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piosenniel · 04-27-2003, 05:05 PM

30 Nárië – 1 a.m.

The wind gusted, blowing in dark clouds from the west. They covered the fat, yellowed moon blocking out its light for a moment. Capricious, the wind blew holes in the very clouds it had herded before it, and the silvered light shone through once more.

Pio gathered her cloak in tightly, fingers of wind wanting to snatch it from her with each step. The air was thick with the promise of rain. ‘Ulmo keep you,’ she murmured to the heaviness that pressed in about her. The trees stirred against her words, leaves thirsty for water in a long hot spell of summer.

Her laugh, light as the sound of tiny, silvered bells on the ankle of some dancing maiden, wove in among the rustlings of the wind and leaves. ‘Only for a small space of time,’ she said, touching the smooth, papery bark of some great birch that stood along the path to The Water. ‘Let me just walk unhindered by care for a little while, then let the rain come to you, when I am safe again beneath the roof of the Inn.’ The soughing of the wind through the leaves and slender branches was her only answer as she walked on.

Her destination this night was the unnamed stream that slipped down from the north and emptied into the Bywater Pool. In early days she had walked it to its source, but now, laden with child, she hoped only to push herself as far as the widened section of it. There, in the midst of it, a great, flat rock sat, just inches above the rushing stream, dividing it for a moment into two thin strands of foaming water. They pressed against the sides of the rocky fastness and wore it away slowly, carrying the flinty grey chips like little treasures to the keeping of the pool.

It was dark again when she came to it, the heavy clouds obscuring the moon and stars. Still she found the path of stepping-stones, and made her way carefully to the rock, clambering up to its top. A gust of wind blew the trailing clouds away, the moon’s light now illuminating the rocky surface and the rushing waters.

Her eyes narrowed, seeing a figure sitting at the northern tip of the platform, legs dangling down into the foaming waters. She drew back to the edge, thinking to cross the stream to the bank. Words, not spoken aloud, held her in her place.

I often come here, Piosenniel. The sounds of the waters obscure the noises of this world and for a time I can shut my eyes and think my self in my garden, amidst the waters of lake. Estë sleeps there, on the small isle that lies in the waters of Lorellin.

Perhaps it was just a trick of his mortal body, the way it slumped over, fingers reaching down to trail in the foam, but she thought she heard a great loneliness in his voice as he spoke to her. She drew near and sat beside him, her shoulder a bare inch away from his.

Lórien, she asked, I had thought you gone from us. How is it that you stay? Confined to a clumsy body, and the slow ways of the Shire folk, I should have thought you would have left us long ago.

And so I might have, save for the fact my business here is not yet finished . . .

[ April 28, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

04-27-2003, 05:05 PM	#351
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	30 Nárië – 1 a.m. The wind gusted, blowing in dark clouds from the west. They covered the fat, yellowed moon blocking out its light for a moment. Capricious, the wind blew holes in the very clouds it had herded before it, and the silvered light shone through once more. Pio gathered her cloak in tightly, fingers of wind wanting to snatch it from her with each step. The air was thick with the promise of rain. ‘Ulmo keep you,’ she murmured to the heaviness that pressed in about her. The trees stirred against her words, leaves thirsty for water in a long hot spell of summer. Her laugh, light as the sound of tiny, silvered bells on the ankle of some dancing maiden, wove in among the rustlings of the wind and leaves. ‘Only for a small space of time,’ she said, touching the smooth, papery bark of some great birch that stood along the path to The Water. ‘Let me just walk unhindered by care for a little while, then let the rain come to you, when I am safe again beneath the roof of the Inn.’ The soughing of the wind through the leaves and slender branches was her only answer as she walked on. Her destination this night was the unnamed stream that slipped down from the north and emptied into the Bywater Pool. In early days she had walked it to its source, but now, laden with child, she hoped only to push herself as far as the widened section of it. There, in the midst of it, a great, flat rock sat, just inches above the rushing stream, dividing it for a moment into two thin strands of foaming water. They pressed against the sides of the rocky fastness and wore it away slowly, carrying the flinty grey chips like little treasures to the keeping of the pool. It was dark again when she came to it, the heavy clouds obscuring the moon and stars. Still she found the path of stepping-stones, and made her way carefully to the rock, clambering up to its top. A gust of wind blew the trailing clouds away, the moon’s light now illuminating the rocky surface and the rushing waters. Her eyes narrowed, seeing a figure sitting at the northern tip of the platform, legs dangling down into the foaming waters. She drew back to the edge, thinking to cross the stream to the bank. Words, not spoken aloud, held her in her place. I often come here, Piosenniel. The sounds of the waters obscure the noises of this world and for a time I can shut my eyes and think my self in my garden, amidst the waters of lake. Estë sleeps there, on the small isle that lies in the waters of Lorellin. Perhaps it was just a trick of his mortal body, the way it slumped over, fingers reaching down to trail in the foam, but she thought she heard a great loneliness in his voice as he spoke to her. She drew near and sat beside him, her shoulder a bare inch away from his. Lórien, she asked, I had thought you gone from us. How is it that you stay? Confined to a clumsy body, and the slow ways of the Shire folk, I should have thought you would have left us long ago. And so I might have, save for the fact my business here is not yet finished . . . [ April 28, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ] __________________ Eldest, that’s what I am . . . I knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless - before the Dark Lord came from Outside.