After many days of walking, with never chance to rest or even relax, the tension is beginning to show. Every so often, Lothdaimoth's bow trembles a little as he holds it; the quiver immediately surpressed. His face is drawn with tension and exhaustion - for more wearing than the extended exertion are his constant companions: fear and the need for unrelenting watchfulness.
One good of all this long weary time was the finding of several unbroken arrows. Many, nay near all of the slain wargs' bodies had long since been found by other predators - but one had escaped discovery, wedged nigh unseen in a crack. From its body, and from the ground in chance finding; a few precious darts have been gleaned to replenish his quiver.
And now, at last, they near the river. "The ford is that way." Lothdaimoth's voice is hoarse, and he swallows several times as though his mouth is too dry for comfort. And stopping in his tracks he stares at the greenish-brown swirl of water for several long minutes before rousing himself and turning to follow its upstream course.
It is a rhythm: step and step and step. Plodding on, the motion a backdrop for life, almost unnoticed like breathing or blinking to Caelwen. Several times the younger cousin has found refuge in the light rest of the elves, walking and watching with eyes still faintly blank and parched lips unspeaking. Lothdaimoth speaks hoarsely; his cousin blinks once and turns to look at him, rousing herself from one such meditation. She pauses along side him, studying the Counsel. When he moves her hand flies out to clutch at his sleeve. Her voice is nearly as hoarse as his-- nearly, but not quite so bad. "I am thirsty. We need to drink."
The slight tug on Lothdaimoth's sleeve halts him. His head turns slightly, and with an effort, he focuses on his cousin's face. "Oh. Yes." He turns again, this time directly towards the water instead of parallel to its path. A few steps, and he pauses and forces himself to full alertness. In utter silence, the bushes are scanned, the air tested; and at last he moves on. Grasses twine about his legs, clinging to his feet, and the counsel nearly stumbles.
Caelwen now grasps her cousin's upper arm with both hands, bracing herself to steady him. "Nay! You! I meant you. You drink, I will watch." Her ageless face is set in a firmer cast, and she looks to him more than the beckoning water.
Lothdaimoth stands still for long moments yet - then with a nearly silent sigh, he nods. "Watch. I will drink, and then you." With the slowness of fatigue, he turns his gaze to where Caelwen's hands tighten on his arm, and the corner of his mouth twitches in what almost might be a smile. "You must let go.." he points out.
Caelwen's tightened fingers uncurl. "And then you must rest." Her voice is authority held atop uncertainty, but she steps back and looks away, scanning the brush behind them. She pulls her stave from her back and taps the end on the ground several times. A glance is thrown back to Lothdaimoth again.
A motion of his arm - almost it seems the tall counsel will set his bow down - but no. To be without weapons is too great a thing to ask, and still holding it tightly, he makes his cautious way to the water's edge. It is not so great a distance and if any watched, were they keen of sight, his legs might be seen to tremble as he kneels to drink. Still, even as he scoops water up in silver dripping handfuls, dark eyes never cease watching. At last he returns, winding through the soft green of the bushes. Water drips down his cheeks, along the black strands of hair, off of his chin; and his eye are a little clearer. "Now you." This smile is more successful.
And Caelwen does seem to employ all of her gifted senses in the brief watch, turning often, eyes sometimes half-lidden to listen better, but mostly wide and searching and oft' confirming her cousin's continuing good health. She abandons her stave to the bushes when he returns, her smile strained but echoing his. Long strides dance her around the brush and to the water, where she actually wades a bit in, trailing cloak behind her, before bending over and drinking handful after handful. She splashes it over her face and into her hair, then straightens and returns. Her gaze is firm, her chin stubbornly set in an expression oddly reminiscent of her mother. "Is it better for us to wait here while you rest, or should we walk together upstream as you do it?"
The air is still, hot even here by the river's edge and the roar of rushing water underlays the quietness of the day. Nothing, it seems, moves save these two. "I .. " Lothdaimoth tries to think. "I think it would be best to keep moving." An apologetic grimace is turned towards the potter. "I am sorry.."
Caelwen's shoulders return to their slump, but her smile remains tacked on, trembling at the corners. "You know what is best, Lothdaimoth. Of course we should move.. do not feel sorry for it." And immediately, obediantly, she turns upriver and begins the automatic, plodding walk, staff up again and thunking the ground every third step. As though chatting to pass the time, she questions, "So, how long have you gone before without resting?" Her gaze, bright and clear from rest and water, slides sidelong at him.
"I do not remember." Lothdaimoth's voice softens, goes distant. His bow slowly lowers, the great muscles of his arms and back relaxing in concert with the small ones at the edges of his eyes and mouth. Dark eyes go blank as the visible evidence of the mind behind them disappears. And through the silent brooding land, two elves slip; so little noticed is their passing it is like water closing round the hole where a stick had been.