figure has vanished.  It does not matter. She must leave.  She must go.  She cannot stay here any longer. 

The Lord of Dreams is appalled by her reaction. He stands mutely staring at the place where she had been for a while, his hand to his mouth as he thinks what to do. "Tell Manwe, definitely." Even though he cannot understand why Yavanna fled at the sight of him, still he needs to tell Manwe. "And then?"  All he can do is stay and hope when next she sleeps, he can find her again. "But Manwe must know!"

New Traditions

Played By:
AelKennyr Rhiano
Jasper Rhiano



Miro's dark hair lifts and shifts around his shoulders with the passing of the wind as he stands at the ship's helm. He glances up at the clear blue sky, assessing easily from long practice his heading and the hour of day. The ship is quieter now, after the bustle of leaving port, his passengers all below deck. For now at least, he is alone at the helm, and Miro lets himself indulge in the pleasure of the moment. The vessel beneath his feet rides the ocean with a sureness and swiftness that would please any mariner's heart. He feels the play of the ocean winds upon his bare skin, for, the sun having grown warm as the day progressed, as is his wont, he has shed his shirt and jerkin. His feet are planted firmly on the heaving deck, and with knees slightly bent he easily adjust to the tilt and dip of the deck as the craft crests yet another swell and dips into the following hollow, only to climb swiftly again to the next rolling swell. Standing there, his heart light and every bit in command of both himself and  the vessel, he laughs aloud his delight. "By Ulmo's beard this is the life!"

"By Ulmo's beard this is the life!"

The boat lurches, and Fafnir's stomach lurches. The boat sways and saws to the other side, and, stretching his hands, the young dwarf catches himself  against a hull...wall....side..He gnashes his teeth as he makes his way slowly up to the deck. By Aule's thumbnail, anywhere but where he can hear the sounds of groans and retching.  Tucked in a corner of the cavernous belly of this wooden ship, Nasi is nestled in a makeshift pallet, finally asleep after sipping from a concoction that, per the stone mason's report, tastes only slightly better than it smells. Below him, down below, the voices of dwarves complaining bitterly floats up like a  dark and poisonous cloud. 

The boat, no, ship, he corrects himself...the ship lurches again, and he turns an ankle trying to keep his balance. The boots were not his: one of the elven crew gave him the pair, along with  the belt that rides low on his hip.  One of the dwarven refugees missed the slop bucket, and spewed the contents of his stomach upon Fafnir's only pair of boots.  "By Aule's eyelashes and tiny hairy mole, " Fafnir swears under his breath as he finally stumbles onto the empty deck.   Reaching down he pulls and tugs on the too long short boots and looks about him."What a life!"

"By Aule's eyelashes and tiny hairy mole."

Movement on the deck below catches his eye and reluctantly Miro drops his gaze from the far horizon.  Quizzically, eyes as blue as the ocean around them watch the small figure as it pauses.  So, one of the wee ones has ventured upon deck, clearly a hardier soul than most of his kind, for as far as he knew most are below decks honouring Ulmo with the contents of their stomachs.  Quietly, his expression not unkind, he watches as the figure tugs on first one and then the other over-sized boot.  Like most in Mithlond, Miro had heard various tales about this rag-tag little band who have become his passengers.  Life in a busy port city often meant encounters with the Khazad, but they had been brief and little was really known of them, other than their excellence with Smithing, their shrewdness in bargaining, their love of their cups, and their determination to keep to themselves and say not one word more than was necessary to others.

...his expression not unkind, he watches...

Now, while apparently keeping his gaze upon the ocean so as not to appear rude, out of the corner of his eye Miro watches the one below with curiosity.  He had been told there are females in the party when they boarded, but for the life of him he has not been able to tell them apart.  All are bearded.  All are stocky of build.  All  carry both weapons and packs of belongings.   If the stories were even partly true, this group had been forced from their home with only what they could carry, which had not been much, going on what is stored in the hold of his ship.   They are not naturally a sea-faring race, he knows.  How dire must their circumstances be for this group to take to the ocean, under the care of an distant elven king?  Not wanting to startle the one below, he decides to continue to observe quietly as he continues to guide the ship upon the waves rather than call a greeting.  Patiently, his long slender hands strong upon the helm, he watches and waits.

Straightening up, Fafnir looks about, a frank curiosity in his honey amber eyes. The breeze off the water plucks  playfully at his cropped hair, running airy fingers across the locks and leaves him sporting a mass of tangles. Reaching up, he pushes it out of his eyes as he turns in a circle.  The deck stretches out before him, an expense of weathered wood, the creaks and squeaks, and the groan of rope foreign sounds, not comforting at all.  Slowly, he rests his gaze upon the waves, and crosses with a drunkard's gait to the railing. Clutching the rail so hard that his knuckles whiten, he looks out upon the sea.  So much water!  The horizon of sky met water and all about him there was not so much as a hint of land.  He gasps and feels a lightheadedness.  His mouth drops open as the ship dips up and down, but forgotten was the motion, the sounds, the smells.  His mind filled with sight before his eyes.  So much water.   

So much water.

Miro watches silently as the Khazad moves to the side of the ship.  His sharp eyes take in the whiteness of the other's knuckles as he holds fast to the railing, hair and beard ruffled by the wind as his amber eyes take in the expanse of the ocean.  "Aye, 'tis different to what ye be used to, little one." With a start he realises he has spoken the words out loud, and he flushes awkwardly and ducks his head, cursing himself for being a loose-lipped fool under his breath.  In an effort to recover his manners, he looks up again and continues with a respectful nod of his head.  "I am called Miro.  I am at your service."

Fafnir jumps, startled, and grips the railing even harder as he turns and looks about him wildly.  Lifting his eyes up, he spies the source of the voice. There on that upper deck...floor...whatever these elves call it...stands a dark-haired, barechested elf.  Regal he stands, proud as any prince, with his long dark hair  like a dark halo about his chiseled features.  He remembers this one now. He caught glimpses of this elf as they came aboard. Was it just this morning?  He looks back over the railing, and notes the position of  Arien's vessel.  "A lifetime, and it is not even nightfall," he murmurs and catches himself. 

Turning back to the railing, he bites his bottom lip and slowly releases one hand from the viselike grip, reaching blindly for the stairs beside him. Or are they ladders? He shakes his head.  Names, names, names. Whatever they are, he must go up them to reach the tall elf.  He pulls his other hand away from the railing and grabs the same side of the stairs, transferring his other hand to the other side.  Taking a deep breath, he calls out, "Wee one, long shanks. I've not been called that since I learned to stand up to relieve myself. I am called Fafnir."  He put into his voice all the bravado he could not feel as he forced shaky legs in too big boots to carry him up to where the handsome elf stands

"...I am called Fafnir."

Miro forgets manners and decorum and chuckles softly at the Khazad's spirited reply.  Aye, this one is bold indeed.  Reaching forward he secures the helm to continue on current course and then turns to openly regard his visitor, folding his long arms thoughtfully across his chest.  "Well then, Fafnir it is."  His lips curl into a warm smile as his eyes take in more detail now the dwarf is closer.  Young, this one, compared to some he has seen, and male too, if he was not mistaken, unless the females have the same deep voice.  Realising he is staring, he lets his eyes slide to take in the ocean around them and nods towards the horizon behind them. "Nothing but ocean all around us.  A new experience for us both."

"...A new experience for us both."

Fafnir reaches out and grabs the railing with a hand, clutching it tightly.  The wind kisses his cheeks and for one wild moment, he imagines the kiss turning into an embrace and sweeping off the deck and into the endless expanse of water. To feed the fish or sea serpents, or maybe a hungry creature of the watery depths.  He tosses a quick glance back over his shoulder at Miro's words and then whips his head back around as he asks in an alarmed voice, "New experience? New? You are new to the ....the ocean?" He looks over at the wheel of crescent moons.  "You are guiding the boat, and you are new?" He looks at Miro with eyes that show too much white and reaches to clutch at the rail with his other hand.

 Miro tries to hide a smile at the reaction his words had caused. Far from reassuring the other, they have precipitated a near panic. His eyes twinkling merrily, still his demeanor is calm and reassuring as he steps away from the wheel and stands near the rail next to Fafnir. "Be at ease. I am new to the open ocean, true, but I have been on ships from the time I was born. Indeed, I build them." He pats the wooden railing affectionately. "I built this sturdy beauty which carries us now." His gaze takes in the craft from stem to stern and then settles warmly back on Fafnir. He lowers his voice conspiratorially as he continues. "They are stronger than you think, not so different to a wilful female, I have been told. You just have to know how to handle her right. When to use a firm hand and when to let her run free." His eyes soften as he remembers his father's words.

"...not so different to a wilful female."

Miro's gaze drops to Fafnir's white-knuckled grip upon the rail.  "It's all a matter of balance, you know.   Part your feet more, like so."  He points down to his own feet, planted firmly apart. "And let your knees relax, so they give with the rise and fall of the ship, then the movement will not buffet you so."

Fafnir watches as the elf with the grace of a dancer crosses over to him and lovingly touches the wooden railing.  As graceful as his movements, his words flow, like well aged beer from his lips, and he finds himself watching the lips form the words.  Build...ships...he blinks, and forgets to smile at the banter.  

"...let your knees relax.." He looks down as Miro directs him, and sees how the elf is standing. Slowly, still clutching the railing with a white knuckled hand, he does as the elven shipwright instructs, sliding a foot slowly  apart from the other, until a shoulder's width is between his feet.  "Like that?" He asks, glancing up.  

Miro nods encouragingly as he watches Fafnir struggle to loosen up.  "Yes. Like that.  Now let your knees relax.  Bend them a little.  The trick is to go with the flow of the movement of the ship, not fight it.   I know the wind buffets, but she be not as fierce as she pretends to be."  He winks and whispers, 'If a longshanks such as I be not blown away, a wee one such as yourself is quite safe."

Heartened by the encouragement in Miro's tone, and considering the logic behind the elf's statement, Fafnir bends his knees a little, looks over at Miro, and then bends his  knees a little more.  "Just a word, there, Long Shanks.  'Wee one' the wrong one, and we could be seeing eye-to-eye.   Particularly if you should have the misfortune to say that to Eilif," he warns.  He feels the ship dip, a little, but he keeps his balance.  "This ...this works!"

Miro chuckles softly as he leans against the rail, again folding his long arms across his chest as he considers Fafnir, nodding in approval as he sees him weather the next dip of the ship much better.  Wondering who this Eilif is, he decides on being a little cautious nonetheless. It never bodes well to upset passengers or clients. "I shall only 'wee one' those who 'longshanks' me.  How is that?"  His eyes twinkle merrily as he regards the dwarf. "You are doing quite well.  There are some who never manage to find their 'sea legs'."  He tilts is head as he regards Fafnir thoughtfully, "How is it that you are upon deck when it seems all the others are prostrate below?"

"How is it that you are upon deck..

Fafnir watches Miro, his brown eyes intense now that he is less worried about being swept up and thrown overboard by an angry wind.  His hand relaxes its grip, though he does not feel near so comfortable as to lounge against the railing as yonder tall elf.  His gaze moves from the shirtless elf before him to the horizon, and instantly he regrets it and instead tilts his head to meet the blue-eyed steady gaze of the other.  "I don't know," he confesses.  "Some are well enough to fill their lungs with complaints.  Others are emptying their stomachs. Wiser heads are choosing to dose themselves into uneasy slumbers." He pauses as his mind flashes to the image of Nasi's face, relaxed in slumber.  "Still others," He pauses and then continues..."others are choosing to sit and moisten their resolve with what passes for stout ale amongst you elves."  

Fafnir pauses and then looks up at the tall elf. "But as for me, neither draught nor beer is my resolve,  for I have heard that the princes of such ...boats..ships...erm..vessels, " he pauses, and then continues, "That those who commands these ships, they have certain powers given them Like justicars would have, or clan elders, or ," he pauses and says softly, "or kings."  He lifts his hand off the railing and drops it down by his side, unaware of his growing comfort.  "I want to ask a favor, a boon." He turns and  reaches into the pouch at his belt. "I can pay. In gold coin. It is important." 

"...It is most important."

Miro 's sharp young eyes, honed by a lifetime of watching his father deal with clients, and in his turn, doing the dealing, take in the play of emotions that flit across Fafnir's face as he speaks.  He sees the disdain he holds for some of his kind, and hears it in his voice.  He watches as the features soften, wondering who it is that has caused it and then watches still as he speaks of the boon he would seek, the earnestness clear upon his features, and he smiles for it would seem clear now the cause of the earlier softening.

Holding up a hand he shakes his head. "Please, no.  If what you seek is what I think it is, I would ask no reward for such a service."  He regards the dwarf steadily as he gathers his thoughts.  "These powers you speak of, those of a ship's commander.  Be it the power to conduct a ceremony of marriage that you seek? Has some fine figure of a woman caught your heart, perhaps?"

Fafnir feels his face color and juts his chin a little forward.  His voice is gruff and brusque as he pulls his hand back out of his pouch and fastens it again.  "Perhaps, it is not a woman who has caught my heart," he says, careful in his words, his eyes and expression cool now. "What if it be not a female at all? Would you still offer the same service?"

Miro's eyes continue to regard Fafnir steadily, even as his words fall like hammers about his ears.  Not a woman?  If not a woman then... a man? He blinks slowly as he absorbs this, careful not to keep his features neutral even as his mind races.  He had heard whispers from time to time about love between two males but, working long days and late nights learning his craft, he has never seriously thought about it, simply thinking it the great love of boon companions or comrades in arms who have faced danger together.  But to love, deeply for one glance at Fafnir's expression said this was so, to love deeply as a man and a woman love?

Miro blinks again as his thoughts take a leap, and the image of Nole floats clearly in his mind.  The silver hair, the gentle eyes and kind mouth.  The master mariner is never far from his thoughts, and if Miro were truthful, he would admit to himself that he seeks out the gentle Teleri Prince at every opportunity.  Is this why?  Did Miro love him in such a way? Would it be possible for the Prince to love him in return?  By Eru's light, a Prince!  What is he thinking?  But now that the notion has been put in his head, it is hard to dislodge.  Am I in love? Is that it?

Am I in love?

Miro blushes as he realises he is keeping the eager young dwarf waiting for his reply.  He lifts his chin and looks him levelly in the eye as at last he answers, "It would be my great honour to offer such a service to you and yours."

That silence between them as Miro considers the request is not lost on Fafnir, who watches Miro's face, spies the blinks,  notes how the the jaw is set, how the eyes seem to be focused elsewhere.  He cocks his head as he watches, but knows not what it means.  Finally the elf blushes. Why?  And he gives the answer Fafnir hopes for, longs for.  "You...you would join us," he says, and tries to keep his voice level and calm, despite the hard thudding of his heart and the lightness of his mind.  "You would seal  us, Nasi and I?  Can it be done ere we set foot in this.." he pauses and tries to pronounce the word as he hears the elves do, "Ack-cue-lon-day? Once we are in sight of it, you will marry us?"  He flexes and unflexes a hand, curling it into  a fist and forcing it back into a more relaxed state. 

"You would seal us, Nasi and I?"

Miro's steady blue gaze cannot fail to see the longing in the other.  So he truly loves this Nasi.  Deep inside him, something stirs.  In his young life there has never been time for thoughts of love, romance or a life's partner.  There has always been so much else to do.  Now though, he finds there is a hitherto unsuspected emptiness there, hidden away behind responsibility and duty, an emptiness that craves to be filled with a love such as this one bears his Nasi.  He nods slowly to the would-be bridegroom. "Aye. I will seal you, if that is what you seek, although there be a King on board who is equally able to do so, if you would prefer it."  He tilts his head and regards Fafnir through eyes narrowed in thought before he continues. "Your Nasi is very lucky to be loved as you love him, methinks."

Fafnir quickly ducks his head, refusing to look into the other's eyes as his face flushes at the compliment.  "Yes," he says, "There is a king. There is our Elder, too," he continues after a pause. "It shall be a thing never known to my people, to be married by a ship's captain. But to have an elven king and our Elder stand as witnesses AND be married by a captain?" He stops as he realizes he has not even considered asking the elven king before this moment. "And why not?" he says aloud, as much to himself as to the elf before him. "I am marrying Nasi, Master Stonemason and dragonslayer. Why should not an elven king and an elder witness such a union?" He looks up, now, at Miro.  

"I mean to marry him. We may live or we may die in this new land...this land that even the elves speak of with reverence and awe.  But we shall live or die as lifemates to each other, as husbands.  It is a new world and a new way for our clan.  Time for new traditions."