Of Love and War - Elvish Hearts and Hurt in Valinor

[Ercassie]

"You know what they say about love and war ... One involves a lot of hurt and heartbreak. And the other one is war ..."

(Tim Bisley, 'Spaced'.)

This thread is an attempt to recreate my original compendium of private Elvish RP flashbacks from the previous Plaza site. And that is probably more of an introduction than this thread requires. But if longwinded melodrama is not your cup of tea, then heed this warning and run far, run fast. From this point on, just that sort of nonsense presides. And I make no apology for it other than what you may glean from this silly prologue.

P.S. With thanks/creative credit to Aigronding*, Winterwolf**, RivvyElf***, and Aranadhel****. For their contributions to the development of my Plaza characters. Any of their own original characters who happen to be referenced in these writings, will be accordingly marked with an asterisk (as above).

The heraldric emblems of the Firebird and Skysight families, as showcased in this thread, were both created by the former plaza member, Winterwolf**. All credit to the artist.



CONTENTS OF THIS THREAD

1) The Bellmaker's Daughter - a marriage of new neighbours - Noldoli and Falmari in Valinor.

2) Playing with Fire - a tale of two houses, which support opposing factions in the Noldor court, in Valinor

3) The Fall of the Phoenix - a tale of the Helcaraxe

4) Fire and Ice - a sundering of hearts, even as the deviant Noldor hosts are reunited in Middle Earth

5) Innocence and Experience - a tale of the Kinslaying at Alqualonde.

[Ercassie]

The Bellmakers Daughter - Part 1





Lindesúl the Bellmaker, and Lhinnadhriel, his wife,
with their daughters, Melindalë and Menellótë

Alqualondë, YT. Long before the First Kinslaying

The waves teased the shore, strumming a refresh of contact along the white stone, and then retreating, as though it would ever truly leave. Here the city and the sea were forever entwined. Here dwelt those who were beloved of both ship and sand at once. Lindesúl gazed out at the view afforded his heightened tower, and breathed in the majesty of his fair home, as one might savour the prospect of a fine wine. His labours were come to end, if labours you might ever deem them. For there were few things at all which the bellmaker found more joy in. Save perhaps his family, who made much joyful sound for their own sakes.

It was to this end that his friend, Nenmeldo*, had invited Lindesúl’s wife and daughters out upon the water, out aboard his noble swan ship, ‘Alarcaráma’. The sage Nelya had laughed that without such an intervention, the great bell (commissioned by the King Olwë himself) should never be completed ! So keen was the father to make games and merriment with his girls. They completed him.


If he could imagine one thing lacking in his happy life, the Bellmaker might recall of Solchon, his dear friend, who had never taken ship to this land from the last. There were times that Lindesúl felt sure he set his bells a pealing, their clamour then sprinting forth across the liquid vault of blue, to rouse their errant companion come forth in their wake. For all that they had come to love in Eldamar was only tempered by all they had been forced to lose. He could not blame Solchon for loitering in the face of such a cruel delight. Neither had his heart ever properly reconciled with the fact he’d never see his friend again.



*******

The ship slumbered in the vast catch of an endless peace, a wordless lullaby. Their voices gave rise to a sound complimentary. Her mother, Lhinnadhriel, never could go about her day without emitting some soft lull of a song, each of which she was forever half composing and would never finish. Her sister, Melindalë, would rise to the sound of song come of their mother, and lend her own trill in perfect harmony, as though they spoke a language all their own, and fell to such a secret conversation shared, without ever rehearsing the flawless unison. They two nestled on the soft-soaked beams of the ship’s deck, mother behind daughter, braiding the long celestial tresses they all shared. But she, the solitary, sat apart and alone. Her lips parted similar but not in sound. In only silent reflection of the tranquil episode.


The steady shift of their wooden vessel, nestled in the cradle of the nurturing waves. The lilting tone of Nenmeldo’s* flute, a third instrument that waxed here lyrical. Menellótë smiled to know such a sensation, even as she swallowed the thought in her heart, that it would not last. That a day would come she should stand separate from this perfect, blissful existence.

That was why she sought in vain to capture the moment forever, though time fell like grains of sand through her fingers. That was why she leaned, her back pressed determined against the deck as she closed her eyes hard upon the scene, and squeezed them shut. In thought was it after reignited, in memory, in practice. As the stars roved all aloft, and the girl raised a single white arm to wave at the stars she did not need to see. They stayed with her. As she prayed that all moments such as this would too.


“Hark ! The bells ! The bells !” Melindalë tore from her mother’s lap and looked for all the world as though she meant to fly from ship and soar across the sky herself, to greet the sound.

“Your father calls us home to hearth,” Linnadhriel gleamed, that love she bore for her soul mate, her husband, setting stars like jewels to serve her as eyes with light no woe should diminish. For all that their voyage with Nenmeldo* was over, for this day, there had been other days as this before. They had no cause to fear there would not be such days again. Far above the Falmari, on high, Varda’s blossoms shrugged free of their gauzy shroud. And the mighty mariner turned his hand from song to steering the sweet swan and her cygnets back to their nest.

[Ercassie]

The Bell-maker's Daughter - Part 2

'... you were glad enough to receive our aid when you came at last to these shores, fainthearted loiterers, and well nigh empty handed. In huts on the beaches would yon be dwelling still, had not the Noldor carved out your haven and toiled upon your walls.'

(Curufinwë to Olwe, 'Of the Flight of the Noldor', Silmarillion)





Sarnir Erondo and Menellótë Silosse
at the House of Lindesúl
Alqualondë, 1430 YT

The harbour city was a living, breathing diamond set fast in its moorings upon the crown of the coast. Buildings sparkled in its core as though they were fashioned of unsullied glass, their dimensions multi-faceted. The streets were all without exception studded with smooth pearls, and sprightly fountains chased the length of each promenade, propelling countless coils of eye-dazzling geysers toward great heights and wide applause.

All Alqualondë was dressed in a riot of exaltation, its people swarmed as honey bees upon bouquets of bright flowers, bustling in open carriages all fashioned in the shape of frosted oyster shells; a regal procession of finely crafted floats to mark the occasion. They raised up fair voices to The Lord of Waters and they leapt on buoyant feet as tribute to the wonders of their happy, happy lives.

Not a single black cloud threatened the horizon, but a solitary figure, garbed of rich inky hue rolled toward the festivities. Sarnir hauled begrudging eyes to observe the street parties. There was sure no passage that he might force through such an untamed medley of excitement to locate his target. Subduing his frustration but barely, the Noldo veered around and looked for lesser travelled but more timely paths to take him to the House of Windsong. His intention that he might await there the unwary resident upon their return toward hearth and home.

Sable hair snapped like a banner in the breeze behind the Elf's blanched countenance. At the sleeves of shadow sat the bone-white knuckles which scarce clung about the speeding horse with any thought that it might dare to see him from his seat. The rider found his feet to ground with a seamless motion, as though it were an action beautifully choreographed and repeatedly rehearsed. But he paid few house calls. A fact that would soon be proven evident.

The huge ink-pitched horse pawed at the sheer white cobbles that crunched like fresh-laid salt under hoof. The double doors of entry all but swept aside of their own accord, so as to not bother their guest with the trouble of announcing his arrival. He scarcely had a need, for his reputation always preceded. Little could or would stand before him, the doors here like the scores of folk who saw the rare yet strident haste of the Elf's path and leapt from all threat of presenting obstacle.

Sarnir was not an Elf who folk tended to antagonise, at the least not intentionally. Pride in both his family and his work ruled his being. Affront against either of these firm priorities would grieve the fool as dared. So it would not have been folly had the young maid at his destination made herself immediately scarce. But the Falmari named Silosse was an elleth not known for flight, not from anyone.

Particularly one she had been expecting.



"Think you that all are your thralls, labouring aneath gross misdirection of your indecisive whim ?" he swept toward his hostess with grand majesty of motion and moved toward his point without delay. Meaningless were courtesies awarded to an elleth so bold to assume him great offence. Sarnir gazed down from his great height as though a mountain regaling a blade of grass on the plain that served as lawn before him.

Silosse watched him, marvelling about all the imposing gesture. She had sent word that the idyllic star tower her father had commissioned for her should be altered ... again. There had been no doubt in her mind that the eldest brother of the Cenilwe, the esteemed Noldorin house of Skysight, would be moved toward words. This was, after all, the sixth time she had altered her thoughts as to the design, or the material, or .. whatsoever else she might think upon.

"My brother ! Forced to bend once more over his illustrations, and all labour, all time and material, already spent now wasted !" The Noldo loomed the space of the Elleth's hall, without stirring a step. He crossed his arms and glowered, as to assume she would cower. She did not.

The young mistress of the House Lindesúl walked toward an open arch, her pale drape billowing as it met the breeze, her silver hair rose and fell in its stream, steady as her heartbeat.

Silosse wore no shoe to veil feet of frosted ivory. A slender silver chain, festooned with tiny blue brass bells sang merry song around one ankle of her progression. For her father was the Bellmaker of Alqualondë and she, their youngest of his two daughters, knew herself and saw much within others, often that they saw not for themselves.

"It is no waste if the end product be achieved," she supposed with eyes of hypnotising blizzard.

"At this rate it is a feat that shall never be realised !" Sarnir rolled his own eyes to dispel the enchantment, as cold a far-off blue were his eyes, as bleak as his dark and rich furs should keep him warm against the coastal wind. He set path to hunting the perplexing maiden. Did she think to elude him ? To escape his wrath ? Did she not know anything of him at all ?

She knew more than he could ever guess. She knew more than just her father's preference for Noldoli artisans to build his daughter's paradise. She had watched. And she saw past the sharp tongue which saw others to improve their work. She saw the care and meticulous affection in the stony sculptor's eyes, as he swept gentle hand upon his hard-faced masterpiece, soothing cheeks of rugged rock as though they were his children.

Ondohir his mother had named him, yet Sarnir he was called in years since then, for the great slabs he laboured on were small stones in the eyes of the colossal mountains of Aman. Unchanging, unmoved, unbroken. His pride would have him held as the mountains themselves. Yet Sarnir Erondo was, as they, stones and mountains both, hard hearted. “You are without good sense,” he informed her, convinced of it.

"There is yet hope that sense too shall be realised," Silosse assured him, gliding beyond the arch and out into the gold daubed afternoon. She took seat upon a swing at the edge of a bedazzling blue pool. She ran long fingers through her starry hair and leant back, throwing motion to the high suspended perch.

Sarnir could not believe what he saw, as though the elleth was only half engaged in their conversation. She believed that the hard work of he and his diligent siblings was naught ?! That would not be tolerated ! He distrusted everyone who was not of his home and house. He despised any and all Elves he believed were taking them for fools. The Noldo gave sigh and stormed the tiny patio, annoyed, still gnawing at his temper.

"Lady, you know not what you do want !" Sarnir scowled.

"I know what I want," Silosse disagreed without ever deigning a deflecion of her tone. She rose ever higher in her streaming stride and plucked a white rose from the height of the hedge; secured it behind one leaf shaped ear and never came close to losing her balance. "Is it so for you ?," she ceased pumping supple legs and tucked her legs now beneath her, on the swing seat. "Why have you taken so long to come to me ? Why did you force my hand to weary your brother's ?"

Sarnir opened his mouth to make answer, but was rendered speechless as the elleth took flight into the air, unburdened by safety of either a rope or seat. Turning a neat twist of pirouetting diamond in mid air, she pierced the surface of the water far below and disappeared.

He waited. He waited for as long as he felt sure she could hold breath, while his heart clattered like a thunderclap within his chest. Where was she ? Was she well ? What in seven stars was she talking about ...?

He closed eyes but a moment, cursed the frivolity of sense in the Falmari and took a stride closer to the plateau of the white stoned patio. Instead of a lawn stretched afore him, there was a beckoning lagoon of mysterious depth. There was no sign of Silosse. Sarnir did not swim. It served no purpose he could comprehend. Beyond a want to bathe, for hygiene's sake, the whole aspect of splashing and soaking just wasted time that might be spent on working.

He frowned profusely at the pool, frustrated that the conversation with the Falmari had ended so abruptly and with no clear resolution. He was not used to people not coming around to his way of thinking. Why and how was this maiden not driven yet to agree with him ? The revelation was .. not displeasing. He almost liked it. Might be he could afford to allot one outsider leniency. Since it was her. He did not dislike her confidence.

Was she drowned ? That would for certain ensure no further tribulation to Turaegon's much altered and amended plans for the tower .. Still .. Suddenly all his thoughts as to furthering words with the girl were threatened. And he liked it not. He wanted to speak some more with her, he realised. He could not quite comprehend why, but he was new to this. She was not anything he was used to.

Crouching down close to the water's edge, the Noldo followed the road of ripples to where a fair form had raised a silvered head and slender shoulders. The moon-veiled maiden raised one arm and beckoned. Sarnir leant back and sat, staring with suspicion at the pool. For a time there was stalemate, and then the elleth turned, as though surrendering all hope that they might come together.

"I do not swim," the Noldo uttered, the very observation of the fair elleth, departing, assailed him like a turbulent wave crashing against his most hardy rock of will. He rose, and sighed, just once. Then set one foot afore the other, until there no longer sat stone aneath his feet. The water was cold and his sight blurred. His heart beat against his ears. And her lips lit up hope against his. She pushed air into his lungs, and held him from panicking.

They broke the surface as a one, melded together by the drag of ruined clothes that neither of them noted. Sarnir broke his mouth into a startled laugh, as though he had just met himself, his true self, for the first time.

Silosse smiled. "I will teach you."

[Ercassie]

Playing with Fire - Part 1


"And when Melkor saw that these lies were smouldering, and that pride and anger were awake among the Noldor, he spoke to them concerning weapons; and in that time the Noldor began smithying of swords and axes and spears. Shields also they made displaying the tokens of many houses and kindreds that vied with one another; and these only they wore abroad, and of other weapons they did not speak, for each believed that he alone had received the warning."

(Of the Silmarils and the Unrest of the Noldor, The Silmarillion)





Sarnirion (Erfaron) and Feapoldie

The City of Tirion, Aman
During the Years of Trees

The effulgent luster of golden-clad Laurelin had tempered slowly to the mellow gloss of silver-smocked Telperion. And so another day was done. All over the fair city of Tirion, a shimmering sheen far the more mild finally descended as the fine world of the Eldar nestled unto quiet reflection. The hour had arrived when even silent gardens fell unto a greater sense of still. And nowhere was more lonely and bereft of sound than one small and frequently avoided corner of the city’s charm.


Here had Sarnir, master of stone, conceived and crafted the both his most indulgent garden; forged of polished marble, each utterly lifeless sentiment and wonder that formed it’s inhabitants here frozen for all time. No brazen rays of glory from the canopy of sky aloft would ever stir the interwoven vines, nor see them clamber further about the great height of mighty pillars that they straddled. The most delicate of dainty flower petals that bordered the walkway here would never come to tremble at the slightest breeze that dared intrude. Not in this garden cold and fair. Where realistic figurines who stood forsaken sentinels were cast in equally so deep a transfixed beauty. Their lips arrested on the verge of laughter and their limbs curbed by a spell that none had spoke. Life here waited in a pause that never would know release, all bereft of sweet scent and bright colour. The sculptor’s works were captive in a world where none would ever truly live nor die.


Feapoldie did not turn back, though she had scarce ventured about this oft empty quarter of the city afore now. She knew that none would expect to find her in this domain, nor seek for her hereabouts. Sarnir would for certain by this hour have retired to his kin after his labours long, and she neither expected or else feared him, for she was both young and bold, and more so, comprised of an internal fire that no grim countenance yet had managed to subdue. She would have the solitude and secrecy that she so yearned for, no matter what the risk. Thus she made her entry both calm and collected, with her gracing feet unshod and her bare arms willowy as slender and snow-laden boughs. Her wild crown of russet locks streamed as a crimson banner as she glanced her presence against the eerie backdrop. Eyes as blue as the depths of an unmarred ocean sought amidst the glancing rays of light for the certainty of solitude. Here in timeless wonder she meant to revel, the only living thing that moved amongst the chill of calm. This was her time and hers alone .. and yet in this she was mistaken.


At the first the slightest hint of footstep, like a whisper’s soft caress across the flawless flagstones. Feapoldie stalled fast, her heart thundering as though a thousand wings beat urgency within her chest. Still her face a mask of the serene, her heart true and un-assailed by the merest doubt. Spirited and proud was she, and unused to fear or fright, nor the very notion of shame to have been caught where she ought not to have been. No, she would not turn and run, when she might else stand fast and battle her obstinate intention until all else be cast down by weary fury all in vain against such formidable will.


“Show yourself if you be not a craven ghoul !” she spoke with clear and fair a voice that should not be mistaken, as though she herself were not in fact the intruder to this domain. “Come ! Make your presence known lest I believe that you are afeared of a lone maid !” Her white arm rose as a motion, embittered steel, stolen from amongst her brother’s quarters, in fair hand.


It found a fitting reflection in the long sword that the other brandished upon instinct and appearance. His face was not quite fair but surely an odd combination of his mother’s celestial colouring made awkward by his father’s hard, cold stare. Dressed in starlight was the hood of shimmering hair that fell as snow gathering about some lofty peak. His eyes the blue of frost-rimed depths, where doubtless souls had perished, falling through black ice to some fate most uncertain. The son of Sarnir Erondo, he beheld the valiant, fiery maiden that blazed beyond his blade and her own, and he was struck with wonder and great awe. As though the winter first catching some glimpse of Summer come too soon, to eclipse his frosted wilderness.


“You would dare to commit trespass,” he spoke, cold and fair as flawless snow to pierce her warm resolve, “where the penalty for such an arrogance is high indeed.”

“Arrogance is yours if you believe that you may halt my any intention,” she resounded, self-assured.

He lowered his sword and every courtesy, amazement countering all sense and understanding. “Who are you ?” he would have her tell him. It had been folly, he saw now belatedly, to have confronted her at all. But he had been hard at practice, and who knew how much the She-elf had already seen, or heard; nor why she had dared here at all at such a most unlikely hour. Was she thus a spy ? Was he undone ? His father would be ill pleased at this, to say the very least !

“I am Feapoldie.” She clarified, as it that were the answer to all questions.



The Elf considered this dramatic introduction and shrugged, feigning nonchalent. “You should not have come here,” he gave words to what she knew already was the truth. And yet ..

“I have yet to hear you bid me to depart,” she observed, with merriment.

“I can not,” he admitted, faltering in the slow understanding. “If I allow you to leave, and you should then chance to tell ..” His pale eyes fell to the blade warm in his hand. The blue flowers of her vision followed suit. Then trailed back toward the similar tool in her hand.

“Nor can I walk away thus,” she realised, “and trust you would not tell.”

“Your cold, lifeless body would be equally hard to explain,” he considered aloud, thoughtfully.

“I am wearing the wrong type of gown to drag yours to the nearest cliff,” she sighed, disappointed.

“What is left for us to do then ?” Positive alternatives eluded him.


She smiled. “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours ...” she suggested, brandishing her brother's blade. All this solely for her father would not have her fight. She had watched her brother well. She had paid much attention. And she had often practiced, in places where none might observe her. It had been a mistake to come hither. She cast the Elf a second appraising glance and raised her small chin with defiant confidence. “Then neither one of us can allege the other," she proposed, "for we would be unwilling accomplices in a mutual crime.”

He met her smile with his own. “I like the way you think.”

“Then linger yet a while longer and you may see what else I am capable of.” she promised, teasingly. He raised an eyebrow, lost for words.

[Ercassie]

Playing with Fire - Part 2


"They can take the future that we'll never know
They can take the places that we said we would go
All the broken dreams, take everything
Just take it away.

But they can never have yesterday ..."

(Lyrics from ‘Yesterday’, by Leona Lewis)






Feapoldie and Sarnirion

The city of Tirion, Aman
During the Years of Trees

The courtyard was her own personal paradise. She arrived and touched the figurines of stone, commanding them with wordless authority to awake from deep hewn slumber, and showcase the degree of her enchantment upon all. At least one was affected by her appearance and soon after cowed by her intensity. For it had been said that she could move an elf to tears or else to grief, by the merest of words. She could grant another the cause to know a gladness unrivalled, by chancing but a fleeting look upon him. And in no time at all, she spent such time with the young stranger that he fell under her spell more deeply than had any other fallen before, nor ever would come to after. And her mission accomplished, she yet found no lure to draw her away. For the game grew not stale. And her heart did not tire of proving that he was hers. And his knew no end to the depths which he would fall to, for her sake. And so they came as one.

For they two shared a secret that drew her like a joyful sigh toward where he would cater to her dance, and all that observed in their silence would be unable to tear away. The stone courtyard was their perfect playground. Only on this one particular night, there was one small problem. Feapoldie laid forth a pout across her perfect lips and pulled at the latticework of ribbons in her flaming hair. Drawing forth a single means of garnering what she desired, she held up the vibrant ruby ribbon in both fingers and felt the tug of the breeze. There seemed no cause for her to wait as long as she did then, before releasing her purpose like a banner to be raised before conquering a foreign fortress. The small, delicate strand of garnet silk snaked it’s way across the world as though she herself had somehow directed it’s true passage. Perfect …

Feapoldie laid wait for the striking of steel to cease from the shadows. None but her would suspect that it’s cause was not the stone-mason at work into long hours of devotion. None but her would have dared to interrupt …



********

The blow of the great blade knew no restraint in delivery; drawing fissure in the previously flawless flagstone, etching out a spider’s web of damage that would mark the impact ever after. Frosted pools reflected back surprise within the young Elf’s vision and yet he dared no response. Sarnir was not holding back this day, as ever he was like to do, even toward his beloved son. That final delivery might well have severed head from his body. And yet, Sarnirion found not death, but rather an impatient hand, palm empty. The almighty patriarch awaiting to haul his now humbled student back unto his feet.

“You do not offer me the proper attention,” the grim sculptor observed, with grating voice and yet concern wreathed in his own, ambiguous eyes. There was no sense in babying the youngling. If he was to learn to fight, then he must be prepared to do just that. Sarnir’s brother, Orderann**, was the undisputed athlete of the family, but there was small chance that the sculptor would ask his assistance in this most private of projects. Moreover, Sarnir was not used to asking, begging, anything of anybody. The Noldo dropped one hand upon his son’s lilting shoulder and gazed hard from amidst the charcoal rain that hung about his long face in straight droves.


“It is imperitive to be not robbed of focus,” he added, and caught up the younger Elf’s chin in his free hand, raising shamed embarrassment to meet his unrelenting gaze.

Sarnirion drew then his foot to further more obscure the errant ruby ribbon from his father’s sight, beneath one traitorous foot. Adrenalin yet coursed through every vein and the young Elf fought to subdue the excitement that he knew what the dainty distraction truly heralded. She was here ! She was near. She was … early …


“I will improve,” he informed his father, resolutely, eagerly. Straightening to his full height. Impatience strangled all other thoughts from mind. A wise She-elf would know not to interrupt their lesson, but Fea was not known for her reserve.

“You will improve,” Sarnir agreed. And his grim face softened, for all that he was not known for unnecessary kindness, he adored both his wife and their child more than his heart had prepared for. A short pause in which he watched his son hang on attention, then the crafts-Elf took his leave and Sarnirion released a long escape of breath. Waiting yet a moment more to ensure that the coast was clear, he stooped and gathered forth the hidden strand of silk. By the time he had resumed his proper stature, he knew that she stood behind him.



“That belongs to me, “

Her voice affected his every sense as though the silky touch of velvet, tightening around his throat. He turned to face the hurricane that robbed all manner of sense or intention but to worship and admire her. Unaffected by the sway she evidently held about him, Feapoldie held out her white hand with purpose, the delicate bridge to gain that pleasure he half feared to seize. But at the last, in the same moment that she moved to close her fingers around her lost embellishment, he closed his swift and strong in a snap of challenge, spiriting the meagre token from her sight or grasp.

“I think it is of little worth,” he tilted his head sidelong, and watched her fair brow furrow with annoyance. "For why else would you cast it errant ?"


“To demonstrate just how easily you find distraction,” Feapoldie poked fun at his swordplay with unreserved criticism, indulging about the power of the knowledge he would never hurt her.

“You would rather I ignored you ?” he supposed, seeking with an apparently resigned sigh to achieve just such a goal; turning deftly to hunt through his father’s tools for the second blade they had secreted therein, even as a smile built beyond the barrier his back presented. But Feapoldie was not like to forego a challenge. Flying in his wake, she dragged her index finger slowly down the length of his spine, observing the tension that he sought to dispel, albeit to no avail. Just as slow he turned to face her, as ever, and as though to do else was far too great all the effort it would require.


“You are so able to accomplish such a feat ?” she teased, knowingly, before her bored confession. “That game was dull. Pray do not exhibit now the folly of repeating it ..” even as she hung forth silver chimes at random intervals from statuettes and trees alike. The small hollowed tubes would mask their intended recreation, immediately starting up a chorus with a myriad of voices, singing with the cooling breeze that threw them randomly at will against their bonds. “I found it ill pleasing,” Feapoldie reflected.

“You were not alone in that regard,” he allowed, although far from utter surrender. They had tried to avoid one another but thought had overcome will and obsession had won out. Now, as oft before, their scene was set and the She-elf deftly kicked her small bag out of harm’s way. Snatching up the bright ribbon from his wanlike grasp, she earned the immediate threat of a sword point, hovering below her chin. It did not dissuade her from leaning in to obtain a matching weapon for herself. And Sarnirion followed the train of her movement, his blade never falling to a lesser point of dire risk, yet neither piercing her bold endeavour.


She revelled in the brazen intensity and danger that the act evoked within her. He knew it, and was not a stranger to the sentiment himself. Why, every moment that they played this most perilous game, they risked much. The draw was stronger than any else that either had ever known. To teeter on the brink of an impending death was the pinnacle of really grasping the beauty of life. Never had each breath seemed so important. Never had the world about them felt so great a gift. Never more than at the moment when it might be snatched away. It was danger, it was her. It was him. In a world of peace and plenty, the vibrant ferocity of chance and danger was unrivalled.

Though their verbal banter was engaging, the lure of the power that a sword bestowed in any hand it chanced to bless, that was what they each craved. They practiced together, they tested the boundaries of what they could dare and yet survive with both limbs and dignity intact. It was the almighty secret that they felt that they alone had properly uncovered. And never was the contest more enjoyable. Never was the thrill so great. He was hers and she had no intention of departing. They were neither one intimidated by the prowess of the other. They were a perfect match, standing of equal intensity that should never come unto a contest of wills.

The game began in jest. It swung unto delight. And it would end in disappointment. For the time allowed them would never truly satisfy.

[Ercassie]

Playing with Fire - Part 3



'Don't tell me not to fly, I've simply got to.
If someone takes a spill, it's me and not you.
Who told you you're allowed to rain on my parade ?

But whether I'm the rose of sheer perfection
or a freckle on the nose of life's complexion,
the cinder or the shiny apple of it's eye ?

I gotta fly once, I gotta try once,
only can die once, right, sir ?
Oh life is juicy, juicy and you'll see
I've got to have my bite sir !'

(Don't Rain on My Parade, Funny Girl)





Tirindo and his trial of sisters.
Aiwenare Estate
Tirion Upon Tuna, Aman
Sometime during the Years of Trees

The phoenix skated spryfully athwart the chaste blue sky of a pleasant afternoon, ascending upon unexpected squalls of a mischevious breeze, then spiralling playfully about each zephyr, the long streams of vivid coloured ribbon that fell as it's tail, coiling flamboyantly in it's wake.

Far below, the vast sprawl of the Aiwenare estate, In Tirion, glistened like a gem set in the earth. It's decadent gardens boasting at their core, a verdant labyrinth of hedgerow. This ostentatious centrepiece, as well as much of the encircling pompous lawn, was the contribution of a most renown of gardeners throughout the city; a student of the Vala Lorien himself. But to the talented Noldo, even set against all of his most glorious works, there was no sight as bewitching as the beauty of Morivanyis, eldest of all the Aiwenare daughters. To impress upon her and her kin the degree of his affection, he had raised their grounds from description of fair to fantastical. In turn, he had received the approval of the Aiwenare patriach toward most happy union.

Aiwenare, himself head of the phoenix-sigiled household, had been named so for the unusual flaming hue of his hair, but in time the gift of five, fair children, of which number his daughters four, had seen fit for that member of the Royal Guard to be called ever after Manquento (Blessed*). His merry offspring flocked about their father as they all loved him devotedly. So he would not be parted from them, and all or any who should wed within their ranks was swiftly absorbed into the bosom of the family. His daughters being as endowed by fortune as their father, and well placed at court in assisting their mother, had managed to be introduced to and entice Elves of lofty station and favour to take as spouse; and so Aiwenare's kingdom grew ever more grand and greater, as did his affluence throughout the city ever spread. For who required gold, silver, or jewels in order to know riches ? The Aiwenare were wealthy in all other terms. In love, in luck, in their collaborative hoard of skills and advantage.


This very day a throng of some half dozen Elves were hastily engaged in chasing down the teasing Phoenix kite that led them merry dance throughout the maze. Their prize to be the hand of the youngest, and now only unwed daughter of Aiwenare, to an upcoming ball that her father was throwing in honour of their liege, the Prince Ñolofinwë. This hunting party had been promised that whomsoever was the first to find young Feapoldie before the sky moved from gold to silver, would serve as her undisputed escort, and swift hope and heart had rallied them toward the sight of the beautiful silk kite that called out as siren on the tides of wind. They thought to find Feapoldie at the base of the strings, and claim her. They would, all of them, be disappointed ...


Tirindo surveyed the entrance to the high-grown maze with a certain well-placed foreboding. Awaiting the emergence of victor and protesting runners up, respectively. He had seen the scenes of carnage afore, where it came to his youngest sister. She had seemingly no care for the scores of Elves who saw her much as a last chance to seize a place within her father's opulent dynasty. She teased and tested such suitors mercilessly, humiliating as many would humour her cruel devices in the name of ambition, until at length she fell to pity for them. Her brother was unsure whether her glorious indecision had more to do with the power that such position afforded her, so long as she was to remain single, or whether she was truly disinterested in finding a husband at all.

Fea was still young, in the custom of the Eldar, and so Aiwenare had enrolled her at one of the finest intellectual academies in all the city, hoping there her beauty and mind might ensnare the notice of some good and noble up and coming Elf of Tirion. Thus far she had occupied herself with friendship of only one Noldo in all of that establishment, and counted him (Aranadhel****) as her best friend, and second brother also. Tirindo was hopeful that Fea would eventually tire of all the games and perils of courtship, to focus with proper dignity upon this particular, upstanding young student. He liked Aranadhel**** immensely and would be glad to call the other Noldo brother. But Fea said ever of Aran**** that he was her confidante as much as kin. She could not, she said, ever wed him any more than she could have wed Tirindo himself, though she knew she would despise and envy any elleth that came into her dear friend's life. Such was her confounding way with all relationships.



If the Elves looking to appease their own father's intentions, and win young Feapoldie's attentions for half a moment had any true conception of just what a "treat" that elleth could present, in truth, Tirindo doubted that any of them would still be entombed in the endless maze for want of her. Though recently, he was forced to admit, he had observed his baby sister singing more softly as she made with embroidery and loitered with dreamy eye as she gazed out upon the city from her window. She danced with ever growing frequency and was so tender with her nieces and nephews, that that her brother suspected there was some unspoken change in her. The dance pursuit this afternoon had been her own suggestion, that whomever found her first would be her choice of partner at the upcoming ball. She had given her word. In that, Tirindo suspected that Fea had at last identified a one whom she would claim her own. Aiwenare was ever more in closeted conversations with Lanyaure, as though they too knew more than they would allow. Tirindo of course had no doubt that his sister would allow her favoured suitor to find her, within the maze, before all others. As though the contest had been a foregone conclusion, for she was not a one to trust to chance, when it came to her wants. He readied for the outcry of disappointment and disapproval from those who would lose out. It was his duty, as her brother, to see all insults that were deemed to have been offered smoothed to naught. He sighed.


"Do you think he knows ?" Morivanyis wondered aloud, and shifted her skirts about her. She and all her sisters were set as a fan of peacocks upon the lawn. Their duty to set out refreshments for the hunters, to console and to congratulate the party after.

"I would know what you know, before I could answer if I suspect that he knows," mentioned Netye, with a grin. She stalled in her efforts until her sister spilt what inside knowledge she had come across.

"Our sister is not even to be found within the maze !" the eldest daughter shared, with such exhilaration that it must have been a mighty trial for her to have kept quiet for as long as she had. "It is my own daughter leads the kite !"

The resultant gasps and giggles were largely overdone and yet sincere in their amusement, for even those who were not surprised by the news were not forced to strive hard to envisage the jest. Athayie glanced up from where she smoothed her swollen belly and expectant child of her own. "Should we not forewarn him ?" she considered.

Varasilie scuppered her own small son's vain attempt to make off with some of the food. "He might do better to actually find where she now dwells," the busy mother mentioned, wondering no small amount over that undisclosed location herself.

"Oh Tirindo !" Morivanyis had already commenced with summoning their brother.

"What mischief do my sisters now conspire ?" the Elf asked, in chancing closer to them. "Speak swiftly, for I must have an eye for Fea .."

"Funny you should mention that," Netye smiled, knowingly. Their brother blinked back disbelief at his own stupidity for not suspecting that this game was anything that it promised.



That very moment saw the emergence of an enthused but bewildered gathering of Elves approach from the direction of their tiresome labour. A tiny elleth with long dark hair drawn neatly into two long braids was seated high upon the shoulder of the foremost of their number. Tirindo groaned aloud amongst a smother of laughter rang behind raised hands.

"She goes too far this time," Athayie nestled cautiously down upon the strewn blanket, as though she anticipated that her child would be born this very minute.

"She but has her fun," Netye interjected, recklessly. "You are jealous, sister, because you are grown so large no maze could conceal your heft at present !" She broke off, and sought to evade the simple flower chain which was hurled fast in her direction and entangled in her hair. In withdrawing this harmless missile, it fell to pieces, and several were hurled back toward Athayie.

"Fiend !"

"Beast !"

"I shall find her," Tirindo resolved, largely unobserved, as he prepared to commence with a hunt himself.


"We shall cause merry distraction for the meantime," Morivanyis glanced up and promised, earning her a grateful nod from her brother before he set off. "You have obtained the first clue on our merry hunt !" the elleth proclaimed then loudly, for all the hunt-weary Elves to hear and take heed. As a one, they made approach to seize the food and drink and further news. "Come here, my dearest, and whisper to your mother what aunt Fea told you," the eldest daughter of Aiwenare called the eldest granddaughter to heel, and the small child came skipping to find such beloved arms. She giggled and blew about her mother's ear, veiled from giving away any hint, by the rich sable curtain of her parent's velvet hair.

"The clue to find sweet Fea is hidden on a tiny piece of parchment within one of the delectably fancies of food we have prepared for you !" Morivanyis decided, hoping that such a ruse might allow for Tirindo to find their errant sibling. "Come, all, I beg of you, and partake of some well earned refreshment." She patted the woven blanket invitingly. Athayie rolled her eyes, whilst Netye and Varasailie exchanged a grin and showered one another with the remains of the flower chain.

[Ercassie]

Playing with Fire - Part 4






Tirindo and Feapoldie
Aiwenare Estate
Tirion Upon Tuna, Aman
Sometime during the Years of Trees

The river wound a snaking course through the lush estate, a dazzling path of silver-blue that melted away under a grandiose marbled bridge, and streamed off the dizzying heights of the city-crowned hill, like a cascade of roaring diamonds.

The rowboat bobbed about the silken blanket of the water, tethered safely upon either bank by arms of braided cord, and even from a distance Tirindo could see the twinned pair of frivolous figures, silhouettes of graphic hue capering the thin margins of the dory's dancing edge.



Feapoldie he recognised at once, the vast cascades of titan tresses entwined her head like a living flame. Her lithe body was swathed within a brazen, molten nebula of billowing dress, splashed by incandescent golden trim about the waist and hem and bust. A netted shawl bedazzled as though it were wove of stars, caught at each wrist by fair silken ribbon. She laughed, and tripped about the meagre line, as though to land more than one foot at a time upon the slender wooden fringe would be to fail in some design none could comprehend.

Whomsoever mirrored her gleeful, skittering, gambol upon the shivering float, Tirindo had never known before. The stranger wore the same shimmer and icy blue as the river itself, his hair succeeding every motion as a spray of starlight. In the moment that he started, noting their intruder, Fea halted also, and glanced back over her shoulder sharply. Seconds saw her drop with fluid grace to kiss the keelson with her bare foot, and then push her secret dance partner off balance, out of sight. The boat already dipping at the abrupt shift in weight, he fell into the water and was immersed entirely. She waved him off, laughing, even as her brother leapt headfirst into water from the shore, as though he were himself propelled by some mischevious force. But by the time that Tirindo laid hands about the boat himself, hauling himself like an elongated ink blot out of the pure clear blue, the stranger was but a blur in the distance. A hand, waving not drowning, brought a smile about Fea's face, and she raised her fingers to her lips, then sent them forth, scattering caresses upon the breeze.

"You might have killed him," Tirindo mentioned, as he shrank down onto the and called his sister to heel.

"A swan knows how to swim as sure as will a bell ring," she shrugged, then raised her eyes unashamedly, and with purposeful delay to lengthen the experience. Her small chin threw colours of light to dash her fresh complexion. "He always comes back," she concluded.

"He has been here to see you before ?" her brother surmised, narrowing a thoughtful storm of grey eyes.

"He has seen me," Fea teased, amused. "Elsewheres, other times, far beyond the sight of you .."

"In what manner do you say that he has seen you ?" the Noldo frowned, instinctively, and saw his indignation drowned within his baby sister's mirth.

"Do you know," she leant forth where they sat now facing one another, "when you frown, your left ear looks to twitch ! It is quite .."

"Fea !"


She found her feet (and more besides) before the boom of his rebuke had ceased to echo within both their hearing. One foot dared to sit deep between his legs, as she loomed over him, bright eyed, gleeful, his own ceremonial sword suddenly clasped within her fair hand. It's point tickled the underside of her brother's jaw as he opened and closed his mouth like a fish upon the bank.

"You think to herd me prematurely back unto the family ?" his sister alleged, with a flourish although in retreat, so that her free arm curved behind her, her sword arm brandished the rather blunt blade in a gentle gyration which her wrist seemed all too familiar engaged in. "You shall never take me alive !" she warned him, garnets heating the glare of her laughing eyes.

"That does not belong to you," Tirindo observed, swallowing his annoyance.

"A soldier who can not keep mind of his sword has no business possessing said sword," Fea decided.

"Give it up," he bade her. "For if I must needs take it from you forcefully, I might hurt you. That is not my motive. Come, allow me to sever but one of the tow ropes and haul us from the other back to shore."

"Ooops !" A hand flew to his sister's mouth as she gasped girlish surprise and the blade sank to rest on the river’s bed. Tirindo rose then, and took her shoulders within his vice like grip.

"You shall see us both into the depths !" came the melodramatic protest, which he ignored, and though it clearly irked her to be so subdued, she dropped back to her seat, leaving her brother close to falling into her lap. As he gathered himself and awaited the small float to cease rollicking about, Fea draped herself into a lounge and leant one white arm idly over the side, sculling new ripples about the river's face. She sighed, apparently now fallen toward boredom.

"If you would have Elves find you, you should have a care to be found," Tirindo resumed his lecture. "Not meander off elseways with who knows who and .."

"I would have myself be found but by the one whom I would see to find me," Fea sulked, even as she closed her blue eyes against the glare of the radiant skyline. "He found me first .."

"Because you told him to look where you would be, not where you told all others you might be," Tirindo sighed. "Do you care none for those fools who have toiled all the afternoon to win your ..”

"I shall NOT be won !" she erupted suddenly. "Fool be to any who believed so. For I am Feapoldie !" The blossoming eyes flew open and she splashed her brother with a reproachful brace of river. "I choose ! I say ! I am not some trinket to be admired and put away in some dusty old trophy cabinet someplace. I want to live ! To run ! To dance !"

"And whom exactly shall you dance with, sister ? Think not that they shall never tire of your tricks and teasing. You would choose one, liberate us all from this tiresome purgatory. Before the crowds thin and there shall be naught left from whom you may choose !"

"I have already chosen," she confided, smugly. "My own secret star. And we shall light the sky with such a brilliance as it has never known afore !"

"I think your star a salmon," Tirindo remarked, nonplussed. "As much a coward, swimming off rather than face your kin."

"He is no fish,"

"There was a sense distinctly Falmari about what I saw. And," the Elf recalled, triumphantly, "you spoke of a swan ... so.."

"So the mighty Tirindo would think that he knows all ?" Fea tugged at her lower lip with white teeth. "Then tell me brother, what kind of swan is a star, and yet no manner of salmon whatsoever ?" she challenged his sanity, with great amusement.

"You speak in riddles," he complained, and sought to wrestle free the small boat from one tether. His sister observed his efforts, unconcerned.

"Riddles ?" she enquired, sweetly. "And why should that perplex you so greatly ? Am I not allowed a single secret in this house ? We all must share each thought and deed ?" Her eyes were fixed upon him now, as though her high jinks should be justified. "I am the very youngest, Tirindo ! Do you know there is never aught that I may do, that some other has not already done before me ? Is there a single dress in all of our many well-dressed wardrobes which is not a re-mastered hand-me-down that my sisters have tired out before it ever clutched my skin ? Is there truly, can you tell, a single Elf lost in that maze who gives a care for me at all ? I am more than a name, brother. I am me. And I shall make my own fate, ill or fair."

"You are Aiwenare," her brother sought to impress the situation upon her. "Your decisions promote consequences that befall your house entire. This selfish streak of yours was endearing when you were a child, but you stand so no longer. You have been spoilt and petted and praised your whole life long. Do not now have the arrogance to say you need us not ! You are one of us, and we are none of us anything without each other."

"I am not nothing !" With a sudden flourish, she beat small hands against his great chest, and the vast mane of hair that trembled betrayed the clear suggestion of sobs which wracked her heart beneath. "I have screamed all my life to be heard over my sisters, and I have pushed my way forth to be even seen amongst their flock. I am sick of fighting to be noticed as a part of something that would be no worse nor better without me amongst them. But I shall have something not a one of you has ever had before. I shall keep my secrets and I shall have something my own. And only mine."

"A Falmari ?" Tirindo rolled his eyes. "If you think that Father will let you go off alone and live in Alqualonde .."

"I should like to see the fool as thinks that he may stop me do aught as I like !" she remarked. Calm, confident. Suddenly composed anew. "Seek not to shroud the stars, Tirindo. Seek not to soothe my voice. I am Feapoldie. I know only how to be myself. Do not ask me to be anything less."



Some time later they were returned to their Father's house: the son and Eldest, the daughter who was of them all the youngest. And the raiment of them both was soused from passage through the shimmering brook, although spirits were lesser dampened, even of Tirindo. The effort to keep his sister in the rowboat had proven in vain, as much as any try to make her face the Elves she pitied so for their devotion. She had seized a want to swim to shore, and by the means of lavishing her brother with vast compliments about his feats with archery, had somehow seen fit to bury all bad feeling about the loss of his sword. It was difficult for him to retain anger with her overlong, when she would pout and drag upon his arm and call for he to race her back to locate dryer garb.

Instead they found their parents already about the foyer, and admiring some gift but recently delivered. Upon laying her keen eyes upon this dazzling donation, Fea stepped, bereft of shoes, on light and airy feet about the offering, with little doubt that it was meant for her.

"Now father ?" She prompted, striving in vain to desguise anticipation. "What now say you to what we have spoke ?"

Aiwenare rubbed his jawline in one hand and considered the meaning of the crafted arrival. "Of course my daughter knows no surprise to find these gifts given ?" He contemplated, still some surprise evident about his own glazed features.

"They are my joy," Fea proclaimed, knowingly, "for so long as they may last. Tirindo do seek to prove yourself of use dear brother, and aide me."

And for all that he rolled his eyes, her brother made move to assist her. Lanyaure though dropped a fair hand upon her son's arm, and there was a fright about her grey eyes that struck him concerned. His labour held a moment more before Aiwenare removed his wife's hesitating touch and guided her toward a chair.

"I do not like it," she plied whispers of admission to her spouse’s ear, in frightful tones that scarce be heard. "The ice," she shivered. "Recall that vision which did rise me up from rest husband, and ever since had wrested peace from my grasp .." Lanyaure seized up her husband's hand and would not have it leave her.

"She is happy," the Patriach consoled his wife. "Have you ever seen her so moved by gladness ?!" Kissing her hand sedately, he made promises he could not keep. "This is fine craftsmanship. It may prove a fine prospect, not some omen fell," he told her.

Fea, scarcely noticing, directed her brother to steer all three of the frozen ice sculptures to where they might grace her room, where she might cover them with delight and due privacy. The swan sailed in a smooth glide behind the ship, it's sails swollen upon an imaginary wind. Yet it was the third and final piece of the silent procession which she lavished the most attention upon. The rose, the flower, the symbol of a blossoming romance all hewn of arctic delicacy, perfect in her eye.

"Do not lay fool lips upon it !" Tirindo called out, sensibly, even as Fea fell perilously close to performing such a fanciful feat. "It is ice cold as a fish’s heart must be" he warned his sister, falling to less sharp rebuke as he softened for concern only. "You shall burn at the touch," he said.

"Oh, I burn," Feapoldie sang, twirling her skirts about her as she danced about and all between the three wonders of wintry sheen. All hers ! She gazed upon the attention and the detail afforded the frosted flower and she sighed in perfectly contented revelry that glowed from her heart out and enveloped her all. "I burn," she smiled, blissful and as though for the first time felt as a thing made whole.

[Ercassie]

Playing with Fire - Part 5


'See how I leave with every piece of you
Don't underestimate the things that I will do ....
The scars of your love remind me of us.
They keep me thinking that we almost had it all.’

(Lyrics from ‘Rolling in the Deep’, by Adele)



A matter of two Houses,
in fair Tirion, Aman
Sometime during The Years of Trees

The sky collided in an eminent climax at the point where coruscating silver pearled it's cloak to slowly enshroud the luxuriant but loitering golden embers. Telperion was waxen, and Laurelin moved to wane. But for that briefest of moments, they were as a one, unrivalled. And their glory mingled and amassed both might and beauty, cold and warmth, silver and gold. The two far more so humble Elves that came together far below the vast convergence of the heavens scarcely took a note about the glories that lit up the world. They knew naught but one another. Distraction might prove deadly, after all, when steel sings her calamitous rhapsody. The blade each bore at first, with timid approach, grew more bold and brazen with each passing hour that they spent in secret practice. And it was not solely the recreation that they both developed a consuming passion for.

Their features each were secreted behind a face of flawless, motionless expression. One a mask of silver, cold as a woken snowflake; the other a mask of gold, warm as fire that shimmered like a frozen flame. They had already had too many close misses when questions were raised by loved ones. Where did that bruise rise from ? What have you been doing ? Where have you been going ? Who have you been with ? Answers would beget only more questions. And the magic of a dream can never be conveyed proper within the explanation. They spoke not of their coming together. She laughed and sang with all her friends that such talk would conceal what her lips said not. He spoke unceasingly to stars and statues, who should never betray confidences. All the time they spent not in each other's company, they recollected when last they had done so, and they looked to when they would once more. Days passed into weeks, and weeks into months, until the time before they had been a "they" at all, fell from all thought.

The notion of their union not withstanding now forever after was a thing unheard of. This was love, first love. The means of love which teaches that love is, that it exists, and what it is capable of.

Love and hate. Life and death. Gold and silver. Him and her.


Feapoldie lunged smooth as does an eagle swoop, russet tresses cresting and equally channeling as though a scarlet tide. The crook of her bare, opaline arm most gently calibrating from the mighty heights she raised in pursuit of that fine, glittering blade that pitched unhampered, as to penetrate his heart. The weapon in her easy grasp clove through the air between them as the high prow of a vast ship cuts through the tumultuous waves of a tumbled sea. He observed the unhindered advance of death grow imminent and yet deftly evaded impact, veering without effort to one side that he should catch her ivory limb upward in a strong hand equally as pale, even as it sought to pierce his cool resolve with her fiery ambition.

The perilous blade span wide of it's mark as he whirled her wrist : a spiralled pinnacle aloft; then manouvred lower reaches of her smooth form in toward him. The motion was so swift she scarce had time to utter her objection as her breath was spent. Her back laid bare against his chest, the brace of cold sword in his lowered arm, now holding hers in check. And in tight grasp. Tight to touch.

"I win."

His words were gentle rain upon her warm glow of exertion. Sweet breath upon her ear. The languid taunt that she refused to long endure. Laughter bubbled as she laid her head recklessly on his shoulder, as much a captive as is air in hand.

"What is it you look to win ?" she asked then, drawing vivacious blue eyes into extension. "A kiss ?" she guessed, playfully. "But from this reach you should ever be denied .."

Reactively he raised her sword arm in his own and twirled the two about the air above them, uncoiling her smooth inferno as she span out and away from his hold. Fea extended her arms like wings and performed a short series of flawless pique turns across the courtyard. Her sparring partner simply stared.

"I am Feapoldie," she uttered grandly, swooping into a majestic curtsey at conclusion. "I always win." Her face was brazen gold, his frosted silver. Their sockets were deep, their smiles glazed in place ... the game and peril slowed. Swords fell into disuse and were eagerly forgot.

"You might as well be one of your father's whey-faced figurines," the elleth declared, her fair face tilted to one side in idle contemplation. "Here arranged, and come to life but under my touch, as does fire make light of all secrets that lurk yet in darkness." She danced away from him easily in the very moment that he moved toward approach, teasing she remained as is the wind in cruel embrace that shall ne'er still. The mastery over another so enamoured toward haunting her advance, her retreat ... she led him a merry dance about and all among the silent statues. "Shall you lay your secrets bare at my command ?" She hesitated gleefully, diving deep into the depths of his unblinking eyes. Her fingers gently unlaced the binding of her mute mask and it tumbled to nothing at the floor. "Does stone even draw breath ?" her fingers brought his face unto her own, and hovered there.

"You should have a care," he warned her, unveiling his own features in kind. "Stone is most tenacious surface to make any lasting impression upon, but when moved, when truly … moved .." The silver mask met it's golden compatriot unnoticed at their feet, as Fea loitered upon his conclusion; “it shall prove unstoppable, as might the most perilous avalanche," he forbode with great certainty, and his voice was smooth but enriched by sure confidence. “Toward the utter detriment of all and any who gather too close. If I love you, I can not, ever afterward un-love you ..."

"All birds strut in keen wake, and so all Elves profess great sentiment," Fea trilled, after a marked hesitation suggested wonder at his claim. "I have heard all tirades of affection spoke afore," she mentioned. "Some thousand times by all that have since dwindled in their vibrancy. You think yourself unlike all others ?" she threw her head back with mercurial frivolity, and struck at him with her face as some unbridled assault.

Her lips found his and played his kiss like an instrument within her grasp, then startled at the harmony they composed as duet. Their eyes locked, magnetised, and her's shone with the surprise that blazed in those that were unable to turn from her. In the second that she made to withdraw, he seized the back of her head in one firm grasp and held her for yet a moment longer than she had willed. She wilted in his hold, as though one lost about the moment, and then as he slowly supported her back unto height, their hold broke apart but seconds later. They stood breathless, wordless and still fixed on one another. She raised one hand as though there stood a mirror's glass between them. He raised his hand in kind, as though their minds were one, their motions truly a reflection of the same soul. They stared. They breathed. Together. Apart now but forever joined in the memory of that brief exchange. True love's first kiss ..

Fea twirled with a cascade of mirth and a flamboyant grace, hurling her head back over the delicate decline of her shoulder until her back arched almost to unnatural an angle. He reached out and anchored her at speed by one sole, outstretched hand, as she had known he would. He towed her back toward her full height, that their eyes should come again a pair, and she allowed it. Her free arm swept unharnessed like a brush on canvas, like a wing in flight.

She knew no fear. He would always catch her.

"I am not ‘all others’," he concluded, ambiguously, as he haunted her progress about the courtyard, devoutly.

"You had never kissed a girl before," Fea assumed aloud, with a knowing azure blaze about each blossoming iris. She tore at her lower lip with sharp white teeth and watched his reaction.

"I had never wanted to until now," he observed, raising his own chin with a slow dignified certainty.

"You should put more practice to the sport," she teased. "It is a far better use for your lips than to mirror your father's treacherous monologues."

"For the hope of Feapoldie's embracing rebuke, I would ever sing aloud and long the tirade that Ñolofinwë and Arafinwë are surplus to requirement. That they are but an afterthought. A most unnecessary understudy that lurk in the shadow cast by grander lord to whom they hold no flame ...."

Feapoldie pouted as she placed a finger over his lips, stifling their provocative claim. "Ñolofinwë is my Father's liege," she reminded him, mock-sternly, "and I would see him yours therefore, by proxy .."

"Over my father's dead body !" his eyes laughed with the black humour on oblivious foreshadowing, his smiled twitched invitingly.

"Promises .. promises ..." Fea span where she stood, arms whipping about her wildly rotating torso. "But now alas I have achieved my evil purpose," she sighed, melodramatically. "For by beauty was the beast subdued, and the poison planted all about my lips shall take you to a far more grave association than that of your father's stern demeanour. So shall all the thralls of Curufinwë fall subject to my whim and wicked seduction."

The fair maiden threw her face into her risen hands, and cradled it a moment while she peeked eyes of mischief through splayed fingers. As if prompted, her partner collapsed with enthusiasm, staggering to his mock demise, and glancing only briefly and through one swift opened eye, what she would do at that.

Feapoldie drew her hands apart like drapes and threw her head back with the flare of theatrical triumph. "I would linger a time," she informed him, proudly, "to observe your justified demise, but there stand nigh a half dozen of Elves now a-gathering by this same hour outside of my father's house, all longing to ask for the pleasure of being my escort to the ball .."

"Go then," the corpse bade her, from his prone position, stifling a chuckle, "and leave me here die in peace from all your simpering prattle."

Fea stepped over him, with purpose, and stared down at her victim with some exasperation. Eyes closed. Smile certain. "You have absolutely no proper concept at all," she gave up such lament, "just how exclusively selective must be my perfect dancing partner. We must make a statement !" Her arm flew out with exuberance and she dropped down ungracefully into his lap, even as he undertook a surprising recovery and sat up, to greet her. "My father is the host of this prestigious occasion," she whispered, as though it were some almighty secret, though all Tirion were well aware. "All in his lord's name !" she climbed out of his reach, and recovered her full height. Then swooned with intent against an ivy-carven column of his Father's courtyard. "I must represent my house as is only expected and ... " she disappeared behind the stony beam, only to peer about it's girth from behind. "It is so difficult to identify a one who stands my equal, whom I should not overshadow .."

"If it troubles you so deeply, do it not," he shrugged, and laid back upon ground. Stars aloft caught his sight and he raised one hand above his chest, in a vain endeavour to catch one. "Depart never from this place," he turned and rose to standing in one seamless motion. Approaching the column where Fea hid, her back against the pillar cold, and slithered around the base to confront her. "Stay .." he spoke in earnest, and held out his closed hand, opened it before her with the slowest speed.

Fea kissed his palm and ducked then under his arm, to make her escape anew. "Not go ?!!" the maiden declared, with both hands raised to her cheeks in horror. "It is a dance ! You might as soon ask me to not draw breath .."

Sarnirion raised an eyebrow, in exasperating smugness. "That would then resolve both dilemma," he observed.

"You made me a promise," she reminded him. And that was when he took to mirth, and struck some steps aghast from her insinuation.

"I but promised to remove the limbs from under any other Elf that dared look to take you unto his side," he made his amused correction to her selective memory.

"And by thus removing all due likelihood of all and any competitors, you proclaim yourself my escort !" Fea declared, victoriously. "I am Feapoldie," she reminded him. "And I am asking you. To accommodate my whim lest I should turn it to some other more grateful like .. " Bright eyes blazed with frightful greed and desire.

"Like whom ?" he would see her clarify, intrigued.

"Your father !" Fea cursed, but there the anger caught in shock, as she observed Sarnir himself, as though she had conjured him to presence by some summons of a kind. "Behind you ?" she added, as their intruder sighed with impatience.

[Ercassie]

Playing with Fire - Part 6


'See how I leave with every piece of you
Don't underestimate the things that I will do ....
The scars of your love remind me of us.
They keep me thinking that we almost had it all.’

(Lyrics from ‘Rolling in the Deep’, by Adele)

**

A matter of two Houses,
in fair Tirion, Aman
Sometime during The Years of Trees

In that moment Sarnirion was truly as stone. Breath escaped him and time froze all thought. His father, Sarnir,’s chest rose and sank as he breathed in deep and closed his thoughtful blue eyes as though pained. Fortune though found his star-clad wife, with the mind to take one of her husband's hands up in both of hers before he had ever realised she stood beside him. She raised it to her lips and caressed his tender might against the frailty of her cheek.

In the second before she would ask if he dares think that this is over, Feapoldie sensed the presence of her own beloved father, entering the scene. The flame-haired soldier kindled a slow fire that lay low, and growled forth disapproval. The only thing the two patriachs might find in common, was their distaste for this clandestine discovery.

“What then is this ?" Aiwenare was as baffled as Sarnir by the scene unfolding before them. "Daughter," he took up Fea's unprotesting hand and hauled her to his side as like a kite on gathered string. "Your kin and bed both lie far from this place," he pointed out. "For what cause do your stray, in a neighbourhood not of your own ? What is it you do here ?”

“Nothing,” answered the son of stone, abruptly on her behalf.
Even in the very second that the spirited maiden mentions, proudly, “Dancing.”

Both her father and her lover stare at Feapoldie unblinking. "Do you not see ?" she counselled all, for sleek of wit in gathering up the two discarded masks, in order to present them as their alibi. "He is silver, I am gold. It is my conception to have us flaunt in all brilliance about your ball, my most beloved Father. Laurelin ..." she explained, drawing fingers to the golden leaves adorning her rich, flaming hair, "Telperion .." she indicated her horrified, but silver-haired accomplice.

“Dancing ?” her father faltered nonetheless, and begged to make sure he had heard correctly. He is sure he heard the clang of steel. But already Silosse is drawn about the keen wailing of windchimes, that call out heartily about their heads. Her pale fingers toy with the melodious chorus meaningfully. With a frown, Aiwenare began to consider, that the soft chimes might have been what he'd heard .. maybe ..

"I can not think what else you might imagine that our children have conspired here together," she dared both of the disapproving fathers. "So unchaperoned ?!" she laid unblinking eyes on each of the young pair, knowingly, and they slowly grasped her aid, and sighed relief.

"Dancing," admitted Sarnirion with urgency, surveying the expectant wrath of both. Sarnir's stare fell slack with horror. "It is .. good for balance .. " his son made valiant attempt at some justification to his patriach.

The dark-haired sculptor looked pointedly toward his chest of tools, where the swords lay hid, and encouraged a subtle denial from his son. Aiwenare looked the swifter to his daughter's modest hem of dress, but aside from a faint glow about her porcelain cheek, Feapoldie appeared the epitome of virtue to appease him.

“Well then,” the flame-haired soldier decided, warily. “I would see this clash of the two elements that has so inspired my daughter to mutiny of her own kin. Come !” Aiwenare clapped his hands together once, but sharply. “Dance for me !”

Sarnirion wondered idly how fast he could retrieve the blade from his father’s tool box and fall upon it. They were utterly undone ! They had not danced, they could not, not without the comfort each of blade in hand. And that was hardly a sight to exhibit for the public. For sure when Curufinwë had presented, blade in hand, his words had been heralded as threat, and the Crown Prince exiled. The young Elf took up the closest hand of Feapoldie in his. The two stood in solemn and silent union as their parents considered the situation.

"Oh how you do try !” Fea's injection of mirth skated upon the thin veil of awkward wait. "But nay," she wagged a finger, merrily about them all, "not a sneak of a glimpse shall any see. Until the night of reveal," the elleth calmly explained. "We shall reign supreme about the ballroom and then none shall be able to forget such a sight," she made the decision for all involved.

"You shall say farewell," Sarnir warned her, coldly. "Afore I do more than say what we shall all regret. Come ! Take your leave, Aiwenare ! And take that also which belongs to you, and not upon my property."

"I shall see you on the morrow," his son told Fea with a confidence unmoved of his father's sharp glare. All four else pairs of eyes fell fast upon him, but the glad, respondent elleth flew into his arms.

"For practice," she would have him confirm, her eyes hovering with hope and want. He rolled his eyes but nodded his assent. And with that, her goal accomplished, Fea danced merrily back to her father's grasp, and pulled him triumphantly out of harm's path. "Come to my house !" she called out, unrestrainedly. "We must conspire of costumes !"



Her lover did not know which cast him in a colder fear. The act of her departure, the scowl of his most disapproving father, or the fear of what he had just vowed to accomplish.

"Her ?" Sarnir sought to comprehend his foul misfortune. "Of all the maidens in the land. Why must your heart snag upon the daughter of Aiwenare ??!!”

"She is Feapoldie," his own son mentioned, as though that answered all, and with a subtle nod that hid his nerve, he departed the courtyard slow and state-like. The impact of which was ever so slightly despoiled by the sound of hastened flight upon the stair beyond. Sarnir moved to follow but found Silosse at his arm. She shook her head mutely, and he swallowed the anger which threatened to overwhelm him. Glancing with due meaning about what her husband hid behind his back, Silosse led the sword Sarnir had grasped unseen on instinct, when he had observed a threat toward his kin. She kissed his cheek with tenderness, and soothed distemper back into it's box.


"It is love," she whispered. "Not an end to all things fair."

"He is too young," Sarnir shook his head, in some despair. "They are both too young."

"They are children still," his wife agreed, to that extent. "Let them play," she told him. "While they are able. It can do no harm."

"It is love," the sculptor reminded her, meaningfully. He sighed. "I knew we should have gone with the others to Formenos."

[Ercassie]

Playing with Fire - Part 7




Sarnir Erondo, his son Sarnirion. Also featuring Menellótë Silosse
The Tower of Erondo, in the halls of Ostelemar Manse
Tirion-upon-Tuna, in Aman, during the YT

The domed tower of Erondo rose aloft, mounting a majestic testiment to Aule across all the city skyline. Clad in the glorious livery of meticulously polished granite, the building was as durable as it was aesthetic; dominating all other establishments in that quarter of the Noldorin capital, save one alone. For its hardy foundations were laid in strict alignment to the tapering pinnacle of one spire from a seven-pronged, star-shaped manse - the heart of the famed Cenilwe dynasty. It was of this unrivalled nest of artisans which had hatched Sarnir, Lord Erondo, who shared his epesse with the tower home his kin had erected, to keep him never far from where he had begun.

The branches of some family trees grow far in different directions, so they say, but all bear roots the same. You can not choose your family, yet neither can you ever utterly escape them, nor should you seek to try. For blood runs thicker than water, and though a pearly gloss of moat encircled the solitary fortress, this feature was less a deterrent, more so to soothe the soul of Sarnir's Teleri bride, when she yearned for her birthplace of Alqualondë. The doors to their home were barred not to kin, although it was typically only Sarnir's kin were bold enough to attempt a visitation to the surly sculptor.

Passionate as to his chosen profession, the second-born and eldest son of the Skysight clan was possessed of an artistic temperament. Days, weeks, months, he clove to private obsession about his meticulous projects, and would stop his skilled hand not for food, water, or a kind word to be had. Once done, or else if interrupted, there was little that might stall his animated vocal eruptions. He would rave about his hopes, his principles, and all things he held dear. But he was known with equal forewarning by those less keen to tolerate his temper, for he would be swayed not upon any subject. If you shared his views, he was your friend for life, but find him opposed upon any matter and his words would stake about your spirit as sharp and swift as a thousand cruel knives, to tear through your resolve as paper riddled by a hailstorm of stones.

Beneath a lattice of ribbed rafters which were erected at excessive heights, there traversed a passage, flanked by galleries of blind arcade on either side. The resounding echo of the front door's slam still trembling in his wake, Sarnir stalked the mesmerising path of gleaming marble floor, his dark hair striking behind him like blood sluicing out of a relentless wound. His pale eyes like glacial lakes were fixed upon a piece of paper which he had but moments before forced unto a crumpled remnant in a hand so tightly clenched, the blood was drained from all appearance.

The prestigious hall of welcome had been architected toward drawing marvel from all who spent but a moment there, the elaborately detailed frieze depicted the entire legend of his forefathers' journey from Endor to the Blessed Land, the origins of his people, and the undisguised result of many decades to produce the perfect rendition of stories he'd been raised on. Times were that he had stood himself about deep reflection, and knew great pride and contentment at crafting a piece of history himself. But not this day. This day he scarce afforded his illustrious labours a moments glance. There were other things upon his mind.

His destination was a room where the golden light of day beyond broke through the stained glass windows of three pointed lancets and painted a rainbow's spectrum that danced all about the floor like fragments of a coloured breeze. To allow his thoughts to form more fully, Sarnir loitered nigh a small table close to the door and laid his mind and gaze upon the latest challenge it presented.

Their enduring game of chess retained it's lure, a subtle recreation by which he had long sought to instruct his only child in the art of forward thinking. A lesson which apparently could afford more attention yet. The sculptor considered the delicately crafted plaything he had gathered up in his strong hand; a tiny but exquisite figurine of glass, a gift from his talented sister, Sabriel**. When no sign indicated that his son had observed his entrance, Erondo positioned the piece gently about the fine board where it might inspire some worthy response. So when he glanced back to gauge his offspring's reaction, impatience rose to points where even love would not restrain it. His son had not yet moved himself from where he stood upon a great four poster bed, reaching to the wall with both hands, where he scrawled about the hard stone wall with a most impressive tool, that had been pilfered from Sarnir's own workshop. So engrossing was this act of inspired vandalism, that Sarnir was not sure whether to be proud or utterly frustrated.

"Checkmate," He prompted, clearing his throat. "You should have seen that coming," he lamented of his winning move, bitterly with thought to his son's failure. "Though I see your mind has wandered otherwheres of late." The tall Noldo waved a hand before him to indicate the extensive labour that had, now that he stopped to notice, spanned the entire wall interior. "Or what would you call this ?" he persisted, and was duly rewarded with the tool replaced within it's owner's hand in silence. The sculptor's fingers closed around the item firmly but his son presented no suggestion that he recognised his father's wrath.

"You put a question to me, one that I have thought much of in answer," he replied. "There were far too many words abounding to commit to memory and I ran out of parchment. So there I .."

"You similarly have run out of ... room," Sarnir observed, in some amazement. He drew a finger across a snatch of the scribbles and furrowed his brow as he digested the meaning of several words. "We shall have to construct an extension .." he shook his head, in some amusement. At least the boy was practicing a worthy art, regardless of the subject matter.

"There is no space I could not fill with expression of the given subject," Sarnirion informed him, unafraid. "You asked me .. why her ?" He spread his arms wide, as explanation. "This is but the foreword." He waved a hand before him, as though painting the promise of yet more to come. His pale eyes spoke of some vision only he could yet observe. His father had seen the look before this day, he had worn that mask himself.


Sarnir took a seat upon the bed, patting the covers beside him as a solemn cue that led his son to sit and share the length. The two sat for a while then matched in their silence, contemplative the both, and stubborn. One dark, one light, both resolved that they were right and neither would relent.

"I received word of Manquento Aiwenare this afternoon." The Father's blue eyes rippled with what a weight this had endowed about his day, and he observed a deeper silence, featuring the swallowing of nerve. "He wrote me thanks for the sculptures of ice that were delivered, and takes this to mean I am grown more agreeable to the notion of a union between our houses."

No answer was forthcoming, that the Sculptor was forced to continue. Fortune favoured him thus, that to make expression of his thoughts had never been a difficulty.

"A strange thing, would you not say ?" Sarnir broached, knowingly, "since, well, .. ice .." he made a rude noise. "Any fool can carve with ice. It is an utter waste of time moreso, for ice melts, it shall not endure. What is the point of crafting something that you will only come to mourn when it inevitably departs ?"

"Stone endures," his son recited, as though bored, as though he had heard this tirade some thousand times in his life already. "Stone shelters, stone protects and stands as timeless legacy." He turned a calm face upon his parent. "You said I was not ready yet for stone."

"Stone is hard," the sculptor admitted, willingly. "That is why. Because if it were easy then everyone would do it. Because if it were easy, it would not be anything of an accomplishment ! What happens, tell me, when you make a mistake as you chisel ice ? Come on ! Tell me ! You but wait for it to melt and freeze it over anew. Naught lost, but naught gained either. Now tell me what happens if you make a mistake chiselling stone ?"

The silence betrayed a recognition of the lesson being vibrantly extolled.

"Exactly !" Sarnir raved. "You make a mistake with stone, and that is it. Your raw materials are ruined and you have wasted all time and energies with naught to show for it. So tell me why you think practice is not important ?"

"I said not so," his son observed, stubbornly.

"A gift of ice, indeed !" the sculptor rolled his eyes. "Although all things considered, as the choice to cater for a childish crush, it seems rather fitting. For it will last about as long as will all sentiment for .." He faltered there, as his son rose, fists trembling with emotion, clearly ready to protest against whatever disparaging remark was hurled at his affections.

"I have displeased you," the younger Elf acknowledged. "Yet she is worth whatever may .."

"She .." Sarnir began, gathering a vast array of ammunition against the particular flighty and pampered young maiden whom his son had taken to his heart "is .."

"She is everything," he was interrupted.



Sarnir sighed. "You have seen little of this world, my son. You think her to be the most fair thing your eyes have fallen upon. But how many fair maids have you seen at all ? What is fair when there is naught with which to compare it ?"

"If there are other varieties I care not," came the immediate of answers. "I shall have her, or none other. She is ... there are no words"

"Then with what have you decorated half our home ?" his father would have him explain. "You do realise that she is only dallying with you because her father wants to raise his standing in the city. To be associated with our house .."

"I know what little you think of Aiwenare," his son allowed, equally enflamed of passion on the subject that rose as a fed fire between them. "And I could care less for her father, her mother, any of them. There is but her."

"So think you now," spoke the Father. "Yet you must be practical."

"Always you have counselled me," came the admission, followed by a sigh. "even when I sought not your opinion .."

"And so shall I continue to counsel such sense until there comes some sign that it is sowed !" Sarnir blew the first strains of an argument aside, and barraged onward with his own agenda. There was clearly far too much Teleri in his son. Romantic; and yet stubborn as a Noldo. "You are young. I know there must come a time when any son must try his father, to become an adult in due turn. But trust me, on this matter, you shall come to see my way. If you would prove yourself my equal, elect a more worthy battle to arouse you. In time, I am certain, you shall find your fair lady grown dull, or in a field of equally fair blooms, she would shine a little less grand .."


"If she were but a pebble amongst rubies, I would find her nonetheless alluring !" The argument startled Sarnir, and seized the abrupt resounding emptiness to swell in volume and extremes. "She is not some mere thing that is pleasing to gaze upon !" his son sought to better clarify his stand on the matter. "She infects me like a plague ! I swear I seek not to find myself pitted between you and her, and yet she is settled already deep beneath my skin ! I am addicted to my poison, and would not look to know any cure that all the sage and wise may wish to bestow ! Think not in anger of your son, but pity. For I swear her name is as a temple I might worship all the rest of my days, and her face a deity as fair as all the constellations of the heavens ever scattered to light up the sky. She is Feapoldie and all else is naught at all. I love her as sure as I do hate her, for I need her. And I think now I might never be without her, for the memory be ever burned upon my eyes that naught shall seem fair lest it be her image, and no sound be glad lest it should equal the mercurial tones of the song her lips may sing."


As the momentous speech, fit to rival many of his father's upon subjects far less popular, drew at length toward a close, Sarnir found himself sunk into uneasy acceptance. "You think I would have come upon some cure by now ?" A faint smile lit the cold hearth of the grim sculptor's features and he mused. "But for your Mother .."

The youth's face dropped into disgust and amusement. "I beg you no !" he pleaded with his father, coming close to mirth. "Of my parents, I need not to hear details !!"

"You would not be here," a silvery voice observed, like the lilt of a flute's refrain, from whence it had entered, unobserved, about the door, left invitingly ajar, "if not for those details."


Menellótë graced the room, and her small family, with her mutely gleaming presence. Her stance as proud and tall as her husband, but the veil which tumbled from the crown of her alabaster brow as cold and gleaming as a pale star itself, in direct contrast to her husband's rich tresses of dark velvet. Both father and son rose with some immediacy, to their full respective heights and to observe the serene lady of the house. A spirit both so bold and equally unswerving as her beloved, that even her fair colouring had not been dissolved by the renowned dominancy of the Cenilwe's dark mantle. In their child the first in all the generations of the dynasty to not know the common blessings of his father's folk about his hue. Such was the strength deep in Silosse that ever her blood would not be overwhelmed. She was the only one who might ever see her husband's lips to silence, the only one.

Sarnir thus said naught at her mere arrival upon them, but handed his son, his apprentice, his offspring, the tool that he would see put back in it's assigned place. Where all things, to his mind, should stay. The youth departed, reading the directive in the sculptor's eyes, and admitting if not aloud, that he had erred by borrowing the means to shape the feeling of his room forever more. They watched him go, the father worn to the point of exhaustion.


"He has some words on him, that one," Sarnir remarked, naively. His wife's amusement shivered from her starry locks to her bare feet, and she placed a hand against her husband's chest, with meaning.

"He has a mind to learn what has been taught," she observed, sweetly.

"If only he would hear all of what would be said !" came the sculptor's lament. "This girl ... she is as a fair face of rock. At first glance pleasing, to be sure. But you can never know wherein there lies a vein, a flaw, that when tapped into shall see the entire work come to nothing but dust and broken dreams. Stone is hard yet stone is frail. Once a piece is lost, chipped away, ..." he sighed, "it can never be replaced."

"Show faith," he was bade, calmly. "We do not know all things."

"The stars share with you some secret," he assumed. Menellótë smiled no answer that would satisfy him.

"Come, let us gaze upon them together, as once we did," she urged, as a siren tugging at resolve. "Leave your child learn for himself. He will not be told. He takes after his father. And I would serve his father fair distraction .." she raised an eyebrow, which he mimicked, loosening restraint. "Do you not remember ..," she compelled him, lighting the last candle of diversion, "how you do enjoy to be .. distracted ?"

"Might be you shall have to serve me some impressionable reminder ..." her husband surrendered. And silence reigned throughout the Tower of Erondo the remainder then of many hours. Their son slipped out without notice, and his parents, wrapped up in each other, cared not to notice. Love had vanquished them all, respectively.

[Ercassie]

Playing with Fire – Part 8




Sarnir Erondo and his wife Menellótë Silosse
Arriving at the Aiwenare Estate
Tirion, Aman. 1490 YT, Approx

Pellets of irradient limestone composed the shameless avenue toward their destination, the passage laid as fair as ever a stream of forsaken diamonds. It should entice even those who were not privy to the wild rumour of such ostentatious an estate. It should by rights defy even Sarnir Erondo to observe fault or flaw about it's resplendent design; yet this earliest exhibit he already named overindulgent. And he rolled his pale eyes at the extravagantly signposted eyesore, finding no sympathy in his wife's opinion of just how hard his neighbours tried. Excessively so, he told her, that their very clear efforts betrayed their desperation.

"If Aiwenare Manquento ever chose to commit even half the time that he does on looking like he contributes something to this city, in labours that actually would prove so, .. then and only then would I believe he ..

Silosse afforded her husband a hand in rally to his own; catching grasp and taking it unto her lap with unspoken resolve. Words melted to naught as his gaze rose from that quietly understated bolster to her sure, mindful attention. Aside of their sure advancing carriage, lanterns swung from trees that waved with casting spark and shadow in due turn. A wonderland of floral engineering spanned in every which direction, the further to the manse they veered; and yet the couple had eyes only for each other.


Their most recent captivating enthrallment was the source of some great embarrassment from the pair of youths cast in the seat to face them. One rolled eyes and leant his fascination to the subway of reclining wisteria. As an all-consuming throat of decadent hue, the lavender tunnel soon sailed at their every which side. The fragrance stole all thought of ever willingly releasing breath, so utterly did it engulf all senses, until they had traversed unto the next feature of their magical journey.

His cohort was a cousin, not so unlike in appearance, though great of contrast in demeanour. An especially rhapsodic musician, come from distant Alqualondë for the very purpose of providing diversion. The oblivious young artist was equally surprised as he was grateful to be offered this fortuity, however much he found discomfort in the amorous involvement of his aunt and uncle.

When their journey was achieved, Caldir was the first to spring from seat, and hurry the low-hung carriage door upon it's hinges. He sluiced unto the crimson runner as soon as feared to tread about the especial design that had been woven to wear underfoot. Smoothing down his semi-circular cloak, the innocent young Elf smudged his bell-sigil broach beneath one thumb. His aunt and uncle managed to depart from their wheeled cocoon, but Sarnir glanced within, to find his son apparently since vanished from their midst. The open carriage door upon the far side of their vessel offered explanation for the sudden absence, though did little to appease the patriach of such little remark before the fact.


"He did not even imagine I should have a wish to make words before he ... ?" the Noldo sighed, as though abruptly undone.

"He knows your words, and also your feelings," the lady made a wise presumption, gathered her remaining escort and courageously induced them all toward the planned festivities. Her hand as the unseen root to strengthen her husband's fast -closed palm.

"We can but hope" her husband scowled, and especially to be assaulted by such sudden jettisons of colour that surrounded. Flowers was too meagre a word to describe the sheer rockets of sunshine, the sprays of indigo, and the cascades of damson which literally lined their entrance to the grounds proper of House Aiwenare. There was no escaping the vibrancy of life, no subtlety that had not been undone by great extravagance.
At one point, a muster of bedazzling peacocks invaded their passage, and streamed about the estate, proud and demonstrative as their liege. Sarnir could not help but roll eyes - again - and emit an exaggerated sigh. Silosse was gathered to the sight of white doves, taking to wing and the sheen of twilight sky all as a one.

The couple emerged from an exhilarating avenue of aster, cornflower and snapdragons, stunned about the rise of a great avenue of butterflies, as though the colourful flowers themselves danced all about the Elvish visitors.

"Over the top and entirely unnecessary" the sculptor waved a hand in protest, to discourage any of the frivolous marvels from nesting in about his sleek, sable hair. His wife hid a smile and nodded agreement. Taking care not to lose young Caldir to the extreme extents of the garden estate, they nonetheless pursued the path that the host had set forth.

They were amongst the very last to arrive, a fact which neither Sarnir, nor Aiwenare himself had failed to realise ...



******

Aiwenare Manquento and his wife, Lanyaure
Hosts at the House of Aiwenare, Tirion-upon-Tuna

"He does so love to sow doubt of his assumed compliance," Aiwenare growled, frustrated, even as he presided at the gate with his devoted wife, Lanyaure; garnished the both in a courtship of vibrant colour. Graciously the host and hostess had met eyes and proferred hand of each guest they had assumed into their 'humble' home. Particularly the loitering stragglers.

"My Lord Sarnir," gushed Aiwenare, extensively more lavish than he was sincere about the greeting to his fellow Noldo. It must cost the prideful sculptor much to even be observed at this occasion, both well knew. But Aiwenare relished the meaning of such an attendance, and would not see it unmentioned, much to Sarnir's discomfort. "Are we not so very honoured to receive such a guest ?" the host chuckled, goodnaturedly. His wife clutching at his arm, encouraging, the Lord Aiwenare indicated his small throng of welcome party. "Of course you recognise my son and heir, Tirindo; as well as my eldest daughter, Morivanyis. But this is her husband, Altindo;" introductions were announced. "This formidable fellow is responsible for the extensive grounds you doubtless have already taken note of ? prompted Aiwenare, knowingly.

Sarnir made his favoured response in a failure to reply, speaking volumes of his opinion in silence. He struggled though not to smile when he saw Aiwenare's brow settle upon the brink of unspoken offense. Tirindo swallowed unhappily and evaded Lanyaure's disapproving glance. Meanwhile, the gardener extraordinaire, Altindo, clutched for his young bride's hand, self-consciously, which Morivanyis obliged.


If it had not been for the support and encouragement of his father-in-law, Altindo would have despaired when his own father disowned him for forsaking their family business, in favour of what Sarnir similarly disdained. Altindo had much to thank Aiwenare for, although it had to be said that without Altindo's nurtured skill with landscape architecture, then the entire family of Aiwenare would never now be raised so high, nor recalled half at all.

Happily Aiwenare, as a trusted soldier in the House of Prince Ñolofinwë, was known to enough persons of proper significance, without possessing that title for himself. Dignitaries and ambassadors who visited from the Vanyarin or Telerin capitals were always keen for a place of privacy to conduct their very private meets, so Aiwenare had made whispers of just such a place, and soon those persons of import were as old friends to him, and fond, grateful, acquaintances.

His second daughter Neyte had actually wed the grand ambassador from Valimar, while Athayie had taken for her own a highly recognised and renowned artist, who sought peace and quiet within 'The Labyrinth', for inspiration when he was not catering to royal portraits. Aiwenare and his family entire had further improved it's reputation built upon the foundations of each new link to power and foothold on a new aspect of the city's strength.

Now their youngest daughter, some few knew, had taken to her head to know a member of the greatest family of masons and architects in all Tirion.Aiwenare was far more enthused about the prospective new association than Sarnir. Demonstrably.


"My sister-son, Caldir," Menellótë ushered her anaemic nephew to the forefront of their little group, her face utterly unreadable as the youth attempted a bow. "Visiting a time as company for our son," the lady explained, and was properly interpreted.

"And shall we be blessed by the presence of your son this eve ?" Lanyaure queried, politely.

The grim sculptor failed to succomb to grooming Aiwenare's ego with any suggestion of compliance. "I wonder that your daughter may believe so," the lord of stone barely mentioned, and then stepped abruptly across the threshold without further delay, as though none should dare hinder him. Indeed, when Aiwenare hesitated in immediately removing himself from the threat for brusque collision, Lanyaure rushed to aide him, and then soothe her husband's injured pride, and shoulder. Menellótë quietly ducked but a subtle nod of etiquette, and bade her cowed nephew swiftly follow her example in pursuing Sarnir.

Before he insulted anybody else ..

"You promised you would try," she reminded the surly mason, albeit quietly.

"I promised I would attend," the Noldo threw a pointed, and louder, correction over one shoulder, as he sought sanctuary about his own folk. Those within whose company, he hoped to vanish from Aiwenare's attention, the remainder of the evening. “With no vow made on the duration of such torment.”



"Are you now more prone to cater to my thought ?" Lanyaure sighed, still at the gate, to note Aiwenare's puzzlement. "This merger with the Cenilwe is never going to work. I mean, he even brought an alternate, so noone may suspect his kin be with our own."

The Master Firebird flushed scarlet, and his eldest children (their role in aiding the introductions concluded) swiftly flew from their father's own growing temper, with a hope toward enjoying the evening.

"Do it for Feapoldie," Lanyaure rubbed her husband's back, supportive as she was a sedative. Still, she shivered with foreboding.The hostess was plagued by prophecies of apprehension which came upon her with ever more a frequency these days, and she struggled to subdue it. "I could not bear for my dear little Fea to be forsook by cold indifference; when she lays her own heart so open, so vulnerable."

"I believe her love returned," Aiwenare shook his head, resigned to anxious concern of the matter. "The boy is not his father. He is .."

"He is not yet to be observed anywheres about the room," Lanyaure smiled feintly, avoiding the direction of their most latterly guests. "I think Lord Sarnir came here but to indulge in your disappointment. Certain he has discouraged his child from attending. Fortunately, for you, I have taken steps to insure our girl is not left wanting."

"You know she will take issue with any Elf that we seek to press upon her." Aiwenare recovered his mirth, at the last. "It is curse enough that Tirindo outright refuses to consider courting. Should Fea now take up with his example ...??! Nay, we must indulge her want. It might be considerable worse."

"I trust him not," his wife spoke of the sculptor, whose reputation was known to be of mood toward the impetuous, and frankly unlawful, Crown Prince Feanaro. "And however it may end, we can not guess. Unless we take the necessary steps to ensure her fulfilment. Do you trust me, beloved ?"


The host of the evening was not a one to regret his want for betterment, and the fact that his daughter had herself proposed this merger with one of the most notable families in the city had filled him with joy. That he should not have to seek means and ways toward manipulating her decisions.

On the other hand, the truth was undeniable. That Sarnir's son was nowhere to be observed, and his daughter now awaited in her chamber, expectant and hopeful. Glancing disconcertedly across the expanse of his guests, Aiwenare's eye fell upon the all too expectant glance of the sullen sculptor. Sarnir raised one dark eyebrow and raised a glass in apparent humour to find the concern over his rival's face.

With a sigh, the firebird Lord took his hand in his own, and smoothed her lace-gloved hands within his grasp. "I trust in your want for our daughter's future," he confessed, without fair remorse. "So tell me," he obliged a woman's devices. "Who is this more favourable option that you would present our youngest child ?"

“Come, meet with my friend,” Lanyaure encouraged him with an extended arm. “His name is Earcolante***”

[Ercassie]

Playing with Fire - Part 9

The Dance and the engagement

**

A matter of two Houses,
in fair Tirion, Aman
Sometime during The Years of Trees

[Ercassie]

Playing with Fire - Part 10


‘You say I’m crazy, but the whole world has gone mad.
You say I’m dangerous. I might agree with that …

I scare myself, with the way that I need you.
There’s no one else. Tell me that you can feel it too.
I’d go through Hell, if it meant I could keep you.
I scare myself ..’

(Lyrics from ‘I Scare Myself’, by Beth Crowley)





Feapoldie Aiwenariel with Sarnirion
Aman, 1495 YT.
Shortly before the Departure of the Noldor. To Middle Earth

As the days of all the world that they had known fell now toward some fateful conclusion, they sat back to back, their eyes cast high in the heavens, chasing stars. Feapoldie toyed with the silver ring that orbited her finger, as though she had never seen such a thing before.

“You are mine,” she prompted expectantly. And when he did not rise, nor make a move to suggest he had heard, she thought perhaps he might now lie in slumber at her back. So tranquil had they come to be, and yet that he should abandon her, even in mere consciousness, slapped the She-elf of insult. She was ready to whip around and rouse him, when at the very last he proved that it was reflection alone, that held him captive of silence, for but a moment longer.

“You are bold,” he surmised, in a low tone that suggested dire warning. Yet from where she could not see, he allowed a smile to betray the pleasure in being so close to her. Feapoldie did not restrain her mirth in kind.

“You think mayhaps to frighten me ?” she laughed. “I am Feapoldie. You should know better.”

“I would set the world aflame and watch it utterly consumed,” he told her, “until all else that had ever mattered smouldered unto ash. And then I should smile to observe such devastation done. If it might so please you, Feapoldie.” He awarded her the time to take this in, before concluding, quietly, “That is what ought frighten you.”

“All are lucky then, to find I am so merciful,” she deigned, with a playful smile. “For I require only that you stay by my side, and hold none other in such regard, … lest it be that which might be come, of the both of us …”

At this last understanding, he pulled away and rose. And at that, Feapoldie turned, startled, and watched his back as he clung with both hands to a tree at hand, and faced her not.

“You speak as though we stood not where we stand,” he hoped. “As though we were not who we are.” She could hear the reluctance in his voice. Pushing up from the ground, she strode after him, but did not touch. She stared hard at his back.

“And words spill like wind from your mouth, and still say not what you mean,” she powered, annoyed. “You think I am not fit to be with you, to bear you children ? Is that it ? Such prejudice is born but of your father's scorn, or it had best be ! For I defy you to present one sole example else to any reason for such ….”

“Do I now displease you ?” he interrupted before she fell to self-combustion. And in the cold mask that he wore, she could not discern if he were playing. “Or does Feapoldie find thrill forever in a fight ? So much that you would mistake my intention and corrupt it until it resembles something it is not ?”

Taking up her hands in his, their eyes locked furiously in seeking for mastery, the each. “You hold my heart in your hands,” he would have her know. “that it has forsaken me and beats with treacherous fealty within your chest. But there is naught left in me that I might then present to any else. Speak not of conceiving a new life, even of the both of us. Already I do envy and begrudge any affection that you look to lay upon another. Even your own kin. I would tear their eyes and tongue from soul, in jealous rage, and cast them forth into the skies to even think that you would look to whisper love in any but my ears.”

Feapoldie fell back apace, so that their hands were sundered. Ever had she considered herself to be a bold, ferocious spirit, and yet there were times, when Sarnirion spoke so to her, that she felt she ought to have been cowed, or flee. He was not the most handsome of suitors she had known, by far, but the intensity of his love for her was terrifying, ultimately obsessive, and yet the safer sentiments of any other Elf in Tirion paled in comparison until it seemed as naught at all. She prided herself on courage and would not turn from the most compelling, and consuming love that she had ever met. Though mayhaps she ought to have done.

[Ercassie]

The Fall of the Phoenix – Part 1



‘Feeling broken, barely holding on ...
but there's just something so strong, somewhere inside me
and I am down, but I'll get up again.
Don't count me out just yet ..’

(Lyrics from ‘The Last of Me’, by Cher)





Feapoldie Aiwenariel with her brother Tirindo Aiwenarion
Crossing the Helcaraxe

Death was cruel. It stared out from the small unmoving bundle that was indisputably it's prize. The utter unfairness and complete lack of all proper understanding assailed the children and the adults of their clan in equal measure. The baby was theirs, one of their own. No longer. The cold had robbed his tiny spirit from it's shell and forsaken but an empty husk of bitter memory. For the rosy cheeks were locked into a stillness from which no degree of laughter could release them. The bright, singing eyes were no longer full of life, but cool and cold and colourless as a dead fish. The baby's form was hard as stone, where once he had been soft and fair. He was dead. And Athayie refused to leave him.

Feapoldie watched her sister, still cooing, and cradling the silent rock, as though through love itself she might resurrect her sweet beloved child. Her firstborn. Feapoldie had no words that she might offer to the counsel of her kin. They huddled in their uselessly organised circle and debated what had best be done. For the ground was too hard to bury even the small infant, and Athayie would surely fade if left to bear her sorrow onward. He would chill her arms until she could not have released him, even had she wanted to. But the mother's heart was already blackened and charred by the cool burn of her grief.

Fea turned from them all in despair. Noone looked to ask for her opinion. They had none of them spoken to her in days, and she felt quite sure that they blamed her entirely. She had followed all the pride and vanity of love into the bleakest Exile from glory lands, and her reluctant family had all been forced to come and claim her. Even now, loitering amongst the rear host of Ñolofinwë, they regretted having followed in her wake. They had no need to speak it, for their eyes screamed of the misery she had brought down upon them all.

She wished she could regret her own decision. But want still led her heart, and that same treacherous organ raged against a love that had advanced before her and not since chanced a single remorseful look behind him. For if he had, Sarnirion would surely have been moved enough to come to her. Would he not ? How could it be true that Athayie would refuse to be sundered from a babe already devoid of breath, while the Elf who had vowed to love Feapoldie and only her, beyond all stretches of all time and more so, would not even look to find her. Wild curses uttered of the elleth still were not enough to rouse her sister from vacant expression. Such was the strength of Athayie's love. Where is yours, Sarnirion ? Fea swallowed the gut-wrenching heartache that threatened to overwhelm her. How could you leave me ? Why do you not come to my side now that I need you most. As you promised to do ever regardless ... How could you … ?!!!

Against the backdrop of some pointless and far belated argument, on whether the family should have brought the children with them from the first, Fea left her victims and their camp behind her. The rich crimson and golden brocade of their family pavillion no longer whipped and flailed to fly loose on freezing winds. The world was still and eerie quiet, as though the almighty storm which had whipped the Elves upon their vain endeavour had now taken pause to see if they were ready to admit defeat. Stepping just beyond the borders of their meagre camp, Fea balled her fists and refused to cry. All about her, families were huddled behind the screen of what shelter they had managed to construct against the heartless land. They all bore some manner of a similar affliction to her own. Horror and fear strove to take possession of the elleth's soul. Grief elbowed it's way toward the forefront of all likelihood. But it was anger that won out.

She heard their thin and persevering voices even as she stormed away. Defiance took her from the plight to which she knew her family could never find good resolution. She was wearied of hearing about what they could not do. What they dare not try. She was Feapoldie. And she had yet to meet a difficulty which she could not manipulate escape from, if it should displease her. There was no real plan in her intention here but to be done with all this nightmare. She would have it over, swifter, and if that meant increasing her pace, and setting out blindly, that was what she would do. They had followed once, they would do so again. And if even the lives of the Elves were not to extend forever more, then neither could the Helcaraxe.

Fea carved her own path through the wasteland, anger and wrath absolute compelling her feet on a trek ever forward when no other force might have enlivened freezing limbs to move. Hatred coursed through her like blood. How dare anyone believe that she would endure this ? Curufinwë, He and all that followed him, those who dared to forsake her ! When Feapoldie caught up to them, Morgoth would be the last threat upon their mind ! She swore it.

Blue eyes blinked against a sudden onslaught of pure white cold. The gracing flutter of a gentle snowfall descended, with a chill that sank beneath her skin and refused to stir from immersing her bones. The wind had changed, hurling tiny flakes of winter to flower the great gale that very soon kept her feet from advancing. Snow began to churn up underfoot, and Fea held one arm before her, peering into nothing. With annoyance, she glanced back to where her family were no doubt all still arguing ... but there was not even a muffled whisper on the wind, no glimpse of the coloured tent. How far had her fury carried her ? Where was ... everyone ? Fear and panic clamoured with the screaming wind to make her their wretched puppet. She cried out, and saw her shrill cry stolen by the mocking wind before ever she had rightly heard it's sound. She was alone. And only in the absurd clarity of afterthought did she now miss the solitude she had cursed at before.

Grasping wild hair out of her face with the one hand, Fea sought to shield her face against the gusts of misery that hampered even Elvish sight. Everything was white. Cold. Nothing. Stubbornly she persevered on legs like stilts, though the wind buffeted her slender figure first the one way, then the other. To be utterly and truthful honest, she was not entirely sure any more, which direction she should be attempting, if indeed she ever had been. Onward toward one who clearly cared not half so much as he had proclaimed. Or backward, toward the heart of her kin whom she had utterly betrayed. Frustration threw her down within a milky nest of burning ice beneath her and she pulled her knees up to her chest that she might compose her will properly. Hair like fire fanned her face, bereft of any real warmth but that of tears which streaked her cheeks and threatened to freeze fast upon them, like crystalline jewels. Where were they ? Anyone ?

Wilful heart had fuelled her thus far with a strength that she could vainly hope might see her through. But finally she cast her face into her propped up knees, and clung to what remained within her sense of feeling. Should she die, she cared no longer. She had no want to dwell in a world so scornful. She had killed her nephew, and the rest of them would not be far behind. Her love, far off with the vainglorious host of Curufinwë, he would survive them all ..

NO ! In fury she rose, and all but fell back down to her knees. If she had to walk through sheets of ice to slap his face into some recognition of her fate, that was what she would do. Only, .. only now her feet refused to move. And just as she began to submit to utter abandonment of all point for surviving, there arose a cry.

"Here ! Over here ! I see her !"

Tirindo. Her brother closed his great arms all around her, and pulled Fea like a babe herself to face him. He drew her brow in to meet his own in some quiet inclination of relief. The notion of rescue, of real love, caused the elleth to collapse. He came down with her as though the carpet of ice beneath them had opened up and swallowed both unto a freezing chasm. But no, they remained upon the cold skin of the freezing ice cap, he clasping her close to him, taking on her shiver to enhance his own. There would be no flight for Fea from his arms. Nor for him, from the duty of kin. For now, with moments, all their number one by one emerged out of the overwhelming blankness of the swirling storm. They packed in tight together, bereft of their tent or all else proper safeguard against the horrendous storm. Love the only shield that they wore. Feapoldie wept then, at their absolute epicentre. Not a word was spoken. Not a word was required. Still Tirindo held her, and refused to let go. Her parents, sisters, brothers in law, nieces, nephews ... A total of seventeen Elves.

They loved her, she acknowledged. Despite all that they suffered because of her, they loved her still. The blizzard deepened and howled in the face of their insolent protest. The Aiwenare family, encased in love, amassed by heart. The tiny fire that was Feapoldie's renewed affection blazed within their midst and they sheltered it from harm.

*************

Come dawn, the blizzard had dissolved, and death slunk from where it could no longer slither, all amongst the huddled, snow-packed forms of the small circle. Isolated from the rest of their host, the House of Aiwenare stood as testiment to those who had resisted untimely demise. They remained steadfast, discoloured statues, icy, cold and unmoving. Death had painted them in hues of rigor mortis. And even the relentless fingers of frost would bother them no more.

At the midst, in the centre, the small frail heart of them was not yet utterly extinguished. It floundered wildly, like a bird beating futile wings against a securely closed window pane. Feapoldie and Tirindo, together, and alone. They two were all that yet clung to the frantic strand of life. And only just. They held on. Sister. Brother. That cold that tears could not even thaw from their eyes to melt the beautiful, terrible scene.

The hard stone of her brother’s stare bored blame through her, stronger than the beasts of wind that tore about them. But Fea did not pale at his hate, for her’s at least met and matched it. And it was blame for the one who’d led her to believe he loved her .. so much that she, that they, were all come to this. She’d come for him. And he had not come for her. And she would live, she would live and he would live to regret ever fooling her into thinking that he had loved her.

[Ercassie]

The Fall of the Phoenix – Part 2


‘I've been brought down to my knees
and I've been pushed, way past the point of breaking.
But I can take it. I'll be back, back on my feet.
This is far from over.

You haven't seen the last of me ...’

(Lyrics from ‘The Last of Me’, by Cher)







Feapoldie Aiwenariel with her brother Tirindo Aiwenarion
Crossing the Helcaraxe.
Featuring Aranadhel Singaladion* and Halyanis Lomerielle

The world lay numb and blindingly argent. Feapoldie toiled with the lifting of her eyelids, an act that had become as strenuous as raising a portcullis. And each time she bordered upon success, she would wince at the resplendent glare of the unblemished wonder all about; withdrawing with urgency back into her small, far safer sanctuary of dark oblivion.

She toyed with the notion of no longer taking up defiance. Her spirit seemed as though entombed, the once glamorous body she had once so unashamedly promoted was a suffocating crypt. She could not manipulate her own limbs into wakefulness, much less command them to move. Her brother's head lay at her shoulder, his almighty arms encasing her still in his bear-like grasp. She could not compel his dead weight to shift any more than she could master her own body. If she ultimately stretched and struggled, she could touch one of her side-lain legs with her left hand. But the limb felt no longer a part of her. She might as well have been stroking at a snow-encrusted log of wood beside her.

Her eyes shifted without hindrance in their sockets, that she was awarded a better rounded understanding of the state of things. As much that she wished she were not. For it seemed at first that she were captive to some twisted contortion of memory. The circled throng of statues that surrounded them. Just like in the sculptor's courtyard where she and Sarnirion had .... where they had ..

Fea's train of thought arrested as she painfully acknowledged the distinction. The statues here were just as lifelike as those they had once danced around and threatened at the height of swordplay. Just as still and silent, just as though they once had lived but had become trapped forever in time. But the artisan of their conception was no Elf, not even a skilled Noldo of Aulean influence. Death had gripped the whole Aiwenare family within his vice-like grasp. It seemed to Fea then that her own end was so inevitable. For how could she hope to live when all others had not ? Why would she even look to ? Fea's flickered vision observed her mother, and father, ... everyone that had loved her and followed her .... dead. Frozen. The blizzard had claimed all.

Slow but surely, an uncultivated scream erupted deep inside, and forced it's passage through her throat. But by the time it reached the surface, broke through bald and splitting lips, there was only a small squeak to make amusement for the scornful wind.

This slight though, of her marginally warmer breath, caused Tirindo to stir within his own personal congealment. The grey flint of his eyes forced through the rim of frost-bourne lashes, in the gentle ripple of arousing consciousness. He made as though to startle but found he could not. He sought to strengthen his hold on his little sister, and found that the pain of tearing even an inch from where he had fused his bare hands about her now woke searing pain. He glanced into her wan face, and took on his miseries as his own, in the moments that they came apparent. Fea's blue eyes widened with surprise and hope. Not all were dead. Not yet. Might be that together, ... a muted summons heralded in the back of the elleth's mind, as though the very notion of survival had nurtured suggestion to tease her. Somebody was calling out her name.

Glancing with great urgency toward her brother, Fea willed him to know her unspoken thought. Did he hear the herald of potential rescue ? Tirindo blinked with deliberate intention. Fea would have smiled if her face possessed the means. She could hear for all that she could not make them hear her. Folks, friends perhaps, who must have found the family's abandoned camp. Now that the (most recent) storm had ceased. It was time to move on. Always onwards, never backward. It was dangerous to stall ..


"Call out," his heart bade her in a sudden, silent demand, and the startled Elleth blinked, surprised to conceive of the thought. The art of ósanwe was a thing little practiced in such days even amongst Elves; except in times of great urgency. It is said that the means of communication, from the one mind to the next, possessed the greatest strength within bonds of familarity and kinship. It had little occurred to Fea, even now, the potential for such a custom. There were few to whom she felt such strong connection, that she might be able to reach ..

Indeed the greater potential at hand was for the resuers to pass them by, oblivious. Fea saw it conceived in her thoughts. Their small stoned-throng was so encrusted by snow about it's borders, any could believe the mound no more than yet another snow bank. But fortune was, belatedly, bestowed upon them, or perhaps it was cruelty, to bring them to the point of end and then haul back. The celebration was smothered by a sheen of low cognition.

“Aranadhel !****” Her silent scream reverberated through the wasteland, out of her unwilling body, and hopefully unto his receptive heart. Again, she tried, again and again. For her best friend who had taught her such a trick at all, when they were at study together. When he had possessed a want to show her something clever and she had possessed a want to delay doing any real study …

If there were any who might hear her desperation, it was the one who had taught her how to trial what she now must try, or die ..


But nay. It was a yay ! Shouts ! Shouts and whoops and calls for more assistance rang out, as the truth was revealed. He was come ! He had heard her ! The Elves even then were hampered about their efforts by due diligence in awarding the dead respect. They could not, should not, willingly smash through the glacial forms of their one-time associates. On the other hand, the two young Elves yet breathing at their centre, did not have much time before the stabbing cold utterly penetrated all of their bodily resistance. The salvation party worked with finesse and great urgency, to finally liberate the near-frozen pair from their icy catacomb of frozen kin.

If Fea felt inclined to battle when her friend lifted her, nigh lifeless from the brink of death, her protests were robbed by the sight of her great tall form of a brother, huddled just as frail as a child in the arms of Aran’s father, close by. Thus bourne away from such proximity to death, they hastened back toward the main camps, where the host had wisely gathered near an overhang that had warded off much of the wind. Still many small gatherings of folk had undergone sore trial through the night. The Aiwenare family were not the only ones to have endured great loss. All about, those Elves less affected by this latest wintry tirade tended to the needs of those less fortunate.


******

Strange it felt soonafter for the siblings, to be sat aside serene. Safe from shivers, wrapped in all there was to hand. Her pale face more so against the burning russet of her hair. Fea shook the furs and blankets aside, unwilling to be so cocooned as she had been by the cool frost. Tirindo was of another mind however. He had given orders to dismantle the mocking and grandiose .. the foolishly abandoned …. Aiwenare encampment. To distribute all they could neither carry nor make use of themselves, to others who were of lesser well-financed a family. Money or nobility was no longer a currency that mattered to any. Still the smallest survivor pouted to lose sight and grasp of all that remained of her kin. Her brother would heed not her tears nor even the less mild objections. For they alone could not make good use of all that their clan had relied on. Other Elves might live longer for the gift of a dead Elf's wrap. It would not serve the dead any at all, except that if they knew and saw, and approved of the kindness. That their deaths should not have been in vain.


His sister watched Tirindo lay a beautiful cloak of their mother around the shivering shoulders of a pale, dark-haired Noldorin maiden. That was the last of their late parents’ trappings. The very last. Halyanis moved to set a kiss upon the brow of the ‘generous’ Noldo, and blushed, embarrassed as Tirindo instead set out his hand, to make her acquaintance, without the need for more tender contact. He would tell himself, and later his sister, that he was still sore. The frostbite was agonising, but Aran, who the siblings had taken now to calling Etehlehto****, their saviour … had assured them, he had read in his books of the best ways to treat such a malady.

It was more than Fea could bear though. Not the fact of Aranadhel**** and his constant crowing about books and academia … But the fact of Tirindo, now laying claim to their late father's mighty bow and quiver. His sister turned from all sight of his efforts in horror, certain he should snap their father's frozen fingers off, to entangle his most cherished weapon. As her brother rose with success from the delicate undertaking, Fea had commenced with striding, ... hobbling, .. at no great speed for all the prideful glance about her porcelain features. She would neither speak nor look at anyone. Only when she wandered too far from their party for her own good did her brother call her back to rejoin their gathering.

“You give away all that we are and were !” she commenced with berating.

“All that we need not,” he countered coolly.

“You need your means of war ?" she could not let him have the weapon without spite. "And forbid me the merest comfort of mother’s most favourite of all cloaks ? Something to remember ..” a sniff stole the end of her sentence. Still it would have made small difference.

“We are at war,” Tiri reminded her, a hand held out to lead his little sister back unto the fold. “And you already have a cloak of your own that will see you warm. Halyanis does not come of such a family. She needs it more than you ..”

“We are at war !” Fea threw back his own words in a furious rebuke of temper and hurt. So had he declared it, and so it would be. She would see to it. He had asked for it ! She shook him off and almost fell, but shot a glare like lightning when he tried to help her rise. Rather ungracefully, she resumed herself, and started hobbling anew.

"Wander not so errant," her brother called out in her wake. And when that did not stall her .. "Feapoldie ! How many more are you intent to see know ruin in their want to keep you safe ?"


Furiously heartbroken at his insinuation, Feapoldie held still a time to proper subdue her wrath. Hate and need and fury and pain all welled up within like a great fireball, just waiting to be unleashed. An icy inferno had leapt up about her heart and mind, that no act of love or compassion such as he might offer her could thaw.


*(Credit due to the Plaza member, Aranadhel, for his co-creation of this portion of our characters' collective history.)

[Ercassie]

‘Now I can't take one more step towards you, 'Cause all that's waiting is regret
Don't you know I'm not your ghost anymore. You lost the love I loved the most
I learned to live half alive. And now you want me one more time ...

And who do you think you are? Running 'round leaving scars
Collecting your jar of hearts and tearing love apart
You're gonna catch a cold from the ice inside your soul
So don't come back for me. Who do you think you are ?’

(Jar of Hearts, Christina Perri)




Feapoldie and Sarnirion
An unhappy Reunion, in Mithrim, Shortly after the Mereth Aderthad
First Age

The vibrant tendrils of her russet hair cascaded nigh unto the ground, an effective shield to conceal yet her downcast eyes and stirring embers of a battered soul. Feapoldie stiffened reluctantly as she recognised the presence she had ever waited for and found that, now the hour was upon her, she would rather be anywhere else. "I looked not to ever lay these eyes upon my heart once more," she uttered, "so long has it been expelled in pennance from my chest, now hollow."

Her heart, the elf who now hesitated in his previously eager approach, straightened in his glistening attire. Silver tresses draped about Sarnirion's long face as does the chill of cold sheeted rain fall fast and severe from the clouded sky. His pale blue eyes seared with remorse but longing, both in the same moment that he realised his love and all that had since come about them, separated by fate and by distance of contrary paths.

"It does prove indeed a joy long thought removed from chance," he whispered through the wide expanse of tension that lay, with promise of ambush, between he and her. "To find you well and safe ?" he risked a smile, betraying his yet foolish confidence. "Against all odds." He hastened in wanton approach, though halted with abrupt distress as the she-elf recoiled in flight against the garden wall.

Her long fingers clawed the shining stone, seeking for a sure means of escape, as though a startled animal, cornered by some greater beast. Slowly did she turn face from the confines of their cage and dare confront him, the majestic deeper blue of her eyes wet with tears that waited to spring forth. "The miracle is more that you would linger to take note," she lamented, and yet managed to do so accusingly, "much less to be heartened by the revelation."

Assailed by such an unexpected countenance of woe, Sarnirion bestilled all attempts to clasp his beloved lady's hand in his. The very air he drew to throat seemed frozen in it's path, seeking to choke him. "How is it you can bring such thought to voice ?" he contended, slowly now and with great caution, "When it is quite clear, if you were truly lost, so also would all reason prove for me to yet draw breath."

There flickered then about the she-elf's flaming stare a want to yet surrender the full strength of her enduring fury and know only the encasing caress of his arms, that intense embrace such as he alone had ever managed to evoke about her. But the more that she remembered, the more that she did recall. And there was too great a shadow to escape by but the fleeting glint of smallest hope. So did she instead raise high a smooth and pointed chin, that cast her fairest features all unto so harsh an angle, to better pitch expression undeniable of the seething abhorrence.

"You seem not wholly crippled by the trial of our separation," she observed bitterly, words as stabbing thrusts to bruise all vain effort in future flattery. She tried still not to look too well about the strength of his arms, the unmarred complexion she had once adored ... and hated her former lover all the more for the feelings he stirred in her, against free will.

"I am yours,” he would have her understand. “For certain, I am nothing else." The elf's pale eyes glistened as though they anticipated any opportunity, by which he might prove his ardent claim. "You are the only cursed jewel that I have sought to retrieve," he would have her know. "Damn be to the Silmarilion. For you it is that ever irks me, ever do you shine in thought and mind. Though we were far flung, it was but physical a separation. You are etched upon the structure of all that I am and would be. There is naught that can compare, or else inspire. There is no war that I would not wage, no task most foul that I would turn from, to hope only, ever, toward your appeasement."

Feapoldie, by contrast, seemed little impressed by the suggestion. "There abounds as ever but the one sole obstacle to our wholehearted union," she informed him, "and that lies within you. For you have killed me with your cruel abandonment and it is a hurt that can not ever be undone. You care more for the battle than for the hard-won prize,!" she realised aloud. And resentment smouldered all about her very form. "Blood and death are now ever more reflected in your eyes that want for such far exceeds any you once bore for me."

Propelling her deceptively frail frame from languishing about the shadow, now she rose up afore the elf that she would properly redress. To say that she had imagined this very late meeting some hundred times in thought would still fall short of the truth. Feapoldie would not now let the very nerve-wracking reality pale in comparison to all she had supposed to say. Still, she was surprised that he yet loitered against the clear unwelcome heartbreak. He was not wanted. Not now. Not ever again. It was because she thought perhaps she might relent that she ever attacked Sarnirion with the greatest of all malice she possessed. Still though he prolonged their agony, would not surrender. It was not his way, yet neither was it hers. Wearily she sighed with the contention as he foolishly ploughed deeper into depths he could not guess.

"You are my ‘Elmerandis’ and I would dash my life upon the sharp rocks that surround your guarded shores." The silver-haired elf was sincere in his proclamation, for to live without her would be not to live at all. Though there had been, always, things to engage him and draw his attention far from the she-elf whom he wanted more than anything, he had ever expected that she would yet be there, when he was done with all the else the world provided. Never had he conjured the illusion of her tiring about the wait. She herself had proclaimed they were one. For always. Not until some doom as foul as Fire and Ice came between them. Yet the flames of Losgar had withered away all hope she might come after him. The chill of the Helcaraxe had numbed her want for him to come back for her.

The she-elf beheld him then, with those oh so familiar features, porcelain and perfect, wracked in his great desperation of finding yet some mercy within her heart. But now where once her heart had nestled there lay but fine ashes, mere cinders, that had one by one burned out the last of their resolve in the vain hope for his unreliable attention. Now he offers such as she had ever begged for ? Now he chose to claim her who had long been his although he saw it not ? Well, now time too long had passed, the compound fissures of her long-lost innocence still grinding sore about their furrowed splinters.

"You stand yet Feanorien in mind, if not in heart," she spat, with venom in the burning embers that served her with sight. "For purpose of their most wroeful ambition have you fought. Until in days of late he now comes humbled, and so too, would you have me to look on you with pity, when little choice remains to even the most ill-advised of elves but now to kneel, if honour you would retain. Your father, you say, that you have lost ? I lost all the more so. I lost everything. And here you dare to entertain the notion that I should hold you not responsible ?"

She pivoted on dancer's feet to make good her point, turning to face far from him and conceal yet the sight of her hands, wringing in great horror of her foolish actions, even as she halted not. Go ! She thought. I can not endure this trial for much longer. I will soon see myself torn in two ! Go, and test my weakening resolve no more. So did the she-elf she had ceased to be yet cry, and beg and weep for mercy. Still though her pride stood as a relentless guard against the same. And he never saw how he was wounding her, even as she sought to hurt him, and drive him away. Cruel to be kind, for certain, but then neither of them would depart this encounter unmoved.

The lacklustre hue of the elf's pale eyes here drew as though to pallid depths of numb reflection. The most ill of all days she exhumed in poor taste, that he had looked to bury deep beneath some worthwhile atonement. "My father I lost that fateful day," he would have her remember. "You would have had me thus stand idle, as though he gave everything, for naught ? I stood robbed of choice, and still thought that you yet would come to follow ..."

She looked in his eyes then, and turned not away. Softer fell the burning locks that tumbled about her warming cheeks as though affected by lava spewing from erupted mountain-top. Equally now come to silent moment did he meet her, as never before. Pale curtains draped about his own translucent countenance. She wanted to believe, she did. And he seemed as though truly willing to think of her, before all else. Maybe, finally, the time had come. Her pearled teeth tugged at crimson lip and looked for such a wish to be ascertained. But she had known him such a long time ...

"Whatsoever you would ask of me, I will consent," he promised. "For I have loved hate and found the romance one-sided. I have hated love, sensing how you suffered in a snare from which you looked not to be free," he brought his cool lips to her smooth skin and let them rest a moment in the simple act of tenderness. "Let us come again now, as once we were. As do all our folk fall unto company long severed."


And there did it lie. The ever present suspicion. As do all our folk ... How could she be sure he really wanted this, rather than sought only to not disobey his Lord's command for peace. She would have him come to her unfettered, because he so chose. But when chains are forged unseen, how could she ever be sure ? And should the sons of Feanor alter their good intention about kin in some uncertain future ? What then ?

"Deliver your sword unto my keeping," she instructed. And perhaps to the surprise of both, without the slightest of hesitation did he sever himself from the weapon that had been as though another limb. But she knew, he could without too great a labour come upon another sword ... "Now your hand, place it within my own," she tested, cautiously. Once more he complied, as though she commanded her own hand, instead of his. "I would have your guarantee that you care more for me than for battle, or glory," she ascertained. "That you will not leave my side. That no will could pull you to seek out your own death, for the sake of some foolish ambition."

"It is as you wish," he told her. "From the hereafter."

"Then so be it true," she answered.


And drawing his own sword high in one trembling hand, her hot fingers of the other clasped him firmly by the wrist. If he so wished to follow the Prince Maedhros as example, then example she would make, and render his hand similarly removed from the rest of him. Let him bear such a gesture of fealty with pride, if he could yet wield a sword then ! At least, such was her intention, for the elf pulled away from her in the last of moments, and in horror and surprise. His sword fell from where the she-elf dropped it, and clattered about the flagstones, as marking the end of all hope to their understanding.


"Have you taken leave of all good sense ?!" he asked, drawing his hand back to his own recovered possession. "When I said that I give you my hand ... " he swallowed, seeking for the moment that her eyes would come to laughter. She had to be teasing ! She could not be serious ! He was disappointed in the lack of all good humour that then followed.

"I thought you would welcome to so honour your illustrious inspiration, your great lord ! But if not then go," she bade him, eyes ablaze as coals about untamed inferno. "I knew that you would never submit wholly to any else but pride. If you truly beheld me as most important, you would not have blinked when blade took means of leading you astray forever from foulest temptation !"

"I hold you ever of enough import that I would have always the means to protect you, from the perils that spill fast about this world," he sought, too late to make sure his explanation. And found that she did not hear. Her back she turned on him now, stealing away sight of that which ever after he would yearn to recollect anew.

"War has robbed me of all love," the she-elf there grieved, in such a piteous composure that he could scarce bear to see. "You have made your choice, Sarnirion. I can not trust you to stay now at my side forever. And to lose you more than once more will sure prove the end of me. Go, begone, and do not look back, if you ever cared for me at all."

"One day you will ask of me to hasten to your cry," he prophesised, in last resort. "You will call for me when there is no other abounding that may satisfy your want. And I shall on that day prove your saviour, because of the very sword I hold in hand. To remove such now would surely kill us both, of this I doubt not. For steel once forged will not be bent, but broken only, if too great a pressure is applied. And the hand that looks to love a deadly weapon will but come to pain as gentle kisses tear about the sharper edge of harsh survival." He let his glance fall but a moment then longer. "If we but dwelt yet in a fairer world, perhaps .."

"Such a place we once stood together," she served him as a cool reminder. "And then, as now, that which we both yet long for was stayed by no hand but our own."

"I will never love another," he assured her, as even now with remorse, he looked to take his leave. "There is and never can there be a one, save you."

"Sarnirion," she summoned and he turned as swift as hope conceived. The she-elf burned her gaze upon him, as though to mark him forever hers. "If you do honest and truly look with your lord that peace may be upon us, .... do not come back," she begged him, and then all the tears that had but threatened to flood all Beleriand, fell fast. Fell true. Fell in anger and hurt at the cruel fate of the world.

As fire she stood, And he as Ice. Two elements of equal allure and peril the same. Drawn intensely to each other they were once, and always, and yet fated not to be. For in the submission of either one unto the other, his icy cold defences would melt away to naught, and her fiery spirit would be utterly quenched.

The next time they came together, one of them would die.

[Ercassie]

Of Innocence and Experience
Part 1 – The Unexpected


‘Thereupon, when Fëanor judged that his strength was enough, he went to the Haven of the Swans and began to man the ships that were anchored there and to take them away by force ... But the Teleri withstood him, and cast many of the Noldor into the sea. Then swords were drawn, and a bitter fight was fought upon the ships, and about the lamplit quays and piers of the Haven, and even upon the great arch of its gate. Thrice the people of Fëanor were driven back, and many were slain upon either side;’

(Excerpt from ‘The Silmarillion: Of the Flight of the Noldor’)




‘Some legends are told, some turn to dust, some to gold
But you will remember me, remember me for centuries.
Just one mistake, is all it will take. We’ll go down in history
Remember me, for centuries ..’

(lyrics from ‘Centuries’, by ‘Fall-out Boy’)



Lord Sarnir Erondo with his son, Sarnirion
at Alqualondë – The First Kinslaying

All at once the city wore glinting channels of torchlight, the slow weaving passage of it’s people; perhaps seeking to shed light upon why the darkness had descended without word. What stars there were to mirror these small flecks of hope slowly recoiled from all sight. As though they knew what was coming. As though the flowers of the sky could not bear to lay sight upon the scene. As though they might somehow thus quench the turmoil with but a dousing onset of all-dimming blindness. But though many eyes were veiled, as to what was truly occurring, there was light enough to find their way. There was light enough to gain their ground. And when it became quite impossible to bear both torches and the tools they would require next, the small blazing brands were flung aside. Small but unsupervised nests of fire to snap all about the docks and the boathouses, not unlike the small knots of Elvish wrath which, all at once, leapt up and spat out perilous for all their wondrous sheen.

Somewhere out of sight, eager hands hauled with all the weight which they might muster, drawing on the drape of cords, towing them to ground before unleashing them. The sure clang of bellsong responded aloft as the Bellmaker Lindesúl, and Linnadhriel his wife, leant strength to their ambition. The tumult brought all remaining ignorant of the city to wonder, titan domes of singing metal bearing forth an insistent alarm. And folk ventured from their porches in surprise. For ever afore had the of peeling summons roused up joy and gladness, proclaiming a festival or cause for celebration or comfort. Always had the bells been heard for the commence of day, and the conclusion. But there was no more day, not as decreed by the light of trees. A long dark night had come upon Alqualondë that would seem to last several years. This meagre hour though would be the last time the young Elf stood on the dock would hear them. In this self-same hour the bells rang out for the commencement of war, and for the conclusion of all those golden years that there had been afore, and never would be quite the same thereafter.


Sarnirion both loved and detested the bells, upon this most unique of occasions. For so long as their clamour remained, so too did hope that his mother’s kinfolk were about that desperate business, were as yet alive; pelting out their obstinate alarm. Yet each passing moment that the fair rally persisted, new bodies of the Falmari would swarm to the throng already assailing their harbour. And new bodies would be heaped upon the mounds of wasteful death that despoiled all sight.

Sarnirion was shook from such thoughts, as a spear rudely demanded his whole attention. The Falmar before him was returned to her defence, and so he, in kind, to a renewed assault. There was little satisfaction in it and he could not help but sigh with some disappointment at his opponent’s lack of skill. Every time that she made to halt his attack, he would thwart her efforts to present his blade at her throat, or her abdomen, .. and was forced then to grant her breath and time to try again. She had picked herself up off the ground at least a dozen times and come back at him, unabated, but she was not learning better, only more frustrated and annoyed with his obstacle. She had clearly never learned to wield her fishing spear in this fashion, on land, against another Elf. She was not wearying yet either though, despite her greater effort, for the weight of the weapon she brandished was naught to one so well rehearsed in the arts of rowing, swimming, sailing … Still her polearm punched it’s presence ever onward and as sheer desperation drove her in a more underhand blow against his shield, the young soldier offered up an almost encouraging grin. Which did little to appease her. Not only her ..

An almighty figure fell between the two combatants; polished in a silver skin of shining armour, brandishing a long-pointed star upon his gleaming breast. His burnished garb was identical to the youth he sought now to assist, but that was where the likeness deviated. Dark hair painted a shadow of contrast against the bone white face of Lord Sarnir Erondo. In one hand reigned a sword, a veritable candle of death, slick with the lives which had been spent in seeking to stall him. In the other hand, a shield, which struck the young Falmar maid in the face. His dauntless blade pierced her flesh with as measured precision as the Sculptor had pressed attention to stone back in his workshop. She was still half-stunned by the exertion of the enormous Noldo’s strike, that she barely felt the life depart her body, along with his wand of steel.

“You are wasting time and energy both !” Sarnir diagnosed. The youth was playing. As they had ever practiced. But this was no longer a rehearsal. The sculptor rolled colourless eyes. “Strike ! And move on. We must see it done.”


Pale eyes in return tested the warrior’s cold conscience, even as the son straightened up, unsure. Failing to equal his intimidating father, in might, or motive. “This is not what we signed up for,” Sarnirion managed to voice, in the brief snatch of time now afforded to them. The great bells persisted, as heavy a toll as struck his heart in pulse. How heavy a toll though must there be, before any of this returned to reason ? He knew not.


“We signed up to see the King’s will done.”

“But this is not what ..”

“It is already begun. We can not now make this not,” the Noldo struggled with the sentiment, even as he scrutinised their efforts to see off the assault. Indeed, it had passed the point where words might stall the passion and the hate and desperation. “We must make it matter. Only one end now shall justify this means.” A stern wall of resolution regarded his child. Sarnir raised his son’s chin with a blood-streaked hand and drove his direction through the eyes that closed upon the death-soaked scene.

The younger Elf had played here once. Days spent in naïve and innocent enjoyment, vacationing with his mother’s family. The time for games was done. Things would never be the same again. Now war was between them, and that was no game that any involved could be said to win. They could never go back from this.