Side Canyon
Claustrophobia. Utter claustrophobia. This is a small and narrow place, hemmed in by cliffs on either side. Not far upstream there is a waterfall, ending progress to the north.

The canyon is so narrow it is possible to see only a little way ahead; overhead the precipices frame a narrow slot of sky. The surface of the stream down in its bed is visible as a bare whiteness below the path, which is hard underfoot.


Yellow light instead of grey pours into the little canyon, but that is all that differs from the place a few days ago. Still the stream and waterfall gossip one to another, and still the stones and grass keep their secrets, and still an elven cloak hides an elleth.Indeed, Caelwen lies in nearly the exact same position she was in before, although a hand lies open and cupping sunlight, palm marred with bright red abrasions. Her wounds seem healed not at all, the bruises blackening her skin not faded in the least. Calm is her breath-- in and out, in and out. It is as though time has stopped for a small part of the Misties.


Indeed, this day might be a repeat of one some time previous, for again a shadow passes across the canyon's narrow entrance and starts towards the tiny waterfall. But now the smallest divergence from before is seen. For Lothdaimoth's steps are a little lighter, his hood hangs back to show his face. Under the lines of exhaustion and worry, dawns the smallest gleam of hope. One grey-clad arm tucks around a glittering bundle. "Caelwen!" Swift strides take him to her side. "See what I have ... found." Midword almost, his voice changes and the chainmail falls unheeded as he drops to his knees beside her. Dark eyes fill with fear at the sight of her still unhealed wounds and a hand is laid on her shoulder. "Caelwen!" A shake. Then another, harder now. "You must wake up!"


Caelwen rocks with the jostlings, no expression of pain or anything else given at having her broken rib so jarred. Time passes, or doesn't-- it is hard to tell here. Fiery brows, one marred by a small scrape, gently almost draw together. Her lips part a little, and she again grows still. Nothing can be sensed from her.


Shaking isn't working. Lothdaimoth's brows pinch together in an anxious frown, and almost without thought his hand moves to her forehead. His gaze unfocuses, eyelids droop and shut, and worry deepens between his eyebrows. For a minute, his eyes open, looking to something beyond, and then shut again. Beneath his breath, although it is heard only as the memory of a song swirling green with what remnants of hope he can summon through the darkness of the spirit, he begins to hum.


For a long few minutes, still there is nothing. But then something undefinable makes a brief stirring below Lothdaimoth's hand, and Caelwen's eyes open, green to green song. The normally bright peridot orbs seem blind and shuttered still, and again her lips move. Fiery brows move even closer together, her face settles into a listlessly confused expression.A word forms on those softly moving lips, an order put to her rhythmic breath. "...Lothdaimoth?"


So soft the voice that speaks his name, yet Lothdaimoth's eyes snap open almost before the word is given breath. As if her spirit has called to his from some deep and hidden place, making sounds that fall on the body's ears unneeded.

"Caelwen." With desperate effort, he keeps his voice calm and quiet. "Wake up, mellon." Still under all the song continues, tainted with relief now.


Caelwen keeps half-sinking back, then pulled up again by her cousin's song, a little dance that does not show as movement. "Why?" she murmers during a more lucid moment. "Do you need me?" Her eyes half-close as though to sleep again, and then open and nearly focus on his knee. "I miss you." A wince of pain, and she shuttters her gaze again.


Dark eyes take in her unhealed state and he is silent for long moments, head bent, shoulders bowed. At last, he forces himself to speak. "Yes." By what effort of will, he keeps the anguish that tears his heart from sounding in his voice, none may know. Still, the words falter a little despite all he can do. "We.. we must move on. Can .. can you get up?" Now a despairing glance goes to the forgotten chainmail, before he rips his eyes away.


A long pause. "Is aught the matter?" Caelwen queries peacefully, lips scarce moving with her speech. Another long pause-- everything about her is slow, as though her very fea was wading through honey. "I think I can get up, if you need me to." Her hand twitches, her arm shifts down. Elfstone eyes open again, her brow furrows in concentration. She whispers, "I'm having a hard time remembering my body. Just.. a moment."


Caelwen's last words double and re-double the fear lurking in Lothdaimoth's eyes. And again it is long before he can answer. "No," he whispers and is silent again. Then, perhaps unable to bear it any longer, he stands and turns away; the long muscles down his back bunched, his shoulders tense. Still more minutes pass silent and slow, but when he turns again to her nothing of his inner turmoil shows. Indeed, his face is blank, expressionless; but his words are gentle. "You must get up. It is time to go."


Caelwen manages to slip an arm beneath her, and prop herself up on an elbow. Her eyes blink repeatedly, lids pinching shut, as though she is having a hard time focusing. A palm pushes against the ground; she laboriously raises herself to a near sitting position. "I think I'll need help to stand." Tears gather in her eyes; she blinks, as though surprised at them. Her voice is calm, unworried. "Are you sure naught is wrong? There is..." she shakes her head vaguely. ".. something."


This time her question goes unanswered, save for a hand stretched down to grasp hers. As the sun rises towards midday, its rays creeping down rock walls and across meager grasses. The narrow canyon brightens; the waterfall splashes its cheerful song, spray cast high and sparkling in the light. The brightness does not seem to reach so far as Lothdaimoth though - for although he stands in the full light of day, a darkness hovers about him. "Come," he says. "We must go."


Caelwen grasps Lothdaimoth's hand weakly, and uses this for balance as she reaches up to curl her other hand about his elbow. She stands, quite unsteady, and leans against him in a moment of silence, regaining her bearings. "My pack.." A deep breath is taken, then cut off suddenly by a whimper when her pain reaches her. Her fingers tighten.


Lothdaimoth's arm curves around her back, holding her until she gains her balance. Then a tentative step away, watching her carefully, before he bends swiftly for her pack and cloak; and Erinstar's armor. Chain is stowed in his own pack, hers strapped on his back above; and he returns to his cousin's side. Draping her cloak over her back, he reaches for her small hand to draw her after him down the canyon.


Caelwen's step betrays very little of the easy, natural grace that should be her birthright as a Quende. Steps plodding, swaying, uncertain, she holds tight to Lothdaimoth's hand and walks behind him. "I wish you weren't so sad..." her words trail. Her ageless, bruised features set in a determined light, and she speaks again. "You know, I always wanted to play with your bow when I was little, but I was too afraid to ask." She stubs a toe on a rock and stumbles.


Slowly, so slowly, they two move across the rocky dusty ground. The air so high in the mountains holds a hint of chill even in midsummer. Lothdaimoth's face hardens, the muscles of his jaw jerk and clench, at Caelwen's words. And when they reach the main trail, he stands looking down towards the fateful creek. No sign remains of the furious caldron that boiled that but days past. Grimly then, he turns and starts again of their interrupted journey to the pass, by necessity (the path is too narrow for two to walk abreast), letting loose of her hand. "Hold to the pack." This is all he says.


Caelwen sways upright as Lothdaimoth pauses, not looking downward at all. When her hand is released, she braces herself against the cliff-face, reaching a hand out to clutch at his pack as she is bade to do so. She does not attempt to talk again, walking behind him, but oft pauses, leaning against the wall again with sagging knees. At last, a low, far-away murmur is heard from behind against the shuffling of their feet on the path. "I am sorry. I don't.. I mean, I know the words are a poor fit to all this, but.." She scrapes her hand unmindfully against the stone in her struggle to keep to her feet.


One step, another. Sunshine pours heatless down, creating stark patches of shadow and light. Still Lothdaimoth picks his way upward until it seems he means not to answer her at all. But then, uninflected and quiet, comes a single word. "What?" And he stops for a few minutes, palm against rock before continuing.


Caelwen shuffles tiredly after him, finally finding a pattern again in walking, frequently unsettling pebbles to bounce behind her. The weak, thin light finds the bright hair of the younger cousin, and it shines with more life than what she has, dust glittering in the curls. When Lothdaimoth stops, she still takes another shuffle or two, then leans against the wall, pressing her temple to stone. She rests a while before replying. "If you're angry with me, please don't yell at me until we're off this path. I don't think I could stay standing, mellon." Glittering tears startle her, and she blinks the shining drops away.


Unseen by the one behind him, Lothdaimoth's eyes shut and a wince of pain crosses his pallid face. "I am not angry." Still his voice is the same: quiet, emotionless. "I will not yell." Just ahead of them, glimmering with a silvery sheen in the sunlight, a thin greyish line threads along the cliff side. Four steps take the counsel up beside it and his hand closes gently around the rope. Turning just a little inwards, he bows his forehead against the canyon wall, careless of stone or mud or twig. Long black hair, tangled and rough from days of travel slides over his shoulder and screens his face from view.


As Lothdaimoth steps forward, Caelwen gives up and slides down the wall to her knees, clumps of dirt showering over her and little plants settling in her curls. She stares at the Counsel's legs without seeing them, and allows him a bit of silence. Her eyes unfocus before closing, copper lashes still clean against her bruised and freckled cheek. "I don't know why you want us to leave, cousin, but I think I could make it back to the other canyon on my own," comes her small voice. "I think I could wait for a long while yet. And I really hate being such a burden." Her hands brace before her on the path.


Of the emotions which roil beneath the surface, none show on Lothdaimoth's face as he turns it towards Caelwen's huddled figure. So little shows in his expression that his visage could be carven from the stone he leans against. But grief flickers deep in his eyes before it is ruthlessly banished. And still the same calm, toneless voice winds its way through the distant hum of creek and waterfall. "You are ill. Your wounds do not heal as they should. We must get to Imlad." His gaze falls to the rope he yet holds and a spasm twitches the edge of his mouth. The slender bit of hithlain is laid to rest against the chill rock wall, and the counsel turns away. "Come, cousin. We must make haste."


But Caelwen does not see Lothdaimoth's stoic features, for her eyes yet remain closed, head propped up against the rock wall as comfortably as if 'twere a pillow. Tears are still caught in her lashes, but even these are in rest as they do not fall. Despite her seeming rest, she still speaks in a thick voice. "I would fix this if I could, but I don't want to talk about things bad for you." A sigh. "I'll go, as you say." Some time still passes before she moves again, slowly bracing herself against the wall to stand. Embracing the stone, she shuffles finally toward him, eyes opening again, though still unfocused.


Forested Plateau
The wind is ceaseless, as is the sound of creaking pine trees, swaying branches, and not too far away the rush of water. This is high, alpine country, a sort of plateau nestled just below the highest ridges of the Misty Mountains.

Not far to the west the ground ends abruptly, dropping away into empty space. North and south rise steep impassible slopes. To the east a stream rises from a spring and disappears over frothing cataracts.

The air is cool, the frail blanket of dead needles crackling dry underfoot.


At last the narrow twining pathway rises out of the canyon and flattens out. The thin fine layering of pine needles makes no noise at all beneath Lothdaimoth's feet as he crests the ridge and comes to a halt. His shuttered gaze turns behind him and notes Caelwen's halting movements. "Rest here," he says flatly. "We will go on in a little while."


Caelwen's own step sifts through the pine needles loudly, and it is only a few footsteps from the wall that she falls to her hands and knees again, eyes closing as she starts to gratefully fade away again. She catches herself with a start, a shrill mountain breeze blowing around them, and looks vaguely for her cousin. "Will you sit near me?" she asks, turning and managing to sit herself up. "When last did you rest?"


Lothdaimoth is already several yards away along the edge of the plateau. Dark head bent, his eyes scan the cliff intently. Caelwen's question goes unheard. Or so it seems, but a little while later, he calls back to her with no more volume than necessary to be heard over the ceaseless slur of the wind. "I will sit with you in just a minute. First, I must.. I must find the rope." Further among the trees he goes, now crouching, now straightening and taking another step.


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