|Chel (ex_faramir486) wrote in nocturnes,|
@ 2008-01-30 13:14:00
Ithildin: Amrod & Fingon
Who: Amrod and Fingon.
Where: Outside in the universe.
What: Black and white, memory slides. Yeah.
The growing light spurs Fingon to languid activity, as he strides away from the caves--too much of everything. He desires quietude, above all else. And upon reaching a bend in the seldom-used path he found, he leans his back against a tree and takes a slow breath.
There is brevity in this moment but also silence and a timid collection of chaotic peace. Savoring the irony, Amrod lifts his gaze to the sky, a languid moment washing over him in its entirety and the discernment of what he beholds sinking deep within him and finally making his fingers dance to an invisible rhythm as they rake through the lose dirt on the ground. Here in the confines of Doriath, it could be passing but his breath to him feels just that: limited.
Imperceptible movement catches his eyes and turning quickly--briefly--he recognizes the figure and steps forward while stilling all at once. There is grand impossibility in this moment, as so many other moments as such begin to flood into his vision. He rakes a scarred palm across his lips. "You too are real?"
And would he deny the all too familiar shaping of words, the thoughtful depth in each word as it is spoken? Running an earth-stained hand along his forehead to brush away dark locks of hair, clearing his vision, he is easily stunned and satisfied. "If I'm not, then nothing else is either," he states as he holds his cousin's gaze steadily - his expression shaded with an unrevealed smile. "...not even you, Findékano."
"What is Findékano, but a conglomeration of liquid and dust?" he questions, palms turned toward the sky. Upon reaching his cousin's side, he sits and leans a heavy shoulder against him. "No, No. Ambarto is real."
"Findékano is a soul without boundaries, a heart without permanent scars," he rasps sternly under his breath. There is limitlessness in this miracle, and so he almost laughs to himself. Since when did miracles start happening? No, this was his right; to breathe again. To be again. He turns to face his cousin and slips his roughened fingers through his hair, grasping at it as he leans closer to whisper, "Findékano is my seventh brother."
"...Ambarto," smile, "is my second." His fingers slip around Amrod's shoulders, squeezing tightly. "And he has become constancy before the eyes of the world--with nothing to regret and nothing to hold back." Pulling back, he presses his palm flat against his chest. "It is good to see you, my brother."
And love. It comes as easily to him as the desire to destroy, as the longing for ripping open the bounds of reality. But it is a well-guarded secret, [is it not?] even from the eyes of the gods. Shh. Covering Fingon's hand with his own, he presses firmly before letting go and sitting back. "And it is good to feel that your heart beats and I can hear it. I was waiting for you."
"I am still at times hyperaware of it," he admits, glancing down as if to see the rhythmic muscle leaping from his chest. He shakes his head with the lead-like weight of the thought. He rakes heavy locks of hair back from his forehead. "--there was some word of you, Ambarto," he murmurs, meeting the younger elf's eyes.
"The heart is afraid of stilling even for a split second, Findékano. I ended up rushing Makalaurë into trekking all the way to this dismal realm with me," he replies with a tone quietly fighting to stay gentler than the wind. It is a game to him. "And you? You haven't arrived alone, have you?"
"...with me come Maitimo, Carnistir," here, he pauses. Observes the battle of quiet and intense in Amrod's ghostly, diaphanous eyes. "And another elf, by the name of Malbeth."
Hearing the names, he suddenly retracts from his words and wishes the world to stop in its orbit. Just to hear the names ring out better, clearer. Laughter - immediate and true. "You bring some intricate form of love and peace, then."
"They come bearing their own tales. But, I have also seen your Atar, Ambarto." Here, a smirk. "...and my sister, Írissë. Also, my Atar."
He arches an eyebrow and slicks a finger along Fingon's jaw, leaving behind a trail of dirt. "And I saw your Atar. Írissë always moved too fast for me to comprehend her actions and why the sudden spark? My Atar didn't flay you on sight, did he?"
"She is a bolt of lightning in a summer storm, is she not?" Following the path of his fingers, he grasps the hem of his cousin's tunic and only proceeds to smudge the line into a fine cloud. And shakes his head--"no, Ambarto. Though, I didn't recognize him. Not at first."
He bats at Fingon's hands lightly before pointing a finger up to the sky and letting his hand lazily dance through the air. "I truly wouldn't know. Turco or Carnistir would agree with you, maybe," he states simply before eyeing him inquisitively. "Why not? Has time placed such difference on his face or maybe your vision is to blame?"
Cupping Amrod's cheek, he shakes his head once. "My eyes are clear. She is, however, hard to recognize."
Silence. His belief falters and he ends up frowning. "Do people think it is entertaining to affront him? Referring to him as 'she'?"
"Ambarto--" here, he sharpens. "When have you known me to speak the slightest untruth? When?"
Never. "Never," he mutters under his breath. "...but how?"
"...take it up with the Valar."
"Damn them all."
"Hush--" he presses his hand into his cousin's. "There is no need. He is still...herself."
Thoughts swirl like a dizzying fog inside him, parting only when he calculates the entire situation, dividing the soul from the body and finally getting the sum right. It is not a loss. Never a loss. "I spit on both want and need. Their condemnation is for personal gratification."
"...but he is here, is he not? Your brothers are here. You, Ambarto. You are here."
"...it doesn't stop me from hating. But it doesn't stop me from loving, either." Wrenching away from his cousin's hands, he stands and holds his hands close to his lips, palm pressed against palm as if whispering some secret into the small hollow between the flesh. "…there is more love in you and in me, and Maitimo and Makalaurë and Carnistir and in ... her Fëanáro, and admit it. We are nothing if we are not our hate and love combined."
His fingers thread together, into a mat of scarred (yet, living) flesh. "...our love and our hate; it cradles us. Ever forward." Smile.
"And I pray in its embrace we remain the same."
"...is there the choice otherwise? If so, I choose not to use it."
"Neither do I." Strangely calm in the vertigo of a rush of memories, thoughts and words, he offers a hand to Fingon. "Come with me."
Full of trust, he places his hand inside his cousin's and nods. "...lead away."
Pulling him along with both hands, words tumble in hushed whispers from his lips as he starts to navigate a path through the conglomeration of trees, vines and wild plants. After some minutes of walking he comes to a halt just before a clearing, the landscape clearer than in any other part of the forest. Just before them is the horizon laden with muted colors. "You are here, in this world and beyond that horizon there is another. There is always a desire to be as unfaltering as the wind to see that world. And that is my constant. What is yours?"
With a soft sigh, he steps into Amrod's grip and drops his hands to pull away an obscuring part of heavy vines. "...even the fallen have grace," he whispers, clutching the vines with grave intensity. "With the hope--the knowledge that every word spoken, every thought and every touch sensed becomes an affirmation. Becomes more--becomes life. There is my constancy, Ambarto. Misshapen, perhaps. But so fair within its own form--that it can be nothing, to me, but the greatest of untouchable beauties."
"If only the world knew." Turning to stand before his cousin, he slips a hand down his face and places a kiss on his forehead. "I do. Is that enough?"
"It would not be a mystery," he smiles, turning to brush his fingers along his cousin's cheek as he returns his kiss, tilting his chin to reach Amrod's forehead. "...and yes." Now, a grin. "We must keep our secrets."
Smirking mischievously, he runs a finger along his lips in a silent vow of keeping his mouth shut before flicking away an invisible key to the lock he has just put to his words.
"The last time I saw that look on your face, Ambarto--" he shakes his head, smiling and awash in the memory. "I believe you were stealing clothes that hung on the riverbank as I swam with Maitimo. Wasn't it?" Soft laughter spills from his lips.
Titling his head with a smile planted on his pursed lips, he readily defends his prank. "A little cold around your nether regions never did you two any wrong now did it? It was fun." A step back. "For me at least."
"Secret's ours," murmuring, shaking his head in a wry smile. He gives his cousin's wrist a firm grip and pulls him into warm, encircling arms. "...I love you." He smiles. Coming by these words was honesty; simple truths.
"Not more than I love you," he counters quietly and locks his arms tightly around him, impudent as he tries to hoist him off his feet. "Laugh for me, Findékano. Always. Wrest happiness from the hands of fate for yourself and it will make me happy."
Struggling to keep his feet--despite being older and heavier, he smiles and consents to his request. Smiles brighten as he tightens his arms in turn. "...only if you do so as well, Ambarto. That is our agreement."