Ilúvatar Voronwé (vajra) wrote in adusta, @ 2010-02-16 15:33:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | aeotha easaahae, ilúvatar voronwé, the shadow ride |
void (aeotha)
Living in Ellothorien, you grew used to a great many things. Lights were abundant, forever changing in color. Forever changing in pitch. Mirrors were found with equal frequency. Fountains, endlessly surging, flowing water into deep mirrored pools that one could use for moments of reflection no matter where one went. Ilúvatar did not like thinking of home when he was out on campaign. only because he usually despised it when someone reminded him of what they were capable of in their best moments. Instead he was here, close to dying if not extremely so - for the moment. And though he did not fear death Ilúvatar often wondered what would happen if they lived in a world without war. More than likely he would have taken up a more honest trade. Farming, perhaps. Sheep herding. Living in the forest, training in the games, none of that would be possible in a world without combat. Their athletic prowess would not have been needed then, to help the monarchy emerge victorious in conflicts. Certainly he would have done his time in a temple. Learned affection for the goddess they were all supposed to love.
In the main he felt anger.
There were fine creatures who'd died in this hellish place. Because he'd asked them along, or because they'd wanted a chance to be heroes, or because they felt there was nothing for them above the ground. That all the glory would be had by those who went below. Yet there were only a few of them left now. Fenrir. Eibhear. Ilúvatar himself. Pol. And Aeotha. The rest had died from poison, or from wounds, or from something else. Despair, perhaps. Madness. Clawing at their eyes, tongue swelling fat in their throats, choking them to death. And the priestess unable to do anything. Bleak thing to see if you were used to conflict with the dark on this level. For Aeotha? How could she stand to see such things as those? How had she not given in to the despair? For his part Ilúvatar felt it in the pit of his stomach. That was the reason he was here, drinking apple brandy out of a flask and trying to remember a time without suffering in his life. A memory he could cling to when death finally came to visit him.
What was it his father had told him?
The battle is not to the brave, or the strong, but the persistent. And the lucky.
Not enough brandy in the flask to be drunk. He would wish for it.
Well, despite all of his luck, Ilúvatar's father was dead, and here was his son, leader of a noble house only two generations old. To die here, with no male issue, would be the end. Not that Ilúvatar wanted a son. Well, he did, but... a son would have to suffer what Ilúvatar suffered to be strong enough to survive the ravages of politics. No, he would not wish that upon anyone, being born into a noble house. The burden was as wicked as the reward, and the only thing that distinguished the two was how much the common man would hate you if he found out. Ilúvatar usually did not drink. He had no thirst for the life of a monk, sequestered in the mountains, but he liked his head clear. Today the drink was helping. Today the drink was reminding him of all the reasons he hated being a knight for a king. Hated being the Lord of a Knighted House. Hated being the one who could order other creatures to their deaths, without blinking. Soon or late you became a part of the game, inoculated against the shame it should have made you feel.
Who could he tell? His king?
His king would not listen.
So here he sat, alone in a dark and narrow crevice of a dark and narrow cave - boots propped up on the armor he'd saved from one of his Thunderbolts, staring over his toes at the complete and utter darkness which lay beyond. His eyes could tell him that souls still moved, that there was life, but he did not care for that information. If they were alive they knew he was drinking, and if they knew he was drinking, they knew what he thought of their chances. Not that any of these elves needed leadership. A steady hand. They were all war horses to the last, every drop of blood in their veins prepared for such an eventuality even as they hoped it would never come. Eibhear seemed content to smoke his pipe peacefully and speak of nothing, to anyone. Pol was writing furiously in his journal. Just in case it finds its way back home, Ilúvatar thought, but there was no chance of that. He did not want to tell Pol. Pol already knew. It would not be right to confess his sins or his worries to his comrades - so he put them to paper, as he always did, bracing for the end.
Fenrir was asleep.
Aeotha might have been, as well, but he had not seen the priestess and did not want to seek her out while he found himself in so bleak a mood. There was no point in destroying her spirits any more than they most likely were. And in any case he did not think his filthy, blackened, half-sour face was the last thing she would want to see. For although this narrow cave had been untroubled for now it was highly unlikely that they would stay undetected here forever. Eibhear had debated with them about setting out in search of the king's betrothed - but in the end they'd agreed to take a night of rest and let things play out from there. Which meant if they did wake up, they were going to wake up with barbed Drow arrows in their throats. Which meant none of them were truly sleeping. Ilúvatar was ready to face his end on his feet, with axes in hand if need be. The rest should have been ready for the same.
Still. If he did have someone to talk to, he'd no idea what he would have said.