October 21, 2016

Forever to Touch You

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“You love me, and I love you, and no matter where else life or our hearts take us we will always belong wholly to each other. If that is not enough, my Taelathron, then tell me what is.”

One of her hands caresses his cheek, his jaw, fervent and sure. The other is still held fast and motionless in his own. He can feel her straining against his grip, longing to tear his robe open further.

“Men and Elves were not meant to be joined in such a way. And were we thus, by the customs of my people, it would be marriage.”

His own voice of protest is distant to him, as he hears another whisper curling in his mind. Is this not your dream? She does not remember, but you do. You remember the life you had with her that never was. The joy of it. The fullness.

“Then marry me.” The unyielding passion of this simple command jerks him back to the present moment, and the intensity of her gaze nearly overwhelms him. “By the breath of Elmeleth, my love… if an accursed fate is all that is keeping us apart, then I welcome it. What can Valar and their laws do to me that has not been done already?”

He argues again, aware of his uncertainty now, and she refutes his logic without apparent effort. He is left to stare silently at her, her eyes waiting and his heart beating too rapidly, too desperately, as though it already knows she has taken it captive. Words will not come, and breath barely. The cliff’s edge is crumbling beneath his feet.

Illuvatar forgive me.

Surrender, my love. Trust in me.

Her hand is free, his defences utterly relinquished. She pins him against the heavy doors and arches into his embrace. 

With all my heart.

The taste of her lips is sweet as honeysuckle.

The fragrant air cooled under starlight and the room grew dim with soft blue shadows, and yet in their world of warm closeness time held no dominion, as together they explored a path of intimacy hitherto untrod by either.

For Kemendin, there was bliss, and also desperation, for he had sensed the darkness that lingered about Cirieldis like a veil, and in his mind her twilight and their union were linked. And so he gave himself entirely to her, and held nothing back, as if with each touch, each kiss, each soft breath, he could drive away the shadows that held her and keep her in the light. Her pleasure was his, the ecstacy of two souls joined. And in the floating descent of their passion, he thought for a moment that he saw the darkness flee.

In the stillness of the foredawn, when their love was spent, they lay together in quiet weariness. Ciri slept deeply in his arms, her head cushioned by his hair which was spread dark and languid over the blue of the pillow. He could feel her breathing, slow and even, beneath his arm, curled over her breast. He kissed the side of her head gently, without disturbing her, drinking in the beauty of her countenance.

And yet, despite his slow blinking, he felt several stray tears roll sideways across his face to disappear into the black garden of her hair.

His mind, still fogged with exhaustion, whispered condemnations. What have you done? What have you done? And yet his heart, his very spirit, were elated and stricken happily dumb by bliss. How could this be so wrong? How could he have sinned so grievously and yet feel more contented than he had ever been in all his millennia of life?

I no longer have the time for regret, she had said. Begging for them to simply be close again. And after searching himself for a long while, he could not find any regret for what they had done.

If fate thus condemns me for this, then let me be condemned.

Iris – Goo Goo Dolls

 

October 14, 2016

Ready for the Dance

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Somehow, Feira had managed to slip him into the Colagar manor without running into any of the other servants. He appreciated the discretion she showed, and on her own initiative, without the need to ask. It was, at least, a thin balm on the raw nerves he could feel clambering towards the surface of his awareness.

Whether by accident or pointed purpose – he privately suspected the latter – she led him to the guest room he had used before, and bade him remain there until she could change and come and fetch him again. Once alone, he eyed the familiar surroundings uncertainly. His feet seemed reluctant to venture about the room. The rest of him didn’t seem to disagree. After a minute or so, he admitted that he was being ridiculous. Still, it took several stern, soundless words to himself before he would actually move.

A bit curious now, he poked his head into the closet. He had supposed that most of his wardrobe had been relocated to some storage chest after his abrupt departure, to make room for other guests. And indeed it seemed to be so, with the exception of a long robe tucked away at the very back. He frowned slightly when he saw it. It could have been simply overlooked, this was true. Or it could have been left there, deliberately.

The more time he spent with Feira, the more he came to understand her. And this did strike him as the sort of thing she would do. Leave a small trace of his presence in the hopes that he would return, and make her beloved mistress happy again.

He grimaced faintly, but it soon became a look of resignation. He shook his head, and sighed, and put on the robe. The silk was a dark teal, the colour of ocean fathoms barely touched by sunlight, and cool against his skin as he paced the room restlessly. His fingers combed through his loose hair without thought, and he had trod the length of the room and back half a dozen times before he paused and realised what he was doing.

He had never thought of himself as vain in any way. He appreciated fine cloths and knew what colours suited him and had even taken some pleasure in readying himself for formal affairs, particularly during happier times in Dol Amroth. But he would never have described himself as overly particular about his appearance.

And yet here he was, changing his clothes and combing his hair in preparation to visit his beloved. He could think of several individuals who would have been doubled over in laughter at the thought of it, had they known.

He wasn’t sure they were wrong to do so, he thought wryly.

Clamping his hands behind his back, he resumed his nervous steps about the room. There was a soft knock at the door. He twitched involuntarily, and turned to see Feira poking her head in, beckoning to him. He nodded, stiffly, his mouth suddenly too dry to speak.

Kemendin let out an uneven breath, and pushed back all the whispering fears, and followed Feira from the room.

 

August 26, 2016

Fire and Ice

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Kemendin had to fight to lie still on his bedroll. His jaw was clenched until it ached. Somehow, he had managed to turn his head, so that he had a view of the cedar-lined wall instead of the arched ceiling, or worse yet, his companions.

He had thought fire, at least, would be a change from the frigid darkness that clung to the corners of his mind. Dangerous, terrifying and terrible, but marginally better than its opposite. He had not expected to emerge from it unscathed, but the risk had hardly even been a factor. There could be no question of refusing the elk-mother’s plea. He could not ignore any creature in such pain.

But the primal fury of the Palo-joki had overwhelmed him, far beyond what he had expected. The searing heat of it had become as ice, and it had held him, and dragged him, and he had been helpless in its thickened grasp.

He flinched inadvertently, and then bit down on his lip at the ensuing spasm. The breath that he forced out was a shudder. Helpless.  The word danced in his mind, too clear for his liking. Useless. Hot tears pooled in his eyes, and ran toward the earth across his fevered skin. He could feel the cracks in his calm confidence, barely healed and still tender, beginning to widen again, forced open by a hand of molten stone.

What good was he to the Wayfarers, if when the situation was truly dire, he took a step and simply fell apart? What good was he to himself, if he could not overcome what had happened?

He had cried out in pain when he awakened from the Henki-maa, unable to stifle the sound until it was too late. Somewhere, far across Forochel, he knew Eruviel had done the same. He hunched over as attention was drawn to him, like a wounded animal not wanting to be seen. Shame had never been a familiar companion to him, but it had sprung upon him then, its vigour renewed in the face of his failure. It told him to cringe away from those who cared, who tried to tend to him, and in his blind agony he obeyed.

Kemendin’s fingers dug into the soft furs beneath him. It took all his self-restraint to keep from crawling from his pallet and out onto the glimmering snow, where he could drag his palms across the ice and scream at the dancing sky.

He wanted to rage against Tumma, who despite Kemendin’s immediate pains still stalked the edges of the Elf’s mind as the source of all he had endured. And he wanted to rage against himself, for his frailty and his vulnerability and his weakness.

But more troubling still was that he knew, without a doubt, which was the easier target.

 

July 29, 2016

Business As Usual (Or Not)

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Dawn had not yet broken over the docks, though a certain stillness in the air and a tinge of purple on the horizon hinted at its coming. Dolagos made his way down to the piers, his steps fluid and silent, casually avoiding the more obvious pools of torchlight. Even in the half light, he hardly needed his eyes to guide him, focusing more on his surroundings than on where he was going. This was familiar territory.

He was forced to duck aside only once, when a weary patrol of guards crossed his path. His dark eyes studied them without much interest from the shadows. They were only raw young knights, assigned the most boring of beats to keep them out of trouble. And he had no intention of disrupting them. It made things much easier on everyone involved.

He kept his hood pulled low as he slipped out into the open again, but his furtive gait shifted into an easier, rolling walk. Unhurriedly, he strolled along the second pier, strangely empty of crates and barrels with no ship docked there. Upon reaching the end, he wrapped his cloak about himself, and leaned back against one of the stone mooring posts, and waited, staring out to sea. Overhead, a few early gulls began warming up their calls.

The sky had lightened considerably by the time he moved again; the sun had risen, unseen, behind a veil of bright clouds, and the docks were scattered with early morning workers. Dolagos watched as a trade ship sailed into the bay, drifted carefully in, and settled at the second pier. He waited until her crew were fully occupied with tying off the lines and beginning to bring the cargo from below, and then he walked purposefully past them up the gangplank, exuding the air of an important man on business. Which, of course, he was.

The captain’s back was turned, bent over paperwork in his cabin, when Dolagos entered and closed the door with a soft snap.

“You’re three days late.”

The man jumped slightly, and quickly turned. “What – oh. It’s you. Thought they’d be in to inspect us by now.”

“The inspection detail has been quite lamentably delayed.” Dolagos folded his arms, his face concealed but his tone obvious. “Which leaves us a little time to talk business. So.”

The captain – probably unconsciously, thought Dolagos – wiped at his brow. “Had to do some fancy sailing out there. Dumpling spotted a ship tailing us – raiders. Seas are thick with ’em lately.”

Dolagos straightened pointedly. “The cargo?”

“Don’t worry,” the captain assured him hastily. “They never got really near us. Everything’s safe.”

Dolagos relaxed again, nodding. “I knew I could count on you, old thing,” he remarked, a slight edge to his voice. “You’re much better than the previous captain of this ship.” He withdrew a coinpurse from his cloak and tossed it onto the desk. “Such a pity he had that accident. I’m sure two, maybe three people were terribly put out.”

“Y-yes,” said the captain, side-eyeing the purse. “I’m sure.”

“I do believe that’s the inspector headed this way,” said Dolagos, cocking his head to one side, and listening. “You had better not keep him waiting.” He turned, pausing in the door. “Keep an eye on that first mate of yours. He’s got ideas about going into business for himself, and I’d hate to have to drop our arrangement due to such a minor inconvenience.”

It was twilight on the summer solstice. All day Sage had been going back and forth between Durrow and the Chestnut Woods, his rucksack heavy on his back and the sun warm in his hair and his boots sliding delightedly through the fresh, fragrant grass. He didn’t mind the walking, in truth, but at the same time he was glad to be finished with this particular task. There was a tingling suspense under his skin, just waiting to be released. But it would be soon now. Soon.

The harmony of night insects was loud in his ears as he pressed into the deepening shadows. The sweet air beckoned to him with the promise of wonder, whispering secrets he could not discern. Between the darkened silhouettes of the trees, the first few fireflies began to pulse, flashes of the softest lightning.

He came to a broad clearing, where the trees bent inward as though to form a protective circle. Sage knelt in the open grass, blinking against the approaching night, and slid his rucksack front his shoulders. From within it he drew out two dozen or so pale candles. He got to his feet again, and began setting them around the clearing. There was no pattern to their places, only instinct.

He moved then to the edges of the clearing, where glass-paned lanterns hung, hardly discernible amidst the branches. Slowly, he paced the edge of the clearing, his hand outstretched to brush against metal and glass; and wherever he passed by, the lanterns  began to glow with a butter-bright flame.

When he had finished his circle of the clearing, he returned to the centre, and knelt again in the cool grass. He closed his eyes for a moment, resting his hands on his knees. He breathed. A breeze wafted through the trees, ruffling his hair, and he felt the tingling of his skin more keenly.

Slowly, he extended his hands. The candles sprang quietly to life all around him, mirroring the lanterns higher above. Their flames flickered, almost expectantly. Sage breathed again, tasting the scent of summer on the air. He lifted his hands slightly. And slowly, without fuss, the candles rose into the air, ascending until they danced and circled over him and around him like so many floating stars.

Sage tilted his head back and turned it slowly. His eyes reflected the myriad lights and his face was illuminated by smile of delighted wonder. A wind rushed around the clearing, and it seemed to bear scores of fireflies upon its invisible currents, so that their winking lights joined the flickers of flame that encircled the young man in the clearing. Sage let his hands drop, and the candles remained where they were, entwined in the dark velvety air. He sat back then, and wrapped his arms around his knees, and stared upward.

He felt at home here. He felt as one with the earth and the wind. In this one infinite moment, he felt at peace.

In pure, quiet rapture, he laughed.

Kemendin frowned at the cottage door as it closed softly behind Eruviel. She was worried about him, she had made that much excessively obvious. He wondered how many of the others felt the same. He would not be surprised if most of them shared her concerns. She was simply the only one confident enough – or perhaps close enough – to approach him about it.

Some part of him wished she had not.

He shook his head to himself and turned back to the fire, its warmth more of a comfort than was natural in high summer’s heat. He could not afford to isolate himself again – over and over such behaviour had proved to only exacerbate his problems. But it was habit, perhaps even instinct. He did not know how to truly confide in others any more, not when they crossed his path only fleetingly and he was left to drift on, companionless.

He propped an elbow on his hand and passed a finger over his lips, watching the way the new ring there glinted in front of his eyes, too close to focus on it. He blinked a few times. He was weary from nights of pacing the cottage, unable to lie still in the darkness. No matter how he cleared his mind, always the fear crept back to him, clutching at his heart, stealing the breath from his throat. His eyes would widen, and he would stiffen, and then with a great wrench he would scramble to his feet and find in desperate relief that his body had obeyed. And then he would walk, because if he did not, the paralysis would return.

It would not last, he told himself, when the logical side of his mind asserted itself. It could not. It was only by awful misfortune that his fear, this memory, had intensified. And provided that Feygil had no future intentions of dragging him bodily through solid stone again, it would pass. He wished it would get on with the process.

A shiver danced through him with no obvious cause, and he knelt closer to the hearth, stretching out a hand until the flames nearly seared his skin. Something deep in his core was still frozen and helpless, and would be, he suspected somberly, for some time yet. Not for the first time, he wished quietly that he could be more forthcoming with those he counted as friends. But, as he had told Eruviel, it was against his nature.

“The young and inexperienced go to their elders for wisdom,” he murmured to the empty cottage. “But in whom do the old and wise confide? Who is left to guide those who have seen too much?”

 

April 11, 2016

Preparations

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He sat cross-legged, barefoot, in front of the fire. The wooden floor was smooth and warm against his heels, and the firelight danced silently across it, reflecting into his eyes. From the open windows on either side of the room, a chill breeze swirled. It brushed his back, and whispered through his twilight-darkened hair, and reached up to stir the parchments on the table before sighing away into silence.

With gentle deliberation, he reached behind his head to loose the threads that bound his braided hair. A lock came free; he pulled it to one side, and worked his fingers through it, separating the strands until he found the first knot of gold. It glinted in the corner of his eye. Delicately, like grasping a songbird, he ensnared it in the cage of his fingers, and coaxed it down, down, until it fell free into his waiting palm. A soft breath left his lips. He held out his hand, and tipped it slowly, and a drop of gold fell like a tear into the waiting bowl.

“What was that?” Grimkur’s voice was a suspicious grunt from the corner.

“Nothing to concern you,” Kemendin replied softly.

He straightened, and reached up again, his head bowed and eyes half closed. One by one, he slipped his fingers through the braids of his hair, and eased the beads of beaten gold from their place. The quiet clink of their fall into the bowl mingled with the snap of the fire. Gradually, his dark hair fell forward past his ears, as what was usually woven came undone.

Nothing sentimental. Nothing that could be turned against him.

He brushed out the soft curtains of his hair until they were straight and shining and swept tenderly against his cheeks in their new freedom. A strange sensation, like shadows at the edge of his vision. He picked up the bowl then, and rose to his feet. He padded into the next room. A small box rested on top of a bookshelf, engraved with Dwarven designs and runes. He lifted the lid, and carefully poured the golden beads from the bowl into the box’s shallow embrace.

So many memories. So many things to which he yet held on. He could strip himself bare, flay the very skin from his flesh, and it would not be enough. But it would have to be.

He touched at the tender skin of his neck, and after a moment, drew forth a slender leather cord from beneath his robe. He lifted it up, and another soft breath fluttered the single white feather that hung before his lips. He blinked, once, slowly. No words came to him.

Carefully, he eased the cord from around his neck, and laid it gently in the box, on top of the beads. He closed the lid, and fastened the catch, and stepped away. Something in his heart felt suddenly hollow.

Better that the missing pieces be locked away here, safe and immortal. Where he was going, such keys would be used to break him, should they be kept too close.

He stepped out into the main room again, and looked towards Grimkur. The Dwarf was squatting comfortably in the corner, but lifted his head immediately when Kemendin emerged.

“All done ritually purging yourself of emotion?”

Kemendin nodded, his features set. “And you?”

“I don’t do the attachment thing. Especially not with keepsakes.” He rose, groaning. “Right. Let’s get some sleep. You’ll need it more than I will.”

 

February 19, 2016

Clouded Vision

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“I know that look.”

“You cannot see my face.”

“I don’t need to see it. I could still chew my way through the tension you’re giving off. You’ve said nary a word since you got here. Never mind what your face is doing, you should see the looks everyone else is giving you.”

“I have seen them. It is far from the thing most troubling to me.”

“And what is?”

“You know. You must know.”

“I’ve gleaned, from the bits I’ve managed to wrench out of you. Are you sure it was her? You said you met her before and there was no indication -”

“I am sure. The aura… was unmistakeable.”

“So what changed?”

“I… I do not know. But something has shifted. I can feel it even now, even here, where the Shadow cannot touch. It darkens my dreams. The sense of it is like a sickness.”

“You realise you’ve got no proof.”

“Are my instincts not proof enough? Are not my memories, my scars?”

“Was that aimed at me? Oho. Listen. I don’t give a damn about your digs. Have at me. I’ve had far worse. But she was right. You can’t go pelting off full of fire and rage and start throwing yourself at illusions of evil.”

“This is no illusion! How can you -”

“As far as everyone but you, me, and the freaked female is concerned, yes. It is. Unless you get a letter tomorrow saying ‘By the way, someone is playing around with evil magic here again, please come take care of it’, then no one including me is going to let you start chasing ‘instincts’. You know, I really thought you had mellowed. But ever since Dol Amroth you’ve been behaving as recklessly as a drunk man looking for a fight.”

“Do not -”

“What? Talk about it? You’re the one who came to me, remember? Is this really what love does to you leaf-ears?”

“That is enough!”

“…Interesting. Maybe you should think about dealing with that problem before you go around looking for others. Just a suggestion from someone who had a mate, and lost her.”

“I… I am sorry. I had -”

“Forgotten? I haven’t. Not for an instant. You think I wouldn’t want to smash that bastard’s face in, if I thought I could? But I can’t. Sometimes I think with all your years, your spend too much time looking at the big picture. You should try focussing on the details. It might clear your head.”

 

December 19, 2015

A Strange Accident

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The forests of Breeland, like the forests of most of the north this time of year, play host to snow and cold weather. But it is neither this nor the forest itself which draws two Elves to a spot. In fact, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason at all to the drawing, so faint it might be ignored and yet nagging, ever nagging at the back of the skull.

Raenarcam picks her way through the snow; bare-foot and wrapped in a fur she is positively under-dressed for the weather and in bright red sticks out like a lantern. Her face is a mask of strange concern. Several minutes pass unremarkably. Then, fleetingly, a shadow moves, a grey-blue shadow blending with the curves of the snow and the bare silhouettes of the trees.

Raenarcam pauses and inhales very slowly. She reaches into her bag and her hand stays there while she looks to trees. “Come out, whoever you are. Or whatever you are. I haven’t the time for this, really.”

A pause, as though the stillness itself is considering. Then a slender cloaked figure breaks from the shelter of the nearest trunk, and pads forward across the hard, snowy earth. Pale hands pull back the hood, and Kemendin stares carefully at the other Elf in silence.

Raenarcam frowns deeply, taking a step back. She keeps her hand in her bag and her other straight at her side. “I know you,” she says, uneasily, blue eyes flickering over the Elf’s face.

Kemendin ‘s features are tired and hollowed, and they mirror Raenarcam’s wariness. “And I you,” he replies softly. He sounds strained, and perhaps confused. “Strange, that we should meet – here. Nowhere.”

Raenarcam struggles for a long moment to identify him, as if through some great haze and finally removes her hand from her bag and takes a few hesitating steps closer. “You are alive. Alive and here…” She reaches out a hand hesitatingly, as though to touch his face. “Did you… did you not call me here?”

Kemendin flinches away from her hand. “I called no one,” he says distractedly, and his eyes dart away for a few moments before lifting again to search her face. “You… we have spoken before, though few times. When we met in Bree, or Durrow.”

Raenarcam struggles for a moment, her face contorting strangely. “No. That cannot be right. I would have recognized you then… But it was such a blur.” She returns blue eyes to him, and there is a hint of fear in the corners. “Did I not remember it until now?” she whispers, slowly lowering her hand away from him.

Kemendin blinks hard several times. “Blood and shadow and silver hair…” he mutters, almost sing-song. Then his eyes widen. “You. You.”

He turns suddenly, scanning wildly through the snow-laden trees. “Why here? Why now? What is this?”

Raenarcam looks around more slowly, face bloodless and eyes wary. “Perhaps it is a coincidence. Or an accident. We have ended up here by chance. That is all. Of course that must be all.”

Kemendin wrings his hands in an uncharacteristic gesture of dismay. “It cannot be. I was in Dol Amroth, I did not wish to leave, yet I had to. I could not resist it.”

Raenarcam grows even whiter at this thought. “It must be some other thing then. Some other thing. Not…” She trails off, looking around at the peaceful snowfall and the wood around them. When she speaks next it is hardly above a whisper. “Him.”

Kemendin swallows, as though trying to control some wild impulse. “There is no other connection between us,” he forces out. “Nothing that could pull us together with such – insistence. But how?” he goes on agitatedly, without waiting for a reply. “Surely he did not survive the breaching of that place -”

Raenarcam stares at him. “He would be dead now,” she says, certainly. “He was old then. And it has been fifty years… more now. He is dead. This is some sort of… of accident.”

“It is no accident!” hisses Kemendin, with sudden venom. “There is – something at work here. Something sinister indeed.”

Raenarcam takes a step back and away from him. She responds in a hissing whisper, “Do you think he is… is hiding behind the trees then? What end could there possibly be? He is not alive, I have been… No, I have been having ill dreams and it has made me sick and this… this is some accident.”

Kemendin sets his jaw. “Ill dreams have plagued me as well.” He forces out a breath. “We cannot dismiss this as chance! I would not be here if it were!”

Raenarcam wavers, eyes still on his face and a look in her eyes as though she wondered if, indeed, he really were here at all. “If… If he is still alive. If. Then why bring us together? Would it not be simpler to call toward D- toward the forest?”

Kemendin wets his lips. “Perhaps it was not intentional, merely an – effect, which he did not anticipate.”

Raenarcam winces, closing her eyes for a moment. “We should leave then. You should return back south.”

Something in Kemendin’s face darkens. “No,” he says, after a long moment. “We must not leave this be. We must discover the truth of it.” His gaze flickers eastward.

Raenarcam stands perfectly still, and keeps her eyes down at the snow beneath their feet. “To what end? To return to the blackness? No. There is nothing there which I desire to know. They are just dreams and this… this is an unhappy accident. A chance. We would do better to let it lie still where it was buried and forget it again.”

Kemendin ‘s eyes smoulder. “I will never forget,” he grits out. “And I will not take the chance that – that such horrors might unfold again.”

Raenarcam snaps her eyes up finally, squaring small shoulders beneath her fur. “So what will you do? Tear off to the forests and rail against the stone of the tower until it falls? Are you truly that stupid?”

Kemendin retorts sharply, “I will do what is necessary to see that foul fortress brought down to nothing. Until the very scar of its existence has been swallowed by the trees again.”

“Well I hope you have missed the pits and the shadows!” she returns, hotly, her hand clenched at her side. “I remember them now, not just the blur of them, it was a blur for so long-” Her eyes have taken on a feverish look.”-he took things from me I can never retrieve. If you wish to throw yourself into it again then please, by all means, return to the filth and the shadows.”

Kemendin breathes out long and loud, staring at her. “I do not blame you for your desire to avoid that place,” he said at last, more levelly. “But I cannot. I will not let that man find a chance to finish what he began.”

Raenarcam deflates very slightly, she closes her eyes again. “It began again after I went into the Barrow Downs and the dreams… the dreams had turned strange, I could hear them when I was awake and I- that was months ago now. It has only been worse now but…”

She presses her fingers to her eyes. “You should… should wait before departing.”

Kemendin ‘s brow creases. “Why?” he asks quickly.

“If this has been intentional,” she begins to reason, hesitatingly. “Then he will expect you to hurry forth without any thought. It is reckless, running in without planning.”

Kemendin ‘s expression clears faintly. “There is… merit, to what you say,” he admits, though unwillingly. “And I am… quite weary, in any case.”

Raenarcam nods briefly, looking him over again. “You are… you are really here, aren’t you?” she asks, slowly.

Kemendin closes his eyes briefly. “I wish I were not.”

Raenarcam reaches out slowly to touch him once again, now just on the arm but only to reassure herself that he is there and solid. “I am glad to see you, again, Kemendin.”

Kemendin blinks slowly, and says nothing to that. “Night is falling quickly,” he murmurs. “And it is cold. We should not linger here.”

Raenarcam gives him a flickering smile. “No. You are right, you should go.”

Kemendin stares at her for another few moments, scrutinisingly. Then rather abruptly he pulls his hood up again, and walks quickly away into the trees, his stance tense and careful. Raenarcam waits, very still, among the trees as the other elf departs, her eyes focused on the snow.

(Many thanks to Raenarcam for this RP!)

 

December 5, 2015

Thoughts

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Sea, stone, sadness. Every day like the next. A fog is everywhere, like a gesture, saying sleep, sleep. Blurred faces, laughing and talking and telling, as loud as the silence. The sunlight, it hurts, it blinds. Wonder where he is.

Delicate, golden, filled with fruitful flavour. One every morning, ascending the tower, laid on lace, white without stain. Does she eat it?

Hair like a raven’s wings, like a summer night’s shadow. Curls are falling, fettered, far away. Her face is always pale, white, her hair is black. Black and white and I am grey. Grey and faded and falling. Hold me.

Night comes, trapping, tricking. Too close, too close. A pit of ice. Must escape. Everything is cold but here I can breathe. Help me. So many lights. Sharp and clear above and blurred below, shifting with the tide. All around me, nowhere to run, nowhere to stand and fight. Take me with you.

Sleep, sleep. Iron and green fire. Blood and shadow and silver hair. So many screams. Breathe. Gulls at dawn. Screams of innocence. Crying, hungry, aching. Tower of white, no, blackened with blood. Mine or hers?

Days like frost, hard and clear and crackling. Earth stamped by boots, leaves crumbling underfoot. Skin numb but feeling everything. Raw is a welcome change. Smile. It’s okay.

Darting, dashing, hard to hide but it’s still fun. Glowing circles hold back year’s twilight. Twine and wax and fire, scented like honey. Keeps getting stuck under my fingernails. Squirrel tries to steal some. Laughing. That wasn’t for eating, stupid.

Snow soon. Need shelter to continue. Light melts as darkness freezes. Fir, orchids, new bread. Whatever makes them happy. No more dwelling in memories. Time to make new ones. Miss you.

 

July 23, 2015

Powerless

Posted by Kemendin under Uncategorized
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For once, Grimkur was glad of the fact that he couldn’t see the faintly startled and even disconcerted looks being directed his way. At least, that was how he imagined they were looking at him. The faint pause between light steps, a moment of silence in the sweep of cloth on stone – the sounds were enough to tell him what was going through the minds of the Elves as they passed by. He had heard them murmuring, with curiosity, with distaste. He ignored them. He didn’t need their opinions right now. Not ever, in fact, but particularly not now.

His gnarled legs dangled childlike over the edge of the bench where he waited, leaving something grimy on the latticed stonework and the floor beneath. He had been told rather pointedly that he often left a trail where he walked. To this he had been forced to acquiesce – he certainly wasn’t in a position to argue – and then he had promptly walked away, just to help prove the point. That had certainly jammed the stick further up, judging by the huffy silence that had been left in his wake.

The sound of the door nearby gently opening made him turn his head. He levered himself off the bench with a grunt and walked over until his nose was nearly touching the robes of the two Elves who had emerged.

“Any change?” he asked, his voice made gruffer by concealed anxiety.

There was silence for a moment. He could sense the look the two exchanged, and it irritated him.

“Just tell me! My ears aren’t delicate twigs.” He lifted his scarred face in the illusion of a glare.

“None,” came the answer, in a deep, rich voice laden with unusual weariness. “He remains, for the most part, unresponsive.”

Grimkur let out an explosive breath of frustration. “What do you mean, for the most part?”

It was the other Elf who replied this time, his voice lighter and more anxious. “He sleeps a great deal, and when he is awake, he seems not to know anything around him. There is no focus in his eyes, as though he is not aware that he even exists.”

“And still, he says nothing,” continued Elrond. “Not a word has he uttered since he was brought here. And not, you told me, since you found him.”

Grimkur shook his head and spat out some meaningless noise, turning away. He could feel them watching him closely, Giluin in particular. He knew what they were thinking – such a tragedy, that he should go to such lengths for what amounted to a stringless puppet. He wished they wouldn’t. He didn’t regret for a moment the arduous journey he had made to Forochel, under the guidance of a carefully pessimistic and resigned Elf escort. Long cold nights listening to Giluin’s forced cheerfulness as he spoke with ignorant nostalgia of his idol’s many scholarly accomplishments, until Grimkur had told him to shut it, with rather less kindly a phrase. Damned Elf didn’t know anything when it came to that.

Four days it had taken them to dig through the ice, four days in which everyone but Grimkur had been forced to find rest from the work and bitter cold. How Giluin had persuaded some of the Lossoth to direct and aid them he didn’t know, and didn’t care. When the others retreated for the night the Dwarf alone had continued, kept warm by the constant rhythm of his arms as his pickaxe bit into the snow and by the furs that Giluin draped over him in the darkness; and also by the angry, impossible question of why he was going to all this trouble to recover the body of a no good leaf-ears anyway.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, taurûth?!” The words were involuntary, the voice of a clenched fist lashing out. Behind him, he felt Giluin flinch.

“His spirit is stunned,” said Elrond, clinical now, but still with heaviness in his tone. “He has no will to rouse himself.” A fraction of a pause. “By all accounts he should be dead, his fëa passed onward. But something tethers him here, something which even I cannot tell.”

“So what can put him right?” Grimkur stumped back around angrily to face the Elves.

“I cannot say. Perhaps only time.”

“Or?”

Another pause.

“Or perhaps nothing.”

Grimkur had to assume it was the bestial growl leaving his throat that prompted further words.

“This is not a battle wound to be healed by herbs and bandages, nor an illness to be cured through any care we here might give. Something has broken which cannot be made whole again by any physical means. Whatever holds him here must draw him back, or else he must find a way to return to this world fully.”

“Yet you’re the one who’s saying he has no will left!” growled the Dwarf.

“And that is why you must not cling to hope. I will do all I can, but you must hear this: unless his spirit finds a path out of the darkness, he will fade again.” Elrond’s voice turned stern then. “The trials of his soul have been great, Grimkur. Do not judge him harshly if, in the end, he chooses to leave this world and its sorrows.”

 

July 3, 2015

Fæst-heorte: Freedom Tastes Like Bitterness

Posted by Kemendin under Scield Scefing | Tags: , |
[4] Comments 

I do not know what I expected. I should have seen the inevitable failure looming before me. But they say that love is blind, and blind I have certainly been, or perhaps blinded. What a fool I was to think that this could possibly end in happiness, when I have only ever held on when I should have let go, and fled when I should have stood fast. But now it does not matter. The last thread has been severed, and my own was the trembling hand that did not stop it. The only hope now is a memory.

Why is it that when an end has been reached, I feel more confused than ever? Why is that when I have finally surfaced from the mad depths of unseeing love, my first breaths of freedom taste like ash? I feel as though a rope, too taut for too long, has been broken, leaving me adrift with no star to guide me. I am untethered and unchained and the feel of it is like a creature which has spent its life underground and is suddenly terrified by the vastness of the open sky.

She was right. I have strength, but not faith. I trust in what is before me, and when I dare to hope, only to find such hopes flung away, I am made even more faithless by it. I do not know what to do. I know that I must try to move on. I cannot flee from this as I once did. But this freedom to make my path is a burden I have never borne, and already I ache from the weight of it.

I have waited for so long, and for nothing. Nothing but a dream – an illusion of what might have been.

Waking at the dawn does not always bring brighter things.

 

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