The Crystal Cave

(*)

Thranduil swam up, kicking hard to escape the dark water and looming stone. He burst through the surface and took a great breath. When he shook the water out of his eyes he gasped, treading in a deep pool ringed by large rocks. The walls and ceilings were covered in crystals. They dripped with long threads that glowed purple and green, filling the space with light. He could tell that behind the ring of stone, the cavern was huge.

"Get out, Rauwen will be coming behind you," Braignir hissed. He pointed to a stone lip beside the pool where Thranduil could climb out of the pool. He pulled himself up and over the edge just in time: the water billowed behind him as Rauwen entered the pool. He was still staring at the ceiling when she stood up beside him.

"What is this place?" Oropher asked. His white-blond hair glowed green.

"It is beautiful," Thranduil whispered.

"You have not even seen the best part yet," Rauwen said. "I told you it was worth it."

"We believe the Crystal Cave was a gift from the Valar to our people in the days of darkness, when the light in the West failed and even the stars dimmed," Erisdir's voice resonated in the cavern.

Thranduil felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

Rauwen grabbed his wrist and guided him through a twisting corridor and into the cave proper. At their feet was a pool of water that stretched to the far walls of the cave. The still surface reflected the glowing crystals all around them, filling the room with waves of undulating light.

Thranduil looked down at the surface of the pool and saw his own distorted reflection looking back, with Rauwen at his side.

"The view you really care about," Rauwen teased him, elbowing his arm. Her voice carried over the water, echoing.

Thranduil opened his mouth to caution her against making too much noise, but he swallowed his words. She should know what was safe here. But his eyes swept around the cavern, identifying the exits and any dark corners where something might hide.

When he looked at her, she was watching him silently, her face thoughtful.

"In the early days of our people, before we had the Guild of Cyfarwyddion, there was a harper named Emrys, and he had a dream," Aewenfain's silvery voice filled the space.

"In that time the hours of waking and sleeping had no meaning, for all was dark. Many elves feared sleep, for it brought them either nightmares of beasts stalking in the gloom, or dreams of light, which made them grieve their loss," Erisdir said.

"That night, before he slept, Emrys sang a song of tribute to the beauty of Elbereth Gilthoniel and her sea of stars. He entreated her to brighten the sky again, to deliver us from the relentless darkness, to guide us towards the light and wisdom," Aewenfain chanted. "And as he lay his head down onto the stone that was his only pillow, three tears fell from his eyes."

Erisdir and Aewenfain continued, alternating in a hypnotic dance of voices high and low.

"Those who remember say that Emrys fell into a slumber so deep that his eyes closed, and they wondered if he would die. But after three days he woke again with a great cry of joy!

"'The dream, the dream, the lady of light!' He cried.

"'Emrys, what saw ye?' Lord Lenwë asked him. 'Who is this lady ye speak of?'

"'Why, Elbereth Gilthoniel!' Emrys cried. And all our people gathered around him, amazed.

'I dreamed I was in a grove of oak trees — a place I have never been. Beside me stood a tall Beech tree with bare branches. I looked up and the sky was full of bright stars, as we have not seen in all too long! Looking upon them, I fell to my knees and wept.

'Beside me, the great tree shifted, and I could see it was a lady of great beauty and terrible power.

'She lifted her face to the heavens and said, 'Sister! Have ye forsaken these Children who have no light but yours, now that my Trees of Light have died? See how they praise you and entreat you. Have you no heart?'

'The stars burned and wheeled and a silver voice sang. 'But Sister, who are these elves who live in the dark? Who have not come West as we bid them? The Children in the West also cry, and should I not attend to them first, who came to attend on us? Who speaks for these dark elves?'

'I will speak for them,' the Green Lady said. 'For they love the beauty of my creations above all else. So shall I call them my own, along with my trees and green things everywhere.'

'The voice from the sky spoke again, saying, 'The darkness is now great and wide. I cannot pierce the veil in all places and for all times. It is too deep now in Endorë. Always it fights me.'

'The Green Lady roared! And above and below, around and everywhere, the earth groaned, trees shook, waters burst from their banks! All around the power of the world howled, until a hill of stone rose up in front of my feet, and then all was calm.

'The voice of Elbereth Gilthoniel sang, 'So shall it be as ye have asked, Sister. For your Elves of the Wood we give a gift — of earth, and of water, that shall house a light the Darkness cannot touch!'

'Then the stars pulled together, as though drawn in by a net, and they flew down and into the hill of stones, and the sky was dark again.

'The Green Lady turned to me and said, 'Emrys of the Silvan Elves, find this place, for it is my gift to you, who have cared for that which is mine. Ever shall I call you my people, ye elves who love my forests so well. May the Light guard you and guide you and all who remember this story,.'

'She became still again, as though only a tree, and then I woke.' So said Emrys.

"All who heard this were amazed! Long they searched ere they found these very stones, in whose depths we now stand. Here they found that which was promised: in stone and water lives a light that never sleeps.

"It revived our people before the sun and the moon rose, when they needed to bathe in its lights. Since that time it has been reserved — for those who need special healing, for those who guard us, and for those who guide us. For Emrys was the first of our Guild of Cyfarwyddion, and our root teacher."

Braignir huffed lightly. "And now it is also shared with some who are not the chosen Children of Yavanna."

"Now it is shared with our kin, who also guard and guide elves, at the invitation of the Lord of these lands," Aewenfain said.

"Hush, everyone. We are in a sacred place. You sully it with this talk! Very soon we must make decisions that will affect the lives of every elf in this forest: we are here in this place to let the Light touch us, that we may guard and guide them well. Quiet your hearts, or we will not hear its wisdom over our own noise," Lavangwen said.

"You are too right, mother," Rauwen said. She began to step carefully through the shards of glowing stones on the floor.

"I see the light in the earth," Oropher said quietly. "But what of the water? Was that not a part of your story as well?"

"Yes," Rauwen said. She stepped into the pool and began wading in, one careful step at a time.

Thranduil gasped. With every movement, she seemed to stir up clouds of tiny stars that swirled in the water around her legs. Bright ribbons of green light followed in her wake.

"Ai, Elbereth!" Oropher whispered.

Rauwen paused when the water was up to her waist and dipped her hands into the water. She cupped the liquid light in her hands and lifted it up above her, whispering, and poured the water out and over her own face and hair.

The other Silvans were close behind her, following the same unfamiliar ritual.

Whatever anyone was saying, Thranduil couldn't hear it over the sound of his heart beating as he watched Rauwen, reverent in her prayers for guidance, bathed in the light of swimming stars.

In Doriath, when he'd come of age, dozens of eligible young ladies had been nudged into his path by their mothers, each wearing their best charming smiles and the latest fashions. He'd dutifully taken tea with several of them – pretty girls from excellent families his parents would have been glad to ally with.

Whatever it was he was meant to feel for them, it had never appeared. He wondered if it was meant to be something like this: how, in a cave of Light gifted by Elbereth herself, the only thing he could look at was Rauwen.

The thought of it made him feel queasy. It couldn't be that. It was much too complicated. And why would she ever spare such a thought for him? She wouldn't.

No, it was just this place, he told himself, and her special magic that made her a legend among her own people. She was a true Child of the Greenwood, here in the hallowed place given to her people along with the gifts she carried in her blood. Who could look away from such blessings? Lord Lenwë was wise to have them come here, where the power of the Silvan elves could not be denied.

"Thranduil," his father whispered, pushing Thranduil forward with a hand on his back.

Rauwen turned and looked at him, smiling. She waved to him, urging him into the water.

Thranduil swallowed and made himself follow, wading into the glowing water with wonder.

He went through the motions of asking for this blessing of Light and guidance so he could lead his people well, vaguely aware that his father did so as well. Although, Oropher sounded somewhat more focused.

But Thranduil's mind was on Rauwen, who was already swimming ahead for the tunnel on the far shore, trailing stars in her wake. She dipped through the archway long before he reached it.

He tried to gather himself while she was out of sight, focusing instead on the sensation of the water as it shimmered around him. Was it just the story the bards had told, making him think odd thoughts, or did the water itself feel like the cool caress of starlight against his skin?

Oropher climbed up the bank ahead of him, turning to look back at the cave once more, shaking his head lightly in amazement.

"Now you have seen the most sacred rites of our people, Lord Oropher. It bodes well that Lord Lenwë invited you through," Erisdir said. The bard had waited for the guests in the archway, while Silvan leaders had gone ahead.

"Lady Rauwen used to beg to see it before she was elevated to clan leader, but her grandfather would never let her through until that day," he said.

"It is a great gift that your people have received," Oropher murmured. "Denethor and the Laiquendi never said anything to us about receiving the patronage of Yavanna. One wonders if Queen Melian knew."

"That is a curious thought," Erisdir said. "I should like to hear more about her someday, Lord Oropher. What a thing it must have been, to speak with her, to know her."

"It was," Oropher agreed.

To Thranduil, a hundred whispers ran through that short answer. Queen Melian had been so beautiful she was hard to look at sometimes, but no matter how much time he'd spent in her presence as a child and a youth, a part of him always felt afraid.

Thranduil reached the edge of the water and stood. He ran his hands through the liquid stars once more, watching them swirl through his fingers and cling to his skin. Just as the water had clung to Rauwen – glowing and sliding down her back as she climbed out ahead of him. A beauty he could reach out and touch.

Not that he would do something so shocking. He shivered and made himself climb up the stone.

"Come," Erisdir said, ushering the Sindar through the stone archway into another cave.

The cave was an antechamber of sorts, with torches on the walls burning with the sharp, resinous smell of pine cones. On the far side of the room, a screen of ivy hung over a final archway. Thranduil could hear music and laughter outside. The light of fires and fireflies glowed through the vines.

More of Lenwë's people were there, helping the others into fresh clothes. Braignir was already dressed in a long, green robe with darker green embroidery and a fine leather belt. An elf that reminded Thranduil of a proper manservant was just finishing up braiding the clan leader's hair.

Two ellith were lacing up gowns for Lavangwen and Rauwen. Lavangwen was braiding white flowers into her daughter's hair at the same time. Thranduil could smell them from across the room – he recognized it immediately as the scent Rauwen seemed to favor. The same white flowers were embroidered in a pattern with green leaves and blue flowers along the collar and hems of her creamy yellow gown.

"He never forgets," Thranduil heard Lavangwen say. He had no notion what it meant.

In Menegroth the dress might have been fitting for a summer garden party, nothing more. Yet, somehow, he still had to force himself not to stare at her. What had gotten into him in this strange, enchanted place?

"My lords, a courtesy from Lord Lenwë," yet another stranger said, hurrying over to the Sindar. "If we might make haste? The others will be ready shortly."

In his hands were folded robes made of layers of pale, airy cloth and two pairs of simple slippers. He handed them to Oropher and Thranduil, holding them up to check their length. They were clean and clearly new, but unlike the Silvan leaders' fresh clothes, they were undecorated.

Out of habit, Thranduil focused on his father's face. Oropher was in the midst of accepting the garments with gracious words, but Thranduil could practically hear his father's thoughts churning. They'd been accorded this princely entrance, and now, a gift – but of plain, undyed clothes when the others' were colorful and fine.

A sudden wave of nostalgia washed over Thranduil – this was exactly the sort of little game courtiers might play in Menegroth, giving mixed signals, then watching to see whether the victim would comport themselves well.

He shook his head to clear it. It was not a good night to feel so very distracted, Thranduil thought as he pulled on his new robes. They were soft and smelled of fresh, green things.

One of the manservants approached and began arranging his hair, working in simple strands of laurel leaf. Thranduil fought the urge to shake him off — he hated the feeling of a stranger touching him.

"Well, look at you," Rauwen said, crossing the room and to appraise him. "All cleaned up. I can begin to imagine what you might have looked like in your city finery."

"Not nearly as fine as you," Thranduil said before he could stop himself. The sweet flowers in her hair were potent; the fire from the torches shone in her eyes.

"You look beautiful, my Lady." He bowed to her, but his eyes never left her face.

She leaned closer to him to whisper. "Perhaps you are your father's son after all, resorting to flattery. I am not so easily taken in, Prince Thranduil."

"Is it flattery if it is the truth?" he asked quietly. "I especially like these flowers you wear. They are a favorite of yours, I think."

Rauwen smiled and touched her hair, nodding. "I have always loved the nightflower. It is difficult to find in these woods. My grandfather has a habit of saving some for me when I am here. He has his people make me perfume."

Thranduil nodded. The manservant shifted around him, tugging at a wrinkle in his robes, then disappearing to attend to Erisdir.

"Your grandfather is kind," Thranduil said, letting his hands brush over his plain robe. Simple as it was, after months of muddy toil, it felt like the height of luxury.

"He can be," Lavangwen said, stepping beside her daughter. "Are you ready, my Lords? We have brought you here as guests – I will present you to my father, if you will."

"My thanks," Oropher said simply, bowing and waiting to see what would happen next. Thranduil knew the face his father was wearing. Oropher was more than ready to play this game, if that was what it was.

Thranduil looked around the cave and realized that Braignir and Lenwë's servants had all gone. Lavangwen beckoned her daughter; the two ladies stood side by side before the screen of leaves. At Lavangwen's prompting, the two Sindar took their places behind them.

Thranduil trained his ears on the festivities on the other side, trying to get a sense of how many elves there were. He could hear fire roaring and many voices, singing and laughing. There were instruments — a pipe and a lute, he thought. Maybe more.

Erisdir and Aewenfain parted the vine curtain for their leaders, who stepped through together. A few elves on the other side cheered and offered words of welcome.

When the Sindar stepped through, silence fell. Thranduil looked around, getting his bearings. They were in a grove of immense oak trees with a fire at its center. More elves than he could count filled the space, most of them in yellow and green festival clothing, all watching him and his father with curious expressions. Their faces looked eerie in the uneven firelight and the fireflies that floated through the air, leaving shadows in odd places.

On one side of the grove there were tables heaped high with a variety of herbs and flowers. Close by were two smaller cooking fires with pots and roasting spits over them.

On the other side of the grove, two carved wooden chairs sat on a dais overlooking the gathering. In it sat a tall, pale elf in deep red robes. Thranduil could tell he was ancient, although his fair skin and dark hair were unblemished. It was his eyes – his moon-grey eyes had that distant look that came with age for many elves.

So, this was Lenwë. And beside him his bride, Iúlwen, with deep gold hair fanning over her shoulders, unbound but for a crown of the same white flowers Rauwen favored.

"Lord Father, may we present to you Oropher Olwion and his son, Thranduil, the last Lords of Doriath," Lavangwen said with a formal looking bow.

"Young Oropher, how long it has been since last we met," Lenwë said. His rich voice filled the grove, which was silent but for the crackling flames.

"Pray, my Lord, he is not so young as he once was," Iúlwen said softly. "My, but ye have grown taller than our Denethor ever did. When you were boys, he was the taller of ye."

Thranduil listened closely for an accusation hiding beneath her words. He'd learned to be tense on the subject of Denethor, at least until his father had a chance to set each person right. But neither the voices or faces of Denethor's parents seemed angry. Thranduil couldn't read them at all – like the most skillful of courtiers he'd ever known.

Oropher bowed towards his hosts in acknowledgement. "Much time has passed since then, it is true," he said.

"And now a son of your own! I had heard of your daughter, but not so a son. Who, then, is your mother, Thranduil, son of Oropher?" Lenwë asked suddenly. Thranduil could feel the elf lord's keen eyes raking him over.

"My mother is Elraënor –" he began to answer, but Iúlwen interrupted him.

"Auril's daughter? How unexpected!" the ancient lady said as Oropher nodded.

"Surprising indeed. An auspicious match, though. To your fine lady," Lenwë said. He raised his cup towards Oropher, then drank from it.

Oropher bowed again. Thranduil copied him. He could sense his father seeking an opening to speak, but their hosts held the reins firmly.

"How is it that ye came upon our merry gathering, my lords?" Iúlwen asked. "So long it has been, we had not thought to see you again."

"My Lord, my Lady," Oropher said, bowing towards his hosts. There was something almost comforting to Thranduil, watching his father play the courtier again.

"I pray for your forgiveness for interrupting your festivities," Oropher continued. "It was always my wish these many years to become reacquainted with you. With such fond memories of your lordship, I led my family and the last of my people to your lands, seeking audience. I did not mean to impose."

"The last of your people?" Lenwë asked. "Where are they, then?"

Rauwen stepped forward. "They are in my territory, grandfather, in a safe place, awaiting their lords' return before they decide where to venture next. It is too large a group to travel at speed."

"I see," Iúlwen said. "How generous of you, granddaughter."

"Indeed, Tywysoges Rauwen has been generous with us," Oropher agreed quickly. "It is heartening to be received by kin after so much time. Ye all are gracious hosts, and I am grateful." He ran an admiring hand down the sleeve of his fresh robe.

"I would be remiss to offer nothing in return, but I have no more than a token to offer you. The tales of our journey are many and long – and too dark for this day of light. Suffice it to say, we have precious few treasures left."

Oropher beckoned to Nemirien, who stepped forward and handed him something long and thin wrapped in a silk scarf. The curious eyes of the crowd watched it change hands.

"But I have learned, in the time I have had the privilege to know your people, that you love music and tales, just as we do. Music was my daughter's gift. It was her great love, after her love for her husband. I hope her concert flute may bring as much joy to your family as it has brought ours. It was made for her by the most famed luthier in Doriath, at Queen Melian's own request," Oropher said.

Thranduil took in a sharp breath before he could stop himself. He hadn't known his parents still had one of Eluthel's instruments. Nevermind this flute. How could his father give it away?

Oropher approached the dais where Lenwë and Iúlwen sat and bowed. He unwrapped the scarf to reveal a shining wooden flute and offered it to them in his outstretched palms.

Iúlwen hesitated, glancing at Thranduil, then admiring the flute without taking it. Lenwë was looking at Oropher, a thoughtful glint in his eyes.

"Where is your daughter, then, Lord Oropher? Can she not play for us herself?" Lenwë said.

"She went West with the Host of Aman, my lord," Oropher said. "She could not bear the pain of widowhood."

Thranduil didn't feel nearly as calm as Oropher looked, although he'd regained control of his face. His heart squeezed painfully as murmurs of sympathy swept through the crowd of onlooking Silvans. There were few wounds of the spirit more painful to elves than a dead spouse.

What his father did not say shouted in Thranduil's mind: We do not know when we may see her again. Maybe never. If her husband had not died, she would be here with us, where she belongs.

He made himself breathe out, long and slow.

Lenwë took the flute from Oropher, handling it carefully. He held it up, admiring it from every angle in the firelight.

"At present we have no one in our company who could play such an instrument, nor anywhere to play it," Oropher said. "But your people have such fine musicians among your Cyfarwyddion – I imagine they could do it justice. She would want it to sing again, not sit forgotten at the bottom of a satchel while her people wander in the wilderness."

"I thank you, then," Lenwë said with a dignified nod. "This is a precious gift. We will give it the honor it is due, Lord Oropher."

Beside him, Iúlwen remained straight-backed. She had locked eyes with her daughter. Lavangwen nodded once and Iúlwen relented, bending her head towards Oropher.

Thranduil felt some tension ease in his chest.

"Please, my Lord, my Lady, my good elves! Let us interrupt your merrymaking no more!" Oropher said. "I understand tonight is for the blessing of your sacred herbs – I would not interrupt such an auspicious occasion."

"Indeed," Iúlwen said. "Then let us have music – and food. We have awaited your arrival."

The festivities came back to life in a whirl of green and yellow fabric, crackling flame, and fireflies floating in lazy circles through the tree branches. The air hummed with voices – speaking, humming, laughing. Delicious smells wafted from the cooking fires and dishes being loaded and carried to a long table set to one side of the grove.

Thranduil found himself being herded alongside his father to the table. Oropher was soon seated beside Lavangwen, who sat beside her own father. Rauwen sat beside her mother and motioned for Thranduil to join her.

Across from them, Braignir sat with two other ellyn and two ellith. Rauwen introduced them one by one, starting with her uncle Tawaren, Braignir's father. The others were a family: Braignir's younger brother, Celoman, with his wife, Nimdes, and daughter, Fânien. They all had blue markings on their skin, although Tawaren had less than his sons, and Nimdes had no more than a blue circle between her eyebrows. Fânien and her father each had a few sharpened teeth – nothing compared to Braignir's predator grin.

Further down the table, a cluster of bards was gathered, appreciating Eluthel's flute and chatting with Tuilinher, who Aewenfain was introducing to them all one by one.

Thranduil watched as the royal family served themself dishes of roast meat and vegetables that were carried around the table by more of Lenwë's people. He was careful to take no more than Tawaren and his brood – it was bad enough with just Rauwen teasing him about how much he'd been eating. He didn't need to give Braignir something to sneer at.

When he'd finished eating, Thranduil's eyes wandered to the bonfire, where the common Silvans were dancing, singing, and passing jugs of wine around. They were all so joyous, thes elves of the Greenwood – both ancient and young, it seemed.

Rauwen finally tapped him on the shoulder, taking pity on him, since his father was fully engaged in conversation with Lenwë, Iúlwen, and a few ancient elves they'd invited to the table.

"Stop gawking and come dance," she said. Her eyes sparkled and her skin glowed gold in the firelight "I taught you the steps."

Thranduil stood at her invitation, bowing as he ought to another noble. He couldn't stare awkwardly with his eyes down.

"Not Sûlwen's steps, I take it?" he asked, daring a jest, as he might have on the trail.

Rauwen scoffed, grinning. "Do not dare embarrass me so! I taught you right, I will not have my grandfather's people say otherwise!"

Thranduil laughed and followed her. "I would not dream of it, my Lady."

He followed her into the dancing ring just as one song ended and another began to play. She rested one hand on his shoulder. Her other palm was warm against his back.

She pushed him gently, prompting him to step into the whirl of dancers with her. She laughed when he raised his hand for her to spin, as she'd taught him. The sweet smell of her nightflower garland wafted over him, mixing with the heady smells of woodsmoke, fresh herbs, and wine. The dancing lights played over her face. She slowed herself and he caught her in his arms again. His fingers brushed a lock of her hair that had come loose as his hand sought its place on her shoulder blade.

"Rauwen," he said. His face was warm – the fire, surely. But something of his own soul was burning his chest. It must be too much wine after walking all day, he tried to convince himself. It could not be anything else, not with her.

The dance slowed and she grinned at him again. "Now you know what you are doing, you must dance with others! Come, come, make merry!"

He could not think of an excuse when she called her cousin Fânien over and pushed the brown-haired elleth towards him, so he bowed to Rauwen's cousin and threw himself into the dance. On and on it went – a dizzying circle of curious Silvan ellith now seeking him to dance. If he sat for a song, elves of both genders gathered around him, peppering him with questions in Sindarin of varying degrees of fluency.

They pushed wine into his hands again and again. He looked back at his father once, but Oropher only chuckled and waved him on when he noticed. He'd made it clear Thranduil's role was to befriend younger elves who would find Oropher too intimidating (or dull).

The night spun around him: flame, fireflies, the stars wheeling overhead, circling the sky as the dancers circled the fire. Waves of voices swelled around him, speaking, singing, laughing. The names and faces of those he spoke and danced with blended together.

But at moments in the whirl of people and smells and lights and sound, Rauwen would pass him. When everything else had blurred together, she was still clear to him. White flowers, sweet and rich in the smoky air. Her crow-black hair shone; the firelight caught deep in her brown eyes, making them glow amber. Her laughter cut through the din like a sword that bit deep, deep into his heart.

He drank another cup of wine. He danced another dance, seeking distraction from this sudden, forbidden, longing.

(*)

Notes:

Hello, happy Saturday! I hope you enjoy this update while the world burns... The next update will be February 8th. I am going to try hard to keep the cadence, but I admit the American trash fire had put a damper on my writing speed at the moment, yet again. I've still got some backlog to keep my going for now.

I am actually *really* excited to finally be at this point with y'all. As you can see, we're just at the tipping point where the political and romance genre ratio starts shifting!

And as much I feel the urge to apologize for this chapter being long, this chapter and the next both needed the time they needed ... and they're just long. There are some moments I've been building towards since the very beginning and I don't want to give them short shrift, nor do I want to try to split them up arbitrarily. I thought about cutting the bard's tale in this chapter for length, but I liked it. Did you? I can limit those more if they're not enjoyable.

Noted once again - please indulge me in using the name Emrys, if you're familiar with it. I'm too tickled to stop myself from sneaking in a few tidbits of Arthuriana.

I snuck in another Easter Egg from my Welsh history research. 'Gathering Day', which should actually be the first Monday after the Solstice, but let's keep things simple, is a summer celebration. It is said to be the most potent day to gather auspicious herbs and plants. I didn't go into a lot of detail here, but that totally sounded like a holiday the Silvans would have to me!

"Nightflower" is meant to be night blooming jasmine. Have you ever smelled it in person, not just distilled essence? It is a really intense, incredible smell that suffuses the air on stifling, hot summer nights. Idk it just seems right to Rauwen to me. It's totally 'natural' but there's something magical about it.