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she may contain the urge to run away but hold her down with soggy clothes and breezeblocks
Cloven toes sink into the warm, dry sand beside the water's brim, carefully avoiding the cool autumn water with juvenile finesse. She is sea-foam personified with frangipani in her pale mermaid's hair, an idle wanderer with too much time to kill and too little tolerance for inanity—if patience is a virtue, Lothíriel is surely a woman of sin. "If we are born alone, do we die alone?" she wonders absently with a voice like seashells, letting the words roll off her tongue impassively, as if they were expendable—inconsequential, as if her breaths weren't numbered and each beat of her youthful heart didn't bring her closer to her last. Through white eyelashes she turns her gaze toward the sky above her (the color of lilacs in spring—it is a cloudy dawn); it will rain—she smells the heady aroma of an oncoming downpour, something which recalls the scent of her own mother. A light frown mars the delicate lines of her face like a spider in an hourglass, creases scarring the soft skin around her nose. "Our blue summer days are long gone," she tells the pale raven gliding lazily overhead, circling her like a vulture. Her aimless feet wander toward the water she had previously been avoiding so diligently, tempting the tireless tides. She feels particularly restless today, as if her erratic nymph's heart is revolting against itself in some display of juvenile defiance; the girl has grown tired of this constant gnawing feeling, as if she was always teetering between carelessness and prudence, wildness and composure, bravery and cowardice. Lothíriel is all walking contradictions, but what else could you expect from the daughter of death and rain? The sun peeks out from behind a thick veil of clouds, setting alight the dark water below. It is chilly this autumnal morning by the sea, cold northern air sweeping off the tides in brisk gusts. Small white flowers burst through the sand in her wake, though they are soon swept out to sea by the frigid tides. Her flesh is cold and she is on the brink of shivering; she paces to keep warm, slender muscles rippling sinuously beneath a sterling mantle. In the midst of adolescence, Lothíriel is tall and gaunt, all dark legs and inquietude, still far from the elegance adulthood would herald but graceful in her own right. Her tail flicks moodily: why had she ventured here so early? If it was to watch the sunrise, it was an effort well wasted for the sky was nothing but an assembly of ominous clouds. She sighed through her nostrils, biding her fretful feet to pause for a moment. Thingol fell to rest upon her slender back, scarlet eyes turned to watch the horizon; what did today's portents promise? |
