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Tweak says, "It unscrews the other way."

Ilúvatar Voronwé (vajra) wrote in caeleste,
@ 2011-04-13 12:28:00

Entry tags:

fiaethe yávlindelë, ilúvatar voronwé, the heir

the savage (bébhinn, fiaethe)
From the time he was a boy, he'd been raised with one thought in mind. Do not be selfish. Do not set yourself on the path of the undesirable. Make your heart not a fortress of greed. Ilúvatar had taken to those lessons because a knight was meant to be all of those things. He was meant to be a sacrifice to his people, a defender and champion of his people. His people were any of the innocents who shrank away from the defense of their lives. His people were the ones who had nothing. It was for them that he must live his life. And yet here he was, a goblet before him, staring at the sun-haired beauty as though he'd never seen someone so perfect in all of his life.

He did not think that he had.

Wicker was a strange and uncomfortable thing for someone who wore as much wool as Ilúvatar. His cape had been tossed over his shoulder, where it rested uncomfortably, and his weapons hung on a hook above his head. They could not be out of reach in a time of war. He did not fear violence on this balcony, and yet it was a habit so deeply ingrained that he could not banish it from his thoughts. There were two chairs of wicker and one of hard wood, with a short wooden stand between each of the three, so that one would need to politely sidestep the stands in order to gain access to the circle of seats. The floor was plain stone, the rain wrought iron, and the building not tall enough to see more than a few rooftops before the city faded into obscurity behind an inner wall. Every so often, the city at night would be illuminated by a flash of blue, or a shine of white.

In another life he might have found the illumination romantic.

What was it Chloatha had said about war? That it made civility into a dog's dinner, and the only hope one could have was for survival? At the time Ilúvatar had not imagined he would hear such dishonorable words out of his mentor's mouth. Now he could see precisely what Chloatha meant. Ordering spies. He'd spent near an hour waiting in this wicker while Fiaethe'tari did what needed to be done. And when she'd returned she'd mentioned not one word of what she'd done, or how she'd arranged it, or even if anyone would die. She merely smiled at him - not the prickly smile of their first meeting, but something softer, as though she'd developed a fondness for him. He did not know what it meant. Save that it set his stomach to soaring, and his throat felt full of air, and for once he had nothing to say at all. Perhaps that was why she was still interested in keeping his company. The rest of the time he felt as awkward as a boy in her company.

She was a queen at least five times his age - one did not ask - and she should have made him feel this uneasy. Yet it was not her age, nor her experience, but merely... her. Fiaethe, only, that caused his lips to stick together and his tongue to flap uselessly in her presence. Sometimes he thought she was on the verge of rolling her eyes at him and walking away. As though his next idiotic misstep would somehow demonstrate - finally - that he was the fool they both knew him to be. She was still here. He was... surprised, to say the least. And grateful for the knowledge she possessed. The experience that she loaned so readily to him was the only reason he'd done half as well as he had, and if they were losing in this fight, it was only because Ramga had taken the first decisive steps. Were they hovering on the edge of defeat? It sometimes felt as though they were. She'd argued against sitting outside - Fenrir might be waiting, she'd said - and her obvious anger at his stubborn defiance had not cooled for some time.

They were talking of other things. Or rather, he was talking, and she was listening, though he could not tell how she felt about what he was saying.

He barely remembered what he was saying. How could hair shine in such a manner, when there was scarcely enough light to see? As soon as he asked himself the question, he realized that he did not care how it was happening. Perhaps all of the gods were playing a trick on him. In such a world, he could live peacefully, as long as the tricks were so beautiful as this one. How long had it been since he'd said anything aloud? Had he simply been sitting here, staring at her, as some sort of madman might? She had not said anything, herself. She appeared merely expectant. As always. As though she knew what he was thinking and could have told him what to say next, but instead wanted him to say it.

The idea of Fiathe'tari reading his mind made his stomach flip a second, and much less pleasant, time.

Whatever he'd planned on saying next never arrived. Instead a soldier did. His armor clattered as he jostled through the doorway. Sylvans were not used to such things, at least not when they were in his employ, and this armor did not fit the young elf quite as well as it should. His name was Uvuo, and he'd taken to soldiering with a natural's grace and charm. Even if he was inexperienced. Behind Uvuo someone else could be heard, and yet the young soldier stood stalwart in the doorway. Not the most intelligent decision - the unexpected guest could have a knife or a sword meant for his back - but his voice was relatively calm when he spoke. Unlike his crashing through the doorway, as though all the evils of the world were on his heels.

"You have a visitor, my lord," Uvuo informed him.

"Who is it?" Ilúvatar demanded, and his eyes were on his belt of weapons.

"I did not catch her-"

And then the solder was pushed aside. Standing in his place was a wild and pretty thing. The soldier could be seen behind her now, raising his armored hands as if to seize her, but Ilúvatar's open hand prevented him. A simple order, and wordless, but the boy followed it. Perhaps Ilúvatar could find a way to spare him the night duty without countermanding Baila. It would take some thought. For the lady, he could tell nothing of her age, as was usually the case with his people. He could see that she was Sylvan from her hair. Her manner of dress. Why he'd never seen her before he did not know, and why she stood before him now was impossible to guess.

For all the hatred in her eyes, she seemed not to be intent on hurting him. Perhaps that was for the best.

"Yes?" he asked, quietly as you please.

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flesh_and_bone
2011-04-13 07:23 pm UTC (link)

Bébhinn was not pleased and there was no way of hiding that from anyone. Normally she was quite skilled at appearing unnerved and stoic thanks to all her years fighting wars and all those years simply resolving boring spats between tribesmen. Oh she had an anger in her, the fire of Lorien. Quick and vicious in its way, but she kept it at bay normally. It seemed as if today she would be unable to keep any of that away. She never thought she'd see him alive, or that she'd be forced to speak civilly with the man who ruined her family forever. Not once did Roon speak softly ever again, in fact the man was so heated that he too died in a duel. Her mother never spoke again, as far as Bébhinn was concerned. At least never spoke again clearly. Driven insane by the death of her son, she'd braided a bit of her son's bone in her own hair and her daughters hair and left to commune with the woods. Commune was a nice word, the last she'd heard of Arìerah she was considered the Lady of the Wood, which was to say she was a wordless whore to whom any could use freely. If her mother was happy in that, good, Bébhinn had loose definitions on what was good and proper. But she did not feel happy here. She wondered what Fenian would have looked like if he'd grown into a man. Instead she would always be wondering. Always be imagining. Because of this Elf.

This Ilúvatar Voronwé.

Duty was the only reason she cared whether he lived or died. Lucky for him she wanted him to live right now, unlucky for him that in the end of this she would not care. She would either duel him to his death, or leave him for the real wolves to take. Instead of his fabled friend. It was a good thing that Elves talked when they were pleased. Bébhinn spent hours working over that young elf, pleasing him in every manner his heart wished. Because she knew by looking at him that he would tell her every bit of gossip and truth he knew. She could have asked around, but it was a little more pleasant to get two birds with one stone. A long journey without her normal comforts, only to end it in bed with a Young Elf who barely could be called an adult, teaching him a little something to take home to whatever woman he would eventually marry, while getting her fill, literally and figuratively, on what was going on behind the front lines.

It'd been difficult enough to get in here without getting herself killed or called onto the other lines of battle. Oh how she would have liked to take her tomahawk and render this Lord's head away from his shoulders. Carry it to the balcony edge and scream for all to see. Give the lifeless head a kiss goodbye and throw it to the crowd below. How that would have pleased her. How it would have made her smile. In fact it made her smile right now. She smiled widely and that light in her eyes seemed to brighten. It would have been friendly if he didn't hate him so openly. If only she could have taken her tomahawk from her belt and used it to take his head. Instead the crystal weapon lay against her naked thigh. Her skirts parted there, and again on the other side. Not something a High Elven woman would have wore, oh not like that one. Sitting there.

Did she interrupt their poor attempt at wooing? Their civil foreplay? Good. For that she was happy. His quiet 'yes' was an insult. But one she would overlook because he wasn't really a Sylvan Elf at all. If he were a tribesman she would have taken a finger, or maybe a hand for such an insult. Instead she stayed in the door and looked at them with that smile planted on her face.

"Is this what Lords do in the time of war? Sit and drink wine with their women, while their countrymen die because they are fools?" If she could smile wider she would have, instead she did not wait for their angry outbursts and continued on. "I have been sent by the Sylvan Council of Shaman, to oversee your war and to keep you alive. I see I have my work cut out for me because you have boys guarding your doors and snakes among your ranks. Don't get up, I can stand on my own, though moving forward, it is quite an insult to remain seated when speaking to a Shaman unless I've invited you to sit with me in the first place. I see they never taught you manners outside your High Elven background."

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fadingleaves
2011-04-15 02:39 am UTC (link)

After beginning the frustrating search for Guyther, Fiaethe hadn't expected to end her evening solely in Ilúvatar's company. She expected a demand to disclose what she'd done, then thought he'd be on his way to something else. Fiaethe would have told the Lord if he asked, and yet Ilúvatar let that sit between them. A smile was all Fiaethe offered and he did not take anything more. Such extreme trust caught Fiaethe off guard. The promise of a quiet balcony caught her off guard.

Such fools were they, sitting out in the open. She was forever conscious of assassination attempts, but Fiaethe was glad she wasn't too blunt with him. Her posture eventually relaxed against the back of her chair. It was pleasant to listen to Ilúvatar speak while a good wine was at her lips. Fiaethe tried to commit to memory even the smallest pauses, when he would meet her eyes and have nothing at all to say. She had not sat with him like this since before his capture. She did not know when she would sit with him again.

Fate would see such an evening broken. It was inevitable. Fiaethe was more surprised by who would steal the quiet of the balcony.

A Shaman?

The attire, or lack thereof, of Astarii's varied Sylvan tribes was not unknown to Fiaethe. To be a queen was to be an avid student of culture, if one was worth her salt as a monarch. Yet traveling was a restricted hobby for Fiaethe. She never had opportunity to walk the lands owned by the Wild Ones and none had ever come into her presence in so little clothing.

The contrast between the Shaman and most Elven women in Terestai, including Fiaethe herself, was striking. Fiaethe's deep blue dress covered most of her body, hinting rather than showing. Outside of exposing her neck and collarbone in a fashionable way, there was no skin for the moon to fall upon. Little imagination was required for the Shaman's form. Her hair was wild yet braided. There were bones in her hair. Fiaethe wondered again at the boldness of those who wore no armor, yet carried weapons as though they would use them at any moment. She'd seen Sylvan men on the line without traditional armor. Did women carry themselves no differently?

Fiaethe realized, suddenly, that she should have been offended. There was no quick anger in her heart just yet. Perhaps this was because the Shaman appeared so different than everyone around her. Perhaps because she was yet to have a true name. Fiaethe knew little about the Council of Shaman or what Shaman were known for among the Wild Elves. She would be doing a great deal more listening this evening, she was sure.

Fiaethe picked up her wine glass again, despite the fiery reprimand the Shaman gave, and drank from it. She turned her head to speak to Ilúvatar. "I think she just called me your 'woman', my Lord," Fiaethe murmured, quietly amused.

If anyone was to be calm, it would be her. Perhaps Ilúvatar would be as well, but he needed to know she was not offended...yet.

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vajra
2011-04-15 06:41 pm UTC (link)

In another life he would have erupted out of his seat as a wildman. The axe was near; she would defend high at a feint of a swing. Kick low, into the leg, to destroy her balance. She would try to create distance. A lunging sidestep transformed into a clothesline, with the final swing of the axe following behind. If she interrupted the clothesline, or somehow avoided it, shift the swing of the axe into the lead arm - probably the right. All of that, before she'd finished talking. He was no king, but he was also not a rodent, to be addressed in such a way. She was a shaman. She should have known better than to address him in that way. She did know better. If one thing about Ilúvatar was known, it was his temper. She was trying to provoke him.

"I think she just called me your 'woman', my Lord."

"Forgive her, Fiathe'tari," was his response.

It felt as though his face were on fire. Luckily, the redness combined with the anger in his eyes to give him the appearance of a soldier, angry at being interrupted. He was angry at being interrupted. And despite frequent, strongly worded warnings regarding his temper he could not help but feel even more rage at the prospect of this 'Shaman' living. To be goaded into doing something or not doing something was the very height of indignity. Likely she would claim satisfaction with any outcome. It was important to regain some of his equilibrium. All of those thoughts as feelings, instead of true thoughts, but they were not yet instinct. If looks could kill, she would already be dead.

"It takes more provocation than that," and now Ilúvatar's voice was flat, low. "To goad me into a fight, verbal or otherwise. No, it's quite all right. No doubt she is a cousin of mine come to see how legendary my temper truly is."

The soldier who found himself pushed aside stopped when Ilúvatar stood. Backed away when the Magister waved a hand. It was clear that the soldier, much as the lord, wanted the blood of this Shaman for her deliberate insult. Was it worse, knowing that someone who insulted you and your company was aware of the insult? Indeed, that the insult was calculated? There was nothing in the Shaman's words for Fiathe'tari. All of its venom and provocation were meant for him.

For now.

"So, are you a cousin?" Ilúvatar quite slowly and deliberately reached for his weapon belt. "Or perhaps a sworn enemy? Daughter of a sworn enemy? Insulting me won't make you any more effective in the task you've been given. The last I heard, effectiveness was a trait the Council of Shaman prized quite highly."

The belt was buckled on carefully. The weight of the weapons felt right at his side, as though it somehow he'd been incomplete without it. There was no reason to say anything else. She'd been given a task, as he had, and she would see it through. Despite any misgivings that she might have. The rain of insults would continue because it could not stop. As for her throat, he would have to wait and see how long it took before that was forfeit.

He had a fair amount of time, he thought.

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flesh_and_bone
2011-04-25 11:18 pm UTC (link)

Bébhinn started to laugh, it was not a happy laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. he was trying what she'd been trying, wasn't he/ Well, it wouldn't work. Even if she didn't like the title she'd been given, or earned, or whatever one wanted to say. She still help the title and the responsibility to see it through. She did not take official orders, or her job lightly. She did not disobey the council, ever, and she wouldn't begin such now. they'd said keep him alive though this and she would. It would be when it was over, if Lorien's tempest of revenge gave her the means, she would see his death through. He'd taken everything from her, why not give him his war, give him the throne if he liked, only to take it all from under him? that would be better, she thought.

She wondered if his show of putting back on his weapons was meant as a threat, or simply the thing men did to try to show who was in charge. Ha. He wasn't in charge, and she wasn't in charge. Neither could really have that title, couldn't hold it or pretend they had it. No. But, whatever he liked.

"Not a cousin, or even the most distant relation. None of your blood runs in mine, and none of mine runs in you. I haven't come to see your temper, as I've already seen it before. I'm simply making observations of your poor leadership. Also your poor choice of planning, and attire. Lets start with planning, you want a nice peaceful evening in the middle of a war, and you choose to go outside? Where anyone worth his salt could have an arrow in your throat, or the pretty throat of your companion in a second?" She shrugged.

"I thought you wanted to win this fight, but if I'm wrong, well, forgive me." Bébhinn didn't move closer, nor did she touch her weaponry.

"You should never let your guard down, it will get you killed. They talk about your anger, your abilities with an axe, but they never speak of your stupidity in the woods. Funny how they leave such important qualities out of conversations." She shrugged.

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fadingleaves
2011-04-26 10:02 pm UTC (link)

"That might be because those who would label Lord Ilúvatar as an idiot stupidly found a way to die on his axe? It is difficult to spread rumors when headless."

The tongue-in-cheek comment Fiaethe offered to the conversation was far from an olive branch. Civility lacked here since the beginning. She could appreciate someone who spoke freely. Fiaethe had been cruel in characterizing Ilúvatar in her first meetings with him, but her tone held a different purpose. She'd desired to make him more aware of political games he knew nothing of. That was different than insulting his ability to defend himself, which he'd expertly demonstrated over time. At least, Fiaethe liked to believe so.

The only common thread so far between Lord Ilúvatar and this Wild Elf seemed to be heritage, but even sharing a people could be a poor link in the middle of a war. The elf had still not given her name. And Lord Ilúvatar's eyes remained dark, even in the light provided on the balcony. He was restrained. Fiaethe had to give him credit for that. She had never witnessed anyone who insulted Ilúvatar more than she had in a string of sentences.

"Forgive me for interrupting, Shaman, but you are late to the argument regarding the balcony. And I will tell you now that you are not likely to win this argument -- Lord Ilúvatar has an impeccable record of failing to die. Such a record will outweigh your protests. I don't want to see you waste the amount of breath that I did."

"My name is Fiaethe, as the Lord has said," Fiaethe left off her title, doubting the woman would use it. She stood from her seat and smoothed her hands along the sides of her dress as she did so. Perhaps Fiaethe was offended, after all. The woman had not said much to her. It was a fault of the respect she'd come to give Ilúvatar over time.

Fiaethe's voice turned almost saccharine. "Will you give your name? Or is there some sort of ritualistic dance required to get that from a Shaman of high regard?"

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vajra
2011-05-03 07:39 pm UTC (link)

She was still trying to provoke him? Usually, even the suggestion that a group of Sylvan Elves was going to come looking for you because you'd decided against performing your duty was enough to motivate a messenger to come straight to the point. The shaman was clearly nothing, or she would not have been sent. They'd not honor him by sending someone high-ranking. She was also chosen because a note of personality - what little he'd seen, in any case - reflected their attitude toward him at the moment.

It was not a good sign. It was also a very small concern compared to certain others.

This shaman was staring at him with such anger in her eyes. He did not know how she was with a weapon. Killing her would only make more trouble for him. Oh, and he wanted to. She was right to make a play for his temper, if she was trying to provoke him. Honor meant as little as anything else, in this day and age. She could insult him as many times as she wished. He wouldn't move against her. In fact, Ilúvatar was certain that only one thing would bring the action she apparently desired.

This shaman did not have the stomach for that.

"Your name," Ilúvatar echoed the lovely Fiaethe.

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flesh_and_bone
2011-06-06 08:12 pm UTC (link)

Bébhinn was done with her game, for now. Neither wanted to play the game, well, that was fine. The lady didn't need to, but their current Leader should have been more than willing to play it. Oh how she longed to kill him. She did not think such a thing would be easy, of course, he was skilled in battle. Once upon a time she might have enjoyed such company, until he'd killed her brother. She flinched when the woman spoke of taking someone's head and looked right at Iluvatar. The bastard.

"Bébhinn is my name." Anger poured out of her mouth faster than she could pull it back in. She didn't want him to speak her name, at all. But it was given now, so she supposed she'd have to hear it. She tapped her fingers along the turtle shell hanging at her hip.

"Is there anything else that you want to know about me so we can get over that hump and move onto the real business. My age? Where I'm from? Or shall we get to business?"

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fadingleaves
2011-06-09 12:11 am UTC (link)

Fiaethe smiled at the string of questions that shone brightly with the Shaman's annoyance. Her eyes didn't miss the finger-tapping and Fiaethe did have to wonder why the woman wore a turtle shell at her side. Business was brought up twice by the Shaman who had been determined to jump into a fight only moments ago. Fiaethe turned the name over in her mind. It was a given name only. How strange to be of importance and attached no verbal markers to show that to others.

"This is a dangerous time...Bébhinn...and as you said, a war is no time to let down one's defenses," Fiaethe said. "Perhaps speaking on where you come from and what you can contribute to our cause would be beneficial."

The former monarch was never one to pass up the chance to gain more information especially when given a window. Bébhinn seemed too blunt to be a snake, but before this moment Fiaethe had not known of the Council of Shaman. Until their intentions were better known, the Council sounded like yet another group who wanted to exert some influence over a chaotic
government and shape Astarii in their own way.

"I am sure even those of Sylvan heritage don't conduct business so easily with strangers."

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vajra
2011-06-09 07:15 pm UTC (link)

He knew the name, even if he was not familiar with her works. She was not nothing. Yet she was a curious one to send. From where did he know her? There were a great many things he did not understand. Yet if he'd learned one thing from Fiaethe'tari - just one thing, as though it were possible - he'd learned that one could not afford to show ignorance or true unease. It was difficult, when Bébhinn tried again and again to provoke him. He would not let his confusion show on his face, or in his voice.

There was no reason to say a word.

A moment ago, he'd been asking himself if the tools existed to capture perfectly the shade of her hair. Only if you could spin straw to gold, and gold to rays of the sun, could you duplicate it. Even then it would be a pale imitator. As close as too many warm hands would ever come to the real. Ilúvatar could not help but scold himself for such thoughts, at such a time. The importance of this moment was not in the messenger herself. It was in the fact that there was a messenger at all.

Normally, the shamans were content to keep their focus on the business of the wood. It was unheard of for them to send an emissary out to the city of the pale ones - as the High Elves were sometimes called rudely - unless the situation was dire, indeed. Ilúvatar could not remember the last time. Certainly they were concerned about this possibility of civil war. But were they more concerned about the Sylvans streaming toward the capitol, hoping to find themselves knee-deep in a fight against the wealthy old guard of the nation?

Were they more concerned about Ilúvatar?

He could not have said. Instead, he looked expectantly to the shaman, and awaited her answer.

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flesh_and_bone
2011-06-21 06:22 pm UTC (link)

"Anfauglith, on the Black Deer Plains is where I come from, though we like many of our brothers move between the plains, the forests, and the jungles depending on the season. My tribe is Oiolaire, and I am their Shaman. We are warriors, basket weavers, and cattle herders in turns. Everyone of us has been taught and trained in those skills. Primarily I was a warrior, trained with a spear and the traditional art of using a tomahawk. But since I've become a shaman I can speak with the waters and call upon them when needed." All of this rolled off of her tongue as if she'd said it a thousand times, which wasn't true. no one really asked Shaman such questions unless they were other Shaman. And even then, they normally already knew who you were and what you could do simply because gossip travelled fast among the plains and trees. People always talked.

Of course, she could have told them people thought she was crazy. But if they didn't already know, and they hadn't already come to that conclusion then she would not enlighten them.

"I've learned how to mix poisons and how to look for them." The Lord probably knew much of that himself. Orc and Drow could be tricky foes, they would poison a water supply on a battlefield and hope that their enemies drank from it. She could get rid of poison in water easily, but in food it was much more difficult.

"I suppose my use to you is what you ask of me, but before you think to ask, I will not simply leave even if you ask me. The council feels that you've forgotten your brothers, and yourself for that matter. We are Sylvans. This is a war for our country and we will not have you forget what it means to all of us. If another High Lord intends to take your place he will have to deal with me first." She relaxed her arms at her sides.

"It is a war where we stand to lose as much as we gain, and the elders worry."

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fadingleaves
2011-06-27 08:39 pm UTC (link)

Bébhinn's words were the introduction that should have occurred the moment she appeared on the balcony. Was the woman's hostility a test? Fiaethe thought a test might make sense from a mysterious Order, but the insults the Sylvan woman dealt seemed to come right out of the woman's blood. Fiaethe imagined the spite in Bébhinn was as real as the bones she wore in her hair.

There was something Fiaethe was missing. Perhaps Sylvan Shaman mixed some madness with their use of magic. She did not know, in fact, she did not know very much about the Wild Elves at all. Her reign over Ordaezel never brought Fiaethe in contact with anyone that wore a tomahawk openly. The tribe name, the forest name and Bébhinn's customs were likely familiar to Ilúvatar. But they were fascinating to Fiaethe.

The former queen had little clue as to what Ilúvatar would ask Bébhinn to do, but...

"I do hope no one asks you to leave," Fiaethe said. Her tone was almost too kind. She did not glance at the High Lord for approval. Oh well. Ilúvatar would let her know, blunt as a brick, if she overstepped herself. Fiaethe might have been annoyed with the Shaman's disrespect, but they needed more strong wills fighting for their cause. And this Shaman had that sort of will.

"So much spirit has come to the men due to allies arriving from Stardriel. Having your skills and dedication present would do Terestai only a greater service."

Fiaethe's smile was very slight. She took her eyes from the Shaman finally, to look at Ilúvatar.

"Such dedication to one's cause is a rare and noble thing, no matter the shape of the shoulders it rides in upon. Wouldn't you agree, my Lord?"

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vajra
2011-07-08 05:42 pm UTC (link)

There was spirit come to the high elves among them, but also a sort of resentment. Sylvan elves were stronger. Faster. Typically more sturdy than their high-elf counterparts. Ilúvatar had put at least fifteen soldiers on bread and water rations for fights between the groups. That was the smallest part of it. Tensions among the various stripes of Elves ran high at all times. Seething just beneath the surface. Many of the High saw this as little more than a bitter, power-mad takeover from a former servant of a great king. The truth could be twisted and ruined into whatever shape suited a cause. Yet at the same time, the Sylvan elves were worried that now - when they had a champion on the verge of having and keeping political power for himself - he'd begin to forget them, corrupted by the ways of the High.

It was true. He could trust almost no one. He was both hero and villain, perhaps simultaneously, to anyone who needed a rallying cry for their particular cause. Even his allies supported him from necessity and stupidity instead of true honor. It was almost enough to make a Sylvan lord despair. This was the best that his country could do for herself? This was the best of the elves? They were little better than their squabbling counterparts to the west. He felt a great swell of disappointment in his chest, at the thought of it. That they could be reduced to mere human analogs. There was greater strength in the plains than that, and in the forest as well.

What did Fiaethe see when she looked at him? Did she see what he saw, when he looked at her? A hope and a light. A beauty and the edge of desire. All of it twisted together until he dreaded the sight of her. She pushed him as far as one could be pushed, and she said it was for his benefit. Ilúvatar was even fairly certain that he was beginning to believe the sun-haired former queen. If he could trust no one, why did he trust her? And why did he think she was trying to tell him something?

That this was all a test? That he should forgive, and forget?

"Quite so," Ilúvatar agreed, though he remained seated. "What is it that you wish to do with yourself, Bébhinn? Do you wish to be on the wall?"

He was interested in her answer. Very much so.

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flesh_and_bone
2011-08-09 06:51 pm UTC (link)

She wanted to say she'd prefer to go back home and continue her actual duties. Boring as they could be, she wanted anything but to be here. But here she was and here she had to be. She was dedicated to her people and would follow their orders. It was an order, wasn't it? Silly coming from Shaman. People thought all of them were crazy. Speaking in tongues and dealing in sacrifices. She looked right into his eyes. As if she were trying to see through them. She stared there for a time.

"If you are on the wall, my Lord, then I shall be on the wall. I have uses there, of course. But I would serve better as a personal guard. I can identify poisons, and if you think they're always going to be direct attacks then you're wrong. I was sent to keep you alive so I plan on not leaving your side. Of course you could order me elsewhere. I might have to send a letter if that's the case and ask whether or not I'm supposed to follow direct orders which put me away from you or not. That could take weeks."

She was just wishful thinking at this point.

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fadingleaves
2011-08-10 12:19 am UTC (link)

For as free and wild as Fiaethe often thought Wild Elves to be, Bébhinn talked about her role in this as a soldier might. Letters and orders and the obligation of a less than desirable detail. The stare that the Shaman gave Ilúvatar was unnerving...unreadable. The woman would make an odd sort of guard.

"An extra axe present would not be a bad thing," Fiaethe said. She looked to Ilúvatar. He already had men around him that would die to see him live. Fiaethe had a great deal of regard for the Thunderbolts, yet her respect had developed over time and after watching much of their sparring in Maeglin's courtyard. "A personal guard, however, is a personal choice."

It is always your choice, was what Fiaethe wished to say to Ilúvatar. Instead she was confined to the field of polite conversation where she did not showcase her stubborn advice for her Lord. Fiaethe enjoyed a more invisible role. Ilúvatar was the leader of Terestai right now. If he was going to keep the Shaman close, then it had to be because Ilúvatar saw the advantage of it and not because a Council or the Sylvan community told him to do so. Even Fiaethe would not tell him what to do with his personal guard.

Bébhinn was old enough to sell the advantages of her presence. Fiaethe wouldn't speak her mind on the Shaman's uses unless Ilúvatar asked it of her. He had been too quiet. There were many thoughts passing behind those dark eyes of his and Fiaethe wanted to see what he saw. After all, he knew the Sylvan folk better than she.

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