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Post by Figwit on Jan 20, 2009 15:25:50 GMT -5
Figwit knew two things.
First, he missed Eden, but that was more or less constant, and he did not know why he was so conscious of it now.
Second, he was no longer in the Land of Shadows, but in Lorien. He knew this instantly by the quality of the light, the birds singing faintly in the tops of the trees, and most importantly by the sense of peace which descended upon him instantly.
He knew he should probably be somewhere else. But it felt like he was meant to be here. And so, for now, he was, and he drank in Lorien with all of his senses. Even the light rain that began to fall did not dismay him, though he sought a sort of shelter beneath a tree, the better to watch the play of water and light through the leaves.
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Nuala
- Masterful Virgin -
Posts: 16
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Post by Nuala on Jan 20, 2009 15:55:21 GMT -5
Nuala had been sent to stay at Lorien by her father after she had told him of a disturbing, nonsensical dream she'd had, and then added something quite randomly afterwards of her brother. Although she could still not consciously make the connexion, even she was aware of the troublesomeness of this omen. Still, she did not feel that Lorien was going to help her, even if she had not had the dream since coming here. She assumed that this had more to do with Lorien itself than anything protective about it.
She had been drifting, as was usual for her, walking without realizing where she was going and reading at the same time, occasionally reading out loud, occasionally repeating a line for a few minutes - she was aware of how distracted she'd been since going there, but then, this did not seem uncommon for her, and elfkind was welcoming in general. She did not realize that it was raining until a raindrop fell on her book, and then she began to seek shelter. There was a very wide tree not far from her, and she moved silently towards it, the hem of her blue dress becoming darker as the rain fell a little more heavily and the wet blades of grass touched her dress as she walked.
Not realizing someone might be on the other side of the tree, Nuala leaned back against it and listened to the rain a while. It reminded her of her poetry, and after a moment, she spoke: "Rainy day.... alone and diligent.... Planting rice..."
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Post by Figwit on Jan 20, 2009 16:00:43 GMT -5
Figwit knew when Nualla arrived; he'd sensed it, almost as if the trees had told him. But he remained still, content to share the tree, until she spoke. And something like curiosity moved him to slip around the trunk to see her. She wasn't an elf--not his type, anyway.
She didn't look too unlike one, however. Figwit smiled gently, his expression composed and untroubled as always. "Good afternoon," he said softly, hoping not to startle her.
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Nuala
- Masterful Virgin -
Posts: 16
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Post by Nuala on Jan 20, 2009 16:10:13 GMT -5
Nuala glanced over at him, surprised when she looked up from her book, but not unpleasantly in the least. She tilted her head. She had not known anyone else was there, but still looked as though she might have expected him, which was how mild her surprise was. "Is it afternoon?" She said, expression hardly changing. "Yes, I might have looked up at the sun and seen... I have been out longer than I planned. But," she said, looking away and up at the rain filtering through the tree branches, "the rain is nice anyway. I would otherwise have missed it."
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Post by Figwit on Jan 20, 2009 16:49:44 GMT -5
"It is," Figwit agreed. His manner might, at first glance, appear overly grave and serious--anyone who knew him knew that this was merely how he existed, and though his character was serious it was not unduly so. He did not recognize Nuala, but he had not been back long (obviously), and anything might have happened. He also knew he had enemies, many of him he may not know by sight. "I hope the rain has not spoiled your book."
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Nuala
- Masterful Virgin -
Posts: 16
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Post by Nuala on Jan 20, 2009 16:59:19 GMT -5
Nuala looked down at the pages as though in surprise, trying to judge how the verses might or might not have changed due to the weather. Then she looked up at him, eyebrows - or lack thereof - furrowed slightly. Her eyes did not seem smaller for it; their fair color gave her a look of perpetual amazement.
"Not at all. I find that the pleasant weather only improves the poems." Her brows lifted then in understanding. "Or is that not what you meant? Forgive me, but I think often... in intellectual terms." Rather than material, physical ones, that was.
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Post by Figwit on Jan 20, 2009 17:18:02 GMT -5
Figwit's smile resided mostly in his eyes, which were soft and brown and changeable like a dappled forest path. "I understand," he said. "I meant the physical book itself; they are sometimes hard to replace. But I agree, about the poetry--and a great deal of rain would have to fall for the book to be rendered useless." He was somewhat charmed by her manner; the elves of his own family, his own experience, were earthy, physical creatures he did not understand. He suspected this one was as far from his own understanding as he was from his brethren, but that did not make him feel an equal though opposite alienation. Merely curiosity.
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Nuala
- Masterful Virgin -
Posts: 16
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Post by Nuala on Jan 20, 2009 17:23:44 GMT -5
"Yes," said Nuala, lifting her glassy eyes again to the tree branches from which rain fell down. She had not looked directly up at them until this point, and found that being parallel to the falling drops was fascinating. Her eyes widened, and she spoke a little more softly and more slowly - it being hard to speak in this position - than before. "I am touched by your concern. I would have been very sad indeed if my book had met such an end. Granted, all things have a lifespan - like a rainfall - but losing something is painful even when it is inevitable."
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Post by Figwit on Jan 20, 2009 17:45:42 GMT -5
As she watched the rain, Figwit watched her, unblinking--or very nearly so. She did not belong here. Which was not unpleasant in the least, merely an observation. So much was new to Figwit as well--he had not been raised here, after all, as much as it felt part of his blood--that he recognized her calm fascination.
"Of course," he said. "But at least poetry may live on within us, and we may draw it back to our lips at will--or write it down again." He thought of all Lorien stood to lose, and how difficult it would be to draw the Mallorn trees back up from the earth that no longer knew them. His soul would recall them to memory, but not to existence. And it was true, all things must die... But no one wanted them to do so during one's lifetime. Not places like this. "But I disturb your contemplation. I apologize."
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Nuala
- Masterful Virgin -
Posts: 16
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Post by Nuala on Jan 21, 2009 11:45:41 GMT -5
Nuala looked back at him almost suddenly, except that her movements were too fluid to be quite that - a trait common, she thought, to all of them, however different their origins might be. She had always found humans to be quite choppy in their movements, which made them seem even more violent to her than she knew them to be - she supposed it was part of their own sadly short lives, that their movements had to be so brisk while they were quick.
"But you don't at all," she said, lifting a hand, fingers curling, then placing it on the page and smoothing over the words as though tasting them in some way. Her fingers curled under then and she looked down at her tender fingertips as though seeing the poetry on them, and finding something about it sad. "Even those things that live within us must die - our memories and ourselves, eventually. I can hardly remember a time before we began to fade... But that speaks of the mortality of our memories, I hope, more than of our natures. We must have been strong once. I know we were."
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Post by Figwit on Jan 21, 2009 13:29:05 GMT -5
Their origins were indeed different, though he recognized something in what she said. His people had forgotten, too--all but him, it sometimes seemed. He had not. He thought that, in the time before, Elves memories were longer than now, too; that previously, there had been little danger of forgetting. It was when they forgot that they had become less than themselves.
How could one Elf restore that memory--memory of a time he had not even lived--to an entire people?
"But our natures--the nature of my people anyway--was always defined by memory," he said. "Until recently, I believe. We were once constant in our memory, which stretched back to our very beginnings and allowed us to live within the world as we always had. But we are fading. We were strong once, because we did not impose our will upon the world. And perhaps, by imposing our will, we lost that which allowed us consistency within it."
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Nuala
- Masterful Virgin -
Posts: 16
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Post by Nuala on Jan 22, 2009 9:18:08 GMT -5
This idea was very captivating. Book still open in her hands - but, ironic considering their topic of conversation, forgotten - she looked back at him unblinkingly, very still and still very animated.
"But perhaps the very nature of life is to make one's impression, and in making it, in accepting life, we choose the inevitable fading and death that comes with it," she said, tilting her head again, gesturing with her fingers against the page as though she could not not speak with her hands. "Perhaps what you seek is immortality and life at once, and cannot have each. Is consistency in the world the same as existing within it, actual existence?"
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Post by Figwit on Jan 22, 2009 13:51:51 GMT -5
In its turn, that captivated Figwit as well. All he had was the hereditary knowledge of his people, an existence which had been as he'd described it. It did not seem like a choice.
"Once, we did live forever," he said softly. "And the world changed very little, despite the wars that at time swept across its face. Then Men came, and everything changed. My people were divided, some admiring their strength in the face of such limited time and power. Some thought them a threat, and saw how Elves changed to meet them. But time seemed to move faster, once they came. And now this land..."
He paused, the harm done his world too great for words. Lorien was almost human in many of its aspects, now; there were farms, and industry, and human leaders. Everything was out of joint.
"You are saying we--I--must make a choice. That it is not a matter of winning or losing, but accepting one or the other."
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Nuala
- Masterful Virgin -
Posts: 16
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Post by Nuala on Feb 4, 2009 12:04:45 GMT -5
Nuala's expression softened, not that it had not been soft before - perhaps it might have been more accurate to say that she was focusing more in these circumstances than she had been a moment ago. When they were not speaking of the abstract, she became more rational, and realized, rather abruptly, as was her way, that she might have been causing someone else acute suffering by means of her talk.
"I - yes," she said, almost as though a little surprised by what she herself had said, although precisely aware of it. It was a good summation. "But, forgive me," she said, glancing down with greater propriety, although in a serene way; propriety in the human, Western civilization might have meant shielding oneself from openness with others, but it was not such in her world. "I did not mean to apply blunt terms to finer points. Your loss is very deep. Choices are less simple to make."
She had already accepted what had become of her people, of her culture, but perhaps this had not been so hard for her. Nuala had always lived something of a half-life. And then again, perhaps her acceptance of the one choice, of the fading, had forced her brother's hand - he had to rebel, for that was the balance. Could they really be summed up in just an equation? Nuala was generally automatically inclined to think so - provided the equation was not simple - but the more emotional side of her, which had, after all, never been as great as the logical, held back.
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Post by Figwit on Feb 4, 2009 12:36:23 GMT -5
Figwit's smile was gentle, but it was there just the same. He was difficult to wound, as deeply as he felt things.
"No, you owe me no apology," he said. "Perhaps the ancient way of the Elves, living in harmony with the land, makes us likewise too complacent when it changes. Perhaps we must be forced to make choices, to embrace the difficulty. It serves no purpose merely lamenting the past; one must strive to recreate it if that is deemed necessary, or move on. My name is Figwit," he continued, as if having chosen the latter.
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