Ilúvatar Voronwé (vajra) wrote in adusta, @ 2010-05-27 01:27:00 |
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Entry tags: | aeotha easaahae, ilúvatar voronwé, the shadow ride |
in life, in death (aeotha)
These were the things he was never prepared for.
All that morning spent fussing over which coat to wear, which cape accented it perfectly. In the end he'd worn black trousers, stuffed into the tops of tall black boots. The coat was wool, of a fine cut, high collar brushing his jaw. There were too-large gold buttons adorning the front of the green monstrosity - and as a point of deference to the king he'd allowed the five white slashes of his rank to be sewn onto his exposed right sleeve, from cuff to elbow. A mirror of the slashes enlarged rested on the left side of this fine and well-tailored coat. A green cape was pinned to the left shoulder, front and back, sweeping down and covering his left side entirely. It also covered the ornate hilt of that fine sword his father had left for him. Today the sword felt heavier than he could ever remember it being. Perhaps there were great deeds left to sing of in this world, but he could not recall any of them in that instant.
This was a day of celebration.
"I've never seen you so morose," Eibhear commented glibly.
"This isn't a game," Ilúvatar growled.
"I lead as well as you, friend, if not better," and Eibhear's glib nature was gone, replaced with stern disapproval. "Death never grows easier. Become used to it now - or don't lead men into battle. Don't convince them to give their lives for your cause and weep when they do what you intended."
What was he celebrating? His joy at being alive? That his king had a wife? Neither of those things mattered to him. One of Talmus' rings was in his palm - Ilúvatar was rolling the ring back and forth, examining the many facets of the jewel which rested within. He was not the sort of lord to bleat about his heart at gatherings such as these. Though he'd had his fill of wine he was not drunk. Though more than one lady had approached him tastefully and courteously he remained alone. Grand galas such as this one were not meant for soldiers. He could act the part of a lord, bow when needed and maintain polite discourse on several different favored topics. Yet none of it was what he truly wanted to say. He wanted to know why Talmus would have betrayed his people when a Drow could be counted on to show mercy.
"I know, old friend, I know," Ilúvatar's voice was resignation itself. "I do not need to enjoy it."
"Perhaps not," Eibhear agreed. "But drink to their memories, and then do what you might for the living. It's what we agreed."
"it's what we agreed."
Double doors. Each door separated into equal parts by a wide and even cross. Those four panels bore the harvest mark of the king, a crescent moon overgrown with vines and flowers and foliage. He was the crowned ruler of the march through Ellothorien on the eve of the Harvest Moon. Tall handles, parallel to the hinges, were affixed to the door by sturdy bars of further gold. This building was constructed in the shape of a circle, with the grand hall in the center and a long corridor which ran around the outside of the structure. This interior hall, a massive ring, was carpeted in red and gold with tassels that brushed milky marble. Patches of gray, patches of silver, patches of gold. Torches, evenly spaced, brass sconces polished to mirror shine. Between them great tapestries. Of battles, of prayers, of the founding of this land. And the banner of every knight in the nation hung from the ceiling, proudly proclaiming his loyalty to the king. Ilúvatar could spot his own banner. And what of Eibhear's? He did not see it. But perhaps he would keep looking.
"She is positively radiant," Eibhear's chuckle was not forced. "I am not saying that because I am intoxicated,"
"You, intoxicated, no," Ilúvatar feigned offense.
"I have a stomach like a sailor's," Eibhear protested wildly. "That cannot be it."
He wanted to know why the life of one lady, however important she might be as the betrothed of the king, was worth more than all of the warriors who'd died down below. And the answer he kept arriving at was the truth, albeit painful to consider. They'd all chosen to enter this life for different reasons. Some did it for glory. Others for a sense of duty. But they knew that those who swore the old oath, those who gave the greatest word, were called upon to take the maddest risks. No one had forced them to come along. Going into such a journey, when death was not only possible but likely, you could not place too great an emphasis on your own mortality. How many widows had he stared in the face? And how much more difficult was it, knowing that their husbands had died to give the king an opportunity to achieve the eternal bliss these widows were now denied?
"So you are coming to the gala tomorrow evening?" Eibhear's crooked drunken smile darkened his doorway.
"At the request of the king," Ilúvatar agreed.
"Wear something your mother picked out. You dress like a Perubian whore."
No one wanted to ask themselves those questions. No one wanted to consider the possibility that all of this was fanciful, for no reason, and to no purpose. No one wanted to acknowledge that lives were lost to no purpose. That this gala and the celebration of their marriage was a tower standing atop a foundation of blood. Young blood, the wave of the future, in a sense that he could never be. To the king he might seem young. Some of the boys he'd taken to their deaths were not yet old enough to shave. And yet the truth was simple. From a young age he'd been trained to fight, to kill, but to do so with honor and integrity. He took the maddest risks with his own life because he believed in the king. He believed in the country. He'd sworn an oath to protect both. And as long as he was a leader of men he would take volunteers to his cause.
"One more thing," now Eibhear was leaning in close.
"Yes?" Ilúvatar asked impatiently, on the verge of slamming his heavy door in the knight's face.
"Treat Aeotha with respect and distance," Eibhear smiled a murderous smile. "Or you'll wish the Drow had finished you."
He would explain that cause.
And then he would watch them die.
As if his misery could be no more complete, the wide double doors creaked open. He did not know who else had tired of the symphony, but he doubted it was one of his number. Fenrir and Pol seemed to enjoy lavish praise. Eibhear seemed to ignore it entirely. Almost as though it were happening to someone else.
Perhaps it had been. He turned, cape flailing behind him at the sudden movement. One hand clenched into a fist.