Ithildin; Aredhel, Fingolfin, Fingon. who: aredhel and fingon. where: doriath. when: shortly after fingolfin and fingon meet. note: another backdated log. :DD
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It is a soft sort of solitude that seperates the evenings for Fingon as he wanders from the fire that his cousins have built, seeking to familiarize himself with this wash of tenacity--the vibrant, almost rebellious green of the fading trees. It makes his lips curve into a fleeting smile.
With her eyes glued to the ground in the clamor of various birds as they return to their haunts, racing the powder blue of evening, she sits on her haunches, determining how far she has come from the borders of Doriath. A grin twists her lips briefly as she enjoys the thought of 'the farther, the better'. She rakes a hand through the sand on the ground and stills suddenly to turn her face to look over her shoulder. She doesn't miss the sound of someone approaching, no matter how minute and immediately stands, securing a hand over the dagger in her belt -- readying herself to face the new arrival.
"Give me the sky," he rasps, eyes trained to the impossibly thick canopy of branches as he narrows his eyes, deigning to cut a path through the leaves. Arms cross over his chest as he walks, unheeding of the environment around him.
The faded words wash over like the pleasantly warm wash of light at daybreak. Her hand goes slack on the hilt of the dagger's hilt as she whispers quietly in return, "...and bring me that horizon." A pause. She gathers breath in her lungs before she starts to walk in the general direction of where that voice came from. Silently pushing away low hanging branches and twisted vines to clear her path, she keeps her eyes on the lookout for the speaker of the words, telling herself to hope only when she sees him.
The slow whisper that meets his ears with the residual clamor makes him still, if only for passing seconds. He turns a full circle, eyes wildly searching the underbrush. "Only allow me to catch it," he intones, biting the corners of his scarred lips.
The persistence, which rushes through her veins at the infusion of this inflection through the air is maddening, shading her face with impatience. She walks further into the shadowy depths, finally breaking free of the cumbersome green. "And stretch the moment into eternity," she exhales. "I do not care if it all slips through my fingers afterwards."
"It wouldn't dare," he promises, his hands heavy on her shoulders as she slips into view. His grin widens. "...the sky would sit patient for Írissë or think better of it, upon the reciept of my wrath." Lifting her quickly out of the brush and onto the path, he begins a sharp perusal of her face and hands. "What are you doing here? Where are you? What is going on?"
She makes a slight sound of protest at being lifted so easily, breaking into a smile even as she mumbles one last complaint, eyes lowered to her earth stained hands in his. "What are you doing here? I was hoping to go on a quest to locate you and you thwarted the plan by showing up so easily." The moment convulses under the strain of true peace that surges inside her and in a moment she breaks into the mildest, most subdued laughter. "Findékano, my Findékano. Well met."
Low, full, he echoes the sound as it lifts in the breeze, flung outward by the rustling leaves. His eyes glint for a moment with the gravity of the words he must impart. "...I came with reinforcements. Our lands are ash and once again, we are refugees." Winding their hands, he presses them tightly to his chest. Here; warmth. Blood. Life. "Never leave me again, Írissë. I won't have it."
"Never lost to ourselves, Findékano. Tell me about you, the reinforcements." The words sound crushed for an ephemeral moment as she concentrates all of her thoughts and love towards the heart that beats so steadily within his chest. A smile returns and she lifts her gaze to look at his face. "Dare I make the promise?"
"Maitimo and Carnistir, then, an elf that found me in Hísilómë. His name is Malbeth." Fingers unfurl, giving her nose a smart tap. "...you already promised."
"Maitimo and Carnistir? Excellent reinforcements you have brought," she makes a slight face at the contact his finger makes with her nose but commends quietly even as a deviant smile sparkles in her eyes at the prospect of meeting her cousins again. She slips a hand out of his grip and runs it along the side of his face, pausing on his cheek. "Do you know who else is here? Someone loved. Maybe even feared by you and Turukano."
He rests his cheek in the palm of her hand, smiling knowingly. After contemplating the prospect of playing dumb, he decides to deal honestly. "Atar."
"You knew!" she exclaims in an accusing whisper, placing her other hand on the other side of his face. "Sometimes you make me think you have telepathic powers. But yes, Atar is here and he wishes us to stay a while in Doriath."
"I saw him," he mutters, curling his fingers around her hands. "...and I think we may have no other choice. For now. Won't Elwë's face be an amusing sight?"
She places a brief, fleeting kiss on his forehead out of instinct before mocking in a hushed tone. "He might even throw a convulsive fit at seeing us all amassing in his halls. Or he might even think war has finally reached his doorstep."
"Psst, I think it already did. It came in the back door." Sidestepping, he takes a few strides backward and raises his shoulders, beckoning her to follow. "...nevertheless. He'll be polite"
"For his own sake, I hope he is," she declares wryly before offering him a curt nod and following him. "Who is this other elf that you spoke of? Malbeth? Is he one of the noldor?"
Arms spread wide, fingertips clawing at the sky. "...Malbeth is. I believe he survived Melkor's thraldom, though, honestly." Smirk. "I didn't ask."
Aredhel quirks an eyebrow before she bows to pick up an arid stick from the ground. "Quite the conversationalist, is he?"
He makes a show of attempting to snatch the stick from her hands. "...you think I am?"
She moves her free hand forward immediately; trying to protect her scoured stick and throws him a testing look. "You? Hmmm…I doubt it." She smirks knowingly. "Your counsel is wise and brief."
Raising a doubtful brow, he steps behind her and snakes his hand down over her shoulder. "...generous sister."
She stands still, only her eyes roving with the movement of her brother's hands. "Generosity is a failing virtue these days, isn't it, Findékano?"
"...generosity was ever a failing virtue outside of the light of Telperion and Laurelin," and with a direful sigh, he gives up and drapes his arms like a cloak around her shoulders.
Stiff and cold at first, she softens her posture gradually and raises the stick to tap his hand as she turns her face to look at him - her words still removed from any desire for yielding. "And haven't we learnt about it the harshest way possible. Come, we were wrought for this disaster."
Taking his chastisement with a grain of salt, he presses a quick kiss to her cheek and gives a nod. "Steel veined, we are. With vulnerable hearts. I wonder if we'll have to learn that lesson over and over. No matter, though. As long as I have you in my sights, Sister."
"Then pray that I don't vanish with that horizon, brother of mine," she smiles quietly at the kiss and turns to face him before she pokes his arm with the stick. "You know what? I'm glad you didn't change with the seasons."
"See these hands?" Unfurling his scarred, callused palms for her scrutinizing gaze, he turns them over a few times and then firmly grips her shoulders. "...you're not vanishing anywhere."
Embittered by the intruding fate as she studies each scar that he reveals, she looks up at his face, re-writing memories of his well loved features while preserving the old. "Then you must try to keep up with me, hmm?" She leans closer to whisper in his ear, "No other love measures up to yours in this freedom, Findékano."
"...I am right next to you Írissë and my footfalls echo yours." Cupping her cheek, he returns her whispers with his cheek gently laid against her temple. "The consistency of your love is awing. I will do everything to preserve it. Everything that you have ever desired. It is yours. With a new chance."
She closes her eyes as she leans against him, briefly refuting all of her self-made defenses. She imagines herself satiated by this moment even when a smile twists her lips; a thought whispering at the back of her mind that she'll be demanding more from him as soon as the next moment arrives. "I hope I do not tire you. I hope my love is enough for you. And …well… here's hoping for new beginnings."
"Here are new beginnings. With every day." Smiling, he tightens his arms around her; his gravelly voice toned down to a patient murmur. "I'm invincible, Sister. I don't tire. Your love is more than enough. I hope mine is enough for you."
The forgotten stick slips to the ground as she encircles him tentatively with her arms. "Well, invincible one, know that your love is my breath. And I wouldn't wish to change anything about that."
"...if I am breath, Írissë, then you are air. Simple as that." Stooping and cupping his fingers around her ear for a conspiriatorial whisper, he laughs softly. "We will take Elwë's throne when his back is turned."
She ponders for a moment as if deliberating over a matter of great importance before nodding with a smirk. "I will love watching him convulse in his so called righteous anger."
"And then biting back retorts for the sake of reputation or propriety, perhaps?" Smile. "Or maybe we miscalculate him. Maybe he'll welcome us with open arms."
She silently disagrees with her brother's last statement by letting her grin grow wider and pushing back a lock of dark hair from her forehead. "I doubt it. I still remember his pompous decrees for our kin to STAY AWAY."
"...unless of course, your name was something between "man" and "maiden". Oh well. Nevertheless, he is choiceless." Taking her wrists in his hands, he spins her a few times before wrapping his arms around her for another hug.
Trying to maintain her resolve, she finally crumbles into a soft laugh, locking her arms tightly around his waist as she looks up at him. "Braving much, aren't we?"
"It's little to brave. This," animatedly, he inhales and exhales. "This takes courage."
This inescapability of love is overwhelming. Silent, she kisses her fingertips and places them on his forehead. "Then in your shadow, consider me courageous as I cling to my breath. Let tomorrow come as it will."
He receives them as a blessing and traces this thumbs over the strong line of her jaws. "...in or out of my shadow, Sister. You are courage--and you are strength. And even with me standing beside you. Yes, tomorrow. And the day after that. So on."
"My convalescence," she states with a dismissively light smile as she steps back from his embrace and retrieves the stick she let go of a few moments ago. She narrows her eyes as she studies the finely spun spider web suspended from the dry branches of a nearby tree, bowing to take a closer look at the pattern in the shadows. "How are Maitimo and Carnistir? I wonder if I even remember when I last saw them."
"...Carnistir is as he ever was and Maitimo is," he smiles, running his fingers through his hair, "well? He's quiet. His hand has been restored to him. Odd isn't it, that we retain our scars in the most unique of ways?"
She stills, blinking as a pleasant wave of surprise washes over her. "Nothing more than shards of who we were, Findékano. I'll kiss his hands."
"Shards? I think we shall have to start thinking in wholes, not splinters." He smothers a grin with the palm of his hand.
Smirk. "I'll leave the thinking to you as I gather the fragments for the wise to make a whole, does that sound good enough to you?"
"...would I have a choice in the matter?" Echoing a smirk with her own, he brushes his hand against her shoulder as his lips fade into a smile.
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who: fingon and fingolfin. where: the borders of doriath. when:...shortly after everyone got zapped. note: backdated log. this one has been waiting to be posted.
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The sky is bruised black and blue, too cloudy for stars, and he sits lonely atop a rise in the earth, blessedly free of clamorous trees to obscure his glimpse of an obscured night. There is something both beautiful and horrible about coming to Doriath, with its untouched and ghostly barren lands. It was a testament to the ashes of this once-great Sindar kingdom that he and Aredhel should arrive unnoticed and unaccosted. And now that he has reached this final destination, there is...listlessness. He blinks once and rests his chin on his knees, thinking of nothing and everything.
He spends the nights in solitude, haunting the inexpressibly harrowing trees that vine together at their highest point to veil him from the moon and stars. From the sun, no less. So his feet grow careless and tread heavily on dry leaves, crackling like fallen stones in the stillness.
The sounds of intrusion break into his thoughts, louder than rain. He stiffens, old flames of his former self demanding confrontation and yet this newer, wearier version wanting nothing more than to disappear into the shadows, unnoticed. But there is no immediate cover. With little choice, he only remains where he is, waiting and straining to hear every approaching noise.
Maybe it's the situation. Or maybe, a few loose strands of magic that had clung to this land for so long that makes Fingon not realize, as he steps into the clearing, he is not alone. Raking heavy strands of hair from his forehead, he closes his eyes and presents his countenace to the sky.
There are whispers of familiarity in this approaching shadowed figure. His eyes narrow in speculation, body tense and still. Echoes of Írissë are unconciously mimicked as he silently wills the stranger to see him, to understand, and then to shuffle off and leave him in solitude once more.
--a sharp breath of recognition. No, not alone. With flattened brows, he lets his gaze sweep over the nearest trees. "Show yourself," he commands, soft and steely.
The command seems remarkably absurd and he blinks once before laughing mirthlessly at the implied threat. "I've been here, revealed, for quite some time now."
The sound careening all too familiar in his ears, he draws his gaze in its direction and unfurls his fingers toward the figure. Ghostly in its slow revelation. Unstruck by reality--or in denial, he shakes his head. "...satyr, then, I will call you."
This brings him to his feet on slow approach, eyes flashing. "Watch where you throw around your words."
Instinct sends hands to his hips--nothing. Of course. He grinds his teeth and nonetheless, takes a step nearer. Unimpeded, this voice begins to chisel an opening through the stone of his countenance. He smashes it; intent now, to meet whomever this may be.
The abortive gesture, the realization and floundering, makes him smirk. "No advantages." He stops before a sliver of moonlight spilling out of the overcast sky.
With the grace of moonlight--the familiar rugged planes, the brows and voice, becomes all to clear. And shock fades into a smirk as he takes another step nearer. "...there never were any."
"And yet we've always made do." It was like stepping into nearly faded footprints. He watches familiar visions reform themselves under the ghostly moon. For the second time, a tightness within his chest.
"For our own hot blood." Firmly, his hand presses against his chest as he begins a respectful bow only to still, mid-stoop. "...Atar." It takes moments for his arms to wind tightly around his father's shoulders.
He is slow to bring his arms up around Fingon, slow to cup the palm of his hand against the back of his son's head in an old gesture, to press his rough cheek against even rougher shoulders and think of life. "Hello," he greets softly, almost as an afterthought.
Spilling his gaze over the comforting and familiar features, he laughs. Soft at first; low and full. There are thousands of tales, experiences and thoughts that come leaping to his lips, only to be stopped by a quick shake of his head. This was surreal. This was a joke--this was Eressëa. No. Reality winds its way through his lungs. Understated. "...I missed you."
A tattered, fond smile lifts the corners of his mouth, drenched in his own wonder at the creature before him that he knows and loves more dearly than the breath in his lungs. "I'm here, Findekáno," is all he can say now, resting his a solid hand on Fingon's shoulders in reassuring weight even as he drags a thumb scarred skin.
"You're here," he echoes, slowly sliding down to a breathable pitch. "Here. How?"
"I don't know," he replies honestly. "How are you here? And Írissë?"
And how is it, with Maitimo? With Carnistir? "Írissë?" A quiet smile divests itself in the corners of his scarred lips. "...and I don't know, Atar. Only that many of us have returned--and it is more than, perhaps, we could have hoped for. Hísilómë is ash."
Even though it's a confirmation of what he has already known, he swallows thickly, cups Fingon's cheek briefly before pulling away and turning to take a few idle steps along the base of the hill. "She's here, amongst these trees," he says, waving a hand towards the shadows. "I'm sure she shall find you first, clever girl."
"I suspect she shall." Now still within himself, he wraps his arms around his chest and follows the path his father cuts through the shadows. "...there are so many things to say, Atar." Frown. "So many that I think I might never be able to say them all. It rubs my pride the wrong way to come to Elwë's doorstep. A refugee."
"You're certainly not alone in your feelings."
Wry. "So we swallow our pride?"
A thoughtful pause. "For now."
"I hope I can stomach it."
He glances at the trees, thinking there would have been archers there at one time. "It shouldn't be as painful as you think. Singollo's kingdom hasn't seemed to fare much better."