Nin Emil Nalú, My Heart Weeps (July 3010) {Saeros}
Mar 29, 2018 21:31:08 GMT -5
Post by AMARIË on Mar 29, 2018 21:31:08 GMT -5
Amarië had listened. Her lips had been silent now for days as she awaited word of the host; the defenders of the realm had left the great gates of the underground city to patrol the eastern borders of the Long Lake. Adanedhel had pledged his service to Thranduil as a warrior of the Elvenking, as his Father before him.
Within, Amarië's heart was of cold stone. She had encouraged him, in something which he did not desire; and what for? In hopes that Saeros would finally have some passion, some feeling for his own son. The blood of his blood. “And blood of my blood,” Amarië whispered to herself. It was her own fault. She had encouraged him to go, when she knew he did not wish to. He had only gone to appease Saeros. One last stitch effort. Her son had waited all the years for his Adar to look upon him with pride. To tell him that he was loved; that he had wanted him. To let him know his worth.
Amarië could tell her son that he was of the same worth as the Silmarils. As the Lamps of the Valar. As Telperion and Laurelin themselves, yet the great love she had for her son, her elfling, could still not fill the gaping hole that Saeros had left within him.
She was making for her chambers in the dim, glowing light of the caverns. It was late, and her eyes had no more tears to shed this day. When word from the Captains of the guard reached them that one had gone missing. When she heard the name. Adanedhel. Her heart had shattered. For once Amarië had hastened to her husband in his own chambers. She had cried in front of Saeros, begged, and pleaded that he drop whatever duties he had and go to search for him.
"He is no longer an elfling, Stop worrying after him."
His answer rang in her ears.
They had been attacked by orcs; too many to account for, yet there had been no body. Simply vanished. Her sweet son who loved the trees and the forest creatures, who would sing with her and pluck flowers from the leafy glades with her when the days had been not so dark. Her son, she had loved from his moment of conception. Her love had never dwindled, only grown stronger over the years.
Amarië clutched in her hand black cords. They were the last things she needed, and she stepped silently into her chambers, lighting one of the torches upon her wall.
She chanced a look to the side door; the ornate archway which led to Saeros' own chambers. A room she never dared to set foot in herself. The door was shut, as always, yet never locked. She had left it unlatched through the years, given some frail hope that things could be what they once had been. He had entered through that stone archway once; just once in all their years dwelling in the realm of the Elvenking.
There were times when Amarië could look toward that door and remember; the creak of rusted hinge and the draft of cool air that had made way past her loom to touch her, the warmth of hands upon her skin, a golden river of hair cascading, and eyes which could bring her back to summertime in the lush, green forests of Doriath.
She closed her eyes now, seeking what she had, which was memories alone, but there was nothing left. No feeling. She could not remember it. She could feel nothing but ache and pain. Hope was gone. It had been killed along with the disappearance of their son. Their sweet son.
“Your son,” her husband's voice reminded her. “I did not want a son.”
Amarië felt the heave of her chest, and crossed the room, silently drawing the bar between their doors. She had nothing left for Saeros.
Her son. Nobody loved him like she did. He had never known the love of his Adar and in seeking it, he had been lost. It was now upon Amarië
She clutched the cords in hand, looking to them for a moment, remembering the feel, and went to her closet, pushing beyond her silken dresses, her feast ware, her robes and winter garments. In the back hung her long bow, right where it had been left. Just as it had been left. The old cord withered and clinging to the frame, split in two where she had taken knife to it many years past. She breathed in for an instant, then reached for it. There was no time to waste.
Taking the bow to her bed Amarië loosed the old cords and begin to restring it. Her fingers held the memory, and the job was done quickly. Returning to the closet, her silken gown fell in a heap, and she found her travel clothes; leggings and a tunic. Opening her chest, she sought her light armor. She wondered yet if there would be anything left of it, anything worth salvaging, after all these hundreds of years it may have worn away to dust within, but there it was. Each piece ready, sturdy, and leather supple and oiled as if it were tended to and replaced over the years.
Amarië hesitated, not wishing to think on it, though glanced across her room to the barred door, and then donned the armor. It fit perfectly to her form, as it always had. Nothing had changed. Cloaked in green, she kicked her dress to the side, fitted into her boots, picked up her small satchel packed earlier, and her fingers wavered above her bow and quiver before grasping. She doused her torch, and departed the Elvenking's Halls, face resolute, but heart weeping.
Amarië could hear the howl of far off wolves, though she stepped as quietly through the forest as any of the young Captains. Silent movements, and all scents washed from her, her clear eyes sought under starlight in the thinning eaves of the forest. She had not yet rested. I was to the Northern reaches of the forest she had tracked where the surviving guard had returned; where news had come that her son had vanished in the fray of retreating orc. She had passed by some of the guard, though had gone far enough as to not be noticed. Amarië had no time for foolish questions, nor time to be dissuaded by another who understood not her mission.
When the trees broke away overhead, and she stepped out into the grasslands, the sky opened up. Dawn was on the horizon; the last stars twinkling and singing above; the pink clouds floating. Far off on distant landscape the Lonely Mountain standing silent. The call of birds before the break of day. Amarië gasped; the first sound she had uttered in the hours of the night.
The turned earth was below her feet in dim light. Boot prints, orc prints. Resolute, elf eyes searched the ground. There was spilled blood. Black of orc, and deep red of elf, yet no carnage, save that of orc and warg which had been left in hasty retreat upon the ground. No fallen elf. Yet Adan had been here; she knew; he would not desert his host.
Bent grass trailed away from the edges of forest. This was where the elves had let them go. Thranduil did not wish them to fight their battles outside of the realm, and the Captains would not trace orcs beyond. Amarië glanced back towards the depths of dark forest, and then her eyes flickered east toward the dawn, and she ran. The trail was easy to trace. A slight east, and ever south.
Sixty five hundred years. It had not been since the first age that she had departed a realm without Saeros by her side. He had been within reach since the day she her family had taken refuge in Menegroth. Now was the time to go without. Her need for Saeros was long spent, and what skill she had learned in long years of warfare was within her.
Bow in hand, she began to run, fleet of foot; following easy trail. Her black hair flew behind her, and though Amarië felt her strength again, she also felt spent. Her heart ached, and no step onward could ease the parting. She knew her son had been taken, and she refused to wait for news when something could be done; when there was still time to trace the orc.
Dawn came, and Amarië continued southward, on, and on, through morning, mid-day, and afternoon, she ran and the tension grew in her chest. Mirkwood was still to her flank on the west. The River Running to the east. She would go as long as her feet would bear her onward and not rest until her body demanded the dream sleep. The first night had gone and the second one came, and still by light of moon, Amarië could see the trail. Southward they went. The heavy gate of laden orc was unmistakeable. The print of warg.
The river veered in the night, yet the orc tracks continued southward, and Amarië paused at water's edge to take one last drink of water, and it was there at the riverbank the print of warg wandered near, for it seemed the orc had the same idea, yet there in the tried earth at the riverbank she saw the crushed grass of something which had been dropped, and rolled, and beneath it a print of hand. Perhaps left behind by some delicate, slender fingered orc, though Amarië had her doubts, and spreading her own fingers near, she saw that it was only slightly larger than her own. Her eyes were steel as she looked to it, and Amarië pressed her own hand against the imprint, a sob in here throat. Then, she stood, invigorated and continued the trail. Through night, and again through day. Southward and onward, looking for hint as she ran.
The third night came, and Amarië grew in weariness and lonliness, running her course and knowing that she needed stop and rest. Her dream sleep was whispering to her, her mind sometimes turning to vision even as she ran on her feet; though if she continued as she was she would run dreaming. She could miss the trail. A few hours would be enough for her, and then she would trace the footsteps further. Into the next day. The next week. As long as she needed to, until she came upon the orcs pack to fair or fell ending.
The countryside rolled; the dark edge of Mirkwood still aside for the miles she had run, one hundred, two hundred, three hunded. By the middle of the night the forest broke away to the west and Amarië knew she was passing through the East Bight, where the woodmen had logged away a portion of the forest. Rotten stumps were humming out their miseries to her, but she continued following the trail southward, and when the rolling hills once more gave way to scattered trees past the Bight, she stopped. It was midnight and she could run no longer. There was a sound of wolves far off, and Amarië made careful to hide all sign of her tracks and trails, and bow now ever in hand she sought a lofty oak and climbed upward. There was none to take the watch for her save the oak tree, and into it's arms she climbed, settling upon a branch, and taking one last look around before she cradled herself in it's grasp, and released her breath. The stars were above her, and she watched them, until her vision blurred with tears, and they swirled and danced above while Amarië entered her wearied dream sleep.
Within, Amarië's heart was of cold stone. She had encouraged him, in something which he did not desire; and what for? In hopes that Saeros would finally have some passion, some feeling for his own son. The blood of his blood. “And blood of my blood,” Amarië whispered to herself. It was her own fault. She had encouraged him to go, when she knew he did not wish to. He had only gone to appease Saeros. One last stitch effort. Her son had waited all the years for his Adar to look upon him with pride. To tell him that he was loved; that he had wanted him. To let him know his worth.
Amarië could tell her son that he was of the same worth as the Silmarils. As the Lamps of the Valar. As Telperion and Laurelin themselves, yet the great love she had for her son, her elfling, could still not fill the gaping hole that Saeros had left within him.
She was making for her chambers in the dim, glowing light of the caverns. It was late, and her eyes had no more tears to shed this day. When word from the Captains of the guard reached them that one had gone missing. When she heard the name. Adanedhel. Her heart had shattered. For once Amarië had hastened to her husband in his own chambers. She had cried in front of Saeros, begged, and pleaded that he drop whatever duties he had and go to search for him.
"He is no longer an elfling, Stop worrying after him."
His answer rang in her ears.
They had been attacked by orcs; too many to account for, yet there had been no body. Simply vanished. Her sweet son who loved the trees and the forest creatures, who would sing with her and pluck flowers from the leafy glades with her when the days had been not so dark. Her son, she had loved from his moment of conception. Her love had never dwindled, only grown stronger over the years.
Amarië clutched in her hand black cords. They were the last things she needed, and she stepped silently into her chambers, lighting one of the torches upon her wall.
She chanced a look to the side door; the ornate archway which led to Saeros' own chambers. A room she never dared to set foot in herself. The door was shut, as always, yet never locked. She had left it unlatched through the years, given some frail hope that things could be what they once had been. He had entered through that stone archway once; just once in all their years dwelling in the realm of the Elvenking.
There were times when Amarië could look toward that door and remember; the creak of rusted hinge and the draft of cool air that had made way past her loom to touch her, the warmth of hands upon her skin, a golden river of hair cascading, and eyes which could bring her back to summertime in the lush, green forests of Doriath.
She closed her eyes now, seeking what she had, which was memories alone, but there was nothing left. No feeling. She could not remember it. She could feel nothing but ache and pain. Hope was gone. It had been killed along with the disappearance of their son. Their sweet son.
“Your son,” her husband's voice reminded her. “I did not want a son.”
Amarië felt the heave of her chest, and crossed the room, silently drawing the bar between their doors. She had nothing left for Saeros.
Her son. Nobody loved him like she did. He had never known the love of his Adar and in seeking it, he had been lost. It was now upon Amarië
She clutched the cords in hand, looking to them for a moment, remembering the feel, and went to her closet, pushing beyond her silken dresses, her feast ware, her robes and winter garments. In the back hung her long bow, right where it had been left. Just as it had been left. The old cord withered and clinging to the frame, split in two where she had taken knife to it many years past. She breathed in for an instant, then reached for it. There was no time to waste.
Taking the bow to her bed Amarië loosed the old cords and begin to restring it. Her fingers held the memory, and the job was done quickly. Returning to the closet, her silken gown fell in a heap, and she found her travel clothes; leggings and a tunic. Opening her chest, she sought her light armor. She wondered yet if there would be anything left of it, anything worth salvaging, after all these hundreds of years it may have worn away to dust within, but there it was. Each piece ready, sturdy, and leather supple and oiled as if it were tended to and replaced over the years.
Amarië hesitated, not wishing to think on it, though glanced across her room to the barred door, and then donned the armor. It fit perfectly to her form, as it always had. Nothing had changed. Cloaked in green, she kicked her dress to the side, fitted into her boots, picked up her small satchel packed earlier, and her fingers wavered above her bow and quiver before grasping. She doused her torch, and departed the Elvenking's Halls, face resolute, but heart weeping.
Amarië could hear the howl of far off wolves, though she stepped as quietly through the forest as any of the young Captains. Silent movements, and all scents washed from her, her clear eyes sought under starlight in the thinning eaves of the forest. She had not yet rested. I was to the Northern reaches of the forest she had tracked where the surviving guard had returned; where news had come that her son had vanished in the fray of retreating orc. She had passed by some of the guard, though had gone far enough as to not be noticed. Amarië had no time for foolish questions, nor time to be dissuaded by another who understood not her mission.
When the trees broke away overhead, and she stepped out into the grasslands, the sky opened up. Dawn was on the horizon; the last stars twinkling and singing above; the pink clouds floating. Far off on distant landscape the Lonely Mountain standing silent. The call of birds before the break of day. Amarië gasped; the first sound she had uttered in the hours of the night.
The turned earth was below her feet in dim light. Boot prints, orc prints. Resolute, elf eyes searched the ground. There was spilled blood. Black of orc, and deep red of elf, yet no carnage, save that of orc and warg which had been left in hasty retreat upon the ground. No fallen elf. Yet Adan had been here; she knew; he would not desert his host.
Bent grass trailed away from the edges of forest. This was where the elves had let them go. Thranduil did not wish them to fight their battles outside of the realm, and the Captains would not trace orcs beyond. Amarië glanced back towards the depths of dark forest, and then her eyes flickered east toward the dawn, and she ran. The trail was easy to trace. A slight east, and ever south.
Sixty five hundred years. It had not been since the first age that she had departed a realm without Saeros by her side. He had been within reach since the day she her family had taken refuge in Menegroth. Now was the time to go without. Her need for Saeros was long spent, and what skill she had learned in long years of warfare was within her.
Bow in hand, she began to run, fleet of foot; following easy trail. Her black hair flew behind her, and though Amarië felt her strength again, she also felt spent. Her heart ached, and no step onward could ease the parting. She knew her son had been taken, and she refused to wait for news when something could be done; when there was still time to trace the orc.
Dawn came, and Amarië continued southward, on, and on, through morning, mid-day, and afternoon, she ran and the tension grew in her chest. Mirkwood was still to her flank on the west. The River Running to the east. She would go as long as her feet would bear her onward and not rest until her body demanded the dream sleep. The first night had gone and the second one came, and still by light of moon, Amarië could see the trail. Southward they went. The heavy gate of laden orc was unmistakeable. The print of warg.
The river veered in the night, yet the orc tracks continued southward, and Amarië paused at water's edge to take one last drink of water, and it was there at the riverbank the print of warg wandered near, for it seemed the orc had the same idea, yet there in the tried earth at the riverbank she saw the crushed grass of something which had been dropped, and rolled, and beneath it a print of hand. Perhaps left behind by some delicate, slender fingered orc, though Amarië had her doubts, and spreading her own fingers near, she saw that it was only slightly larger than her own. Her eyes were steel as she looked to it, and Amarië pressed her own hand against the imprint, a sob in here throat. Then, she stood, invigorated and continued the trail. Through night, and again through day. Southward and onward, looking for hint as she ran.
The third night came, and Amarië grew in weariness and lonliness, running her course and knowing that she needed stop and rest. Her dream sleep was whispering to her, her mind sometimes turning to vision even as she ran on her feet; though if she continued as she was she would run dreaming. She could miss the trail. A few hours would be enough for her, and then she would trace the footsteps further. Into the next day. The next week. As long as she needed to, until she came upon the orcs pack to fair or fell ending.
The countryside rolled; the dark edge of Mirkwood still aside for the miles she had run, one hundred, two hundred, three hunded. By the middle of the night the forest broke away to the west and Amarië knew she was passing through the East Bight, where the woodmen had logged away a portion of the forest. Rotten stumps were humming out their miseries to her, but she continued following the trail southward, and when the rolling hills once more gave way to scattered trees past the Bight, she stopped. It was midnight and she could run no longer. There was a sound of wolves far off, and Amarië made careful to hide all sign of her tracks and trails, and bow now ever in hand she sought a lofty oak and climbed upward. There was none to take the watch for her save the oak tree, and into it's arms she climbed, settling upon a branch, and taking one last look around before she cradled herself in it's grasp, and released her breath. The stars were above her, and she watched them, until her vision blurred with tears, and they swirled and danced above while Amarië entered her wearied dream sleep.