Tilion's Watch (Balar, Spring 538 F.A.) {Mithiel}
May 12, 2018 22:05:52 GMT -5
Post by AMARIË on May 12, 2018 22:05:52 GMT -5
The young elleth stood upon the brink of the walkway, where the wall dropped off to the rocks and crashing waves below. Stars were already appearing in the sky surrounding a full moon, which had risen this day before even the full set of the sun as it was wont to do on occasion. Tilion had always been known as the least predictable of the two sky lights; sometimes wishing to cross paths with Arien and remain aloft at the same time.
The elleth, Nenien, who was not quite grown into herself wore the white gown of the healing houses, only affixed over one shoulder. The other shoulder, and her arm, was swaddled in light bandages now, and beneath her garment even more did the bandages wrap her. Healing took place, though pain along with it, and a dread in her heart which she could not shake.
After the sacking of Menegroth, she had become fearful; anxious. The dwarves first had come and taken her parents; and then a few years later the Fëanorians. Though she had escaped unscathed by the faithful hand of Saeros from the destruction of Menegroth; the wounds she bore from it were not physical. In Nargothrond she had been young yet; not twenty when they had departed; and the companions of her childhood whom had taught her many things in those years were later turned against her at Menegroth.
After Menegroth, she had yet Amariel, her sister. Later on, in Sirion, Saeros had also become family; and though he was young himself, his wisdom would he impart upon her through the years, yet never did she feel secure again, even living in the household of a warrior, for her Adar too had been one, and he too had been vanquished.
The years would pass in Sirion; stone halls upon the mouths of the river where they met the sea, and Nenien missed yet the safety of deep caverns. Indoors she would remain most days, looking out the great window of her home upon the shores of the sea; growing in the arts of painting and music, though not seeking the outdoors nor the trees as her sister would. She liked the security of walls.
Security had gone in the dark of night again when cities of Sirion were overrun by the army of the Fëanorians.
When several of the soldiers had entered their home, torches in hand, instead of fleeing for the doorway as she had been bidden, Nenien would make for her bedroom. She was chased there by one; his torch setting flame to the bed which she had crawled into in terrors. Saeros had let none stand against him, yet even when the body of Maglor's soldiers had fallen to the floor in his own blood, Nenien was screaming beneath the flaming blankets, burns overtaking her until Saeros and Amariel had wrenched her from them.
Amariel stood beside her now; her own hand was no longer wrapped from where it had been mangled in burns, skin still tender in regrowth, though healing much easier than the deep wounds her sister had taken. Though Amariel's skin had been pained by flame, her face had been plagued with ice since they had taken the ship to the Isle of Balar, and she held a gentle hand against her younger sister's shoulder sensing the arising anxiety beginning to bristle beneath Nenien's skin again. It was the first day she had been able to bid her walk from the chamber in the Houses of Healing where she had been since their arrival. The first moon of spring.
“It is he,” Nenien muttered under her breath, to her sister who was standing near. “I have told you, sister, it is he; the one with the flame hair. I have seen him in the halls.” Her voice was rising as she spoke; a panic scrambling through her chest at the sight.
Amariel's eyes turned upon the one who had caught the wide gaze of her younger sister, and she placed her hand upon Nenien's shoulder; an attempt to still her.
Regardless, Nenien continued. “I would not forget his face. One eye. He has one eye only. So pale. I remember… when he would come to speak with Tyelko and Curvo, in Nargothrond. He frightened me then, and moreso now.”
Tyelko, and Curvo, Amariel thought. Their family names were still fresh in her mind, though Amariel would no longer speak them. Neither would Amariel wish to remember; to associate herself. After Menegroth… and again in Sirion. Her heart wrenched and her fingertips drew to her neck in old habit, though the necklace which she sought out, which she had worn for years as a comfort was now gone. She had cast it away to the turbulent waters from the ship as they were carried away from Sirion.
'I know he is the same. I know of whom you speak,” Amariel gave answer to her sister quietly. She too remembered the face. The sad face; with the milk white eye, and the cropped red hair. He had come upon them once or twice in the latter days of which they had lived there in Nargothrond; when Amariel and Ninien would listen to the stories of their fair haired cousin; when he would teach them the language of the birds and the beasts, and let them pet the great dog Huan whom traveled with him. She had seen good in Tyelko then. And the flame haired one, among others, had come with him. Amariel had delighted in those days to watch her cousin Celebrimbor at his work, and the red haired one was often present. A smith he was, and his name was Ruivo. Amariel was not one to forget names.
“Though he lived in Sirion long ere we came,” Amariel tried to assure her sister. “He was not at Menegroth. Do you not recall him on the wharfs of Sirion? He would work the forges of Lord Círdan. It is no doubt in my mind that his metal and instruments were among those on the very ship we sailed.”
“I do not recall,” Nenien voiced; her mind far off, and she glanced back toward Ruivo and cringed. “What does he do here? Why is he here?” Nenen asked.
“He waits for one,” Amariel answered shortly.
“Of whom does he wait for?” Nenien asked.
“An elleth,” Amariel answered. She knew of which maid of Menegroth he would wait, for she had seen them together many times during her visits; though offering names to her sister now would do her no good. Neither was it her business to know.
“Whom?” Nenien repeated; knowing that Amariel knew of whom she was asking.
“One whom is here to heal, as you,” Amariel answered, looking away from her sister and back to the grey sea before them.
“What if he turns on us? On everyone here?” Nenien questioned.
“Turns, in which direction? He is not dancing,” Amariel responded quickly in a flat voice, sighing, the comment one of sarcasm and frustration.
“You know of what I speak,” Nenien glared upon her sister; her eyes fearful. “He followed Tyelko. I care not if our cousin is dead; but this one still remains; and he is one of them. If he should turn again… look, even now he carries a sword upon his belt Have you not seen enough blood shed by our kin? And those who follow?”
“What do you know of his allegiance?” Amariel asked, frustrated. “Our own father was a kinslayer. We too are Noldorin, lest you forget.”
“Our Father was deceived by the Fëanorians. He was fighting what he thought was defense of our kin, our mother. Not intent on slaughter. He followed Fingolfin by foot across the Helcaraxë, and no more did he trust them nor fight by them. He left Nargothrond to flee them.”
“That he did,” Amariel answered. “And you think this one may not also have made the same choices?”
“He came with Tyelko.; he did not walk the grinding ice with our Adar. He crossed on the bloody ships; and he knew what he was doing in Alqualondë. The same treacheries that were brought upon us here, he committed there.”
“Yet he lived in Sirion and helped the search parties to find those who were lost after Menegroth. He carried the maid of Menegroth to the ship, and stilled her bleeding long enough for the healers to treat her. Lord Círdan would not have let him board if it were as you say. And he held her the length of the journey, that the waves in the storm would not rock and injure her further, and now he waits for her to mend, day by day. As I wait for you.” Amariel had to restrain herself from letting her eyes to roll. “So sinister must be such motives,” she added.
“I will speak to him. I will ask of such treachery myself. I will ask who he has murdered under Turco, and you will see how he answers,” Nenien stated bluntly.
“I forbid you. That is not your place.” Amariel spoke firmly, and grasped her arm, and Nenien's face began to give way to tears.
Amariel watched her sister as Nenien gripped one handed the stone archway, and then Amariel looked beyond toward Ruivo again. One pale blue eye met her own, and his face seemed rigid. She could read upon his very face that he had heard, yet nothing could she say now without driving Nenien further into the spiral of her misery.
The elleth, Nenien, who was not quite grown into herself wore the white gown of the healing houses, only affixed over one shoulder. The other shoulder, and her arm, was swaddled in light bandages now, and beneath her garment even more did the bandages wrap her. Healing took place, though pain along with it, and a dread in her heart which she could not shake.
After the sacking of Menegroth, she had become fearful; anxious. The dwarves first had come and taken her parents; and then a few years later the Fëanorians. Though she had escaped unscathed by the faithful hand of Saeros from the destruction of Menegroth; the wounds she bore from it were not physical. In Nargothrond she had been young yet; not twenty when they had departed; and the companions of her childhood whom had taught her many things in those years were later turned against her at Menegroth.
After Menegroth, she had yet Amariel, her sister. Later on, in Sirion, Saeros had also become family; and though he was young himself, his wisdom would he impart upon her through the years, yet never did she feel secure again, even living in the household of a warrior, for her Adar too had been one, and he too had been vanquished.
The years would pass in Sirion; stone halls upon the mouths of the river where they met the sea, and Nenien missed yet the safety of deep caverns. Indoors she would remain most days, looking out the great window of her home upon the shores of the sea; growing in the arts of painting and music, though not seeking the outdoors nor the trees as her sister would. She liked the security of walls.
Security had gone in the dark of night again when cities of Sirion were overrun by the army of the Fëanorians.
When several of the soldiers had entered their home, torches in hand, instead of fleeing for the doorway as she had been bidden, Nenien would make for her bedroom. She was chased there by one; his torch setting flame to the bed which she had crawled into in terrors. Saeros had let none stand against him, yet even when the body of Maglor's soldiers had fallen to the floor in his own blood, Nenien was screaming beneath the flaming blankets, burns overtaking her until Saeros and Amariel had wrenched her from them.
Amariel stood beside her now; her own hand was no longer wrapped from where it had been mangled in burns, skin still tender in regrowth, though healing much easier than the deep wounds her sister had taken. Though Amariel's skin had been pained by flame, her face had been plagued with ice since they had taken the ship to the Isle of Balar, and she held a gentle hand against her younger sister's shoulder sensing the arising anxiety beginning to bristle beneath Nenien's skin again. It was the first day she had been able to bid her walk from the chamber in the Houses of Healing where she had been since their arrival. The first moon of spring.
“It is he,” Nenien muttered under her breath, to her sister who was standing near. “I have told you, sister, it is he; the one with the flame hair. I have seen him in the halls.” Her voice was rising as she spoke; a panic scrambling through her chest at the sight.
Amariel's eyes turned upon the one who had caught the wide gaze of her younger sister, and she placed her hand upon Nenien's shoulder; an attempt to still her.
Regardless, Nenien continued. “I would not forget his face. One eye. He has one eye only. So pale. I remember… when he would come to speak with Tyelko and Curvo, in Nargothrond. He frightened me then, and moreso now.”
Tyelko, and Curvo, Amariel thought. Their family names were still fresh in her mind, though Amariel would no longer speak them. Neither would Amariel wish to remember; to associate herself. After Menegroth… and again in Sirion. Her heart wrenched and her fingertips drew to her neck in old habit, though the necklace which she sought out, which she had worn for years as a comfort was now gone. She had cast it away to the turbulent waters from the ship as they were carried away from Sirion.
'I know he is the same. I know of whom you speak,” Amariel gave answer to her sister quietly. She too remembered the face. The sad face; with the milk white eye, and the cropped red hair. He had come upon them once or twice in the latter days of which they had lived there in Nargothrond; when Amariel and Ninien would listen to the stories of their fair haired cousin; when he would teach them the language of the birds and the beasts, and let them pet the great dog Huan whom traveled with him. She had seen good in Tyelko then. And the flame haired one, among others, had come with him. Amariel had delighted in those days to watch her cousin Celebrimbor at his work, and the red haired one was often present. A smith he was, and his name was Ruivo. Amariel was not one to forget names.
“Though he lived in Sirion long ere we came,” Amariel tried to assure her sister. “He was not at Menegroth. Do you not recall him on the wharfs of Sirion? He would work the forges of Lord Círdan. It is no doubt in my mind that his metal and instruments were among those on the very ship we sailed.”
“I do not recall,” Nenien voiced; her mind far off, and she glanced back toward Ruivo and cringed. “What does he do here? Why is he here?” Nenen asked.
“He waits for one,” Amariel answered shortly.
“Of whom does he wait for?” Nenien asked.
“An elleth,” Amariel answered. She knew of which maid of Menegroth he would wait, for she had seen them together many times during her visits; though offering names to her sister now would do her no good. Neither was it her business to know.
“Whom?” Nenien repeated; knowing that Amariel knew of whom she was asking.
“One whom is here to heal, as you,” Amariel answered, looking away from her sister and back to the grey sea before them.
“What if he turns on us? On everyone here?” Nenien questioned.
“Turns, in which direction? He is not dancing,” Amariel responded quickly in a flat voice, sighing, the comment one of sarcasm and frustration.
“You know of what I speak,” Nenien glared upon her sister; her eyes fearful. “He followed Tyelko. I care not if our cousin is dead; but this one still remains; and he is one of them. If he should turn again… look, even now he carries a sword upon his belt Have you not seen enough blood shed by our kin? And those who follow?”
“What do you know of his allegiance?” Amariel asked, frustrated. “Our own father was a kinslayer. We too are Noldorin, lest you forget.”
“Our Father was deceived by the Fëanorians. He was fighting what he thought was defense of our kin, our mother. Not intent on slaughter. He followed Fingolfin by foot across the Helcaraxë, and no more did he trust them nor fight by them. He left Nargothrond to flee them.”
“That he did,” Amariel answered. “And you think this one may not also have made the same choices?”
“He came with Tyelko.; he did not walk the grinding ice with our Adar. He crossed on the bloody ships; and he knew what he was doing in Alqualondë. The same treacheries that were brought upon us here, he committed there.”
“Yet he lived in Sirion and helped the search parties to find those who were lost after Menegroth. He carried the maid of Menegroth to the ship, and stilled her bleeding long enough for the healers to treat her. Lord Círdan would not have let him board if it were as you say. And he held her the length of the journey, that the waves in the storm would not rock and injure her further, and now he waits for her to mend, day by day. As I wait for you.” Amariel had to restrain herself from letting her eyes to roll. “So sinister must be such motives,” she added.
“I will speak to him. I will ask of such treachery myself. I will ask who he has murdered under Turco, and you will see how he answers,” Nenien stated bluntly.
“I forbid you. That is not your place.” Amariel spoke firmly, and grasped her arm, and Nenien's face began to give way to tears.
Amariel watched her sister as Nenien gripped one handed the stone archway, and then Amariel looked beyond toward Ruivo again. One pale blue eye met her own, and his face seemed rigid. She could read upon his very face that he had heard, yet nothing could she say now without driving Nenien further into the spiral of her misery.
