What our hearts remember stays [Nazgul!Adan]
Jan 15, 2018 23:20:39 GMT -5
Post by Wyn on Jan 15, 2018 23:20:39 GMT -5
She bristled slightly, fists clenching. I've never forgotten what they've done, Adan. She doubted she ever would, seeing as the memory of it had been carved into her damn face. Beyond perhaps fear, Wyn knew hate better than any other emotion. It was hatred and spite for her enemies that had given her the strength to survive all these years. She loathed the uruk for what they had done, and few things would have brought her greater joy than to see them eradicated. To steal their minds was a different kind of cruelty, however, one that she wasn't sure she had the stomach for--even if enslaving orcs would be a sort of poetic justice, given her circumstances. If they and she had one thing in common, it was that they would have rather died then be broken. No matter how strong her hatred, though, to hear those words coming from Adan, a man she had come to know as a compassionate, gentle soul, was unsettling. She was supposed to be the violent, spiteful, half-feral one between them.
Don't say that, she pressed at his lamentations, drawing her arms about herself. She wasn't sure whether the motion stemmed from a desire to reassure herself, or to find some way to hug Adan protectively. You're still an elf, no matter what lies they tried to put in your head. The events of the day had begun to take their toll on her, and exhaustion was plain in every inch of her body. But as she spoke, she seemed to push off that weariness, her internal voice taking on a hard edge. In Mordor, there's always going to be someone trying to push you down, whether that's one slave bullying another off their rations, an orc kicking you to the ground, or some damned shadowy abomination trying to break your mind and make you think you're something you're not. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that you can't ever, ever let them win over you. You fight tooth and nail for your right to exist, you deny them any authority they think they might have over you. And if it leads you to an early grave, well. She snorted humorlessly. Wasn't like anyone or anything ever came out of Mordor that was worth a damn. At the very least, death would be an escape from it all. Hell, you and I may not even have to worry about that now.
Thinking of what Adan had been through had been enough to set embers of rage simmering in her guts. Experiencing those memories herself stirred up a violent, feral emotion that she could only describe as the urge both to tear out a foe's throat and to run for her life--equal parts fury and terror. She froze, grimacing, her hands clenching into fists until the visions passed. Phantom prickles of pain continued to run down her back and limbs, echoing the agonies the elf had endured. Pain was nothing new to her, but there was a world of difference between wounds sustained in combat and those deliberately inflicted for the sole purpose of torture. She heard him apologize, sounding almost frightened. "Don't," she muttered quietly, rubbing her wrists in an effort to dispel the memory of shackles cutting into her (his? their?) flesh. She seemed to deliberate on it for a moment before sighing in resignation. "We'll go to the dungeon they had you in. If we have to break an uruk or two, I'd wager the ones most deserving of it would be found there."
Don't say that, she pressed at his lamentations, drawing her arms about herself. She wasn't sure whether the motion stemmed from a desire to reassure herself, or to find some way to hug Adan protectively. You're still an elf, no matter what lies they tried to put in your head. The events of the day had begun to take their toll on her, and exhaustion was plain in every inch of her body. But as she spoke, she seemed to push off that weariness, her internal voice taking on a hard edge. In Mordor, there's always going to be someone trying to push you down, whether that's one slave bullying another off their rations, an orc kicking you to the ground, or some damned shadowy abomination trying to break your mind and make you think you're something you're not. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that you can't ever, ever let them win over you. You fight tooth and nail for your right to exist, you deny them any authority they think they might have over you. And if it leads you to an early grave, well. She snorted humorlessly. Wasn't like anyone or anything ever came out of Mordor that was worth a damn. At the very least, death would be an escape from it all. Hell, you and I may not even have to worry about that now.
Thinking of what Adan had been through had been enough to set embers of rage simmering in her guts. Experiencing those memories herself stirred up a violent, feral emotion that she could only describe as the urge both to tear out a foe's throat and to run for her life--equal parts fury and terror. She froze, grimacing, her hands clenching into fists until the visions passed. Phantom prickles of pain continued to run down her back and limbs, echoing the agonies the elf had endured. Pain was nothing new to her, but there was a world of difference between wounds sustained in combat and those deliberately inflicted for the sole purpose of torture. She heard him apologize, sounding almost frightened. "Don't," she muttered quietly, rubbing her wrists in an effort to dispel the memory of shackles cutting into her (his? their?) flesh. She seemed to deliberate on it for a moment before sighing in resignation. "We'll go to the dungeon they had you in. If we have to break an uruk or two, I'd wager the ones most deserving of it would be found there."