Ilúvatar Voronwé (vajra) wrote in adusta, @ 2010-05-25 15:32:00 |
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Entry tags: | aeotha easaahae, ilúvatar voronwé, the shadow ride |
carry me home (aeotha)
A blackened, ruined tangle such as this one had never been more bleak than it was when his arms began to protest. When his heart suggested that it would, at last, surrender. When every fiber of his being made its case for death. Ilúvatar was not a creature of darkness and surrender, but for a moment it was tempting. Then Nindë injured herself. A simple thing, that any untrained girl might do. Despite the angry intensity with which Fenrir berated her Ilúvatar was quiet, and so was she. She hugged her arms around his neck. She breathed against his hair. But she was silent, and still, as he carried her. Perhaps not believing that a twisted ankle might have doomed her to death - or worse - if not for the soldiers who had come to retrieve her. Or perhaps not believing that any of this was possible simply because she had kissed a king on his cheek.
It was more than possible.
Even this close to a waterway, which he would admit to anyone who asked seemed like a dream in the Underdark, Ilúvatar could not help but notice how jagged the stone. How it pressed against his feet uncomfortably no matter where he stepped or how carefully he did so. Vicious was the name of the game, apparently, and it was a game that he was losing one small cut at a time. Yet they were here. Below them, only a short walk down a packed-dirt road to the docks, were a trio of boats bobbing against sturdy piers of unknown material. And beyond them a black river, as murderously dark as anything. Where the earth itself was warm, the water was cool, and he saw it as such - a wide swath of cold through the otherwise desolate landscape which he hated so. Even Pol whistled through his teeth. Perhaps he'd doubted as well. But they were close enough to the end that no one wanted to dawdle.
First, the packs. There was no food. Only two canteens. Ilúvatar took one and Eibhear the other, with both of them judging how much was in each. This assessment proved they were roughly equivalent. Next were the various odds and ends - they knew they would not rest again until they'd arrived at the sun-kissed fields of the world above, but each of them took a sleeping roll in any case. A pair of field knives, not personal weapons but things of utility which they would hopefully never have to use. A map, hastily sketched by Pol as they'd walked. As near as the elf could tell they were half a day away from their point of entrance. Which was both too far, and as close as he could have prayed. Half a day. From sunshine, from roasted beef, and the feel of water against his skin. Real water. Ilúvatar wondered if he would ever feel clean again after such an excursion, but there was nothing for it.
They would have to make do.
"Pol, Nindë and I will take the first boat," he said gruffly. "Eibhear, Aeotha, Fenrir - you will trail behind us."
"We'll sink the third," Eibhear added with a wry grin. "Just in case."
Their approach was not that of conquering heroes but of bedraggled ones. All stumbling shuffling feet and pained expressions. Ilúvatar could not have imagined all that would happen between then and now, rushing to his king's defense with a sword on his belt should something go awry. And yet here he was. About to give his life in the Underdartk for a farmgirl who did not understand any of this. Who shrieked in terror at the very prospect of Drow speaking with her, or the Underdark becoming her home even for a day. To say he resented her was nonsense. He felt nothing but pity for her. And yet, some part of him wished she could manage to stop the near-endless flow of tears that had trailed down his neck. Wished she could stop murmuring incoherent statements into his neck, where he had no hope of hearing them. It was Pol's voice who broke the silence.
"Let's make ready to sail," he grimaced sourly at them.
It was Nindë's hand on his arm that kept him back. Grey Elves were willowy creatures, tall to the point of impossibility, but she had not found these legendary feet yet. She was filthy beneath that white robe, which was itself slowly descending into ruin - and her mouth was trembling when she peered up into his face. Yet there was something of steel in her. Enough that she wanted to speak to him.
"Did he truly send you?" she asked in a quavering voice.
"He did," the knight replied. "For you, my lady."
"I am not a lady," she protested weakly, but her mouth curved into a smile - and he could see why the king had taken to her. "Thank you. For... they said..."
"Then I am glad," Ilúvatar was solemn, and her eyes flashed with anger. "That they only had the chance to use words."
Her soft, appreciative laughter kept him company as he continued his descent to the boats.