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================== Eldarin Calendar in Sindarin ===================
IC time is: Mid Afternoon About 4:40 PM
IC day is: Orithil Moon-day
IC date is: 39 Laer Summer
Moon phase: New HIDDEN
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 3 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor TA 3027
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RL time: Tue Oct 15 21:33:40 2002
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High Moors
You stand on a grassy plain west of the Misty Mountains. To the east, the Misty
Mountains end in a steep escarpment, a tangle of cliffs, ravines, and steep
slopes too precipitous for anything but mountain goats. The plain continues in
all other directions, an endless expanse of scrubby grassland. Icy winds blast
down from the mountains and sweep monotonously across the plains.
From the east comes light, wan and pink and cut jagged by the mountains. Slim
fingers of dawn cut across the sky, and one by one the stars are cut down by
the battle of morning, until only a few are left to the West. The winds sigh
and tickle the grasses or slip beneath the brush.
Two slim figures walk with their back to Anor and the Misties, cloaked against
the sharp breezes that would slip through the weave of cloth. Their shoulders
are bowed, and the smaller one leans heavily on a staff, stepping with
difficulty, as though old or wounded.
From high aloft, where the air is colder but the sunlight brighter, the elves
are watched. Eagles circle lazily, perhaps recently woken from a nightly roost
in their nearby mountain homes, yet nothing can crawl unwatched upon the earth
when the Eagles of the Lords of the West fly the skies. So far above are they
that they seem but specks, certainly nothing larger than a regular bird; yet
they are, much so.
The largest of them, after watching the elves for a while, breaks off from the
others, beginning to circle lower and lower, his shadow growing as he circles,
and his feathers catching the light of the sun brightly.
Here among the short grasses of the plains, there is little cover. Caught out
in this expanse of openness, Lothdaimoth cannot relax. Dark eyes jerk
constantly from spot to spot, and on the bow that he carries strung and
half-raised, his hands knuckle whitely. The whisper of breeze sometimes
masquerades as footsteps and then he whirls sharply, bow coming up to shoot.
Days of tension have left their mark in the lines on his face and the twitch of
muscles. Now and then, he pauses and turns to the shorter elf before continuing
on the slow tortuous journey.
Circling with the Wind Lord, a lesser eagle of golden hue flies behind him.
High through the air, he flies with the wind rippling at his feathers, feeling
himself dipping through the slipstreams and rising up again. With eagle vision
(literally), he gazes downward, and the minutest of details come into focus
under his gaze, magnifying when he deigns to look at them.
The smaller one turns not her head toward Lothdaimoth as he whirls, although a
faint tensing might be seen along her shoulders. Caelwen's hood is up, but her
mouth might be seen below the shadow, lips parted and careful breaths taken, a
small bruise growing green on her chin. Each step is taken with much
concentration, a firm grip given to her stave to keep to her balance-- yes, and
she of the Firstborn. Sudden speech is heard from her, rough and low.
" Do those shadows not trouble you? Here, there it is again, and
bigger." But she does not look up.
Lothdaimoth's eyes go to the shadows mentioned and then up. And up. His steps,
unminded, slow and halt; and one grey-clad arm lifts to stop his cousin.
Hesistantly, as if unsure this is not merely some vision, a measure of hope
comes to rest on his face. Still he speaks nothing, but stands beneath the
great circling birds, the endless bowl of sky and watches.
Hesitating, as though deciding whether or not to descend, the larger of the two
shapes at last dives at once down to earth, his shadow growing wider and
rushing up to meet him, until he at last touches down, sending up a flurry of
dust and stirring more than a gust of wind.
"Ho, Elves!" calls the eagle loudly, his voice booming out across the
foothills. "What troubles you? So close to Imladris, the fair folk usually walk
carefree and in greater numbers. Yet you have the look of travel weariness
about you, and unless I mistake myself, wounded from battle?"
Fatigue sags Lothdaimoth's shoulders, but lowering the tip of his longbow to
the ground, he squares them and offers the Wind Lord a short bow. Short lest he
fall over from exhaustion, not from disrespect. Louder now, he says, and his
voice is flat and emotionless, "I am unhurt." And it may be true, though there
are bruises and half-healed cuts on his face. "Caelwen does not heal as she
should. Twas not a battle though." A spasm of grief crosses his face and is
swiftly banished. The quite uninflected voice goes on. "Erin .. Erinstar, I
think is dead. I could not find him."
Caelwen slows as Lothdaimoth does, her head finally lifting, bright green eyes
peering from within the darkness of her hood. A breath sucks in a nice lungful
of dust, even as the gust blows away this hood, revealing a bruised face
cramped in a mask of pain as she coughs, whimpering at the end of it. Short,
shuffling steps carry her backward and more behind the taller elf, shy glances
given both to him and the eagle. Her eyes pinch shut at his words, then open
again with pleading. "Have you seen him?" Unlike the dark-haired one, her own
voice lifts and falls with deep wounding.
"If not battle," says the Windlord gravely, though not unkindly, "Then
something not far from it. We could see you limping from a league above, and no
Elf ever had such wounds undisturbed on a walk through the mountains."
Looking up, the windlord watches another of his kind descend, as he continues,
"I have not seen your comrade; if he is hurt, he may have taken refuge under
brush or an overhang of the mountains. We will look for him, if he is there to
be found. Can you make it to Imladris?"
Lothdaimoth twists to look at his young cousin. "For myself, I would say yes.
Caelwen..?" Now the first variation in his tone, for it rises in inquiry on the
name. "Tis not so far now. Can you walk?" Then he returns his gaze to the
Eagle. "I like not to impose upon you, but would you take a message to Imladris
that we yet live? The others of our party should be there by now."
Some small
portion of the burden that has lain on him lightens at the windlord's offer.
"Erinstar was swept away in the waters of the river." A vague gesture of his
head indicates the pass they had just come over. "I could not find his body
before - before we had to continue on. If you would look.." Several times he
tries to finish, but finally he gives up on further words.
Gwaihir looks away south and west, toward Elrond's hidden valley, and says,
"Aye, we can send word to Imladris, and perhaps their folk can come and see to
your injuries, and bring horses and supplies. No doubt some time resting in the
House of Elrond will see you well again. As for your kinsman... It will be as
it can be. Elves are said to be good swimmers. Perhaps the swift waters of the
Bruinen have carried him to the valley ahead of you. At worst, he has taken a
more direct road to Aman than even I can fly, and he will be nobly remembered."
A small, weary step forward, and Caelwen reaches her hand for Lothdaimoth's
elbow. "I have come thus far, cousin," she speaks, voice low and utterly
morose. "If you say 'tis not long, then I shall certainly manage." She bows her
head again, eyes shuttering, and cups dawnlight to her crown. A little time
passes, and she looks up to the Wind Lord. She swallows. "We thank you. We...
it is a great thing for you to do this for us."
At Caelwen's touch, Lothdaimoth's arm curls around the younger elf's shoulders
and rests there, lightly so as to cause her no more pain. Echoing her words, he
nods. "Yes. Our thanks." A small mirthless smile twists his lips. "They will
certainly come." Sable eyes now go ever and anon towards the distant hidden
valley, before being forceably and politely returned to Eagle Lord. "And more
than thanks, for you do for me what I could not, in looking for my kinsman and
my friend."
Gwaihir lowers his head, though it still towers almost a yard over the elves,
and says, "If we could, we would carry you to Imladris; yet your lives are not
in danger, and we must yet act within the limits set upon us so long ago. We
are the eyes of the Lords of the West, not the hands, and are perhaps bound by
the Music all the more tightly because of it."
His gaze lifting to the heavens once again, the Windlord lifts his voice again,
booming out to echo off the mountains, and says, "Yet I can insure that you are
not troubled until help arrives. The Trollshaws stir, and the Goblins creep in
the night, yet none will trouble you while you wait for help to reach you. My
folk will keep watch from the skies, and I shall come if you are troubled."
Visible weights of anxiety and fear lift themselves from Lothdaimoth's
shoulders, and they sag in relief. For a brief moment, his eyes shut; lines of
weariness and care smoothing from his face. Once more, he bows. "And again, I
thank you. Tis little enough I know, but if ever there is ought I could do for
you, tis yours." Gently his hand raises to smooth Caelwen's hair, then drops to
her shoulder again. "We will rest here a while then, cousin. I know you are
tired of walking."
Caelwen leans faintly against Lothdaimoth, her arm gingerly attempting to go
behind his back before stopping halfway as she gasps. But still, she looks up
to the eagle. "Ai, mellon, this is so much! We may rest with your help." She
looks up to her cousin, a smile almost creaking across her face. "And you may
cease your watch." Tears glitter in her lashes like crystal caught in copper,
relief sagging her shoulders the least bit.
Gwaihir nods his head gravely to both of the elves again, and says,
" I will go, now; and word will be carried to Elrond." The eagle
steps back, hopping somewhat awkwardly while on the ground, and leaps up into
the air, wings unfurled and flapping swiftly. " May the hand of the
Sulimo shelter you, and keep you safe," he cries, before soaring high aloft,
until he is again but a speck in the sky far above.
Caelwen draws a great draught of air into her lungs, then shouts forcefully upward, "Namarie!"
the word ends with a half-sob, and she falls to her knees, hands sliding down the stave.
She huddles there a moment, gasping with pain, then looks above again. "I will not rest
unless you do." Her chin is set stubborn, and she searches Lothdaimoth's face.
For long minutes, Lothdaimoth stands gazing after the rapidly dwindling speck of the
Windlord; and then his dark gaze goes towards the mountains where they had last seen
Erinstar. Remote and pale in the sunlight, at last his face turns down to where Caelwen
curls at his feet. With a noiseless sigh, he folds his legs and joins her. Short
yellow-green grass spikes along darker green pants; his bow is at last laid aside,
the arrow returned to the quiver. And leaning his forehead in his palm, he sits
in stillness, bathed by the golden glow of the rising sun.
And the sun rising plucks gold tones from Caelwen's copper hair, and though
tiredness pushes down at her back like a heavy stone, she does not lie down.
Tears caught in her lashes grow in number with time to slide soundless down the
her freckled and bruised cheeks. Finally, her scraped hands raise to cover her
face and she begins to sob, gasping now and again with pain and obviously
trying to muffle the sounds of it.
Piercing the daze of combined relief and exhaustion, Caelwen's tears finally
draw the counsel's head up from its resting place. Long he gazes at her before
he reaches out and lays his hand on her shoulder. "Caelwen." Weeks of
apprehension suddenly released, grief surpressed, the endless tearing fear,
roughen his voice and catch at the simple words. "What is it, cousin?"
Like a release, like a stream bed flowing over, Caelwen's tears wash her dusty
cheeks and wet her dirty hands. "It's just been so awful," her words sound wet.
"I'm just horribly glad you don't have to watch anymore. I've hated seeing
what I've done to you, the choices I've forced you to make, and I'm glad it's
letting up." Her shoulders, stiff and hunching, draw tighter.
Lothdaimoth's hand tightens. "You forced me into nothing. What choices I made
were my own." The wash of light across the plains turns them tawny, and where
they bunch up against the mountains, dark and light twine in slow sinuous
concert. He forces a bit of smile into his voice. "I too am glad to be able to
stop for a while and know it is safe."
Caelwen drops her hands, and stares numbly at the shadows stretching before
them with gold dawn-light trapped between. She leans a shoulder against him,
and slowly turns her stained face to view him. "Ought I to watch at all while
you rest?" she queries, sniffles cutting her words and sending twinges of pain
to show across her half-shadowed features. She takes a few more shivering
breaths, and whispers, "Think you they will find him?" She ducks her chin a
little, watching her cousin, and a few more tears slip away.
"No. Lie down, if it eases you. If the Wind Lord said he will allow nothing to
molest us, his word will stand." The query as to Erinstar brings a return of
shadow to his expression. "I do not know," he says somberly. "I do not know if
- if there will be ought left to find. But if any can, it is they." He turns a
little and stares bleakly off across the prairies.
Caelwen's sobs quiet entirely, and she kneels there, swaying with exhaustion.
After a while, she leans further to Lothdiamoth and kisses him briefly on the
cheek. "Don't.. don't think about it overly much, Caranteil," she murmers, then
lies down with a groan and rolls to her uninjured side, her back touching his
knee. Her eyes shut and she seeks the comfort of that blank, forgetful spot in
her mind, sleep finding her between one shallow breath and the next.
But the Counsel remains motionless under the warmth of sun and chill of wind.
His gaze resting far distant, thoughts unvoiced marching through his eyes. Only
the faintest tightening or loosing of skin and muscle, the shallowest rise and
fall of breath, gives proof that he is not suddenly turned to stone. A wisp of
breeze ruffles dark tendrils of hair at his temple, playfully covering and
revealing the red-lined gash that heals there. Slowly the earth turns, the sun
rises and still they remain unmoving.