|Chel (ex_faramir486) wrote in nocturnes,|
@ 2008-01-30 13:19:00
Ithildin: Tuor & Turin
who: túrin and tuor
where: the hookless menegroth armory.
It isn't so hard to break into the armory. Túrin knows the secrets (a turn here, a passageway there) and he breaks into sunlight at the end of a long, low room outlined on either side by glittering weaponry. He tucks a curl behind his ear and furrows a brow, striding down the line.
Tuor smirks as he has the fortune -- no surprise there -- of opening his eyes from a light doze the very moment his cousin's feet stepped across his line of vision. He had taken to catching a few catnaps here and there in the armory, what with Elros' new tree-huggin proclaimations. Figured his..er? Grandson? So hard to keep track of what with all the comings and goings from Aman, to Aman, blahblahblah. Anyway. He figured his grandson and his joke of a guard would frequent this room least of all and he had been correct in his thinking. With a wide yawn, he stretches and accidently bumps into a line of shields, sending them clambering from their upright positions and crashing to the floor like a line of noisy dominos.
The loud noise nearly sends Túrin jumping out of his skin, then -- oh. "Tuor," he smiles faintly, walking over to replace the shields.
"Damn things," he mutters, trying to right the shields nearest to him. "One would think elves could put at least some thought into proper holding devices as they do in their weapons, but leave it to them to skip over such things like common sense when a good production can be had. Hullo, Cousin."
"Hooks. Not pegs --" giving the last shield a firm tap, he rolls his eyes as it falls back to the ground. "We're talking about Doriath elves, here. The only brilliant one of them is Beleg."
"Never had the pleasure of knowing him." With a sigh, he turns his attention from the shields to Turin, eyeing him speculatively. "And what brings you down here? Drawn to the sharp, shiny things?"
"...and into a structure with a trace of solidity. There aren't even cracks in the walls," he muses, brushing his palms over the wooden side. "Intriguing. I guess I just thought I should be here. You made it, yeah?"
"Yeah, but that's not exactly much of an accomplishment, considering that there hasn't been much else to do since the last of the cleanups about the city were made a few days ago." He gives Turin a curious look and pats the stone wall closest to him. "It's good to know that you didn't tumble head-first into a crater. You just come and go like wind and no one has any idea of how you fare unless you turn up safe."
"It's better that way. I promise." He takes a step forward, hovering over a long rack of swords (dust coated) that seem to hang suspended in the air between two pieces of well nocked wood. And softly, "I'm glad you're well, Tuor."
For a moment, he cannot speak, only favoring Turin with a silent, fond glance, receding nearly as soon as it had washed up. He lifts a should gruffly and makes hemming and hawing sounds. "Well, it's not like I am ever at risk. Golden boy that I am, et al, et al," he tosses off with a roguish grin.
"Yes, with the fairy god Vala and all. Has he let you in on any of this?" Plucking at one of the lighter blades -- it has been that long-- he lets it fall back into place and turns around to face his cousin.
A flash of anger crosses his face, but it's gone in a windfall of carefree tenor. "No, it was like a great big birthday surprise for all of us," he replies somewhat bitterly. "Except without the cake, presents, and the once-around on the mule."
"--maybe you ought to try buzzing him," frowningly, he shakes his head.
"What, with my super Vala-attuned brain wave lengths? Doesn't work like that. Perhaps I'll shout at a puddle of water the next time I come across one."
"Or something. You'd better not piss him off, Cousin," teasing gently, he playfully plants his fist in his shoulder.
He rolls with it, smirking lazily. "Yeah, he could drown me the next time I take a bath. It's the little things."
"Or turn the water to elf piss."
"Well, aren't you just the imaginative one? Um, ew."
"...I'd make a wonderful Vala, admit it. All the hallmarks are there." Shaking his hands from the blade as if they were dirty, he raises his brows and thrusts them into his pocket. Quietly -- "Nini--Nienor. I haven't seen her since all of it."
He shakes his head, sharp watchfulness shielded beneath an indolent exterior. "I haven't either."
"She would make it before any of us would."
"No doubt," he says without any hesitation, leaning a shoulder against the wall. "It seems that since ol' Thingol regathered his wits about him, she's made herself scarce. A family trait, I'm certain." Thoughtfulness passes into his tone, faint with musing. "You know, it's sorta a shame. Things were fun, just for a little bit there. When has that happened ever?"
"Once, maybe," he admits quietly. "Or twice. Maybe he should have stayed insane -- there's something endearing about an ages old being in kitchenware and re-young idealists taking the reins. Things were smooth," and now a shrug; he leans heavily against the same wall. "It's typicality in Doriath. We're all mad here."
"Well. We're just one teacup short of a full party then."
"Indeed. Without the sugarcubes, even."
"Pity." Trite. He scans the vicinity and his eyes light up on the object of his search. "Ah!" Walking quickly over to a pile of rusting helmets needing polish, he retrieves Dramborleg "Can't be too far from this these days. And here I was considering donating it to the museum."
Hands up. "...good thing you've got it. You're keeping me safe, right?"
Scanning the clean lines of the handle, he holds it up to the flickering torch lights, catching and reflecting slices of light across the blades. Eyeing Turin down the line of he axe, he arches a brow. "But of course, my dear cousin." After hefting the axe in his hands a bit, reaquaintance with an hold friend, he lowers the weapon. "If you needed it."
"I am picking up a slight hint of disbelief," muttering, scanning the clean lines of the axe. He gives an approving nod. "Past tense."
"And why not present?"
"...because." A sullen halfsmile.
He issues a muffled snort and carefully places the axe against the wall. "I still don't believe it. I know better."
"Would it matter if I said I didn't care to disclose the information because I assumed you would know already? Or something to that effect." Muttering now, he slouches into a rickety chair and pulls it up on two quivering legs. "...from here, I'm weaponless."
"...No. I don't need to hear what I already know," he murmurs, covering the end of the handle with a well-worn palm. With a glint in his eyes, ever mirthful, he slowly falls to one knee before Turin. "I've got your back."
Falling back on four legs to bless him -- twice -- with his palms (oh the irony; fallen son blessing the golden one) firmly on each shoulder. "Now get up. Idril will have my throat if you get dusty."
Levity firmly back in place, he grins, clasps his fingers around one of Turin's wrists briefly, then climbs back to his feet, barely stiffling a groan. "Man. Immortality aside, I'm still too old for this shit."
He pauses for a moment, the faint hint of a smile in his eyes."What? Defeating evil, Vala dealing, blahblahblah? Damn straight you're too old. I think we all are. It's time for a little peace here and there."
"Exactly. I was looking forward to a long retirement and fading glory with all those happy, medicated elves..." A smirk threatens to curl a corner of his mouth as he glances at Turin slyly. "But then again, where's the fun in that?"
"In the rum and piña coladas? I don't know if that's made it to Valinor yet," he teases lightly, mocking tipping a glass to his lips. He smiles for a moment before turning serious. "I'm going to find Nienor."
"Do you want me to help you?"
"...do you want to?"
"Let's go then. Now."
Not wasting any more words, he nods curtly and grabs the axe handle with one hand as he strides past.
Dodging the sparks on the stone floor, he toes the blade out of the way and opens the door into the tired sunlight. With a look over his shoulder, he smiles. "Who would have thought?" And he crosses into the forest.
Pausing for just a moment in the doorway, he watches Turin's retreating back. "In-fucking-deed." Wasting enough time, he adjusts the grip on the handle pushes aware from the wall, lengthening his strides to catch up.