Ever On: The World Beyond - Free RP

[Moriel]

Omentië
Cuiviénen. YT 1051.
(Private with Frost)

She wandered alone beneath the sky, gazing ever upward at the stars, winking in their canopy. Though she cherished the companion beside whom she had awoken, it was the stars that touched her most with joy, and the songs with which all those who had awoken beside those falls adored them. They had begun to devise language and she learned of it well, contributing to the shaping of it, but still she sang often without words, having nothing greater to offer than the Unbegotten clarity of her voice and its praise. At times her voice seemed as many voices, each with its own subtle part to sing. The stars never darkened nor no cloud hid their light when under them she walked along and sang, but only illuminated her way brightly. Coincidence? Perhaps. And so she walked, the nameless nís- some of her kind had begun to devise names for themselves, or for each other, but she had no such appellation yet, and had not yet felt the need for one. They had not yet devised garments, and her skin shone nearly as silver as the rippling, shimmering length of her hair in the starlight, the latter falling well past her waist. Her feet were bare, though stained with moss, and her strange, cobalt eyes reflected the tapestry above.

Not far from the great water of Cuiviénen itself was a smaller pool, a spring that but softly burbled into existence in a glade on the edge of the woods. It was close enough that, when her people were singing, she could still faintly hear them- but far enough away that the nís could sit atop the small hill above the pool and be alone to wonder at the stars, and dance solitary devotions beneath their light. She came singing softly to the glade, a lilting melody of the things she had seen since her last sleeping, and ascended the hill at a light run. This time she did not sit, but stretched her arms high above her head, reaching towards the heavens. Then one foot released itself from earth and she arched sharply backwards, the curtain of her hair dipping and pool on the ground until foot and head nearly touched and her arms wove lazy patterns above. So her dance began, and her feet moved through unknowable patterns on the grassy knoll as her body swayed and bent and she devised the steps even as she devised the song. At length she came down from the hill and down to the pool, where she drank from its crystalline waters. It was as she stood, ankle deep in the pool, hands cupped to her mouth, that she heard a noise. It was only soft, as if some animal had made a careless footfall.

“Hello?” she called, in the tongue her people had devised, but the air was still. Then, the noise again, and a slight shifting in the tall brush at the edge of the trees. She turned to face the area from which the sound and movement seemed to have come. It did not seem to be an animal, but she could not quite sense what it was. “Hello there,” she called again, smiling, “There’s no need to be afraid.”

[Baphởmet]

Omentië

Cuiviénen, YT 1051

(Private with Moriel)

He liked going without a body, without a form. It was an expression of freedom, of rebellion, of self-awareness. Without a physical form, he could deny the responsibilities that had been pressed upon him. Each side seemed to want, to need something from him. He was being pulled in too many directions at once. All he wanted was peace, to make what he wanted, to create his own space, and to thrive in that space. None of them would let him. Either his work was too creative for the conservative faction in the west, or too complicated for the destructive faction in the north. They were all of them limited in their thinking. He was frustrated with them all. Yet each of them had their pull. The conservative faction wanted to preserve and build a new world, the destructive faction wanted to create and create and create. He was in the middle, being forced to play along with both. He was everything: tinker, builder, soldier, spy. All he wanted was peace.

He came to the cool waters here, this nameless vast lake, and found that peace. It was his secret place, a place wherein he could find rest. He could visualize his world, all his ideas, all his creations here. There would be no one to tell him no. But then something happened. Something awoke. The stars had burst forth in a brilliant display of power and majesty and something had responded to this new light. At first, he did not know what it was that had intruded upon his sacred pools. Were they spirits? Maiar? No, no none of that was right. They were different, these creatures. He watched them for a long time, using his bodilessness to observe them. It was not until he returned to the West, when a name was put them: The Children of Illúvatar. A strange sensation filled him: horror, jealous, protectiveness, curiosity, sorrow, jubilation. So many emotions that he did not know what to with. These creatures were meant to replace them, so said the power of the North. They were meant to supplant and dominate the world. He did not want that to happen, he did not want yet another thing standing in the way of his creativity. But what if the power of the North was wrong? He often was so shortsighted that he could not see a plan beyond two or three steps. These creatures were creative, it was true, they were magnificent and full of power and magnificence. What if they could be taught? What if they could be convinced to follow him? Join him? The world could be filled with such wonders! His dreams could be made manifest and his greatness would have to be acknowledged by all parties! They would have to recant all their harsh words, all their belittling looks, all their self-righteous smatterings.

For now, he would have to create a form that would not scare them off. Something that looked like them, that drew them in. They were wonderous creatures, lithe of form and function. They were beautiful in their naivety. He envied them. Their eyes had only beheld beauty and simplicity. Their ears had only heard the sounds of nature and song. Their feet had only tread upon the soft grasses and gentle waters. Their tongues had only sung of loveliness and hope and creation. Oh, to be these children. He was a shapeshifter, it would not be difficult to create something he could wear, something valiant and glorious, something regal that would befit the role he sought. He would be a new king, better than the lord of the winds, better than lord of the waters, better than the lord of the forge, better than lord of fate. He chose a form he had imagined many times, had used a variation of it in the days when there were no days, when time was a meaningless concept, alien to his very nature.

He was tall, only slightly taller than all these children, not enough to daunt them, but to present a face of power and strength. His chest was broad and his shoulders strong, his features sharp and perfect, his hair he fashioned a deep crimson, the color of the molten earth, the color of the bleeding heart of his Will. He had seen their eyes, reflecting starlight in all it’s myriad colors. He knew his eyes must be special as well. They must be as unique as the stars that glimmered above. He again chose red, as deep a red as he could imagine, his irises he formed into the likeness of a great cat, furtive and full of secret wisdom, full of ancient sorceries and rimmed it about with fires of gold and orange and yellow. None other would ever have eyes like his. They would be forever held up as an example of his power, his creativity, his right to create.

He sat in a tree, still content to watch them until he was ready to reveal himself. He had much to think about, how to approach them, how to communicate with them. He heard them use sounds with their voices that were more than musical notes. They spoke. It was the strangest of all sounds. When he wanted to communicate, all he had to do was imagine that he wanted and press it into the mind of one of his fellows. There had never been a need for communication with his voice. He had sung but his songs were wordless tunes, melodies woven within melodies, harmonies within himself. They were so different, these wonderous children. He sat in his tree and he learned the words, the verbs and the nouns, he learned the names they gave to things and nodded his approval. They were exceedingly clever. Oh, the works they could accomplish together. The mighty would upon them and despair.

One came close now. Her eyes were vibrant, cobalt, a color still rare and unique on the earth itself. He shifted in his tree. She heard, but she was unafraid. Her voice, her voice was the most melodious thing he’d ever heard, and he had been present at the Music of Creation.

“I’m… sorry for disturbing you,” he said at last, coming down from the tree. The first words he’d ever spoken. His voice was deep and sonorous, rich with melody and meaning. He decided he liked that sound. “I was sitting in the tree and enjoying the cool… breeze.” The words came to him slowly, remembering which correlated with which. It was a unique sensation. He smiled at her and his red eyes glimmered in the light of the stars.

[Moriel]

Omentië
Cuiviénen. YT 1051.
(Private with Frost)

As she watched, someone emerged from the forest edge, sliding down from the tree where they had hidden. As the person emerged, she saw that he was like her- or at least, very much like her. His form was like those of her kin by Cuiviénen, but he was not one of them, that much she knew. His hair was like none she had ever seen before, with a color like some of the sweet fruits they had discovered, but deeper and richer. She walked towards him as he spoke, her feet leaving the lightest of wet prints upon the moss of the glade, and when he spoke his voice resonated deep within her. Her skin shivered with the pleasure of the sound, and her eyes crinkled with her smile.

“That’s alright,” she replied, “I come here to be alone too. Your voice is beautiful.” She could imagine what it might sound like when he sang, rather than spoke, and inside her mind spiraled with a thousand melodies. As she drew nearer, she could see him more clearly in the starlight, and his eyes captivated her. “And your eyes,” She came nearer than she had intended, though such courtesies were not common among her people, and without forethought raised her arms to take his face in both her hands. He was taller than she, and her chin tilted up even as she tilted his down to meet his eyes. They were similar in color to his hair, but with flashes of gold and yellow and orange and red among them, coruscating like the flames of the fires her people lit when the air was chill, to keep them safe and warm. “Your eyes are…” she could not find a word to fit what she felt; and so devised one on the spot. “…glorious.”

Suddenly the feeling that he was not of her kind intensified, and she dropped her hands. “I’m sorry,” she apologized, taking a slight step back. “There is a word my people devised about me: bold.” Her head tilted slightly to the side as she smiled again. In her mind the question what are you? lingered loudly, but instead she asked, “Where have you come from?”

[Baphởmet]

Omentië

Cuiviénen, YT 1051

(Private with Moriel)

It was the first time in a very, very long time that he’d been complimented. Not since the days before days when He Who Arises with Might took him aside and showered him with affection and attention had he felt so vulnerable and so strong in the same moment. Certainly no one had touched him, physically or otherwise, since those times. The Smith ignored most of his work, most of his suggestions and idea, to be complimented so openly and so freely it felt… he smiled for the first time: glorious. He touched her hand as he cradled his face. As she looked into his eyes, he looked into hers. They were new, wild, and undaunted. There was no fear in her eyes, no trepidation, no desire to hold back. There was a newness of life, a freshness, an exuberance. He had not seen eyes like that in so, so long. He stood motionless and watched her as she watched him, both seemingly caught in a moment of discovery. Her hands were as soft as the morning dew, both cool and warm to the touch. “I think,” he said slowly, forming words based on what he’d heard and adding a few of his own, “fortune favors the bold. You have naught to be sorry for. Curiosity and fearlessness should be encouraged. And your eyes,” he paused again, trying to find the right sounds to convey his meaning. “They are breathtaking.” He was not sure if he’d heard that word yet or if he’d created it on the spot, but it felt correct.

He caught something, something she might not have intended to let him hear. It was just a murmur, a whisper blown away by a sudden wind. The more he looked at her, the more he realized how different he was from her yet also how similar they were. She was like platinum, rare and precious, and he was iridium, dense and rarer still, heavy with purpose and intent.

“I am from a way to the west,” he finally admitted, dropping his hands from hers. “I am…” the words were slow in forming, his desire to be secretive clashed with his desire to know and understand. “I am different from you. The way this tree,” he pointed to the tree he’d been sitting in, an ash tree, “is different from that one.” He pointed to another tree in the thicket, an evergreen tall and proud. “Yet we are made of similar stuff, with similar hearts and minds.”

[Moriel]

Omentië
Cuiviénen. YT 1051.
(Private with Frost)

Breathtaking.

It was a new word, but she knew right away what it was for. The sensation of the breath stilled, caught in the throat, at the sight of something that made you feel, and the sensation of momentary silence and focus that came with it, even if sound were all around. Her cheeks colored lightly with the pleasure of such a word, and the corners of her eyes crinkled deeply as her smile widened. But then he went on, answering her question, and her expression melted into something more thoughtful, pensive and curious.

“Away to the west,” she repeated in a murmur. What was the west? What more was there than Cuiviénen? She was certain there must be something, for upon the high rises nearby their home, they could see land rolling away into the dark horizon, beyond the reach of their eyes under the starlight. Keen were the eyes of the Unbegotten, but even they could not penetrate all darkness with far-sight. Her head turned involuntarily, to a direction she was not to know was the west. But again he went on, and she looked back at him as slowly he assembled the words to describe how he was different, almost as if he had lifted the question out of her mind. Had he? She nodded slowly.

“I see,” she replied, for in truth she did. Each of her kind were like the other, but different. It was not so strange that he might be even more different, while still being quite alike. Each day in the aftermath of their Awakening they had discovered new creatures, new bands of their kindred who had awoken close by appeared, and they, too, were different from those by the falls; why should it not be that there might be other beings like them? But there was more to him, and that lit a fire of curiosity and cunning both inside the nís. “Similar, but different. I wonder if you have met any of the others of my kin?” Even as she spoke, she formed another question in her mind, and this time, not quite knowing how, pushed it towards him, to see what would happen.

Do you have a name?

[Baphởmet]

Omentië

Cuiviénen, YT 1051

(Private with Moriel)

He smiled as she did at the new word. He had not meant to create it, but the words that he did know did not convey feelings he wanted to convene. He laughed, high and vibrant, like the sound of a song thrush. He was a craftsman of many things, words and language, though, had never been one of them. He could feel his mind expanding, within moments of speaking to one of the Children he could feel himself becoming more and more, he could feel the goal he had set for himself coming closer and closer. She was perceptive too, this creature. Before he spoke of “the west” he had not thought that perhaps she had no concept of direction or time or anything beyond these glorious shores. But she perceived his meaning more clearly than he could have guessed. She looked in the direction of his home, the place where he had entered into the world and had first taken shape and hue. She also seemed to understand the concept of difference as it pertained to them. He had taken this raiment so as not to cause alarm, to appear as one of them, but she was wiser than he had guessed. He smiled again. In truth, the more he had observed the Children the more he felt a connection with them rather than his own kindred in their lofty white towers. Creation was happening here, chaotic, unordered, new. They were building a world that would fit them. This was all he had ever wanted. To create, to order, to master. His kindred hid from such things or wanted them destroyed. It was folly.

He could hear her in his mind again. It was a soft trickle of thoughts. She was new at such communication but she was as her kindred has said: bold. Even so, she was a stream of flowing crystal water next to his torrential river. He would not have her overwhelmed or subsumed. He strained to hear her against the rush of his own thoughts. Her voice within his head was like the sound of a silver bell, high and clear, ringing with quiet strength. The rest of his mind was iron and stone, steel and wood. But as he focused, as he bent his thoughts on her, he could hear her almost as clear as he heard his own thoughts.

Do you have a name?

A name? The word threw him for a moment. Name? The concept was strange to him. He was. A name, a signifier was something used only in context of separating himself for his kindred, to differentiate between him and not him. A name? How long had he gone without using a name, without a signifier, without a concrete sense of identity? For aeons beyond thought he had never needed it. Again, he was. There were a hundred “words” that could signify him, that could count as his “name” but he had never thought of any of them as the purest definition of who and what. So who and what was he?

Slowly, he opened his mind to her, letting her see the flooding river without stepping foot into it yet. He spoke to her the way he and his kin spoke to one another. Not with words, but with images, impressions, emotions. He showed her the first sight of creation that he had beheld, a vast primordial space, a canvas blank and open. He let her feel that surge of excitement, that sense of wander and creativity. He showed her images of his creations, his tutelage under the Smith, his work with He Who Arises with Might. He hid nothing from her, showing the frustrations and limitations he felt with both. He showed her the visions of word he wanted to create, full of art and beauty and order and splendor. All of this was who he was, what he was. But that did not feel like enough. He wanted, inexplicably, to show her who he was on a more intimate level. His… name.

In the language of my kindred, I am called Mayazōnōz.

[Moriel]

Omentië
Cuiviénen. YT 1051.
(Private with Frost)

Rather than replying in words, he showed her eternity. She waited in his silence as he thought, and then lightly she felt something brush against her; not physically, but as if a light breeze reached out to flutter against her mind. She could still see him, and yet before her eyes she beheld an infinite plain of darkness- and then, the tiniest glimmering pinpricks of stars, which grew brighter and brighter even as, within her mind, she began to hear the soft strains of choral music. Compulsively she closed her eyes: the images solidified, and the music grew louder, swelling within her. She saw, from that starry plain, all of creation begin to blossom. From the music it came, each melody and harmony weaving a new aspect of the world and all that surrounded it together. And she beheld the full vastness of Eä, and was awed. Then came dissonance in the music, and at first too that was beautiful, and creations sprang from it as well; but then the dissonance became discord, and sought to overwhelm the rest. But the harmonies resurged, greater and more beautiful than before, bolstered by a ceaseless voice that made her tremble and when finally the music came to a peak she cried out with the ecstasy of it, and without noticing at all, fell to her knees.

The drone of the music’s aftermath and the unfathomable voice proclaiming Behold your music faded, and her mind was flooded with a deluge of other images. Her hands pressed to her face, as if to contain them; the flood was so vast, the passage of time so great; so much beyond her former comprehension. But she saw it all, everything he had ever experienced, and everything he had ever felt: the rush of creation, the frustration of refusal, the uncertainty that underscored his relationship with the one he called He Who Arises With Might; his visions of the future, of beauty and order and splendor. The intimacy of it was almost unbearable, and the sheer vastness of his thought and memory was almost too much. Almost. She opened her mind and accepted it all, drinking greedily from the flood, not merely accepting but without thought reaching back and pulling in all he would give; and beneath it all she felt the undercurrent of his deep… the new word came to her from the depths of his mind: sorrow.

She opened her eyes. After a moment she felt the soft moss beneath her legs and realized that she was kneeling. An instant might have passed, or a year; she would not know. She looked up at him, hands falling to her lap, and her face was streaked with tears. Were they from the ecstasy or the sorrow? She did not know. Slowly she straightened, and as she rocked forward on her knees thrust out one leg, and shifting her weight atop it, arose in one fluid movement. She looked at him wonderingly, but still unafraid. Again she approached, and this time, closed the distance deliberately.

“Mayazōnōz,” she said, feeling the strange sounds with her mouth. “You are so… sad. Let me show you joy.”

Her hands touched his face again, her hands this time sliding over the back of either side of his jaw under her fingers wrapped the back of his neck beneath the flaming hair, and her thumbs came to a stop before his ears, their tips resting upon his cheekbones. He had given her his thought it seemed without effort; she had never used this form of communication before, not exactly; there was an unknowable communion between her and her fellow, but it was different. Similar, but different. Still, she knew she could do it: and by the same instinctual way, she knew that she needed more than thought, she needed touch. Coming so near she could feel the heat of his body, she raised her chin, and gently pulled him down, until their foreheads pressed softly together.

The memory of her Awakening burst from that contact: the sense of emergence from thick sleep, and then sudden and profound wakefulness, and the first sight of the bright young stars overhead; their brilliance, and her immediate love for them, profound and eternal. The first sight of others of her kind, all Awakening together; the nér beside whom she had Awakened, and then, the song- the very first song ever sung in that place since the music of Creation, wordless, and in praise of the stars and the wonder of life. Then a flood, lesser than his, but a flood nevertheless, of laughter, discoveries, their own creations, and endless days beneath endless startlight of joy, fellowship, curiosity, and love. Her life and memories were of Cuiviénen alone, a life untouched by the thing she now knew to be sorrow, but only the peace and delight of the Children’s youth.

[Baphởmet]

Omentië

Cuiviénen, YT 1051

(Private with Moriel)

Sad. Was he sad? It took him a moment to ask the question and understand what it meant. Was he sad? Before he could answer or protest, she took his face in her hands again, but she held him differently this time. The way she touched him was much more intimate, much closer. Bold. He smiled, the fire of his eyes mellowing to a warm glow. With her forehead pressed to his, he saw into her mind. Yet he was not probing, he was not searching. She was showing him things. Were the Children able to communicate in this way? Or was she special? He had a feeling that the answer to both questions was a resounding affirmative. Quieting his mind, shutting out the turmoil and heartrend as this woman, this Child, took him on a journey through a strange, new world. For a moment, he was able to leave all thought of the life he’d known before. She led his very soul take him where he longed to be.

The world was new, the world was dark, but the world was full of beauty and wander. The Children were not Awakened with the knowledge of all the deep things, the way he and his kindred had come into being and knew. There was fear, there was trepidation. But there was wanderlust, curiosity, passion, enthusiasm. Such things had been foreign to him and his kindred when they pressed into the world, filter down from out of the Timeless Halls and into Eä. They walked in the full brightness of their being and had no fear, no trepidation, they had not wanderlust, no curiosity, no passion, or enthusiasm. They had function. Function was not enough for him. He wanted more. He wanted art! He wanted form! His frustration must have leaked through to her when he showed her that part of his mind. It was not an easy thing to hide. He found though, the more he was taken through her mind, through her memories and experiences, that he did not want to hide things. Yet this was all something for him to think on later. He watched all that she had to show him, all the sensations and experiences she had had in her short life. Even so, he was amazed. These creatures, these Children, they were unmarred, untainted. None of the powers that be had touched them. They were uncorrupted, uncomplicated. He found himself wanting them to stay that way forever. This life was simple, but she seemed so fulfilled by it. To sing for the sake of singing alone. They had no thought of troubles or schemes. They did seek to bring the world low. They had a wonder of life. Something he and all his kin had never had. Had never had a need for. They had not been awoken, they had not been born. They had simply sprung from the thoughts of the Creator. Being created this way almost felt unfair in contrast to the Awakening of the Children. He had not had wonder and imagination until he had separated himself from his kin and wandered the earth alone.

Yet there had been one thing that had eluded him, a whisper at the edges of his thoughts, a bit of smoke blow away by a careless breeze. He had not known what that was until he had seen it through her eyes: joy. It was a concept he had never imagined, sense of peace, happiness, and contentment all rolled into one simple word. Joy. His kindred would never understand it. They were so alien to the world itself that something so simple, so profound as joy would be incompressible. He laughed, full and loud. He was filled with that peace, that happiness, that contentment. He was filled with a fiery light, a warmth from within his inner core. His chest felt light and full. He let out a long sigh. But it was not the sigh of weariness, a sigh of exhaustion. These Children. They were so lucky.

He pulled away from her and looked into her wild cobalt eyes. “I am sorry.” He realized that his presence had change this paradise. Sorrow. They had never known sorrow. Yet now, now it was here. She had never seen it, never felt it, but she knew what it was now.

He was afraid for a moment, fearing that he had broken something. No, no, he had not broken or blighted this realm of prosperity. He had brought something to it. To fully embrace this world and all that it could grant them, they must understand the fullest extent of themselves. Joy was a gift, but without sorrow, grief, anger, fear, it could never reach its full potential. Joy alone was a knife never sharpened, it dulled over time until it broke.

Another thought came to him. She had asked his name, and he’d spoken a thing out loud that he had never heard spoken. It was along and clumsy, even when spoken by a voice so rich as hers. “Tell me, what are you called?”

[Moriel]

Omentië
Cuiviénen. YT 1051.
(Private with Frost)

His laughter filled her up from the inside, warm and rich and natural. She could both hear and feel it; something about his laughter came to her through the touch of their skin on skin as she showed him the joy of her existence, and she, too, laughed. When he pulled back from her, though, there was something else in his eyes- a momentary flicker of doubt. But then it vanished, or he pushed it away, and he asked her what she was called. She lowered her hands and looked at him, a bit quizzically, as though waiting for something to happen. But where new words had sprung to mind earlier in their conversing, nothing came to her then. “I have no name,” she replied, her voice light and untroubled, “None has spoken to me for myself, or been given to me by another. When I feel the need of one, I’m sure it will come. Some have names that found them themselves, and some have names bestowed on them. Some still have no names, like me. But that’s alright,” she smiled, “I know who I am. That’s what matters, isn’t it?” But before he could answer, she straightened, and turned her head slightly: a whisper of voices had caught her attention, and the smiled bloomed wider, her race radiant in the starlight at the voices became louder, a distant chorus from the shores of Cuiviénen. “My people are singing!” she exclaimed, turning back to him. For a moment she was torn, but then a ripple of harmony entered the chorus and she wavered no more. Catching up his hands, she pressed his knuckles to her lips. “I must go. But I hope I will see you again! I am here often, and so glad to have met you.” Releasing his hands she turned and ran, not with fear but with delight, her bare feet fleet as a pale deer as she sped back towards the shore where her kin were singing. And her heart was full, but just with the song, or the joy of friendship, but with something new that she did not yet know the full meaning of, but felt was something wonderful:

A secret.

[Baphởmet]

Omentië

Cuiviénen, YT 1051

(Private with Moriel)

He stared in amazement at her. No name? The concept of not having something to identify oneself was alien to him. Yet she seemed so unconcerned and apathetic to the idea that he was forced to rethink his position. She was right in one thing at least, she knew who she was, and what that’s what truly mattered. He knew her too, even without a name. What was in a name, after all? Would not the roses smell sweet regardless of the words attached to them to give them a presence in his mind? And did she not already have a presence in his mind? He had opened himself up to her and shown her things, but there was a part of her that had remained in his mind, a whisper of a silhouette. And she had opened her mind to him, and allowed him to see her Awakening. He did not quite understand why, but that felt like to something more intimate than there was a word for. He remained in her mind as well, a tiny sliver of himself. He had a name, but to her it was not as important as his hair, his eyes, his face. He was defined by that, not by what others had decided to call him. There was a strange glimmer of something, something he had no word for, no basis, no concept. It filled him with a warm in, it started in his chest and blossomed outward until he could feel it in all his extremities. Strange, this form, this hröa, there was still much he needed to learn about it, to learn about himself.

He longed to stay there in that garden. What could he accomplish here? A thousand things and nothing. What would it have mattered? They were not his people, but he had found acceptance by one of them in a way he had never found in his kindred. The Smith and He Who Arises with Might would never have been so open, so accepting, so welcoming. They demanded and they took. They rejected and the broke. That was the way of things. The kiss of her lips on his knuckles had been so simple, so innocent a gesture, but the impact on him was profound. He longed to stay in this place, by water and under stars. He wanted to sing again, for the simple pleasure of singing. He wanted to create for the simple act of creation itself.

He climbed back into the ash tree he had been sitting in, closed his eyes, and listened to the voices singing. It was beautiful.

But something pulled at him. A strong, inexorable, intractable force. He was being summoned. He sighed and opened his eyes. The stars still twinkled and shed their light, but something had changed. There was a dimness. He looked northward, the direction of the summons. He Who Arises with Might would want to know of this place. Would want to taint it, mar it, break it. He would not allow that. The Children must be kept safe from him, as well as the rest of them in the West. None of them had a right to this secret.

Yet he must away…

* - - * - - * - - *
Some months later

He returned. His time away had not been long, not through the concept of time he had held before, but even such a short time away had chafed him. The hours and minutes had stretched into days and weeks. In the darkness of Utumno, far from the reflective light of the pool, far below the stars, the works of destruction and desecration had filled his ears. No matter how far into his mind he delved, he could not find the peace of the singing of the Children by the lake in the garden, sitting in his ash tree. All he heard were the coarse shouts, curses, the breaking of stone and metal, roar of angry fingers, and the wails of pitiful victims. They were a necessarily evil, he had told himself. Yet now he was not so sure. What if there was something else? What if the paths of the Powers were not the only paths? He could forge his own with the Children, shield them and protect them from the evils of the West and the North. They deserved neither stasis nor destruction.

So, he flew back, verily in the form of a great feathered serpent. He had would not waste a single moment.

In the time he’d spent away, he’d practiced his shifting abilities. He moved from one form to another. While he liked the look he showed the Child, he was fascinated by all the forms he could take. Wolves, serpents, lions, bats, spiders, and a hundred other possibilities.

Finally, he saw the stars reflected on the lake and knew, at long last, he had returned. Would she remember him? Would she still accept him? Would she have moved on and lost all interest in him? Instead of changing from his serpentine form into the shape reflecting the Children, he remained. He closed his wings and folded them into himself until he was naught but a common serpent, albeit much larger and with the same red flame color. He would wait and watch to see if she was still who she had been. He could not know what had happened to her in these long months and it was in his nature to be secretive and watchful.

He slithered through the cool grass, smelt the sweet fragrance of the breeze as it brushed passed him. He searched for her, listened for the sound of her laughter, her singing. Even though he had only heard it the once, he knew it to be more fair then even the songs of the Lady of the Stars or the Giver of Fruits.

He searched and searched for her, longing to see her eyes, deep cobalt, reflective of stars so distant they existed as a mere memory, shimmering radiance.

On he searched until he found a small grove, the same grove, he realized, that he’d seen her the first time, beside the ash tree. He slithered forward, breeching the underbrush. Stars shimmered off his fiery scales, creating an iridescent glow about him.

Hello, is that you?

[Moriel]

Omentië
Cuiviénen. YT 1051.
(Private with Frost)

So much had happened.

Where before she and her kin by the falls had been alone, and then joined by their brethren who had Awoken nearby, now others had joined them. Three groups of them, in all: quendi they had all agreed to call themselves, the singers. For not only her kindred sang, but these others, too, who were also their kind. There were three néri who had Awoken first, and the third of them, who was called Enel, was the leader of her kindred; and they called themselves the Nelyar after him. The two others, Imin and Tata, had their own groups of people. They were the same as the Nelyar, but their appearances were different: so many different colors of hair and eyes, and all of them were beautiful. Tata, who was the leader of the second largest group, called the Tatyar after him, had been fascinated by her hair. His people were dark of hair, very dark, though among them there was one now and then who had a blush of red to their hair, of even a full head of fiery locks, which reminded her of her friend. She had been the first of the Nelyar of the falls to greet him, and he had wondered at the length and sheen of her silver hair, and from it had given her a name. It was a name of new words; a beautiful name, a name that felt right, despite her thought of not needing one. It was like an ornament, a crown of flowers and herbs she might wear to dance with.

The changes in her were subtle, but she had noticed them right away. Upon first gazing at herself in the reflection of Cuiviénen’s still waters after her meeting with Him, while most others were asleep, she had seen. Something was different about her eyes; they no longer merely reflected the light of the bright young stars, but it was as if the elder stars had brightened therein. It was only because of her communion with Him that she knew of the younger and elder stars, and their light was now more precious to her for that knowledge. And her hair, which had before been lush and silver in the light of the stars, now seemed to have a starlight of its own; even when gentle clouds obscured the sky, she remained undimmed. Tata had not known of the changes he was seeing when he named her, but they set her apart nevertheless. There was also more in her now than there was before: not only the knowledge of Creation and the wider world, and His experiences and feelings, but also a hint of Himself. She had taken from him more than he knew, including knowledge of the language he and his brethren used when they desired words, and a faint, treasured shadow of Him lingered in her mind.

She had returned to her glade many times, as was her wont, but not seen Him there. Each time she had been- not sad, but slightly wistful, for she had so much to share with her friend, this so different but so similar creature. But today, something changed. As she bathed in the waters of Cuiviénen, and play and leisure with many others, she felt the whisper of Him shift somehow, and the sense filled her that he must be drawing nearer. She left the waters and made for the glade, the sense growing stronger as she went. She sang as she approached. The language of the quendi, now that they were all gathered together, had rapidly advanced: but her song was without words, only a melody of delight at his return that needed none. Within the glade she did not see him, the beautiful creature that appeared as a crimson-eyed nér- but she heard his greeting in the chambers of her mind, even as her eyes pinpointed on the bright, fiery creature at the edge of the trees that she had never seen before.

“Hello,” she replied aloud, walking towards him. When they came near, she dropped to her knees, to be closer to him, smiling. “Is this your form now?” she asked, reaching out to stroke the scales of his head, “It is very nice, but I have to say, I liked the other one better.”

[Baphởmet]

Omentië

Cuiviénen, YT 1051

(Private with Moriel)

She did not run. That was the first sign that things were still as they had been. He had not been sure of what was going to happen. That same strange warmth in his chest returned to him, joy. That was the word she had used when she showed him the things that lifted her spirits. He moved closer to her until he feel her warmth. It was a very different warmth from that of his kindred. They all burned hot with the fires of the Song of Creation. This one, she was the warmth of the distance stars. She was as an ember in the face of a roaring inferno, yet he preferred the ember. Her touch was soft and gentle, just as it had been those many months ago. It was a soothing touch, a healing touch. The rage, frustration, and angst that he had pushed down in his mind in the deepest recesses melted like summer snows. He breathed out a sigh. Inwardly, he smiled. What she was about to see was going to be unique indeed. He slithered closer, coiling himself around her arm, using just enough pressure to pull himself upward.

Indeed it is not, shall I return to that form by which you know me?

Without waiting for a reply he began to shift and change. His serpentine length began to warp and change, the scales burned away, scorched by the fires within him, revealed that bronzed, fire scorched skin of his form. His eyes shifted and moved and changed, settling back to their original position, retaining that red fire and leonine iris that had become his favorite. His hair returned, appearing as if it had simply been invisible the whole time, as red and fiery and alive as ever. His arms, legs, and torso appeared, skin burning through the scales which fell to the glade floor then evaporated into a thick mist. His hand appeared in hers, a gesture of companionship and cordiality. “It has been far too long since I’ve seen you.” Again, using his physical voice caused a stir, a sensation that rippled through him. Words instead of images and waves of feeling. He could not tell if it was more efficient or not. The air stirred and moved when he spoke, the sound of his voice was low, smooth as the rippling of a brook. He closed his eyes and showed her some of the things he seen and created in time away, a mountain sculpted from raw earth and fire. He showed her how he shaped each side, each facet until it shown in the starlight. He showed her the painstaking but beautiful way in which he created hills and mountains, changed the course of rivers and streams to accommodate it. Then he showed her the disapproval of the Smith. The frustration and bitterness at having to lay his wonderous creation low because it did not fit within current chain. Even though he knew he could create a new chain, move the others to fit better, to become more orderly, more wonderous. He showed her the many shapes he took, serpent, lion, bat, and wolf, proud of each form he took.

Finally, when he finished showing her all that he had to show her, he reached behind her to the tree beside them and presented her with a single fruit: a fig.

“I have miss you, my friend.”

[Moriel]

Omentië
Cuiviénen. YT 1051.
(Private with Frost)

“I have missed you, too.”

Until that moment she had not known what it was to miss someone. She had felt something in his absence, but not quite put words to it. Never before had there been anyone to miss, with her kin all gathered around Cuiviénen’s waters. At times she had felt a kind of ache when she thought of him, and not known what it was. It was not the kind of pain one felt when stepping on a sharp rock, but a kind of pain nevertheless; something inside oneself, and strange. She had, she discovered, been missing him. Was it normal, to miss someone you had only just met? Perhaps it was to do with the shadow of him that lingered within her. His hand in hers was warm and comfortable as he showed her all the things he had accomplished since their last meeting. It amazed her still, though she had seen the music of Creation, of what he could manifest with his own will. How unfair it seemed that the one he knew as The Smith could not see the beauty of it. But then he showed her his many forms, and she was delighted. How freeing it must be to be able to assume any shape, and explore the world through different eyes? She wondered how different things must feel when he was as she had met him today, a serpent upon the ground, covered in smooth, cool scales. The pressure of his coils around her arm had been tantalizing, and the sight of his transformation, so close, in contact with her, mesmerizing.

She took a bite of the fig. It was perfectly ripe; sweet and juicy, and a drop of its nectar ran from the corner of her lips. She swiped it away with one finger and licked it back into her mouth.

“Aren’t these wonderful?” she said, holding it out to him to share, “We have found many fruits on the land, but I think these might be my favorite.” It was her turn to share, then: where before she had needed the physical connection to him to do so, this time, she thought she might not. As she chewed her mouthful of fig, she pressed her thoughts out to him, the memories of all that had occurred since their last meeting. At first the images were hazy, of other quendi approaching her kindred along the shore of Cuiviénen, but the more she concentrated, the sharper they grew, and the easier it became to will them to him. The many meetings flitted from her mind’s eye to his, the explorations of each other and lands further afield, their songs and, increasingly, their conversations, amidst the rapid development and complexity of their language. She showed him Tata’s admiration, and the word he had used to name her, which rippled off the tongue as her hair rippled through his hands in beholding it.

Tyelpelfindis.

[Baphởmet]

Omentië

Cuiviénen, YT 1051

(Private with Moriel)

He took the fig back from her, accepting the small fruit already overflowing with juices. He took a bite and verily the fruit exploded. The sweet flavor filled his mouth, cool and refreshing. He and his kind had no actual need to eat or drink, they were being sustained by the power of creation that had indwelled within them. It was a fire that burned and pushed them forward. Food was an afterthought. They had known it would be important, that it would be an integral part of the lives of the Children. He had not eaten before, despite the urgings from his fellows. He had been too busy, too focused on his work, too eager to create and build and craft. Food and drink were unimportant in the face of his plans, his glorious purpose. Yet now, as he bit into the fruit and tasted for the first time, he knew what he had been missing. The flavor was decadently sweet, vibrant and vivacious. The sensation of the cool juices drippling down his chin sent a shiver down his spine. Was all food like this? He blinked in surprised. It was amazing. Words popped into his head by the dozen in an attempt to describe this new and wonderous sensation, but none of them fit, none of them encompassed exactly how it felt, how it tasted, it smelled, how it looked. How long had he been alive? How long had he taken a form to work and craft under the auspices of the Smith? How had he only just found this sensation. He chewed and chewed and chewed. He didn’t want the sensation to end. He wanted the flavors and textures and sensations to last forever. He finally did swallow though and smiled wide. “I think it’s the most wonderful think I’ve ever eaten.”

And then came vision from her. He was surprised. He had not thought of her, of the Children, as capable of implanting visions and memories without the benefit of touch. He had sorely misjudged her capabilities. They had only met the one time of course, and he had no recourse to believe that she was as proficient as she seemed to be. She was talented, a fast learner, bold and impetuous. Such ingenuity and aptitude should be rewarded. He watched as the Children, all the quendi, gathered and sang and mixed and divided into groups. Quendi. He considered the word. It fit them. They spoke with clear, pure voices. There was such variety in the voices, such melody and harmony. As he heard them speak and sing, he was reminded of the Sound of Creation, the music of the Ainur. Someday in the long days ahead, there would be more music of creation, and these voices would join with him and create a better more ordered world with no authority to tell them they were wrong to create as they did. A swell of pride pushed into his thoughts and wrapped around hers as she shared them. Pride in the things they had accomplished, pride in the things they would do, and pride for the simple act of being. She showed him the wonderous mingling sound of voices and ideas. It was amazing to behold. None other of his kin could experience this, it was an event that he had been invited to share in after the fact, a gift rare and precious. He saw them as they named themselves, becoming more and more of what and who they were meant to be. It was… glorious.

And then she shared something else, something more. Her name. He had never experienced anticipation before, never felt the sensation of waiting excitement, giddy with eagerness and enthusiasm. He had not even realized that she had never shared her name before. She had occupied his thoughts as a force of being rather than a named thing, she was wild and free and needed no demarcation to declare herself. There had been no words yet to define what she was and who she would become. Until now. Now there was a name. Now there was an idea. He smiled again, closed his eyes and let her name ring in his mind, louder and louder until it drowned out the sounds of his own chaos.

Tyelpelfindis. It is a beautiful word, a beautiful name. It fits you. You are Tyelpelfindis and Tyelpelfindis is you. You will come to define that name more than that name will define you. You will reach for the stars, and you will grasp them. You have seen the primordial light of existence, the great Flame. In the long days to come, mark me, you will be a flame unto yourself and gather more speaking people to you, you will gather and sing and they will sing under you and create works of art so rarified that not even my kindred can compare.

“Tyelpelfindis,” he spoke the name, sending a little of his own power into the name. He turned to face the waters of Cuiviénen as he did. The waters rippled and vibrated as though a strong wind had blown against them. The sound of her name went deep, deep into the waters until it spread to every corner. “And now the Lake of Paradise knows your name. I would speak it to every tree and hill and stone so that the entire world would know you and welcome you.”

[Moriel]

Omentië
Cuiviénen. YT 1051.
(Private with Frost)

His palpable delight at the taste and sensations of the fig in his mouth still lingered around her, even as his words of praise for her name and her being rang inside her mind. Art, she thought; what was that? It was a concept too ephemeral to come clear to her from the word he used. But it must be something wonderful, to surpass even his kindred. His declarations had a feeling of… something she did not yet have a word for, but things what were meant to be, or would come to pass. When he spoke her name aloud, a thrill ran through her. The beauty of his voice was rich with the echo of Creation and his innate power, and she watched almost with giddiness as he put that power into his voice and caused the waters of Cuiviénen to resonate with her name. She laughed aloud, not with mockery at his idea to introduce her to every tree and hill and stone, but with sheer delight at the thought that he might be able to do so. “And the world so wide!” she exclaimed, “How should I ever know it all to repay that welcome? But come, the least I can do is introduce you to Cuiviénen in return.” She flowed to her feet and pulled him up along with her, leading him by the hand as she darted towards the water’s edge. Her grin flashed over her shoulder at him as they reached it. “Have you ever been swimming?”

Cool water splashed up around her ankles, then settled about her calves as she walked into the lake; then arose to her knees, thighs, and finally engulfed her hips and waist. Still pulling him with her, she pushed off with her feet from the surface beneath the water, and floated out. Releasing his hand, she turned over to float upon her back, watching to see what he did. She sculled with her arms and lightly kicked her feet to stay afloat; it was still shallow enough to stand here, but once she was satisfied he was able to follow, she struck out for deeper water, taking long, languid strokes of her arms as she lay on her back in the water. Then she turned over and showed him how to move through the water one one’s stomach, in a manner that emulated the motions of a frog, and allowed the head to remain above water. And when they had traveled some distance from shore and were in deep, calm water, she stopped and turned to face him. Treading water, she waited for him to settle similarly, and then smiled.

“Cuiviénen knows you now, though it does not know your name, and will be with you always.” She paused. “I have been thinking about your name,” she went on, almost in a tone of confession. The amount of his language she had absorbed from him when he spoke the name Mayazōnōz was great, and had enabled her to turn over many meanings in her mind that she had not known before. And though there was a beauty to the language of his kindred, its sharp edges seemed to prickle. “And how it might be put into my tongue. If I may?” She moved closer to him in the water, her hair floating about her. She had no such power as his to imbue the water with her words, nor no idea what might happen when she spoke next, but this time she did feel the need to touch him. Taking both his hands in her own, she laced her fingers through his and held them upon the surface of Cuiviénen, before meeting his eyes and speaking the name she had devised.

“Mairon.”

[Baphởmet]

Omentië

Cuiviénen, YT 1051

(Private with Moriel)

Cuiviénen. That was the name of this place. He’d just considered it to be “the grove” and “the lake”. Those signifiers had been enough for him to be able to hold it in his mind. Yet now, with a name, a true name, the place seemed so much more. It was more than a grove and a lake and fig trees. It was music, it was the cool grass, it was the stars wheeling overhead, it was the buzz of the insects, the singing of birds, the murmur of hushed voices, the sounds of the waves lapping against the shore. It was far more than anything he could have accomplished. “Cuiviénen.” He mumbled the name to himself, his voice the sound of boulders rumbling under the earth. He liked it, even the name itself was musical. All the words the Children, the quendi, had a musicality to it. The language of he and his kindred, it was not so much music as it was sound given a shape. They were beings of Creation, of Power, of Song, yet somehow their language lacked imagination and heart. He liked the speech of the quendi much more.

He smiled as they came to the water’s edge. The deep, clear waters reflected the stars, bouncing light off in a hundred different directions. He didn’t quite register her question as she stepped into the lake, the waters lapping around her ankles. He stopped. Swimming? The concept was not unknown to him, not exactly. The Dweller of the Deep, the King of the Waters, held his court in the deepest parts of the great salt waters, he and his wild servant the Foaming Dread, one-time associate of He Who Arises in Might. It was not fear that kept him away from the waters, not exactly, yet something had kept him away. Now that he stood here, with Tyelpelfindis, he could not think of what that reason was.

Deciding it was unimportant, whatever reason it had been, he stepped into the water. The water was cool and refreshing, a shiver ran up his spine. He laughed; the sound was so deep and bubbly that he even he did not know its source. He waded out in the water, following the quendi until the water was up to his waist. He could feel the heat dissipate from within him, the fires that pushed him ever further shrank back. His mind quieted. For that moment, he ceased to thing of order and creation and all the slights against him. He thought of the waters, how it made him feel light and airy, how it moved between his fingers. He laughed again, from that same deep well within him. He watched her move out into the water until she was nearly completely submerged. Yet she didn’t sink. He watched her curiously, wading further into the water. His vibrant, angrily red hair submerged, and he could almost hear it hiss and steam. He grinned and dunked his head fully beneath the surface. The world was so utterly different all of the sudden. He was disoriented at first but in such clear, clean waters it did not last long. He remerged, his body surging back up, creating a cascading wave of movement and liquid. His hair clung him shoulders, chest, and back. He did not know why, but in that moment such a thing seemed the most absurd in all the world. He laughed and watched Tyelpelfindis swim.

He learned quickly, imitating her movements and motions. Soon, he moved from the shallows of the lake into the deep, almost black portion of the lake. He treaded water, moving his arms and legs in a constant rhythmic motion. An idea came to him, a hint of mischief and fun, something he had never had time for before. He cupped his hands together, half in and out of the water, and squeezed, sending a stream of pure water directly at his companion. Again, from the bottomless well, he laughed, loud and deep.

He quieted though when she began to speak. There was much they were learning together, and he hung on the music of her voice, of the words she spoke.

But the words now were sincere and personal. She spoke of him, of who he was, his name. Then she did something shocking, something he almost did not understand. She named him, but not the name he had just known. A new name, a new part of him, a new facet of the jewel that was his persona.

Mairon.

He did not know what to say. He was confused, touched, bewildered, honored. He was silent for a moment, letting the sound of the name, spoken first by her own voice, echo in his mind. He knew that name would never leave him, that when he needed to, he would always be able to recall this moment, this echo was an eternal reverberation. What she had done, she was like him. She, she had created something. Created something not by reflection or imitation, but something wholly new and unique. Her word had created a new space within him.

“Mairon…” the word sounded strange in his voice, but more natural, more personal than Mayazōnōz had ever felt. This was his name now, and it would be his until the ending of the Music.

He swam closer to her, took her hands in his and looked deep in her eyes, those eyes that reflected starlight no other quendi would ever see. “Thank you,” he whispered.

[Moriel]

Omentië
Cuiviénen. YT 1051.
(Private with Frost)

At first she was unsure; his reaction, which she both saw in his face and felt through his hands, was of shock. But something seemed to tingle between their hands as she looked into his fiery eyes, the sensation of something more than this earth, than this water, even than the stars above. And in his eyes she saw a vulnerability, starlight paling his fire, and her heart swelled to see it: the spirit within his hot-forged and defensive form, soft and full of wonder. Though she had created it, this was something that was his now, and his alone. Not to be changed or shared or judged, but only to be his. His whisper touched the tears from her eyes; the first tears of happiness she had ever shed.

“Mairon,” she repeated, and laughed her delight. Then she did a thing both bold and impulsive; a thing which she had before done only with the one whom she had Awoken beside. It was an expression of joy, of closeness, of love in all its forms; an intimate thing she suddenly wanted to share with him, this strange-yet-same friend, a thing for which her people had devised one of her favorite words: miquë. She slipped her fingers out of his and slid her arms up his shoulders and around his neck, pulling him closer until their bodies touched, then pressed her lips to his.

One or both of them must have stopped the paddling of their feet, for suddenly water closed over her head. They separated, and she came up laughing and blowing the water from her face. She swept the hair from her eyes and stroked away from him on her back, her grin flashing in the light of the stars as she repeated his gesture from earlier, squeezing a jet of water at him from her hands. “Come on, Mairon!” she called, “I’ll race you to the waterfall!”

[Baphởmet]

Omentië

Cuiviénen, YT 1051

(Private with Moriel)

The gesture was quick, she moved like a serpent in the water, even more than he could have in the guise of an actual serpent. She moved so fast, in fact, that he did not have time to react. She pressed her lips to his and for an instant he felt the coolness of spring on the softness of her lips, a strange and wonderful sensation. He recovered quickly and wrapped his arms around the small of her back. He’d never done something quite like this before, but the motion felt natural to him, it felt as if that was what he was supposed to do in this circumstance. It was not the first time he had experienced this act before, his kindred and he sometimes did something similar in salutation or valediction, but this was much more tender, much more intimate. He Who Arises in Might would often use the act as well, cupping his face and using his smoldering power to envelop him. Mairon liked this form much better, even though it only lasted a moment.

A moment later, by their combined weight so close together and the distraction, they plunged under water and once again he felt that weightlessness of the Void pressing on him. Yet in the Void he had always been alone. This companionship was far more preferable to the loneliness of his own thoughts. He watched her resurface, graceful as a swan. He stayed under the water, watching the twinkling of the stars. They looked so different from down here, at once brighter and further away. It was beautiful. It was artistry. So many of his fellows did not understand that and creation must be tied together. If they could only gaze at the stars as he did, from under the depths, they might understand. The visions he had for the world were predicated on order and structure yes, but beauty and artistry come from that same thought. They were not as inseparable as some believed. He did resurface, breeching the surface of the water like a shark. He flung his head back, sending a spray of water into the air higher than the trees.

He was blasted with a jet of water as soon as he landed, he looked and saw her, a smile wide on her face. Before he could retaliate in kind, she was off in the direction of a waterfall. Never one to back down from a competition, he darted after her. She was a natural swimmer, more agile and fluid than the creatures of The Lord of the Waves, yet he could be just as fast. He paddles after her, his arms dipping in and out of the water. He considered changing his form to that of a shark or a serpent, but by the time that happened she was already too far ahead. Had this race been against his own kind, he would have felt humiliated to lose and endure the mocking scorn and be forced to heap praise upon the winner. Yet when Tyelpelfindis defeated him, he felt no such humiliation, no sting of lose. Instead, he laughed and jumped through the waterfall. If he could not win the race, the least he could do was be more dramatic.

* - - * - - * - - *
15 years later, YT 1066

Returning to Cuiviénen felt like returning home. Despite his real home being far to the West. The cool waters and the sweet breezes made him feel more at ease, more like himself. He had managed to keep this place secret for years now despite moving back and forth whenever he could sneak away from the watch eyes of his jealous kindred, keeping all the quendi from the prying eyes of both Belekōrōz and Arōmēz. The Powers still had no right to know of the birthplace of the Children and the Children themselves deserved to live free of influence from either. They had grown so much in the years he knew them. They were more than just “speaking people” as their name for themselves had suggested. They were so much more. They were natural craftsmen, creators, artists, and dreamers. Even the name “Children” did not fit them anymore. They were no longer the beings huddled together around fires desperate for warmth. They never had. “Children” was a poor name for creatures born of starlight and song.

He took his form again, the tall, handsome form with the flowing red hair and burning eyes. It was his favorite form, it was a form he only used here, where he was known and understood. It was a form that closest mirrored and reflected his thoughts and desires, it had been his form during the Music of Creation when all his kindred took shape and created their music.

The grass was cool beneath his bare feet. The air was warm and welcoming. He’d come to the grove once more, the place he had met Tyelpelfindis, where he had been given his name. Mairon. It was a secret name, a name that he kept hidden from his fellows but used freely here.

For some time, he did not seek her out, preferring to sit in his ash tree and gaze at the stars, listen to the quiet lapping of the waters of Cuiviénen, hear the distant singing of the quendi either alone or in small groups. The entire region was filled with the music of their voices. It was alive and full of wander. From his vantage point, he could listen and imagine. What would it have been like to have these voices in the Song of Creation? What wonders could they have contributed to? It was almost unfair that they were left out and so many others had been given parts they did not deserve. Eventually, he climbed down from his ash tree, another of his secret companions and stood on those sacred shores. The stars twinkled and flittered as they always did. Here was a place of peace and tranquility, of unblemished benevolence, the most honest place in all of Eä. He found their fig tree and gathered a feast of them. The smell was wonderful, sweet and bright. He closed his eyes and opened his mind. Their connection was strong, especially here. He could feel her presence and by now she would be able to feel him.

I’m back he said, and I’ve picked some more figs for us to share.

[Moriel]

Omentië
Cuiviénen. YT 1066.
(Private with Frost)

Their meetings at the grove beneath the stars were intermittent, but always happy. The secret grove on that far shore of Cuiviénen with its small falls, a place of contentment and separation. Sometimes when he came he carried with him the burdens of the outside world, of his work, but they would always melt away when he allowed himself to simply be. And Tyelpelfindis told, and showed him, everything that the quendi had done and discovered, each time they met. It had not been long after their second meeting that the first children had begun to be born to the elves, a strange and exciting thing; for though Mairon sometimes referred to her kind as a whole as Children, these were true children, begotten and born, coming into the starlit world scarcely formed. Those who begat and bore them seemed to know what to do, somehow, and all learned together, but these children grew slowly in body, and the first of them even now remained so small. But they learned voraciously of language, and all else that their parents and kin had come to know. Tyelpelfindis loved them all. The first child among the Nelyar had been born to a pair of her dearest friends, who had taken the names Magarric and Trawyn. They had been late to adopt words, though they learned them all, and their son’s first language had been the wordless songs of the Awoken. But learn they did, and speak they did, and so did he, and after some time they called him Davos, and he held a special corner of Tyelpelfindis’s heart.

But today, she ran away from the Children and their children, back to the grove where her friend awaited. Mairon had returned, and she could feel his happiness. Over the years, she had found that as he drew near, she could begin to feel his presence; not when he was far to the North, and wherever else he went when he was not here, but as be began to approach Cuiviénen, the essence of him began to whisper to her like a faint breeze, strengthening like a rain about to arrive. And when he opened his mind to reach out to her, the cloud burst, unleashing its burden in a refreshing shower of life. Tyelpelfindis ran, bright eyed and merry, the hem of her robe trailing behind her and flapping silently on the breeze of her flight. Some time ago, the quendi had begun to experiment with garments, and the weaving of fibers into cloth. Many of them had now adopted the wearing of garments; not for the sake of modesty, for this was still an unknown concept to the Unbegotten and that first generation of children, but for the enjoyment of them, for the warmth, and for the pleasure of the art that they had begun to create with them.

Tyelpelfindis had been unsure at first, but a friend who was most skilled at weaving had presented her with the garment she wore now: the lightest of robes, all white, its fabric woven of she knew not what, but so light and whisper-thin as to hardly be there at all. It draped from her shoulders to the ground, and its sleeves were longer on the underside than the upper, to hang below her hands. Tyelpelfindis found that she loved it, how it moved with her, how it wrapped her body, how its single thing layer shielded her skin from the occasional cold breeze; how it billowed behind her when she ran with it untied, and how it seemed almost to float when she walked, though it trailed slightly behind her. It was a beautiful thing, and she delighted in it. Tyelpelfindis ran until she reached the grove, then slowed to a walk as she neared him, there beside the fig tree. As she came to a walk the robe settled lightly about her; it was fastened with one tie at her navel, and much of her chest was still exposed, and her legs passed through its opening as she walked.

“Hello, Mairon,” she greeted him as she drew close, her smile as beatific and joyful as ever, and put her arms about his neck to embrace him, “welcome back.”

[Baphởmet]

Omentië

Cuiviénen, YT 1066

(Private with Moriel)

The warm embrace of Tyelpelfindis was a balm that washed away his weariness. She was light and airy and full of bubbling joy. The aches and pains of the body and soul could not withstand the brightness of her smile nor the light in her eyes. He returned the embrace, showing her snippets of the places he’d been, the things he’d seen. They had not yet ventured beyond the confines of their garden, but when they did (and they would eventually), he wanted her to know the world and for it to know her. He showed her green trees that were nigh as tall as mountains and reached to touch the stars, a land where seven rivers flowed together as one with sweet, crystal clear waters, grey sloped mountains capped with pristine white snow. When they broke the embrace, he looked at her with a hint of a smirk and tilted head. “Well, things have progressed it would seem.” He admired the raiment she had chosen for herself. Clothing wasn’t new to him; his own kindred would often robe themselves in fantastical colors and materials. They would array themselves in robes of starlight or in a thousand multicolored leaves. Some even robed themselves in living fire. There was no end to the creativity of garments. The same could be said now of the quendi. Their materials were more terrestrial and mundane, but that could not diminish the beauty and creativity of their works. “You look magnificent, like a star come down to earth. The heavens must be jealous.” His voice was soft, barely above a whisper. He began to give thought to his own raiment. Before now he’d always come clad in naught but his skin, preferring the freedom and vitality it gave him. He was not disappointed though. He was more imaginative than the Western Powers, why should he not flaunt that magnificent ability? His friend would doubtlessly be more impressed and appreciative than the traditional conformists.

He took a step back and snapped his fingers, he’d learned over the years to have a flair for the dramatic. First, his eyes changed to a pure, crystal blue like ancient ice, his left pupil larger than the other. His hair changed from the deep, molten red to a shimmering blonde, not unlike Tyelpelfindis’ own hair. The length changed as well, some became longer while more lessened and grew shorter, he conjured up a breeze that blew through his hair and gave it volume, seemingly floating as he moved. His outfit, much like hers, was dozen shades of shimmering bright white, but his stole light from the stars in the form of gems that glittered along the hemlines and a large bunch of ruffled lace at his throat. He conjured the blue of the sky outside Valinor and made a jacket of that color, equally shimmery and iridescent.

“Tell me, my friend,” he said raising his hands and turned about, “what do you think of my outfit? But tell me, what other things have I missed since I last saw you?”

[Ercassie]

Innocence and Experience
Part 1 - The Unexpected



‘Some legends are told, some turn to dust, some to gold
But you will remember me, remember me for centuries.
Just one mistake, is all it will take. We’ll go down in history
Remember me, for centuries ..’

(lyrics from ‘Centuries’, by ‘Fall-out Boy’)




Lord Sarnir Erondo with his son, Sarnirion
at Alqualondë, 1495 YT – The First Kinslaying

All at once the city wore glinting channels of torchlight, the slow weaving passage of it’s people; perhaps seeking to shed light upon why the darkness had descended without word. What stars there were to mirror these small flecks of hope slowly recoiled from all sight. As though they knew what was coming. As though the flowers of the sky could not bear to lay their sight upon the scene. As though they might somehow thus quench the pending turmoil with but a dousing onset of all-dimming blindness. But though many eyes were veiled, as to what was truly occurring, there was light enough to find their way. There was light enough to gain their ground. And when it became quite impossible to bear both torches and the tools they would require next, the small blazing brands were flung aside. Small but unsupervised nests of fire to snap all about the docks and the boathouses, not unlike the small knots of Elvish wrath which, all at once, leapt up and spat out perilous for all their wondrous sheen.

Somewhere out of sight, eager hands hauled with all the weight which they might muster, drawing on the drape of cords, towing them to ground before unleashing them. The sure clang of bellsong responded aloft as the Bellmaker Lindesul, and Linnadhriel his wife, leant strength to their ambition. The tumult brought all remaining ignorant of the city to wonder, titan domes of singing metal bearing forth an insistent alarm. And folk ventured from their porches in surprise. For ever afore had the of peeling summons roused up joy and gladness, proclaiming a festival or cause for celebration or comfort. Always had the bells been heard for the commence of day, and the conclusion. But there was no more day, not as decreed by the light of trees. A long dark night had come upon Alqualondë that would seem to last several years. This meagre hour though would be the last time the young Elf stood on the dock would hear them. In this self-same hour the bells rang out for the commencement of war, and for the conclusion of all those golden years that there had been afore, and never would be quite the same thereafter.


Sarnirion both loved and detested the bells, upon this most unique of occasions. For so long as their clamour remained, so too did hope that his mother’s kinfolk were about that desperate business, were as yet alive; pelting out their obstinate alarm. Yet each passing moment that the fair rally persisted, new bodies of the Falmari would swarm to the throng already assailing their harbour. And new bodies would be heaped upon the mounds of wasteful death that despoiled all sight.

Sarnirion was shook from such thoughts, as a spear rudely demanded his whole attention. The Falmar before him was returned to her defence, and so he, in kind, to a renewed assault. There was little satisfaction in it and he could not help but sigh with some disappointment at his opponent’s lack of skill. Every time that she made to halt his attack, he would thwart her efforts to present his blade at her throat anew, or at her abdomen, .. and was forced then to grant her breath and time to try again. She had picked herself up off the ground at least a dozen times and come back at him, unabated, but she was not learning better, only more frustrated and annoyed with his obstacle. She had clearly never learned to wield her fishing spear in this fashion, on land, against another Elf. She was not wearying yet either though, despite her greater effort, for the weight of the weapon she brandished was naught to one so well rehearsed in the arts of rowing, swimming, sailing … Still her polearm punched it’s presence ever onward and as sheer desperation drove her in a more underhand blow against his shield, the young soldier offered up an almost encouraging grin. Which did little to appease her. Not only her ..


An almighty figure fell between the two combatants; polished in a silver skin of shining blue-tinged armour, brandishing a seven-pointed star, lit in both gold and silver light, upon his gleaming breast. His burnished garb was identical to the youth he sought now to assist, but that was where the likeness deviated. Dark hair painted a shadow of contrast against the bone white face of Lord Sarnir Erondo. In one hand reigned a sword, a veritable candle of death, slick with the lives which had been spent in seeking to stall him. In the other hand, a shield, which struck the young Falmar maid in the face. His dauntless blade pierced her flesh with as measured precision as the Sculptor had pressed attention to stone back in his workshop. She was still half-stunned by the exertion of the enormous Noldo’s strike, that she barely felt the life depart her body, along with his wand of steel.

“You are wasting time and energy both !” Sarnir diagnosed. The youth was playing. As they had ever practiced. But this was no longer a rehearsal. The sculptor rolled colourless eyes. “Strike ! And move on. We must see it done.”


Pale eyes in return tested the warrior’s cold conscience, even as the son straightened up, unsure. Failing to equal his intimidating father, in might, or motive. “This is not what we signed up for,” Sarnirion managed to voice, in the brief snatch of time now afforded to them. The great bells persisted, as heavy a toll as struck his heart in pulse. How heavy a toll though must there be, before any of this returned to reason ? He knew not.

“We signed up to see the King’s will done.”

“But it is ..”

“It is already begun. We can not now make this not,” the Noldo struggled with the sentiment, even as he scrutinised their efforts to see off the assault. Indeed, it had passed the point where words might stall the passion and the hate and desperation. “We must make it matter. Only one end now shall justify this means.” A stern wall of resolution regarded his child. Sarnir raised his son’s chin with a blood-streaked hand and drove his direction through the eyes that closed upon the death-soaked scene.


The younger Elf had played here once. Days spent in naïve and innocent enjoyment, vacationing with his mother’s family. The time for games was done. Things would never be the same again. Now war was between them, and that was no game that any involved could be said to win. They could never go back from this.

[Moriel]

Omentië
Cuiviénen. YT 1066.
(Private with Frost)

She laughed softly as he compared her to a star, making envious the ether above. “I can but reflect their light,” Tyelpelfindis replied through her laughter, “and sing their praises.” She watched him as he stepped back, and his transformation began. She loved to watch him change, and over the years she had seen him take many forms and appearances. But it was one of the things that set him most apart from her and her kind, this fantastic ability to change his shape at will. Still, she did not begrudge it him. It was wondrous to behold. Tyelpelfindis smiled, taking in his new appearance, with all its flamboyance. “You are beautiful,” she said, admiring him. Within the flamboyance, though, it seemed there was something self conscious. Something inside him that demanded he be… different? Exceptional in some way? That he create something new and defiant. She understood, from all he had shared with her, why this was so, but she wished he could see how wonderful he was, as himself. She stepped towards him again and reached up to touch his face lightly with her fingertips. Closing her eyes, in her mind she formed an image of his new form, but slightly altered: in her image, his hair lengthened and grew evenly, sweeping down his back in a manner similar to hers. The pupils of his eyes evened too, allowing their icy-blue irises to shine in the starlight. The lace vanished from his throat, and the unimaginable blue of his jacket lengthened into a robe much like hers, sweeping to the ground so that the skies of Valinor swirled all around him, in all the colors of blue that did not exist here at Cuiviénen, but he had showed her inside her mind. In her image he appeared much like one of the Nelyar, but still exceptional, arrayed in all the colors of a sky none but he there had seen, and the tangible light of stars. As she formed this image she pushed it gently towards Mairon, to share her vision with him. And when she opened her eyes, she was astonished to see that her vision had become reality.

“You are beautiful,” she repeated, staring up into his eyes, now shaped like those of her fellow quendi, but alight with an icy fire.

[Baphởmet]

Omentië

Cuiviénen, YT 1066

(Private with Moriel)

He saw her vision of him in her mind’s eye, a type of sharing technique they had perfected over the years and the many visits. It was often how his people communicated when they did not want to use speech to convey ideas and emotions (which was often). She had taken to it quite well, as she had with so many other things he had taught her and the quendi had learned on their own. Such a resourceful people. Her vision, though, was a much scaled back image of him. There was less flamboyance in her image, less aloof and detached. There was a vulnerability within the image she crafted for him, a vulnerability he was not sure he could accept. Weakness was not something his kin, north or west, tolerated. Nonconformity had been his way of protecting himself, setting himself apart. He was a rebel against the flock, chafing at the mindless directions of the shepherd. Yet there was a beauty in the image she created that he could not deny. The robe was exquisite, glorious one could call it. The colors remained. She had seen the colors of Aman in her mind, greeted them and let them embrace her. She knew secrets none of the quendi knew, she knew of colors and lights and trees and rivers and lakes that none of them had ever seen. Should her people choose to explore, she would be a leader among them because of her deep knowledge of the world to come, he had seen to that. Her vision of him was striking, beautiful, majestic, regal. He appeared as one of her people. Deep in his heart, he was touched. Even though they were clearly different, though those differences were amounting to very little as time went on, she did not see him as alien or strange. It was as it had been when they first met, ash and oak. Different trees with different strengths and weaknesses but still the same in terms of classification. Sometimes, he wandered if it was not she who was the ash and he the oak rather than the other way around in his original analogy. Not wanting to disappoint her, he shifted his form slowly to match the vision. His eyes changed, his irises shifted to those of a cat, as his original eyes had been, but kept that radiant blue that reflected the light of the stars. His hair changed to reflect a similar style to hers, lush and swept back, billowing in the breeze, to be ever so slightly cheeky, he added a few streaks of blue amidst the vibrant, silver blonde. His clothing warped and shifted, mere matter for him to manipulate and order as he would. It matched what she had shown him in her vision, the robe was as glorious in reality as it had been in imagination.

“Is this more to your liking?” he asked with more than a hint of mischief in his tone. “If I did not know better, I’d say you were dressing me up so I could meet some of the other quendi.”

[Ercassie]

The Daughter of Fire – Private






Nariel Eregwen with Erfaron Sílûgnir and Menellótë Silosse
in Forlindon, 2999 TA approx.

Nariel entered the Manor powered by a force so utterly consuming that she saw and heard none that would deviate her from her errand. Coming fast upon the silvered pair within, Nariel forewent all courtesy or greeting, but forced a crumpled paper into Erfaron’s hands compellingly, until his fingers accepted it.

“What did you do ??!!!” she stormed, wildly and out of breath as though she had run all the way to face him. The room tensed in most dire sympathy and waited.

“You are going to have to be a trifle more specific,” the Elf pointed out, unfazed. He raised an eyebrow, pointedly that served him to observe her growing fury. Nariel snatched the paper from him, that she might properly smooth it out and then held it right up to his face. There was no way to avoid the letter, nor the contents. The Elf removed it from her furious attack and without comment, feigned the bleakest interest.

“What. Did. You. Do ?!!” Nariel repeated, furiously.

Silosse offered the trembling She-elf a seat, even as her son perused the contents of the letter Tharmáras had scripted. The very first line inspired a bemused grin in the face of it’s intended recipient. And the letter only improved in the course of it’s progression, unbridled annoyance gaining strength and vibrancy the longer the words went on. The Mole could not believe his good luck actually. He had never imagined it would be so easy to raise such a reaction out of the Lindon Guard. Nariel restrained the want to smack her old friend meanwhile, when she saw his smile grow.

“Well ?” she waited for an explanation.

“This letter is addressed to me, Ercassie,” he tutted, condescendingly. He was looking forward to this.

The flame-topped “lady” threw out one hip and planted a hand on each, refusing to be distracted. “What in the name of the Stars did you do to him ?!” she demanded.

“I merely extended a cordial invitation,” Erfaron drawled. “That the two of us, that is he and I, might break words together. Seeing as you were yourself, unwilling to accept the proper concern about this childish romantic saga …I thought, mistakenly as it turned out, that he might own some better sense.”

“My decisions are not yours to make,” she pointed out, angrily. “Nor his ! They are my own !”

“I vowed that I would keep you safe,” was the automatic truth in answer.

“Safe ?! Safe ??” Nariel rounded passionately, “Tharmáras is the kindest, most charming and chivalrous, romantic Elf that I have ever encountered.” She stuck out her chin defiantly and dared any to question the claim.

“With his ..’foot on my neck, and my head in the bay’ ?” Erfaron quoted, raising an eyebrow from the letter, to meet her hostile reception. “I suppose there is a small degree of poetic charm.” The Elf feigned an injured expression. “And to think,” he lamented. “I even called him “Sir” …”

Nariel blinked, taken aback by the allegation. “You did no such thing !” she assumed. “You forget that I have known you, longer than I care to recall at the present. I know what you are capable of.”



“Ask him,” Erfaron drew out the dare deliberately. “If you don’t believe me, judge for yourself. You would recognise my handwriting with ease if ever he relinquished it to you for inspection. See just what a thoughtful attempt at reaching common ground provoked such fury of flamboyant proportions !” He watched for her reaction from a half-lidded glare.

“You provoked him somehow,” Nariel determined. “You threatened .. “

“Naught but conversation.” The words were served cold, but unflinching.

“Delivered swiftly through the window of Sad Erthad, upon an arrow.” his mother put in, quietly. Nariel stared, as did Erfaron, turning now with annoyance upon Silosse for such apparent betrayal.

“He was distracted,” Erfaron recalled bitterly, with vile distaste that lingered on the memory of the postmaster’s face as Tharmáras had lovingly gazed after Nariel’s departure on that fateful day. “I required to obtain his full attention.” He crossed his arms, resolutely.

“An arrow.” the astounded She-elf repeated.

“I had no envelopes to hand,” Erfaron sought to justify his decision, but the smile that his admission drew forth betrayed his smug amusement.




“I can not believe you did this !” Nariel sank low into her chair, as though deflated. “You honestly do not know the first thing about him.”

“Neither do you,” she was reminded by her friend, with brutal clarity.

“I love him !” she returned, uncertain of the claim as such a stranger she was to speak it.

“You love the idea of his being in love with you,” Erfaron corrected her. “So he whispers sweet nothings about your ear, and caters to your every desire, when you so much as bat an eyelash in his general direction. He looks at you as a butterfly looks to a flower. Something pretty for him to call his own, a prize that he can crow about to lord it up above his envious accomplices !”

“Ever do the heartless fail to properly understand the nature of love,” Nariel shook her head, as need drove her to speak all that she had pondered on in private. “And though it is true that I have not been a stranger to the kindness of others, all that have come at me now before Tharmáras are as though they never were at all. It is alike to when I thought that fountains of the city were the fairest of all things, but then I observed the wondrous tremors of the ocean.”

She paced the expanse of the room to come face to face with the silvered antagonist, and she held his gaze, undaunted. “I have only ever dipped my toe into the puddles of affection that were offered. But of Tharmáras I would walk unafraid into the depths of the almighty sea. I thought that I should never know so strong and beloved a bond as my parents in their turn possessed, but with Tharm ...”

“It is enough to know that you are drunk upon the seasalt and foul aroma of the fish,” Erfaron severed her direction to her late parents’ affection, and looked to wound her as foully as she had just unwittingly laid injury upon him. “Mayhaps it is that same occupational hazard that is here to blame for his insane affliction. Who can say ?”

“I shall discover the truth of this matter,” Nariel assured him, and herself. “You may trust to that.”


Silosse watched Nariel crumple onto the chair, tracing one finger silently across the crumpled paper. She clove against her son’s will with a penetrating glare and compelled him, albeit wordlessly, to follow her into the adjoining room. She closed the door, carefully behind them and what was said there, Nariel knew not. Already the daughter of fire was thinking upon what had been spoke, by those who had ever sought to keep her safe, and by herself also, who apparently had never known her heart until just now. Had it all, in fact, been but a gift of broken glass, wrapped up as though a tribute far too good to be true ? Had she found herself to truly be in love, after all these long years, only to realise that she was not loved back in return ? Erfaron could twist the truth to suit his own devices, this she knew. But she knew this with great certainty because she knew him. She knew all of him, for better or for worse. Tharmáras … she knew not yet. This was not over, not by any measure of a thing. She knew her heart. And she was rather convinced by this point that her 'devoted protector' did not even own a heart of his own.

**************

“And you believe this was absolutely necessary ?” Silosse conveyed her concern through her most unblinking stare.

“All the lessons worth learning are hardest to endure,” her son returned, without hesitation. “Your husband taught me that.”

“You are your father’s son, Sarnirion,” Silosse sighed. “But Nariel is not Feapoldie. You can not alter the fate of the one by dictating the future of another. Would you have this Tharmáras fetch you a Silmaril, before you are convinced of his worth ?”

“I would have them merely to convince me that this is more than some dalliance of fancy,” the Elf sought to have somebody, anybody understand his grave concerns about the matter. “I would have her understand that she knows little of he that she claims that she would die for.”


“You wrote the letter yourself ?” his mother guessed, prompting a hard stare to assail her for once, in response.

“Tharmáras wrote the letter,” Erfaron made very clear. “I will admit that I half-hoped for such an impassioned response. It proves beyond doubt that he is not afraid of me, nor will he let foul rumour or the threat of harm, keep him from the one he craves. But there is more yet that must be undertaken. Nariel is a regular spitfire, when roused. I’ve seen it. He has not. And just as she needed to realise that there is more to any Elf than sentiment and sweetness, so must he too confront such a peril. I would wager he has never seen her temper. Now he shall.”

“You deliberately set them up to see if they will fail.” Silosse drew her mouth into a line.

“I but test what they would claim are adamant,” her child clarified, now impassioned in his own turn. “I would be so certain, before I could rest at ease. And should they both come to despise me hereafter, I care not, so long as they depart from here, and find some happiness as she is owed, far from the reach of any foul threat.”


“She will be well here, in Lindon,” he was compelled to accept. Silosse did not withdraw her gaze nor will about the matter. “Tharmáras or no Tharmáras,” she told her son. “This is now the safest of all places in all Middle Earth.”

Erfaron turned from her and made to depart. He halted only at the last, his hand upon the slender handle of the door. “Safest place in all of Middle Earth ?” he queried, and his voice was fell. “Where have I heard that refrain before, I wonder ?”

He left her to dwell on that, on the devastation that Gondolin had come to, as he made good his departure. For certain it was all that he would dwell upon now for several hours. On matters of love he was for sure no expert. But he knew that an Elf only truly loved once. Only ever gave himself to one, to marry their souls at the point of their physical marriage. They were not Mortals. And his headstrong reluctant charge ought not be so cavalier with her feelings. His own father had once counselled him so. And he had not heard what was said, until the speaker was no more at hand to share his wisdom.

[Moriel]

Omentië
Cuiviénen. YT 1066.
(Private with Frost)

She took in every inch of him, exactly as she had pictured him in her mind. No, not exactly- she could not have imagined exactly how the form would look with his spirit behind it, scintillating in blue and silver. The real thing was alive, and vibrant, and wonderful. “Yes,” she replied without shame or guile, for this form was indeed more to her liking than the former, oddly defensive one he had occupied, all asymmetry and defiance. It was, to her, more like him, and more like his usual fiery appearance. Another facet of the jewel that was her friend, Mairon. She laughed at his suggestion that she were dressing him up, but he eyes brightened at the rest of his sentence. In all the time they had known each other, they had never ventured outside this glade, its waters, and the hill from which she watched the stars. She had never especially wanted to, and Mairon was her secret; something that was her own, among the communal life that was her kin by the shores of Cuiviénen. And he had never seemed to want more than this either, content to be and share with her here. But now, arrayed like one of the Nelyar in form and clothing, something inside Tyelpelfindis altered, and of a sudden she seized his hand.

“Would you like to?” she asked eagerly. Without waiting for his answer, she turned and fled back the way she had come, keeping hold of Mairon’s hand. Had he ever run before? Her grin flashed over her shoulder as she pulled him with her. “Come, Mairon!” Together they ran, along the mossy swards, beside the trees, between the woods and waters, until they reached the larger shore of Cuiviénen, where the elves dwelt. Some of the quendi had built dwellings near the great water or slightly back in the forest. All the kindreds mingled now, and many colors of hair shone beneath the stars as they moved about. As they drew near, Tyelpelfindis slowed to a walk, and at last released his hand. They walked along the water’s edge, and now and then one called out or waved to her, and she replied in kind. They came to a place on the bank where it swelled into a hill beside the water and, taking Mairon’s hand again, she led him up its side and around to its top, where it flattened, and there stood a small shelter, of woven pine boughs over a frame, and a ring of stones where a fire was sometimes lit. It overlooked the wide water of Cuiviénen into the far distance, and the unknowable horizon beyond, and the glittering stars above, and the banks all around where the quendi might mingle. Smiling, she turned to him.

“Welcome to my home.”

[Raisins]

Silver and Blue
Traveling from Cuiviénen

Time was a strange thing with only the faint lights far over head that wheeled over head in recurring patterns and it was time now, to move their Lords were wanting to explore and so too did Hiswa and Helwa as the number of their group grew vastly. Yet there was some shadow that haunted and seemed to hunt them, and the two elves refused to venture far from the group. Already several elves that they knew were gone, some said that they were off looking for more elves, but they never came back even after many wheelings of the stars and without their lord they did not venture too far so that he might find them again upon his return

When he and his brothers returned their eyes were strange to them and Hiswa and Helwa were afraid of this change and shied away from them as they spoke of this new strange land of light that was so very different from their own, yet others were excited especially the other Lords subjects and soon all of them began the long journey west. Hiswa and Helwa both were slow to follow but did, fearing the dark things in the night that took their kindred and the thought of being left alone even at the peaceful shore of Cuivienen was too much They joined the march west.

Though they and another group soon broke away when they came to the mountains to afraid to cross them, Elwe their friend and first lord passed over the Mountains and they were certain they would never see him again.

Long did the dwell in the forests East of the mountains and Hiswa and their kin soon learned to craft bows and dwelt in the trees happily for many years until the darkness that had started to hunt them many miles before near the shores they had woken near seemed to have followed them, some of them seemed so familiar.

They fought with them for a while but eventually the violence and consistency of the attacks Hiswa now known as Morcundir convinced his wife and many of their friends that perhaps they should try to get across the mountains that it might stop the creatures from following them and thus they passed over the mountains, which were cruel and cold and they lost several of their friends passing over the range, for they did not know the safe routes to take that Elwe and Olwe and the others had learned on their first trip to the lands of the West.

[Baphởmet]

Omentië
Cuiviénen, YT 1066
(Private with Moriel)

“Would you like to?” It felt like a very loaded question. He wanted to, yes, but also, he didn’t. As soon as he revealed himself to the Children, to the quendi, the secret nature of his relationship with Tyelpelfindis would be lost. Was he ready to lose that? There would be much to gain, that was assured, but such a deeply personal and intimate relationship could be lost. Would the gain outweigh the risk? Mairon was not so sure. He’d grown so accustomed and comfortable with their secret, their glade by the waterfall on the lake. He didn’t want that to end. He and his people, despite his many differences from them, were slow to change.

It was all, however, a moot question. She took him by the hand and led him through the glade, his footfalls matching hers. There was a light joy in her eyes, in her steps, and in the way she laughed. How could he deny her that joy? It was her secret as much as it was his, and if she wished to reveal that secret, then he had no right to deny her the joy of revelation. Each step outside the glade was a new one. The grass felt the same, but it looked greener, richer, softer. He believed himself to be above the “shiny object” phenomenon, but all the newness of this place was overwhelming in the best possible way. There were so many smells, flowers, trees, fruits, and vines. There so many sights, shimmering waters, blossoming trees, and natural fountains. There were so many sounds, a dozen different voices singing wordlessly in unison here and there, the bubbling sound of water, and the rush of the wind. It was beautiful. Mairon had thought that he’d seen the beauty of Cuiviénen before, from his secret glade. That had been from the outside looking in, now that he was truly setting foot in the gardens, he was rendered speechless. Those in west did not know true beauty like this. The Smith and The Giver of Fruit could labor for a thousand years yet they would never achieve this. And in the N=north, well he did not care for beauty at all.

He still had his secret, he realized. Even should he meet all the Quendi that walked under the stars in this place, he would still have his secret; and they would share in that secret. He smiled and his eyes glittered with mischief and pretension. Those high-minded bastards had been searching for the Children for years now, desperate to find and control them. Yet here he was, standing in their midst as if it were nothing short of mundane. He scoffed to himself. Their posturing divinity would be their downfall.

He followed Tyelpelfindis up a hill and through a press of pine crudely but beautifully crafted into a dwelling. It was quaint, but in that quaintness and simplicity there was potential without presumption. He looked out over the edge of the hill, passed the sapphire depths of Cuiviénen to the dim glow in the west.

“Your home is of surpassing loveliness, my friend, it is something to be proud of. Thank you for showing it to me.”

[Moriel]

Omentië
Cuiviénen. YT 1066.
(Private with Frost)

She smiled, and squeezed his hand. She had sensed his unease, his uncertainty whether coming here had been the right choice, and her eyes shone with the pleasure of his admiration of her home among the quendi, and of this, the full awe that was Cuiviénen. She too cherished their secret, but the sudden urge to share with him this place had overtaken Tyelpelfindis, and her gladness could not be surpassed.

“You are always welcome here,” she replied. Though she was overjoyed to share her home with Mairon, she did not exactly wish to go around introducing him to all and sundry; there were still very few of them, and there would be many questions that neither of them might be prepared to answer. But she had brought him here, and there was something she knew she must share with him. Tyelpelfindis turned to face him, her look intent.

“Sing with us, Mairon.”

It was not a question, not yet a command, but a simple imperative. Turning back to look out over the wide water, Tyelpelfindis lifted her chin, and then her voice. She began alone, but almost at once, many other voices joined in: it was an old song, much as any song of the quendi could be old; a wordless song of praise to the stars above, which the Nelyar of the falls had sung on their Awakening, and which had been retread and embroidered and refined many times. The Nelyar lifted the stars in song to the clarion call of Tyelpelfindis’s voice; and they were joined by the voices of other kindreds among them, who had learned of the song and brought their own praise and love to it over the years. As she and Mairon had made their way to this spot, they had heard snatches of singing here and there, but nothing like this. The choir of Cuiviénen sang in unbridled joy, as one body, one beam of light with many splintered facets contained therein. Their voices rose and fell, harmonies building and spiraling as they sang. Tyelpelfindis remembered all the anguis and frustration her friend had suffered during the song of Creation, and since, and as her voice soared high in a cascading descant, she silently urged him.

Sing with us, Mairon. Let this be your joy.

***

Late YT 1080

Something was wrong.

In the years since the time she had brought him to sing with her people, Mairon’s absences had grown longer and longer, but he always returned, and his visits rejuvenated him. They shared the happenings since their last meetings, and spent many hours together in the seclusion of their secret glade, talking, swimming, braiding one another’s hair, studying the stars, or sitting handclasped in a silent communion of the minds. The quendi continued to develop: the complexity of their language grew ever deeper, their children grew, and a third generation began to be born. They grew in skill at all things, their garments and homes becoming more refined and they began to find more and more ways to work with their hands, and things to create. Cuiviénen was their haven, and though some, like she, wandered afield in exploration, none had expressed any desire to stray into the wider world they had all come to realize must be there.

But something had changed: it was in the latest of Mairon’s absences that it began. Strange whispers began to permeate the senses of those who wandered. Not quite voice, not quite thought, they spoke words of wheedle at time; at times, words of terror. The quendi who heard them fled, returning to the comfort of Cuiviénen, and told of them to their kin. They began to see, outside the reflected starlight of the water, now and then shapes, creatures of what form they knew not, but solid and real. The quendi devised a name for them; it was an ugly word, awkward in the mouth, that forced one to slow down and carefully pronounce it, to acknowledge it for what it was: ungualaco, a wild wind of shadow. Whatever these creatures were, they were the first beings other than themselves the quendi had encountered that spoke with words, and those that spoke malevolence far outnumbered those that spoke with honey.

Some returned from encounters with these creatures seemingly convinced that they were friendly, and that the quendi should go with them, but for the most part they were convinced otherwise by their fellows once out of sight of the ungualaco. Most were shaken and fearful, and fled their encounters. The quendi began to stay closer to the waters of Cuiviénen, where it seemed the creatures dared not go. They began to sing of their experiences, for such was still the basest and most essential way of communication among them: and for the first time, the quendi knew fear, weaving it into their songs. They sang of their fear, of their questions, of their wonder at why this was happening and what they should do, imploring the stars for guidance. And still Mairon did not come. Tyelpelfindis watched her kin grow frightful of the world outside their water and she, too, felt something grip her insides, a thing she only could put a name to because her friend had showed it to her in their many silent talks: trepidation. Apprehension at what was, and what might be to come. She did not know what Mairon might know of these creatures; he had never shown them to her, but surely he must know something?

Then, quendi began to vanish. The first to be taken was a child, an adventurous youth who had slipped from his mother’s watch and gone into the forest alone. His scream had awoken the sleeping quendi, but by the time they rushed into the trees, there was nothing to find but a lingering chill. A new word had to be devised. Grief. All the quendi mourned with the parents of the lost child, and their fear heightened, for this was the closest the creatures had yet come, and the most sinister they had yet appeared. Still there were those who left the safety of the waters, and now and then one did not return. Trawyn, who had always wandered the furthest of all the Nelya of the falls, possibly the furthest of any of the quendi, made a narrow escape: she returned from an ungualaco encounter wild-eyed, her arms wreathed with marks that resembled back flame. Trawyn had always been different, as had her spouse Magarric; she, the wanderer, and he, who gazed more intently than any at the stars above, but after her encounter she was changed. Her wanderings became more erratic, as did her speech, and the faraway looks in her eye spoke of things seen and unseen. Davos had asked Tyelpelfindis What is wrong with my mother? and she had no answer. It was on a day when the light of the stars seemed to have dimmed and she could find no joy, when she had knelt weeping beneath the canopy of her shelter, that Tyelpelfindis at last threw back her head and shouted silently across the long distance between them, despairing of whether he would hear her, her thought buoyed by all the grief and fear and anger of the ungualaco days,

Mairon! I need you!

The images flashed through her mind without her will: the sounds of the screaming parents whose child had been taken, the quendi drawing close together about their fires, windows and doors tight-shut, Trawyn’s black-scarred arms, the whirl of smokelike creature she herself had once glimpsed, and the song of the quendi’s fear.

I need you! Please, come now!

[Rillewen]

Gladhron (Suffering from a serious concussion)
A few hour's ride from the Forsaken Inn, a long ways from the road
TA 3014

(Continued from The Forsaken Inn

The ground looked far too close to him, for some reason. Head throbbing, Gladhron tried to turn his gaze away, and found that his head did not want to turn. Trying to pull himself back slightly from the close-up view of the forest floor, he thought his head felt far too heavy. Then then he realized that the ground didn't just look close; it WAS close. Right in his face, in fact. He was lying sprawled on the ground, partly on his side. How'd he get there? He didn't remember lying down there. Groaning, he made an effort and rolled himself onto his back. The effort left him feeling a little queasy, and the world spun faster around him. The trees towering overhead looked like they'd never stop circling, and might just come crashing down on him. The young man closed his eyes tight, trying to shut out the dizzying sensation.

The horse nearby nuzzled his head with a soft noise that almost sounded like concern. Gladhron waved a hand vaguely in her direction, trying to push her away, but the horse would not be swayed. She nudged his shoulder and neck and face until he finally opened his eyes again, head throbbing. "No, Gaeroch." He squinted up at her in confusion. That wasn't Gaeroch. He lay for a moment, trying to work out why his brother's horse, Mael, was there, instead of his own horse. The smaller, dappled gray horse put her ears back, almost as if she had been offended by being called by the wrong name, and snorted softly before butting her muzzle against his side.

Gladhron put an arm up to try and block out the light, trying to remember what had been so important to take him from the comforts of a cozy room with a comfortable, soft bed. As soon as his arm rested on his bandaged forehead, the weight of it brought on a sharper pain to the immediate area, and he gasped softly before letting his arm just drop to the ground, resting on the leaves just over his head. His forehead felt damp, and he tried to make sense of it. Was he sweating? He didn't feel all that hot. Actually, it seemed that his arm, where it had rested on his head, had a damp spot as well. This didn't quite add up to him at the moment and trying to figure it out seemed to make the headache worse, so he stopped thinking about it.

Mael, after looking down at the wounded young man for a long moment, apparently decided he was not going to wake up, and so wandered a short ways off to nibble at some grass. The injured ranger remained where he was, oblivious to the passing of time, wishing the world would stop spinning so he could get up and carry on with his important task, which he could not quite recall. Something about a girl, wasn't it?

[Ercassie]

The Promise – Part 1




Sarnir Erondo and his wife Menellote Silosse
come to the home of Aiwenare Manquento and his wife Lanyaure
On the night of an expectant ball. In Tirion, Aman. 1490 YT, Approx

Pellets of irradient limestone composed the shameless avenue toward their destination, the passage laid as fair as ever a stream of forsaken diamonds. It should entice even those who were not privy to the wild rumour of such ostentatious an estate. It should by rights defy even Sarnir Erondo to observe fault or flaw about it's resplendent design; yet this earliest exhibit he already named overindulgent. And he rolled his pale eyes at the extravagantly signposted eyesore, finding no sympathy in his wife's opinion of just how hard his neighbours tried. Excessively so, he told her, that their very clear efforts betrayed their desperation.

"If Aiwenare Manquento ever chose to commit even half the time that he does on looking like he contributes something to this city, in labours that actually would prove so, .. then and only then would I believe he ..

Silosse afforded her husband a hand in rally to his own; catching grasp and taking it unto her lap with unspoken resolve. Words melted to naught as his gaze rose from that quietly understated bolster to her sure, mindful attention. Aside of their sure advancing carriage, lanterns swung from trees that waved with casting spark and shadow in due turn. A wonderland of floral engineering spanned in every which direction, the further to the manse they veered; and yet the couple had eyes only for each other.

Their most recent captivating enthrallment was the source of some great embarrassment from the pair of youths cast in the seat to face them. One rolled eyes and leant his fascination to the subway of reclining wisteria. As an all-consuming throat of decadent hue, the lavender tunnel soon sailed at their every which side. The fragrance stole all thought of ever willingly releasing breath, so utterly did it engulf all senses, until they had traversed unto the next feature of their magical journey.

His cohort was a cousin, not so unlike in appearance, though great of contrast in demeanour. An especially rhapsodic musician, come from distant Alqualonde for the very purpose of providing an alibi. The oblivious young artist was equally surprised as he was grateful to be offered this fortuity, however much he found discomfort in the amorous involvement of his aunt and uncle.

When their journey was achieved, Caldir was the first to spring from seat, and hurry the low-hung carriage door upon it's hinges. He sluiced unto the crimson runner as soon as feared to tread about the especial design that had been woven to wear underfoot. Smoothing down his semi-circular cloak, the innocent young Elf smudged his bell-sigil broach beneath one thumb. His aunt and uncle managed to depart from their wheeled cocoon, but Sarnir glanced within, to find his son apparently since vanished from their midst. The open carriage door upon the far side of their vessel offered explanation for the sudden absence, though did little to appease the patriach of such little remark before the fact.


"He did not even imagine I should have a wish to make words before he ... ?" the Noldo sighed, as though abruptly undone.

"He knows your words, and also your feelings," the lady made a wise presumption, gathered her remaining escort and courageously induced them all toward the planned festivities. Her hand as the unseen root to strengthen her husband's fast -closed palm.

"We can but hope" her husband scowled to be assaulted by such sudden jettisons of colour. Flowers was too meagre a word to describe the sheer rockets of sunshine, the sprays of indigo, and the cascades of damson which literally lined their entrance to the grounds proper of House Aiwenare. There was no escaping the vibrancy of life, no subtlety that had not been undone by great extravagance.

At one point, a muster of bedazzling peacocks invaded their passage, and streamed about the estate, proud and demonstrative as their liege. Sarnir could not help but roll eyes - again - and emit an exaggerated sigh. Silosse was gathered to the sight of white doves, taking to wing and the sheen of twilight sky all as a one.

The couple emerged from an exhilarating avenue of aster, cornflower and snapdragons, stunned about the rise of a great avenue of butterflies, as though the colourful flowers themselves danced all about the Elvish visitors. "Over the top and entirely unnecessary" the sculptor waved a hand in protest, to discourage any of the frivolous marvels from nesting in about his sleek, sable hair. His wife hid a smile and nodded agreement. Taking care not to lose young Caldir to the extreme extents of the garden estate, they nonetheless pursued the path that the host had set forth.

They were amongst the very last to arrive, a fact which neither Sarnir, nor Aiwenare himself had failed to realise ...




"He does so love to sow doubt of his assumed compliance," Aiwenare growled, frustrated, even as he presided at the gate with his devoted wife, Lanyaure; garnished the both in a courtship of vibrant colour. Graciously the host and hostess had met eyes and proferred hand of each guest they had assumed into their 'humble' home. Particularly the loitering stragglers.

"My Lord Sarnir," gushed Aiwenare, extensively more lavish than he was sincere about the greeting to his fellow Noldo. It must cost the prideful sculptor much to even be observed at this occasion, both well knew. But Aiwenare relished the meaning of such an attendance, and would not see it unmentioned, much to Sarnir's discomfort. "Are we not so very honoured to receive such a guest ?" the host chuckled, goodnaturedly. His wife clutching at his arm, encouraging, the Lord Aiwenare indicated his small throng of welcome party.

"Of course you recognise my son and heir, Tirindo; as well as my eldest daughter, Morivanyis. But this is her husband, Altindo;" introductions were announced. "This formidable fellow is responsible for the extensive grounds you doubtless have already taken note of ?" the host prompted Aiwenare, knowingly.

"There are some awful lot of flowers," Sarnir mentioned honestly, and saw Aiwenare's brow settle upon the brink of unspoken offense. Tirindo swallowed amusement, and evaded Lanyaure's disapproving glance. Meanwhile, the gardener extraordinaire, Altindo, clutched for his young bride's hand, self-consciously, which Morivanyis obliged.

If it had not been for the support and encouragement of his father-in-law, Altindo would have despaired when his own father disowned him for forsaking their family business, in favour of what Sarnir similarly belittled as 'flowers'. Altindo had much to thank Aiwenare for, although it had to be said that without Altindo's nurtured skill with landscape architecture, then the entire family of Aiwenare would never now be raised so high, nor recalled half at all.

Happily Aiwenare, as a trusted soldier in the House of Prince Fingolfin, was known to enough persons of proper significance, without possessing that title for himself. Dignitaries and ambassadors who visited from the Vanyarin or Telerin capitals were always keen for a place of privacy to conduct their very private meets, so Aiwenare had made whispers of just such a place, and soon those persons of import were as old friends to him, and fond, grateful, acquaintances.

His second daughter Neyte had actually wed the grand ambassador from Valimar, while Athayie had taken for her own a highly recognised and renowned artist, who sought peace and quiet within 'The Labyrinth', for inspiration when he was not catering to royal portraits. Aiwenare and his family entire had further improved it's reputation built upon the foundations of each new link to power and foothold on a new aspect of the city's strength.

Now their youngest daughter, some few knew, had taken to her head to know a member of a renowned family of masons and architects in Tirion. Aiwenare was far more enthused about the prospective new association than was Sarnir. Demonstrably.



"My sister-son, Caldir," Menellote ushered her anaemic nephew to the forefront of their little group, her face utterly unreadable as the youth attempted a bow. "Visiting a time as company for our son," the lady explained, and was properly interpreted.

"Family is always a blessing," Lanyaure allowed, politely.

“And are we to know the pleasure of your son’s company this evening ?” Aiwenare pressed, rather less politely.

The grim sculptor was quite incapable of satisfying such a query, much less the grooming of Aiwenare's ego with unwelcome suggestions of compliance. With a quiet snort that the other Noldo quite hoped he’d imagined, Sarnir stepped abruptly across the threshold without further delay, as though none should dare hinder him in sabotaging the very notion. As Aiwenare hesitated in immediately removing himself from the threat for brusque collision, Lanyaure rushed to aide him, and then soothe her husband's injured pride. Menellote quietly ducked but a subtle nod of etiquette, and bade her nephew swiftly follow her example in pursuing Sarnir.

Before he insulted anybody else ..


"You promised you would try," she reminded the surly mason, albeit quietly.

"I promised I would attend," he threw a pointed, and louder, correction over one shoulder, as he sought sanctuary about his own folk. Those within whose company, he hoped to vanish from Aiwenare's attention, the remainder of the evening. “With no vow made on the duration of such torment.”

"Are you now more prone to cater to my thought ?" Lanyaure sighed, still at the gate, to note Aiwenare's puzzlement. "This merger with the Cenilwe is never going to work. I mean, he even brought an alternate, so noone may suspect his kin be with our .."

The Master Firebird flushed scarlet, and his eldest children (their role in aiding the introductions concluded) swiftly flew from their father's own growing temper, with a hope toward enjoying the evening.

"Do it for Feapoldie," Lanyaure rubbed her husband's back, supportive as she was a sedative. Still, she shivered with foreboding even as the Cenilwe clan found each other. The hostess was plagued by prophecies of apprehension which came upon her with ever more a frequency these days, and she struggled to subdue it. "I could not bear for my dear little Fea to be not as loved in return; for she lays her heart so open."

"I believe her love returned," Aiwenare shook his head, resigned to anxious concern of the matter. "The boy is not his father. He is .."

".. not yet to be observed anywheres about the room," Lanyaure smiled feintly, avoiding the direction of their most latterly guests. "I think Lord Sarnir came here but to indulge in your disappointment. Certain he has discouraged his child from attending. Fortunately, for you, I have taken steps to insure our girl is not left wanting."

"You know she will take issue with any Elf that we seek to press upon her." Aiwenare recovered his mirth, at the last. "It is curse enough that Tirindo outright refuses to consider courting. Should Fea now take up with his example ...??! Nay, we must indulge her want. It might be considerable worse."

"I trust him not," his wife spoke of the sculptor, whose reputation was known to be of faith toward the impetuous, and frankly unlawful, Crown Prince Feanor. "And however it may end, we can not guess. Unless we take the necessary steps to ensure her fulfilment. Do you trust me, beloved ?"


The host of the evening was not a one to regret his want for betterment, and the fact that his daughter had herself proposed this merger with one of the most notable families in the city had filled him with joy. That he should not have to seek means and ways toward manipulating her decisions.

On the other hand, the truth was undeniable. That Sarnir's son was nowhere to be observed, and his daughter now awaited in her chamber all alone. Glancing disconcertedly across the expanse of his guests, Aiwenare's eye fell upon the all too expectant glance of the sullen sculptor. Sarnir raised one dark eyebrow and raised a glass in apparent humour to find the concern over his foe's face.

With a sigh, the firebird Lord took his hand in his own, and smoothed his wife's lace-gloved hands within his grasp.

"I trust in your want for our daughter's future," he confessed, without fair remorse. "So tell me," he obliged a woman's devices. "Who is this more favourable option that you would present our youngest child ?"

“Come, meet with my friend, Earcolante” Lanyaure encouraged him with an extended arm. “He has a son that I believe you might think so well of as folk think the father himself.”

[Raisins]

Umoya
A few hour's ride from the Forsaken Inn, a long ways from the road (or a very long days walk)
TA 3014

She'd heard the hoof beats and had laid down hiding behind a tree root, these lands were dangerous after all for lone travellers especially against those that were mounted on horse. She blinked hearing a thud and the hoof beats stop. She looked around warily wondering if perhaps there was someone else in these woods with ill intentions. She stayed down listening for foot steps going to claim the horse, or loot the corpse but none came. and she peaked her head up slowly towards the horse and watched silently from where she lay just in case they had seen her and were waiting for her to move. She could be very very patient.

No one emerged though, and the horse for their part began nudging and prodding its fallen a rider and her dark brown eyes narrowed as she watched calmly until the man stirred. He was not dead. Could have fooled her she thought with how long it took him to come round. He flailed his arm about and the horse formerly concerned with him seemed to be willing to go and eat grass. She stood up slowly wrapping her cloak around her tightly and covering the lower half of her face deftly with the scarf that rested around her neck for such occasions and slipped forward slowly her hands out speaking to the horse since the horse seemed to have more senses about them than the man did. She looked over the man from near his feet, figuring him getting up quickly was probably not terribly likely when she saw that his head was bandaged and bleeding, fairly profusely. The formerly white bandage was now dirty from the forest floor and brightly stained with blood. He was riding wounded he was a fool Umoya thought with a snort looking him over.

"'Ello. Are ye dead?" She asked finally "Or jus' plannin' ta be bloodin' on de ground fer fun?" She said her Haradrim accent clear despite using the common speech as she leaned over to try to figure out just how badly wounded he was. He was less of a threat to her at the moment he had to know the area fairly well if he was willing to ride out so badly wounded perhaps... Perhaps she could get information from him on the surrounding area for that though she'd probably need to gain a bit of trust from him, she did have a little food and she had some medicines she still had from Harad they were foreign here but they were strong and could probably help him well enough if he'd let her.

[Rillewen]

@Raisins

Gladhron (Suffering from a serious concussion)
A few hour's ride from the Forsaken Inn, a long ways from the road
TA 3014

Mael, having a distrust for strangers, had fled a few paces away when the unknown woman came close. The mare watched from a safe distance away, wary of the unfamiliar human. After a few moments, when the woman didn't try to come close again, she nibbled on another patch of grass. This one had some clover growing with it, and the horse contentedly munched on that while keeping one eye on the humans, ready to flee if the stranger got too close.


Just as Gladhron's jumbled thoughts began trying to focus on the girl, trying to remember what his goal had been and who this girl was that seemed so important, he heard a girl speaking. Was that her? No, the voice was wrong. Further confused, he cracked his eyes open to see an unfamiliar face swirling above him. Wait, was it one, two, or three women standing there? He honestly couldn't be sure, and the light behind her was painful to his brain, so he closed his eyes again. "I'm...trying very hard..not to be dead.." He answered with some effort. He spoke quieter than he realized, barely above a mumble, a bit weak. Still, he followed up the words with an attempt at a smile which fell away soon after. It was hard to maintain a smile while one's head was throbbing so hard.

"Please..help..get my..horse," He made an effort to prop up on one elbow, only to sink back onto the carpet of leaves under him, groaning in pain. "Have to..find her..." Moving had not been a good idea. Trying to sit up had been an even worse one, and now the nausea was back and he feared to move at all. "Who..who are you?" He mumbled, struggling to stay conscious, though he felt like he might easily slip into unconsciousness if he didn't fight it. Was that a good thing, or bad thing? He really didn't know, and sleep actually seemed very welcome right now, but if he slept, then he might not do whatever it was he was supposed to be doing. Finding the girl, that was it. Find the girl.. but which girl was it?

[Raisins]

@Rillewen
Umoya
A few hour's ride from the Forsaken Inn, a long ways from the road (or a very long days walk)
TA 3014

She looked the man up and down as he mumbled something turning her ear towards him and rolling her eyes as he smiled at her. Men. Everything was better with a smile, she was certain he'd said something about trying not to die. "Mmmmhm." She said shaking her head to the side. Men how did they end up in charge of things? Clearly they were all fools, just like her father was. "You look like you need medicine not your horse you silly fool." As he attempted to get up onto his elbow.

She looked at the horse, who had looked at her moved away and then decided to eat. No she'd dealt with horses in Rohan. There was a reason she was on foot. "I no be gettin' yer rage camel for ye." She said finally and squatted down beside him near his head, knowing now that he was in absolutely no shape to defend himself from what she could see. "Ye be lookin like a Mumakil stomped on your head and crooshed it like a coconut ye fool, ye gonna even remember me name if I give it?" She said reaching out and touching his face with her delicate dark fingers that once upon a time would have been dyed red with henna, there was no henna here so they were paler than she was use to though there were a few black marks upon them tattooed permanently for protection and warding old superstitions as it were.

She moved to flick the tip of his nose a flick. "Nah ye donbe sleeping with a head would like that pretty boy." Hoping the sting from her fingernail would be enough to bring him back to the land of the mostly awake if he didn't move out of the way of the flick. "Come a'by let's get ye off yer back and find out what in the desert snakes trousers ye be doin out 'ere like dis." She said and moved to offer him a hand up wondering if young men here were as prideful as they were in the far south...

Getting help from a woman in Harad would be laughable if anyone found out. Granted, in these woods she doubted there would be anyone to find out at all.

[Rillewen]

@Raisins

Gladhron (Suffering from a serious concussion)
A few hour's ride from the Forsaken Inn, a long ways from the road
TA 3014

The woman spoke strangely, with words Gladhron didn't know and didn't exactly understand. He had no idea what a rage camel might be, and didn't want to try and make sense of it, nor the other odd things she said. For a moment it seemed he was on the verge of slipping off into a nice, comfortable sleep, but then he returned to wakefulness as she flicked his nose. She seemed against letting him sleep. If it weren't for the fact he remembered there was something important he needed to do, he would have protested. Surely, sleep would help him recover, but he couldn't sleep yet. She needed his help, maybe. It nagged at him, trying to recall who it was that needed help.

The strange woman was holding out a hand, and he took a moment to brace himself what he figured would come once he'd stood up. His first attempt at grabbing her hand failed, as he missed her hand entirely, due to seeing more than one blurry hand held out to him. Once he finally had hold of her hand, and let her pull him upright, he wished he had remained on the ground. The world spun more wildly than before, and he closed his eyes tightly. A memory flashed into his mind. Playing with his baby sister, when she was a young child. He'd had hold of both her wrists, and was spinning around and around while she laughed, enjoying the feeling of flying around and around, until he was too dizzy to continue and they collapsed onto a pile of autumn leaves, laughing while they waited for the dizziness to subside.

It didn't subside for him now, though. Gladhron sagged against the woman who had helped him up, a miserable moan escaping from his throat as his head throbbed worse than before. It was his sister he was looking for, wasn't it? "Gw..thiel.." Her name slipped out before he realized he's spoken it. Struggling to bring his focus back to the present, he frowned. No, it wasn't her. She was gone, he doubted he'd ever see her again, despite what Gwestion believed. She was gone, forever. It was another girl he was looking for, now. Blinking, Gladhron mumbled an apology once he realized he was leaning on the woman who was trying to help him. He tried to find something else to lean on, and his hand found a nearby tree, letting it take his weight instead. "I.. I have to find her..have to save her from the spiders." That wasn't right either, was it? "No..not spiders..." He looked quite confused as he tried to sort out all these confusing facts.

"Please," He looked at the woman, trying to force his vision to cooperate and show him only one of her, unless there really were more than one, but he doubted it, now. "I need to find.. a friend, she's in danger... I think." He wasn't entirely sure about anything right now, if he were honest with himself, but he knew that there was a girl in danger and he needed to find her, even if he couldn't remember the rest of the details. "I'm..a ranger, I need to find her, before it's..too late." He made an effort to speak more clearly, to trying to sound like he was better now. "Please, help me to my horse?"

[Raisins]

@Rillewen
Umoya
A few hour's ride from the Forsaken Inn, a long ways from the road (or a very long days walk)
TA 3014

The man took an attempt to grab her hand and failed, the second attempt she helped and caught his hand realizing he couldn't see straight to save his life. She pulled him up initially thinking to just get him sitting but he surged to his feet leaving her needing to catch him. It was good that she was fast she put herself in the way of his body and steadied him he was taller than her - notably so as she came up only to his shoulder and he was as heavy as a newborn mumakil and about as good on his feet as he leaned on her. He muttered about spiders and saving her. Some name she didn't know. The poor fool she held onto him tightly with one arm it was wrapped about him and dug through a pouch at her hip where she kept her most valuable items - medicines and roots and tintures from back home - old medicines as he swayed back to being more awake or at least he was trying to fool himself that he was as he leaned against a tree. She kept an arm wrapped around him looking up at him unimpressed.

"Ye don't even be knowin if this friend of yers be in danger." She said calmly as he swayed back and forth worse than she'd ever seen anyone. Here deft fingers finally found the vial and she pulled it out. She needed information and honestly he was so far gone that she'd actually need to help him a bit in order to get information from him and as he admitted to being a ranger she indeed knew she could very well get more information from him. "Dis is be kew leaf tingure." She said calmly and put the vial up near his face "It gone help ye with yer spinnin head. Gone clear it up some." She worked to get him leaning against the tree so that she could help administer the medicine in the tiny vial. "It be bitter an nasty but it gone help." She said softly ignoring the fact he wanted back to his horse. She held the tiny vial against the palm of her hand and tugged on the stopper with her finger and thumb popping it off and putting it to his lips. "Once de world stop doin de spins we gone look at cleaning dat head of yours no wooman wants done be saved by a bloody headed fool."

She did of course have some idea of what he was talking about a woman had crossed paths with her and she hadn't been in trouble then but there were others in these woods she'd seen them herself and there were a few less of them now because they'd tried to rob her. She might look small and helpless but she could cut the belly out of a man before he realized she even had a knife if need be.

[Baphởmet]

Omentië
Cuiviénen, YT 1080
(Private with Moriel)

Minutes stretched to hours, hours stretched to days, to weeks, to months. Mairon counted the moments he was away from Cuiviénen until the numbers grew so large in his head he would begin to despair. He returned as often as for as long as he could, finding peace, order, and rejuvenation by the sacred azure waters. He would speak often and for long hours with Tyelpelfindis. They would speak on a hundred different subjects; she was voracious for knowledge and information about things. They would speak on philosophy and she would question him for hours on “why” and “how” and “to what end”. When they would speak of history, she would ask him “when” and “how many” and “to what end”. Those were days that he would not have traded for anything. When he was away and thought back, he gathered that he learned just as much from them as they from him. He taught them a few rudimentary smithing skills, how to find the precious bits of fallen starlight they called jewels and how to shape it according to one’s own imagination. There were so many things he wanted to teach them and show them and instruct them on, but he knew he could not be overeager and share his bounty of knowledge and secrets lest they become overwhelmed and their hunger cease. He learned the value of patience, though he ignored it as often as he heeded it. Patience was not a virtue Mairon felt was crucial to his glory.

This absence had been the longest he’d been away. He’d tried to escape the bounds of He Who Arises in Might a dozen times but had always been called back for some reason or another before he was able to make clean his escape. He feared his master was growing suspicious of him, that he suspected something was not quite right in the honeyed words Mairon used. Suspicion and paranoia were part of the nature of He Who Arises in Might, so much so that he may as well craft simulacrum children and name them for his virtues. He walked in the dark places of the world huddled and hunched, looking for ways even his most loyal would betray him.

Was Mairon betraying him? It was difficult to tell anymore. He had betrayed so many trusts, planted so many seeds of secret envy it was hard to tell really whose side he was on anymore. Something so ponderous and prosaic as “sides” seemed beneath him the more time he spent with the quendi. Yet he could not shake that seed that He Who Arises in Might had planted so long ago.

He could feel her calling to him. It was like the tugging of his cloak against the wind of his mind. There was something wrong, something different in the way she tried to reach him. Consternation and confusion in equal measures roared in his soul. He knew the Powers were looking for the quendi. He himself had been tasked with finding and possessing them too. The hypocrisy of the Powers to believe that they could own and corral the Children. It spread a corrosive fire in Mairon’s belly. It was not so much protectiveness of the Children as the anger at the Powers. What right do any of them have? He found them and yet he did not possess them, did not lord over and rule them as the Powers would. He did not set rules and laws over them dictating how they ought to think, act, and believe. He knew the Powers would; beings who, in their infinitesimal infinite wisdom, would prescribe a twisted moral order of beings that ought to have no use for such a thing. It was like teaching the wind to speak with the voice of the mountains. It was perverse and wrong.

He went. The urgency of Tyelpelfindis’ call would brook no delay. He changed his form into a fox, something He Who Arises in Might and the rest of the western Powers would not comprehend and ran. He ran and ran and ran until he felt like his form would burst and scatter his essence all over the forests and fields. The closer he came to Cuiviénen the more of the wrongness he could feel. There was something here. Something that was not meant to be in this bucolic paradise. There was a foul presence here, something like rot covered in oil, it had a greasy feel to it in his mind. It was one of the many servile corruptions of his master, a broken creature twisted and turned inside out so many times it didn’t know the earth from the stars. Perhaps it had at one point been a fox as well, but what it was now no one could truly say. It was malignant, caustic, vomitous. A spy from the subterranean halls of his master.

An icy cold finger jabbed into his stomach. It would not be long before he knew about them. The noose was tightening, no matter what Mairon had done in the past to prevent their discovery. Time, which they’d always had in overabundance, was running out.

I am here, Tyelpelfindis. His words were not soft and welcoming, but frantic and twisted with anger and frustration. He could not shake the feeling that there were things already beyond his control.

[Rillewen]

@Raisins

Gladhron (Suffering from a serious concussion)
A few hour's ride from the Forsaken Inn, a long ways from the road
TA 3014

She did make a valid point there, that he didn't know that his friend was in danger. But still, there was the ever-present nagging in his mind that he must find her before she did run into danger. If only he could remember the finer details, but those refused to return to his confused mind. The tree on which he leaned was sturdy and strong, and while all the others continued to spin and sway, this one seemed solid enough. Gladhron tried to see what the stuff was that she had held up to him, telling him it was a cure. A cure would be wonderful. He did not like this constant dizziness, mixed with nausea and disorientation. The stranger put the little vial up to his lips for him to drink. Gladhron hesitated briefly. Somewhere in his mind he heard his brother's voice, warning him against accepting a so-called cure from a stranger. Gwestion. The memory of his brother returned to mind, seeing him lying unconscious in a room, back at the inn, badly wounded. The girl had something to do with that, he remembered, and something to do with helping Gwestion.

This stuff could be poison, for all he knew. But why would she wanted to poison him? And the sooner he was cured of this horrible dizziness, the sooner he could help Gwestion and the girl, and so he took a swallow, only to cough and splutter at the taste the woman had warned him about. Had he taken enough? He hoped so. Though he would grudgingly accept more if it was necessary, anything to make the world stop spinning like this. Continuing to let the tree support him, Gladhron waited for the dizziness to begin to fade. And waited. Then began to wonder how true her claim had been, that it would clear his head up. Then, finally, he did begin to notice that things weren't spinning quite so badly. He had no idea how long it had actually taken, for time seemed to be passing quite strangely for him since he got this wound. "I feel a bit better, now," He declared with much relief. His vision was almost normal, he only saw now a slight double of the woman, rather than going from distinct triple to double to triple again. "You have my sincerest thanks, ma'am."

[Raisins]

@Rillewen
Umoya
A few hour's ride from the Forsaken Inn, a long ways from the road (or a very long days walk)
TA 3014

She stood waiting for the tinture to start taking effect he'd drunk half of it which should be enough to combat the world spinning which is why she guessed he was leaning so heavily on the tree still. Around them birds and insects were in chorus and there was the contented sound of munching as the horse behind her enjoyed grass and clover. "A bit betta is good, but dere donbe no cure fer stoopid." She said looking at him shaking her head as he finally managed to speak clearly letting her know the tinture had taken effect. "An I can admeet, I do be wannin sometin in return though." She said with a smile watching his eyes as he looked at her in relief. That was probably terrifying, after all how can one say no to someone that has helped already? It is a dangerous thing to do. "Was 'open dat ye could tell me more about de rangers was are dey?" She asked after all she was new in this land and finding out about what a Ranger was since this was her first experience with one of them. How dangerous were they? This one... This one was not maybe if he was less of a fool he would be but someone that goes running off on horseback while as injured as he was when he was in a safe place. Easy to deal with she though.

"I be travellin dese lands fer de first time, are all de Rangers as stoopid as ye gone ride off with a head wound and done land on eet agin or do most of dem have more den two grains o sand bouncing about in der 'ead that 'ave to hit to get a smart thought?" She was rather confident of herself for the moment after all she'd helped him, legitimately and it wasn't like she was asking something as an enemy. For all he knew right now at least, she was an ally and probably wanted to know if the rangers would be friendly to her. It was a round about way of asking if she should view them as friend or foe but she had no doubt that. She'd been here long enough now that she was certain this fool was traveling alone, which meant hopefully she'd be able to get more information from him before she decided just what to do with the fool.

[Rillewen]

@Raisins

Gladhron (Suffering from a serious concussion)
A few hour's ride from the Forsaken Inn, a long ways from the road
TA 3014

Gladhron was a little surprised when she, without any hesitation, informed him that she did actually want something in return. He hadn't quite expected that, but offered a smile. "Of course, how can I repay you?" He asked, keeping his manners intact despite how his head still hurt. The dizziness had subsided enough that he felt he could function almost normally, but the stuff hadn't taken away the throbbing in his head. As she explained that she wanted to know more about rangers, he nearly laughed at what a simple 'price' she wanted in return. It was such an easy thing to tell about! He paused, though, with a small frown, as she asked if they were all as stupid as he. In fact, he recalled, she had called him a fool many times now, and seemed intent on insulting him. He tried not to let it bother him too much, but couldn't help protesting, "I'm not stupid." At least he could speak now, without his thoughts getting jumbled and his head trying to split open. "I'll admit, it wasn't the wisest idea to try riding with my head wounded as it is, but sometimes, one has little choice in such matters." He explained. "I had to go after the girl, in the hope that perhaps I might find her before danger does."

He went to rest a hand on the hilt of his sword, an action mostly to reassure himself that he was prepared to defend the helpless girl he had mentioned, but his hand found nothing there at his hip. A moment of bafflement followed, then he froze, trying to keep his expression neutral. Of all the stupid, idiotic things to have done! How could he have forgotten to bring his sword!? He couldn't believe it! With some amount of inward horror, the young man realized that, in all the confusion, with his head all mixed up and unable to stop spinning... when he had set out to rescue Bel, he'd forgotten to grab it. The strangest thing was, he didn't even remember taking it off to begin with. Nor his bracers, or other armor...which he suddenly realized were also missing. Had he been robbed? It dawned on him at that moment that he was not only weaponless, but he had no armor, either.

In that brief moment of realization, Gladhron's eyes widened only slightly as he felt only air where his sword ought to have been. Then, hoping that the motion had gone unnoticed, or that it had been overlooked as him merely reaching for something to steady himself, he dropped his hand down against the tree on which he leaned, closing his eyes as if he were feeling dizzy. How tremendously embarrassing. And Gwestion, he vowed, would not be hearing about this. Ever. Fortunately, he had met with a friend who was helping him, rather than a foe who might have slain him.

Before the woman could call him foolish or stupid again, Gladhron cleared his throat, a bit awkwardly, and spoke again, trying to explain further while also trying to cover up his sudden revelation that he had brought along no weapons, "My...my brother and I were attacked by orcs, some days past, and he was hurt worse than myself. I managed to get us to a safe place, but the girl.." he paused, trying again to think of her name. "The girl..." It was the same as something else, wasn't it? An item, something musical, perhaps? He frowned, then suddenly, it came to him. "Bel! That's her name, Bel." It was a tremendous relief to him that he'd finally remembered her name. It had bothered him that he couldn't, before, and he had worried he may have some memory loss, but it had returned to him, thankfully. "She was supposed to wait until I could ride with her to fetch a healer. I warned her how dangerous the road is, but she went alone... and my brother would never forgive me if I let anything happen to her." He paused, adding with a small smile, "I believe he cares more for her than he'll admit... and she is clearly sweet on him.

"There are far too many dangers lurking, for a lady to be traveling alone. Those orcs, for instance; we killed most of them, but others fled, and got away. They could be nearby, or there may be bandits, or other deadly things, and Bel knows nothing of fighting." He frowned. "So you see, I couldn't stay there, knowing she could be in terrible danger." None of this, of course, answered her question, but Gladhron felt better in explaining his reasons for what he knew had been a less-than-wise action. The truly foolish thing he had done, of course, was in forgetting his sword, but with any luck, this woman would not find out or notice anything about that.

[Raisins]

@Rillewen
Umoya
A few hour's ride from the Forsaken Inn, a long ways from the road (or a very long days walk)
TA 3014

She looked at him her chin tilted down and her eyes narrowing as he spoke and did not answer her question. Instead arguing with her that he was not stupid. She watched the hand movement and recognized it, the men of Harad did it often to intimidate women, rest their hand on their swords, but he had none. In fact she wondered very much if he had any weapons at all.

"I should slap yer mout fer lian." She said pointing her finger at him. "Me modder would have slapped me teet out of me gums fer a lie like that. Ne'r mind ye didno answer de question." She waved her hands up, "You proteck dis Bell, ding a ling a ling - wit what? Ye've got a manhood big enough ta crush these orcs I'm Haradi I 'ave seen orc many times, one needs a sword for that or a steek ye don even 'ave a steek in a forest of steeks.." She crossed her arms and glared at him "Yer horse has more wits den you. Ye fin any soul but me yed be dead and yer brodder be less an idiot to look afta as well as dis Bel. She seem as smart as yebee." She started looking through her medicine pouch. "Ye be givin me a 'eadache with the stoopid dribblin out ya gums." She muttered several thing in haradrim (Like I wouldn't notice you are half naked and without a sword, what sort of man leaves to protect his brothers woman without a sword. Gods the woman would be better off dead than with this fool. Gods protect me, they are so stupid here how are they the power in Middle-earth they can't even keep track of their swords or armor) She found a vial of ground herbs and tipped a bit out on her finger and licked it a tingle on her tongue made it far easier. She put the little vial away as well as the one she'd used on him already.

She shut her eyes and took a deep breath. "Now.." She said opening her dark brown eyes and looking at him. "Befer I question wastin me herbs on yer empty head ye wanna tell me about de rangers and redeem yourself?"

[Rillewen]

@Raisins

Gladhron (Suffering from a serious concussion)
A few hour's ride from the Forsaken Inn, a long ways from the road
TA 3014

Gladhron put his hand up to his head, which still hurt tremendously. He was having a hard time following along with everything this woman was saying, and she still used strange words, and most seemed to be insults to him, his brother, and even to Bel, which he found rather irritating. It annoyed him further that she had so quickly picked up on the fact he had no weapon or armor. He still couldn't understand how it happened. He'd had his sword after the battle. He'd had it when he arrived at the inn, and he knew he'd had his armor then, too, because it had been a bit uncomfortable when he was lying down to sleep. At the moment, though, he had other things to think about, and tried to focus on that, instead.

Had he not been so lacking in blood at the moment, he might have blushed at the one question. Awkwardly, he tried to form a response to her, but she was ranting in...Haradrim? He didn't know the language, and merely stared in confusion until she had finished, then slowly shook his head. "Of course I have a sword," He tried to give a convincing smile, trying to think quickly through his confusion. "It..it's on my horse." He didn't think that was actually true, but since his horse wasn't actually here, he couldn't find out for certain. No need for her to know that though.

"And, anyway, rangers are, of course, taught to fight without weapons..." He seemed to recall something Gwestion had said to him recently, something about losing one's sword ought not render one incapable of fighting still. Though he wasn't sure where he had gotten that from, it was sound advice. He decided to drop the subject, trying to remember what she had asked initially. "You asked what are rangers, didn't you?" He was starting to lose track of all the questions and things, but that seemed like what he had been going to answer, before he got sidetracked. "We safeguard the realm against enemies... bandits, orcs and the like. We try to make it safe for folk to travel on the road, though we're not always successful...as you can see." He motioned toward his bandaged forehead. "I'm sorry, I'm not sure what else you wanted to know."

[Raisins]

@Rillewen
Umoya
A few hour's ride from the Forsaken Inn, a long ways from the road (or a very long days walk)
TA 3014

Well at least he answered her she supposed, she let out a sigh and put her hands on her hips. "Yer manhood is no sword, and donbe thinkin your horses be eeder.." She said not sure if it was a mare or a stallion or a gelding not that it mattered. "I have been here long enough and seen yer horse back when ye be on yer back like a new bride mumblin about spiders." She said shaking her head. "Yer know how ta figh den without a sword." She clicked her tongue a bit impressed with that, "well ye odder rangers maybe. I am not so sure on you, ye like lian." She said with a laugh.

Granted she could tell he was a bit annoyed at her calling him a fool and insulting him but he was insulting her intelligence with his lies, and she was really really wanting to put a blade in his belly for being so rude. Maybe slice of the tip of his nose, let him be shamed to the whole world he would given his penchant for lying he'd probably say it was bitten off by a Dragon or something like that. "So ye be safeguardin' de realm. Are der not enough Rangers to do dis? Is not noble to do?" She figured that protecting the realm whatever realm this was, would be something people would be proud of doing and would want to do. After all in Harad many many men went to war to protect it from the West and make sure that their way of life and their women and the homes were safe. The West was a strange place indeed the more information on these realm protectors she could get the better. "Do dey 'ave places where travelers can be safe fer de night?"

Yes those seemed like reasonable questions she thought as she tried to get as much information as she possibly could from this silly man.

[Rillewen]

@Raisins

Gladhron (Suffering from a serious concussion)
A few hour's ride from the Forsaken Inn, a long ways from the road
TA 3014

Gladhron couldn't help cringing a bit at her crudeness, and tried to ignore it. He shook his head, slowly to keep from making it start spinning again. It felt like it was threatening to do so, and he didn't want that to return. "No, I'm not lying," He tried to explain. "That isn't my horse.." That probably didn't sound very good on his behalf, and he tried to further explain, "It's my brother's horse.. I was..a little confused, when I left." That was an understatement, of course... and he couldn't actually quite recall why he had Mael instead of Gaeroch.

"Alas, that is part of the problem; there are too few of us," He answered in agreement. "In fact, my brother and I have, thus far, only met one other ranger in the years we've been doing this. There are others, but they are scarce... And it seems the bandits and the orcs are constantly growing in number. We do what we can, but..." He shrugged. Trying to think through this headache was becoming increasingly more difficult, but he hadn't forgotten that he still had not found Bel. "Safe places? There are a few. There's an inn just a short wa.." He paused, realizing he was about to point her in the direction of the inn, without knowing what direction he was even facing. He looked around a bit blankly. The realization that he was completely lost right now suddenly hit him, and he wasn't sure how that had happened. "I...I just came from there. Where's the road?" He looked around in further confusion as it dawned on him at last that he was nowhere near a road, or at least, he couldn't see a road anywhere nearby.

[Raisins]

@Rillewen
Umoya
A few hour's ride from the Forsaken Inn, a long ways from the road (or a very long days walk)
TA 3014

"Dongo messin up yer face at me, watched ye lan on yer face long enough ago dat 'orse be yer 'orse ye riding belong to yer brodder or not it yers righ now." She said shaking her head honestly she had seen the Inn with the fire coming from its run down chimney, honestly she'd thought it was likely filled to the brim with bandits which while she was an outlaw in this land as it were even if she'd not done anything yet... She had every intention of making the fight in the east easier for her kin, and if getting rid of a few more rangers was how she could do that then so be it. She knew where the Inn was even if he clearly didn't have a clue where he was. She signed. How much information could she really get from a lost ranger? Not a terrible lot. She was pretty certain that she'd gotten all she could from him at this point as he tried to decide which way the Inn was. There was another ranger there wounded perhaps she should slip back and dispatch them as well.

No that was a terrible idea there were other people in the Inn here at least with this fool she was alone, nobody would know it was her for all they knew it could be bandits that stripped him of his goods and left him dead in the woods if anyone ever found them. The road was a long ways off at this point. "De road? Dere is no road anywhere near here I do begettin de suspicion dat you be more dan a little confused when ye left." Her hand which had been near the medicine pouch at her hip slipped a bit further back as he looked around in confusion towards her dagger.

[Ercassie]

Fire and Ice – Part 2


‘Feeling broken, barely holding on,
but there's just something so strong, somewhere inside me
and I am down, but I'll get up again.
Don't count me out just yet …

I've been brought down to my knees
and I've been pushed, way past the point of breaking.
But I can take it. I'll be back, back on my feet.
This is far from over.

You haven't seen the last of me ...’

(Lyrics from ‘The Last of Me’, by Cher)




Feapoldie Aiwenariel with her brother Tirindo Aiwenarion
Crossing the Helcaraxe

The world lay numb and blindingly argent. Feapoldie toiled with the lifting of her eyelids, an act that had become as strenuous as raising a portcullis. And each time she bordered upon success, she would wince at the resplendent glare of the unblemished wonder all about; withdrawing with urgency back into her small, far safer sanctuary of dark oblivion.

She toyed with the notion of no longer taking up defiance. Her spirit seemed as though entombed, the once glamorous body she had once so unashamedly promoted was a suffocating crypt. She could not manipulate her own limbs into wakefulness, much less command them to move. Her brother's head lay at her shoulder, his almighty arms encasing her still in his bear-like grasp. She could not compel his dead weight to shift any more than she could master her own body. If she ultimately stretched and struggled, she could touch one of her side-lain legs with her left hand. But the limb felt no longer a part of her. She might as well have been stroking at a snow-encrusted log of wood beside her.

Her eyes shifted without hindrance in their sockets, that she was awarded a better rounded understanding of the state of things. As much that she wished she were not. For it seemed at first that she were captive to some twisted contortion of memory. The circled throng of statues that surrounded them. Just like in the sculptor's courtyard where she and Sarnirion had ....
Fea's train of thought arrested as she painfully acknowledged the distinction. The statues here were just as lifelike as those they had once danced around and threatened at the height of swordplay. Just as still and silent, just as though they once had lived but had become trapped forever in time. But the artisan of their conception was no Elf, not even a skilled Noldo of Aulean influence. Death had gripped the whole Aiwenare family within his vice-like grasp. It seemed to Fea then that her own end was so inevitable. For how could she hope to live when all others had not ? Why would she even look to ? Fea's flickered vision observed her mother, and father, ... everyone that had loved her and followed her .... dead. Frozen. The blizzard had claimed all.

Slow but surely, an uncultivated scream erupted deep inside, and forced it's passage through her throat. But by the time it reached the surface, broke through bald and splitting lips, there was only a small squeak to make amusement for the scornful wind.

This slight though, of her marginally warmer breath, caused Tirindo to stir within his own personal congealment. The grey flint of his eyes forced through the rim of frost-bourne lashes, in the gentle ripple of arousing consciousness. He made as though to startle but found he could not. He sought to strengthen his hold on his little sister, and found that the pain of tearing even an inch from where he had fused his bare hands about her now woke searing pain. He glanced into her wan face, and took on his miseries as his own, in the moments that they came apparent. Fea's blue eyes widened with surprise and hope. Not all were dead. Not yet. Might be that together, ... a muted summons heralded in the back of the elleth's mind, as though the very notion of survival had nurtured suggestion to tease her. Somebody was calling out her name.

Glancing with great urgency toward her brother, Fea willed him to know her unspoken thought. Did he hear the herald of potential rescue ? Tirindo blinked with deliberate intention. Fea would have smiled if her face possessed the means. She could hear for all that she could not make them hear her. Folks, friends perhaps, who must have found the family's abandoned camp. Now that the (most recent) storm had ceased. It was time to move on. Always onwards, never backward. It was dangerous to stall ..


"Call out," her heart bade her in silent demand, and the rest of her blinked, surprised to conceive of the thought. The art of ósanwe was a thing little practiced in such days even amongst Elves; except in times of great urgency. It is said that the means of communication, from the one mind to the next, possessed the greatest strength within bonds of familarity and kinship. It had little occurred to Fea, even now, the potential for such a custom.

The greater potential at hand was for the resuers to pass them by, oblivious. Fea saw it conceived in her thoughts. Their small stoned-throng was so encrusted by snow about it's borders, any could believe the mound no more than yet another snow bank. But fortune was, belatedly, bestowed upon them, or perhaps it was cruelty, to bring them to the point of end and then haul back. The celebration was smothered by a sheen of low cognition. Shouts, and whoops and calls for more assistance rang out, as the truth was revealed. The Elves even then were hampered about their efforts by due diligence in awarding the dead respect. They could not, should not, willingly smash through the glacial forms of their one-time associates. On the other hand, the two young Elves yet breathing at their centre, did not have much time before the stabbing cold utterly penetrated all of their bodily resistance. The salvation party worked with finesse and great urgency, to finally liberate the near-frozen pair from their icy catacomb of frozen kin.

If Fea felt inclined to battle when her saviour lifted her, nigh lifeless from the brink of death, her protests were robbed by the sight of her great tall form of a brother, huddled just as frail as a child in the arms of another, close by. Thus bourne away from such proximity to death, they hastened back toward the main camps, where the host had wisely gathered near an overhang that had warded off much of the wind. Still many small gatherings of folk had undergone sore trial through the night. The Aiwenare family were not the only ones to have endured great loss. All about, those Elves less affected by this latest wintry tirade tended to the needs of those less fortunate.


******

Strange it felt soonafter for the siblings, to be sat aside serene. Safe from shivers, wrapped in all there was to hand. Her pale face more so against the burning russet of her hair. Fea shook the furs and blankets aside, unwilling to be so cocooned as she had been by the cool frost. Tirindo was of another mind however. He had given orders to dismantle the mocking and grandiose Aiwenare encampment and distribute all they could neither carry nor make use of themselves, to others who were of lesser well-financed a family. Money or nobility was no longer a currency that mattered to any. Still the smallest survivor pouted to lose sight and grasp of all that remained of her kin. Her brother would heed not her tears nor even the less mild objections. For they alone could not make good use of all that their clan had relied on. Other Elves might live longer for the gift of a dead Elf's wrap. It would not serve the dead any at all, except that if they knew and saw, and approved of the kindness. That their deaths should not have been in vain.



It was more than Fea could bear though, as Tirindo laid claim to their late father's mighty bow and quiver. She turned from sight of his efforts in horror, certain he should snap their father's frozen fingers off, to entangle his most cherished weapon. As her brother rose with success from the delicate undertaking, Fea had commenced with striding, ... hobbling, .. at no great speed for all the prideful glance about her porcelain features. She would neither speak nor look at anyone. Only when she wandered too far from their party for her own good did her brother call her back to rejoin their gathering.

“You give away all that we are and were !” she commenced with berating.

“All that we need not,” he countered coolly.

“You need your means of war ?" she could not let him have the weapon without spite. "And forbid me the merest comfort of a book or dress ? Something to remember ..” a sniff stole the end of her sentence. Still it would have made small difference.

“We are at war,” Tiri reminded her, a hand held out to lead his little sister back unto the fold. She shook him off and almost fell, but shot a glare like lightning when he tried to help her rise. Rather ungracefully, she resumed herself, and started hobbling anew. "Wander not so errant," her brother called out in her wake. And when that did not stall her .. "Feapoldie ! How many more are you intent to see know ruin in their want to keep you safe ?"


Furiously heartbroken at his insinuation, Feapoldie held still a time to proper subdue her wrath. Hate and need and fury and pain all welled up within like a great fireball, just waiting to be unleashed. An icy inferno had leapt up about her heart and mind, that no act of love or compassion such as he might offer her could thaw.

[Rillewen]

@Raisins

Gladhron (Suffering from a serious concussion)
A few hour's ride from the Forsaken Inn, a long ways from the road
TA 3014

Gladhron held back a sigh; she didn't quite understand that he had meant that his sword was on his OWN horse, not the horse he was riding. He decided not to worsen his headache by trying to explain it again, though it troubled him that she seemed convinced he was lying. Perhaps it wasn't quite true to say the sword was on his horse, when he did remember (or at least thought he remembered) having it when he arrived at the inn. But he wasn't about to admit that he absolutely forgot to make sure he had his sword when he set out, that was downright embarrassing.

The woman stated something along the lines that he was more than 'a little' confused, or at least that's what he thought she'd said. He managed a weak smile. "Yes, I suppose I was." He tried to straighten up, trying to pretend he was much better now, though his head was actually starting to feel worse again. Still, the news that the road was a long ways off made him frown. "How far away is it?" The stuff she'd given him was beginning to wear off, he thought, and he wanted to find Bel before it did. "Would you guide me back there? Perhaps I can still find some way to better repay you for your kindness, since I was unable to give you the answers you wanted." He added, hoping that was all the questions she wanted to have answers to.

"I think, however, that I've spent too much time here, when I ought to have been searching for the young lady." The still-wounded young man went on, deciding to test his balance by trying to move away from the tree, toward the horse. He swayed slightly the moment he stopped leaning on the tree, but with effort, managed to stay upright. Now, if he could just get Mael to stand still long enough for him to get on, and then... not fall off again. He tried calling the mare to him, but she merely twisted her ears briefly toward the sound, then ignored him in favor of whatever she was munching on a short distance away. Sighing, he managed a few careful steps toward her, oblivious that the woman who had helped him was now reaching for a knife with which to kill him..

[Raisins]

@Rillewen
Umoya
A few hour's ride from the Forsaken Inn, a long ways from the road (or a very long days walk)
TA 3014

The man, she decided had the mental capacity of a rock. And she was starting to think that that was terribly insulting to rocks. as she followed letting him stumble past her towards the horse his attention fully on it. Umoya for her part let him pass by so that she could see where the horse was. She did not know this horse but she knew of steeds from Rohan now trained to fight to defend their masters, this was not their master but she did not want her back to the beast when she did finally attack. He was right beside her when she spoke again.

"I don't think you will be looking for her at all." She said the accent gone, a ploy to disarm him and her face went from what it had been to hard and cold, the change in her stance everything went from feminine to that of a fighter and she swung her arm fast and hard right towards the rangers currently exposed back knowing even if he did fight he would not have the strength stamina or fitness to continue fighting for terribly long.