================== Eldarin Calendar in Sindarin ===================
IC time is: Late Morning About 10:38 AM
IC day is: Orithil Moon-day
IC date is: 15 Iavas Autumn
Moon phase: Waning Gibbous 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: Thu Oct 31 19:32:57 2002
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Alqualonde
You are standing by a small lake whose water is blue and clear as crystal. The
surface sparkles like sapphire where the sun shines on it near the center.
White swans sail gracefully over the surface of the ailin, as it is called in
elvish. It is for them that Galadriel christened this place Alqualonde,
Swan-Haven, a memento of her days in Valinor when the world was young and
untainted. The lake is surrounded by leafless trees with a snowy white bark.
There is a feeling of utter peace and tranquility here, almost as if time were
standing completely still.
The fragrant scent of exotic flowers fills you with cheer as you rest here.
Even now, just inside your reach, a single water lily floats idly by...
The sun rides ripples in the water from bird to shore, and the swans strech
their necks in pride, accepting the glittery homage as just dues. The trees
have become almost entirely gold again, stretching up to the cloud-strewn blue
sky above and below, a mirrored heaven in the lake. Lilies skulk modestly near
the shore.
One lily is plucked up from the water by white-elf toes. Caelwen leans over her
reflection, perched on a boulder at the shore, her skirts held up to mid-shin
to keep them dry. A damp sound, and her foot descends into the lake again.
Quiet, but not soundless footsteps whisper on the mould of leaf litter and moss
covering the path that winds in and out of the birches and mallyrn surrounding
the lake. The walker's head is bowed, his gaze only on the ground before him;
black hair hangs like silk over one white-clad shoulder. So lost in thought is
he, that he is almost to the lake's edge before a small dripping sound
insinuates itself into his consciousness. Stopping then, Lothdaimoth looks up,
his eyes falling at once upon his cousin. And for a minute he hesitates: to go
forwards or back?
Whispering footsteps approach, and a smile still lingers on Caelwen's mouth.
The sounds stop, and her eyes slide aside and up, smile widening and warming. A
pause as she observes his hesitation, ere she nods once and turns back to the
water. Her toes wriggle into the mud in the bottom of the lake floor, she sighs
a little and waits. After a long while, her amused voice finally mingles with
water and wind. "You know, I was Caelwen last week and I am Caelwen now. And I
haven't any shoes to throw at you, so there's naught to fear."
A chuckle and bare feet pad closer, bringing the counsel to water's edge and a
boulder of his own to perch on. "Tis just as well," he says lightly. "For the
water is much closer here and I would instantly throw them in..." His feet are
tucked up beneath him on the sun-warmed rock, knees folded in and both arms
wrapped around them. Several long peaceful moments slide by, with no more
notice than the smooth ripples caused by the swans' sliding through the water.
And he rests his chin on his knees, feeling in the cracks of the rock for a
small pebble. Long agile fingers flick it out into the water and dark eyes
watch for the tiny splash.
Caelwen's eyes have turned aside to gaze at him again, though she still faces
only the water. "I always knew you did it on purpose," is her reply, though her
voice is gentle and no teasing lilt lingers now. She pulls her toes up from the
mud, splashes them in water a bit, then draws them up in a mimicry of his
posture to dry them with the hem of her skirt.
The chuckle becomes a laugh. "Of course. And I knocked myself in on purpose as
well." The expanse of water, ripple-kissed and serene, keeps his eyes. Then,
changing from jesting to an eagerness still subdued by the peace of the lake,
he says, "I have done it, Caelwen. I have spoken with the vintners and they
will allow me to plant some of the vines the Miruvorthaer gave me on fencing as
they do." As he speaks, enthusiasm gains strength until he sits straight on the
rock and no longer gazes out at the water, but to his cousin's face; eyes
alight with excitement.
Caelwen's face turn to him, his enthusiasm infecting her and bringing a wide
grin to shine in the midmorning sun. "They did?" she asks laughingly. "It is
not so easy to get crafters to do new things. You must have spoken well." She
rests her cheek against her knees, watching him, her hair around her like a
bonfire on water's edge.
Lothdaimoth grins cheerfully, teasingly. "Especially be they Dinlom crafters.
It was very near. And only when I did promise to plant but half in the new way
- and swore not to touch the tried and true wines, did she at last consent."
Bright hair in the sun catches his gaze a second before sable eyes return to a
smiling face, familiar as his own. "I looked for Rosgwaen - I thought to ask
him to build the trellising for me..." the words trail off and somberness edges
into gaiety. "Would he do it, do you think? Sometimes I think he likes me none
too well of late."
Caelwen winks once as he speaks of the Dinlym, but she does not comment on
that. "Oh, I do not know," her smile eases a little, waning. "I don't really
talk to him about you, very much. And honestly, it isn't his place to say; it
is the Vinters'." The smile is entirely gone now, and her eyes have grown
unfocused, staring broodingly at nothing. "He is the Indor, not the
Craftmaster." She sighs a little.
"I know it." Lothdaimoth sounds a little surprised. "I meant only - would he
build if I asked him, or should I seek out another of the carpenters?" Her
sighs brings a sharpening of his eyes, a softening of the deep voice. "What is
it? I did not mean to spoil your pleasure in the day, cousin." A curling little
breeze puffs off of the lake and catches at a strand of jet black hair, tugging
it into the counsel's face. Absently, he brushes it back once and then twice
before it stays. Above them, in the endless depths of the blue sky, comes a
rush of music - a bird, lost in the vastness of the heavens, still sings to be
heard on earth.
"No, nay.. 'tis only my old troubles with Rosgwaen," The same breeze tugs a
curl from her hair, but casts it away from her unnoticed. Caelwen turns her
face to the water. "Anyway... I really can't say if he would do it or not. I am
fair sure he would not /care/ to, so mayhap it is better to find someone else."
Her gaze strays back to his features, and a happier expression toys with the
corners of her mouth after a moment.
Sighing in his turn, Lothdaimoth returns his stare to the water. "I wish it
were not so," he says at last. "Still. I will ask, and if he desires not to, he
can say no." Turning back towards her, not just his head, but his body - the
tiny bit of smile at her lips brings an answering one to his; though sadness
underlays it. "Tell me of something cheerful, cousin. Enough of this sighing.
The world will go as it will and I have spent enought time in sorrow for now."
Caelwen laughs, and leans back, her hair sliding lower behind her. "Well, let
met think," she replies, her gaze turning back to the water. "I managed to make
a pot half as high as I am the other day, which is very hard for me because I
do not have the strength for it.... And Ada baked the most marvellous pastry in
celebration of my homecoming," her smile returns full-bore. "He makes me laugh
so much!" Her face turns to her cousin, trailing his features with eyes
glittering in pleasure. "And you are here, so I am very cheerful indeed."
"So tall as that? How did you do it?" Curiosity colors his voice. "And what is
it to be for?" Emotions follow one after the other, in time with her varying
subjects - after curiousity comes mock displeasure. "Your father is an
excellent baker, but his taste in nick-names leaves much to be desired."
Laughter crinkles the edges of his eyes to be suddenly swallowed up in
stillness at the last words. But he says nothing, only waiting for her to reply.
"I make the pot in two halves, let them dry halfway, then join them together."
The cheerfulness in her eyes disappears, but Caelwen's tone is still light.
"The measuring and all is hard, but the hardest part is that I must use so much
strength to master the clay without bracing myself. And... do you truly not
like Caranteil? I shall not call you that anymore, then. I am sorry." Her brows
come together fretfully.
"No!" A swan ruffles its wings at the sudden noise and Lothdaimoth abruptly
quiets his voice. "No. That wasn't what I meant at all. I was joking, Caelwen."
Inner turmoil becomes almost physical, for it seems he is swayed bodily first
towards her and then away until at last he turns to look out at the lake again.
"If you are still Caelwen," he says at last, "I am still Lothdaimoth. Do you no
longer know when I jest?"
Caelwen's eyes snap wide, her legs unfolding to allow one foot to splash into
the water as she, too, sways toward him. Her fingers curl hard into the stone;
she watches him with distress. "I am sorry," she says earnestly. "I am more
careful of you since.. since what happened. I have been more aware of everyone,
though, and treating many people differently." Her hand lifts, grains of stone
sticking to it, and she rubs at her forehead with a new sigh, eyes closing. "I
do not know. Maybe I am not Caelwen anymore."
"No," says Lothdaimoth again. "You are still yourself. But I said it once
before, you are growing." No matter that he looks at the swans instead. "It is
a good thing. You.. used to be somewhat careless of others and now... it is
good, this change." His voice is rough, certain in words though not in emotions
and his gaze is unfocused, not seeing the sun-soaked water and brilliant white
birds.
Caelwen watches him in silence, worry pooling in her gaze. "What is wrong?" Her
tone is a little pleading, but very kind. "I promise I do not mean to disturb
you so. Here, I will leave-- all right?" Water splashes as she stands already,
a small line of her skirt-hem drooping into the lake.
Lothdaimoth drops his head into one hand. "No," he says at last, almost too
quietly to be heard. "Stay. If.. if you will." A pause and what might almost be
a chuckle. "It is a little late for not disturbing me."
Caelwen's mouth curls into a wry smile. "Well, you did it to me first, you
know." A splash as she leaves the water, and she pads over to him to place a
kiss atop his bowed head, as chaste as it might have been a yen ago. "You
always turn it around to be my fault." She takes several steps backwards, away
from him. "But do not worry so much, aye? Everything will be all right. I am
fine." Her voice takes on that reassuring tone again, and she lingers briefly
before leaving.
"That is because it is, of course. Certainly it is not my fault." His dark head
is lifted and he gazes out across the waters again, a hopeless yearning
twisting his features. But yearning for what? One from the past, now lost to
him forever? or something new, hardly able to be disintangled from the old.
"Caelwen..."
Caelwen stills, hands both at her belly while her eyes linger on him as ever
they do lately. Her head cocks aside. "Aye?"
Here there are too many memories, never mind that he has made his peace with
them, and Lothdaimoth swivels around abruptly, standing up. "Nothing. I - do
not know." A step is taken, both towards her and the path away, then another.
His tone, his words are short, not from anger. "I must go." But he doesn't
move. Not yet.
"Why?" Caelwen whispers, then swallows once, her eyes still intent on him. A
nod shakes copper curls like springs. "All right, cousin, if you wish to go,
I'll stay." Both hands still press to her belly, her heart in her eyes, and she
steps off the path so as not to be in his way.
Gently, so gently as to not move a hair out of place, Lothdaimoth reaches out a
hand - the fingers barely brush the thinnest edge of her hair. Then he turns
and walks away, bare feet noiseless on the path.
Caelwen's breath stops as Lothdaimoth touches her hair, and her face turns in
wonder so that she may watch him walk away. And she stays like this when he is
gone, her eyes unfocused, walking paths in her mind instead of the ones her
feet might tread.