Spring, S.A. 30
[ musical link for the reader's enjoyment ]
It was raining when she arrived. Not a cold, winter rain that threatened to turn to frost when morning arrived; and morning was, indeed, arriving, evidenced by the telltale, orange and yellow hues of the sun's rising in the far distance where there was a break in the clouds. No, this was a soft, spring rain, blanketing the ground in dew, bringing promise of sunlit days and colorful blooms.
A promise of something better.
When she arrived, wrapped in a dark cloak, carrying little more than her spear on her back, and looking far more tired in spirit than one of the Firstborn should be, she was greeted by a great mass of trees looming before her. Perhaps, she thought, there had been more of them once, but time and the efforts of the Secondborn had worn them thin. Still, she felt that this forest was lovely, dark, and deep, and it caused a strange sort of feeling to take root within her chest. It felt both familiar and unfamiliar and grew greater as she pressed onwards, allowing the bounds of the forest to close about her, making hardly a noise as she trod upon the earth with all its upturned roots and the scent of petrichor rising as the rain continued to fall.
The sound of the Great River running behind her and the mists rising so high from the mountains so as to be seen even from afar seemed more like distant memories the further she went in. The morning wore on and the rain began to slowly let up. To her joy, the forest seemed to engulf her like a sea of infinite green. The chatter of birds overhead filled her ears, accompanied by something she hadn't heard since her time in Doriath in the company of Melian herself; something like music, yet not, for it was as raw as it was beautiful, as if the non-harmony came from the very forest itself.
It occurred to her, at some point, that she was hungry. She hadn't eaten in over a day and had long since given up on acquiring what some would consider proper sustenance. She lived off what she could forage from the land, finding it easier to do so once she had left behind the crumbling, sinking place she had once called home and crossed over the first set of mountains. There was nothing left for her there. She knew that, soon, it would all become a ruin, much like the first parts of her long life had become. Home had become such a novel but flighty concept to her. Had she ever truly had one in the first place?
Again, her gloomy train of thought was interrupted by a pang of hunger. She would have to find some source of food soon. Green eyes drifted upwards to find wood thrushes moving northwards. She decided to follow, running and leaping over root and overturned log to keep up with them as they darted from tree to tree, flute-like whistles seeming to bounce and echo through the air. Eventually, she reasoned, they would lead her to a possible food source.
Further north she ran, all sense of fatigue seeming to melt away with each step. Before long, she noted that all sense of burden seemed so insignificant compared to the might and majesty of the oldest trees about her. There was age here, to be sure, but it was not yet completely sullied by the bitterness of war. There was some sorrow here, yes, but it was not the sorrow born of tears unnumbered and insurmountable loss. What was here still endured. Old gave way to new and what was new still carried the remnants of what had been, building upon the original foundation.
This was a much lighter burden than the ones she had carried for so long. She could take it up gladly.
Eventually she came to a clearing where there was a break in the branches up above, letting half-clouded sunlight cascade in like a beam of gold. Here and there were patches of something familiar. She smiled to herself and set to work gathering up handfuls of what she knew to be elderberries, tying up the broad side of her cloak to her belt as a sort of makeshift bag. She lifted one of the blueish-black berries to her lips and let out a sigh, releasing the last of her exhaustion as it was replaced by something akin to joy.
A smile appeared. She had not smiled in long months... years...
In that moment, Nautiel knew she was exactly where she needed to be. Or, perhaps, she was meant to be here. This green-boughed forest with all of its wild beauty; it felt more like home than any other place she had lived in. Something about this place was familiar to the deepest parts of her fëa; like a memory she had never experienced. She lifted her hands upwards to catch the last of the rain upon her berry-stained fingers as the clouds rolled away, allowing the sunlight to shine into the clearing in all its midday glory.
Spring had arrived in this part of the world and, she thought, it was more magnificent than any spring she had ever witnessed. She never wanted to leave.
After what seemed like a small Age, she lowered her hands when she heard a whistle, too low and practiced to be a bird, at least to her trained ear. To her right, at the edge of the clearing where the trees walled the space in, stood another; his eyes the color of moss and his hair the color of bark, clad in clothing that seemed to be spun from the very forest about them. Upon his back was a quiver of expertly made arrows and in his hand, a bow of yew.
The two regarded each other in silence, though the faint sounds of his breathing could be heard where hers could not. His head tilted slightly to the side as he tried to puzzle out her existence here in this space. Eventually, she removed her hood and revealed herself further, meeting his moss-colored gaze and holding it with her own, words remaining unspoken
His countenance seemed to soften as something dawned on him; a sort of understanding gleaned from all that he could see within her green eyes that, despite all, could still be considered the color of newly grown leaves. He stepped further into the clearing, slinging his bow onto his back. He moved carefully, as one does when approaching a wounded or frightened animal. He stopped when he was a few paces away from her and then slowly extended a hand, palm up.
He would not turn her away. She was welcome here.
And, from the moment she placed her hand in his, a new beginning began to bloom.
For almost 800 years, Nautiel dwelled in the company of the many clans of Silvan elves of the Greenwood. For this time, acceptance was hers, even if it was borne of pity.
