The westward path before them was strewn with leaves, the white trunks and trembling branches above them dropping their burdens all around. The sky was a dark, stormy grey, and Airingil watched it with the same joy that she watched all around her. The wind stirred the painted leaves around them, and lifted her husband's heavy cloak sending it flapping against her skirts. She looked up again, expectantly.
And there it was. A drop on her cheek. The clouds gathered into each other and began to fall, to drop their waters on the earth. Airingil laughed brightly and extended her hand toward the deep clouds above, as a great wind swept through the quivering aspens above her, shaking their boughs and seeking to displace the two travelers.
Airingil turned to her husband as his silver hair collected water, hanging down wherever it willed. She tucked his strands out of his face, behind his pointed ears, and leaning forward kissed his cheek. His mind reached out to hers, pressing with his love, his joy for the world and for her joy in it. She responded in kind, conversing without words as they often did.
Airingil remembered the beginning of rain. How clouds sprung from pools and streams displaced by Melkor seeking to surround himself with unlife. She remembered the water rising to the realm of Manwë, and the cool of his air changing the clouds, and the life those shattered waters brought, even to places that Melkor had parched with his heat. She remembered the ancient tomes in which she had read of these, she remembered the name given the inevitable beauty of the world. Oiencarmë Eruo. These wordless thoughts she shared with her husband, as the drops of water struck their bodies.
They joined hands with one unified movement, and continued on their road. Shoes were slipped off and carried, and pale feet moved silently through the water gathering in the worn trail. As night fell and the forest grew dark, the travelers walked on, illuminating the path enough for their journey. As golden leaves and airborne water fell around them, they walked on in the dark like the only stars to be seen.
Over time the rain ceased, and the clouds were borne away southwards. The sky was clear and bright, pale blue with the rising sun. Yellow leaves swirled on the surface of the shallow water, and woodland creatures emerged from their shelters. The forest drank in new life, and Airingil breathed in the fresh scent of the air.
Aurandel steered them from the path and seated himself on a log. He removed a thin book from his oilskin pack, and scribbled sketches and names of each waking animal and bird. Airingil wondered towards him about the etymology of the name of one songbird, and watched him fondly as that linguist spark was once again kindled and her husband scribbled a footnote into his page. As often happened when his passion for words was stirred, Aurandel's footnote became many, and more notes appeared in various corners and spaces, deriving and translating and studying the name of each grouse and squirrel and mole. Isilimë will be pleased, Airingil smiled. Her husband smiled back, not turning his attention away from his work.
Once Aurandel had finished with his labeling and exploring the names of each nearby plant, he packed away his charcoal and book, dusted his fingers on his still wet cloak, and wrapped his arms around his wife, pulling her to lean against his chest. The two sat together, Aurandel's chin resting on Airingil's head, as they took in the vibrant colours that came with the rain. She loved it every bit as much as the first time she beheld it. It was a sign of good and beauty and an inescapable reminder that through anything, good prevails and through sadness, joy is made greater. Oiencarmë Eruo.
