Ilúvatar Voronwé (vajra) wrote in adusta, @ 2010-04-28 20:20:00 |
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Entry tags: | aeotha easaahae, ilúvatar voronwé, the shadow ride |
blades of light (aeotha)
How must a Drow feel when they looked upon such a thing? The incautious spectacle of it was like nothing he'd ever seen before. Works before Lorien, white towers and grand public structures, were always built with... more restraint. This looked as though it should have been a tower, cylindrical in nature and massive as Ceranarad itself - but it was lying on its side, posed there as though some great hand had toppled it to the ground intact. What was the point of building a structure so massive and stretched when you had no use for it? One could approach the side, actually touch the black stone, and through his gloves it felt like nothing else he'd ever seen or felt in his life. It felt like madness and death. Strange to think that a week gone, he was supervising additions of stone to his own home. More than a week now, wasn't it? Without the sun judging the passage of time was not as easy as it had been.
To be this close.
Still clinging to a measure of his sanity was a victory that Ilúvatar would not soon forget. Any more than he would forget the death of Talmus, or the priestess who was unlike any he'd ever met. Despite the cracked and broken nature of the structure - where seams in the wall became tears in the exterior, and there was no foundation he could see to hold all of this weight aloft - he would not give in to fear. Windows were nonexistent things. Born of an urge for natural light, instead of the lantern and torch, they had no place in a world which was devoid of any but the faintest natural light. In darkness one could see if one were so inclined, the marching of the faithful. Ilúvatar pulled his hood tighter on instinct. Marching down the path, which was little more than jagged rocks smoothed a bit more than those surrounding them, you could see the hope of the migrants.
Those who came to pray.
Those who came to love the darkness.
"Elves are not unheard of here, but they are uncommon," Eibhear's voice was the mantra keeping all of them calm just then. "Not one word from any of you. I will speak for this group, and give them our story if it is requested. As far as the rest of you are concerned, you have no tongues. If I could convincingly lie on that matter, I would, but finding a tongue would settle us for good. The only one who is allowed to speak when addressed is Aeotha, unless they are addressing me."
Ilúvatar could see the wisdom in that even as he hated it. What was Aeotha but a girl? To put all of this on her shoulders, and pretend that she could summon the quiet and short viciousness of a matriarchal drow, was foolishness. Then again, he had only just reminded himself of the steel that lived inside of her. Perhaps it was foolishness to think that she could not do it. Oddly, that was comforting. The thought of her success, and through her success their own providence. Almost as though he'd believed since the first day they met that Aeotha could do anything she wished to do. He was not a being that could be called religious, or even faithful, but the thought that Lorien was assisting her - and that Aeotha in turn would be willing to do anything to see them succeed - was by far the most comforting thing that had happened since they'd descended into this hellish place.
Now there were long poles, which once had belonged to spears if the gouges in the wood were any indication, and these poles supported lanterns. Despite the fact that no wind touched this place the lanterns swayed in the cold breath of the air, a dastardly chill that enveloped all of them equally. Ilúvatar did not have to look to see the ragged edges of his cloak swirling around his feet, nor the black filth that masqueraded as dirt flinging itself against his boots. A pelting sound, like rain on glass, was enough to tell him these things were happening. Those lanterns swayed, and a black flag he did not know swirled on the wind, and the door of the temple was open. Hearing the speech of the Drow recited as prayer was one experienced. Hearing all of the fifty pilgrims who were using the main road recite it was another experience entirely. They sounded... peaceful, as though there was no war and only this habit.
Strange days.
"Remember, Aeotha," and Eibher's voice was kinder now. "Say as little as possible. You are disdainful of your company, and of coming to this place, but you are here of need. You are searching for the manuscripts that were removed from the body of an elf with whom you had contact. You are not a priestess. You are a hateful wretch."
"There's less difference than you think between the two," Fenrir offered helpfully.
"What did I tell you?" Eibhear hissed. "Another word, even an apology, and I'll hang you by your tongue."
There was an order to their march as well, with Eibhear and Pol walking ahead of Aeotha, Fenrir and Ilúvatar walking behind. They moved in single file not out of particular interest but because the brutal stone beneath their feet allowed for nothing else. What was the purpose of a path so unforgiving? Was it to drive out those who lacked a purity of heart, of spirit? Something pure in darkness was just as beautiful to behold as something pure in light, was it not? But perhaps the road to travel there was so different that he did not want to imagine it. In any case, he had not come here to contemplate the difference between light and darkness, or the fact that their pure extremes were more similar than strange. Eibhear was bold as brass to lead them here, and no one doubted the High Elf's sincerity, but this would make a fine legend once all of them were dead.
"I'm just a touch nervous," Pol whispered into the quiet.
"We're still working on the easier portion," Eibhear managed to sound reassuring. "Don't grow nervous until the difficult segment begins."
"So," Fenrir's voice grated into the quiet. "He is allowed to speak, and I am not?"
"Yes," Eibhear answered curtly.
Ilúvatar could not help the stifled laugh that escaped his lips.