Nin Emil Nalú, My Heart Weeps (July 3010) {Saeros}
Apr 11, 2018 20:55:43 GMT -5
Post by AMARIË on Apr 11, 2018 20:55:43 GMT -5
Amarië sat upon the branch for some moments after he spoke, her eyes looking straight ahead through the branches and leaves of the tree and beyond to the darkness. Still ringing in her mind was the way in which Saeros had spoken to her thus of the dream. His voice had been that of the days before, no tone of harshness, and almost music. It had seemed young, and his words were a wonder. There had been a time, long ago, when she had dreamed of the child, dark of hair, born beneath the boughs of the dark forest. Adanedhel; her dream had come to pass, and though Amarië had dreamed visions of seeing the western shores of Arda and the harbors, she had never yet seen the gardens of Aman in her waking sleep.
It was also since the birth of Adanedhel; since Saeros had turned away from them again, that she did not dare seek to look forward in dreams, only willing those of the past, of times and places which were safe. So often did she seek the forests of Doriath in her dreams, it was sometimes dreams came unwillingly of the towering waves crashing over greenery and blackened abyss. Amarië's dream seeking was half solace, and half torture, though the good memories were worth reliving the times of tribulation.
She had voiced her request, and with no hesitation her husband had begun to move from his place. Amarië avoided his look, watching only the shadows move through the scattered leaves and the shifting of his form as he took to the higher branch from the corner of her eye. She felt the branch she sat upon sway only slightly from the added weight, though it was sturdy and made no groanings for the new elf upon it.
“You can lay against me and rest as we once did… you will be more comfortable.”
She looked toward Saeros, in the shadowy starlight, simply casting eyes on his torso, his shoulder, his tousled golden hair, yet not looking to meet his eyes, and she slid nearer to him on the branch, nearer yet. She had all but asked it of him, and he had with no question ceded to rise to her branch, when he might have decided to stay below. Amarië waited, then slid sideways upon the branch until there was no more than a small breadth between them, her ankles were locked together falling over one side of the branch, and her knee pressed against one of his legs. Her eyes fixed upon the black leather of his shoulders, until they finally rose up to meet his, a few inches between them.
His eyes were Doriath. The emerald green had never faded as the forests had, and she could see it within them. Her trees, their trees, him.
“You saw Adanedhel in your dream,” she whispered. It was not so much a question, but statement. Of the words he had spoken Amarië could think of many questions, and she wished to see what Saeros had seen. Of what did the gardens look like? Were the trees as beautiful as those of Doriath? Did his parents look upon them with kind eyes? The elfling… was it her Adanedhel's or… her own?
Though, the ache of her missing son was closest to her mind, and the emotion which Saeros had drawn forth from her was causing the steel determination that had been about her while she ran to ebb and hover above grief.
“You think he is alive.” She watched Saeros eyes as she spoke, having been unable to see him the first time he had stated it. “A fine blade you say? You have always called him weak. What do you mean by it?” Her tone of voice was now less accusatory, though questioning.
Amarië herself did not truly know her son's skill. She could not bear to watch Adanedhel in his training, to see Saeros inflict such bodily harm upon him. Seeing him return after he had been thrown to the ground was more than enough. Listening to the way Saeros would speak harshly his words even while they were within their chambers; she could not bear to hear it upon the training grounds, while he held weapon against him. To see the way her son; whom she had been trusted by the Valar to raise, and brought forth from her own flesh… and his..., would be treated beneath the hands of his Adar.
Amarië inched nearer slowly, almost hesitantly. She was not without purpose though, even as she had been earlier. The side of her hip now rested against Saeros, and she dropped her right hand back behind her, to rest upon his thigh. Amarië's face was straight, though her eyes had not left those of her husband. “Are you truly proud of him, Saeros? Is it as you have said?” she asked quietly, raising her left hand slowly to touch upon the corner of her husband's mouth. She could see were she had marred his lip, the dingy smear of blood gathered in the corner. Her hand was gentle upon him as if to make up for earlier fury. Fury, some of which, he had deserved, though perhaps. Not all. Not if he were speaking true.
Her finger tips trailed lightly his jaw and then to Saeros' cheek, where the grime of earth was flecked, and the blood of wolf was still upon him. Though it was once that Amarië might have memorized the feel of her husband's face, it had been centuries since she had allowed herself to draw near and touch him, always fearing rejection which she could not bear. Now her fingers grazed the shortened fringes of his hair, knowing it was likely by swipe of her own blade that they were caused, and she brushed them back behind his ear.
His ear, now visible to her, fair skin upon it under starlight, she brushed her fingertips along the ridge of it, grazing over the tip, pausing. She would know if he was lying in answer. Saeros could not lie without her knowing, for certain; after thousands of years, he could not control the blush of his ears, and it had not been without purpose that she had exposed it to her sight. Unneeded for her purpose however was the way her fingers coursed over the back of his ear, down his neck, and her hand gripped lightly on his leg, touching him in the way he had once been hers to touch before their long years of war together.
If Adanedhel was out there, she knew intrinsically, she had better chance of finding him with Saeros with her, than without. He had been for years her partner; they were eyes for each other, ears for each other, had covered each other's backs and never allowed the other to be taken unawares. If one had been wounded, the other had stood their guard, and neither had allowed the other to fall. If he truly wished to follow, she would not send Saeros away. She did not think she could send Saeros away, for he had followed her this far already.
Though, she still she doubted his words. It was by his words that Adanedhel had felt the need to flee the Elvenking's halls. How hollow they seemed after years of hearing otherwise. Amarië would know the truth, and she would never let Saeros wound his son by words again.
It was also since the birth of Adanedhel; since Saeros had turned away from them again, that she did not dare seek to look forward in dreams, only willing those of the past, of times and places which were safe. So often did she seek the forests of Doriath in her dreams, it was sometimes dreams came unwillingly of the towering waves crashing over greenery and blackened abyss. Amarië's dream seeking was half solace, and half torture, though the good memories were worth reliving the times of tribulation.
She had voiced her request, and with no hesitation her husband had begun to move from his place. Amarië avoided his look, watching only the shadows move through the scattered leaves and the shifting of his form as he took to the higher branch from the corner of her eye. She felt the branch she sat upon sway only slightly from the added weight, though it was sturdy and made no groanings for the new elf upon it.
“You can lay against me and rest as we once did… you will be more comfortable.”
She looked toward Saeros, in the shadowy starlight, simply casting eyes on his torso, his shoulder, his tousled golden hair, yet not looking to meet his eyes, and she slid nearer to him on the branch, nearer yet. She had all but asked it of him, and he had with no question ceded to rise to her branch, when he might have decided to stay below. Amarië waited, then slid sideways upon the branch until there was no more than a small breadth between them, her ankles were locked together falling over one side of the branch, and her knee pressed against one of his legs. Her eyes fixed upon the black leather of his shoulders, until they finally rose up to meet his, a few inches between them.
His eyes were Doriath. The emerald green had never faded as the forests had, and she could see it within them. Her trees, their trees, him.
“You saw Adanedhel in your dream,” she whispered. It was not so much a question, but statement. Of the words he had spoken Amarië could think of many questions, and she wished to see what Saeros had seen. Of what did the gardens look like? Were the trees as beautiful as those of Doriath? Did his parents look upon them with kind eyes? The elfling… was it her Adanedhel's or… her own?
Though, the ache of her missing son was closest to her mind, and the emotion which Saeros had drawn forth from her was causing the steel determination that had been about her while she ran to ebb and hover above grief.
“You think he is alive.” She watched Saeros eyes as she spoke, having been unable to see him the first time he had stated it. “A fine blade you say? You have always called him weak. What do you mean by it?” Her tone of voice was now less accusatory, though questioning.
Amarië herself did not truly know her son's skill. She could not bear to watch Adanedhel in his training, to see Saeros inflict such bodily harm upon him. Seeing him return after he had been thrown to the ground was more than enough. Listening to the way Saeros would speak harshly his words even while they were within their chambers; she could not bear to hear it upon the training grounds, while he held weapon against him. To see the way her son; whom she had been trusted by the Valar to raise, and brought forth from her own flesh… and his..., would be treated beneath the hands of his Adar.
Amarië inched nearer slowly, almost hesitantly. She was not without purpose though, even as she had been earlier. The side of her hip now rested against Saeros, and she dropped her right hand back behind her, to rest upon his thigh. Amarië's face was straight, though her eyes had not left those of her husband. “Are you truly proud of him, Saeros? Is it as you have said?” she asked quietly, raising her left hand slowly to touch upon the corner of her husband's mouth. She could see were she had marred his lip, the dingy smear of blood gathered in the corner. Her hand was gentle upon him as if to make up for earlier fury. Fury, some of which, he had deserved, though perhaps. Not all. Not if he were speaking true.
Her finger tips trailed lightly his jaw and then to Saeros' cheek, where the grime of earth was flecked, and the blood of wolf was still upon him. Though it was once that Amarië might have memorized the feel of her husband's face, it had been centuries since she had allowed herself to draw near and touch him, always fearing rejection which she could not bear. Now her fingers grazed the shortened fringes of his hair, knowing it was likely by swipe of her own blade that they were caused, and she brushed them back behind his ear.
His ear, now visible to her, fair skin upon it under starlight, she brushed her fingertips along the ridge of it, grazing over the tip, pausing. She would know if he was lying in answer. Saeros could not lie without her knowing, for certain; after thousands of years, he could not control the blush of his ears, and it had not been without purpose that she had exposed it to her sight. Unneeded for her purpose however was the way her fingers coursed over the back of his ear, down his neck, and her hand gripped lightly on his leg, touching him in the way he had once been hers to touch before their long years of war together.
If Adanedhel was out there, she knew intrinsically, she had better chance of finding him with Saeros with her, than without. He had been for years her partner; they were eyes for each other, ears for each other, had covered each other's backs and never allowed the other to be taken unawares. If one had been wounded, the other had stood their guard, and neither had allowed the other to fall. If he truly wished to follow, she would not send Saeros away. She did not think she could send Saeros away, for he had followed her this far already.
Though, she still she doubted his words. It was by his words that Adanedhel had felt the need to flee the Elvenking's halls. How hollow they seemed after years of hearing otherwise. Amarië would know the truth, and she would never let Saeros wound his son by words again.