Knight-Born

“I see.” He looked to the blade then, examining it. It was very old and well made; indeed, it was certainly made by a smith of great skill. Likely, what was why it remained whole now, when lesser blades would have long rusted and crumbled.

“I will see what I can do.” Altruistic, perhaps uncharacteristically so, but he was no friend of the Great Enemy or his servants, and to have another blade strong against them would please him.

"That," Myndilon said, his chest lifting with some old, long-forgotten pride, "is Tuluamrûn. N-not that the name means anything to anyone aside from myself, and my father." He gave a sharp bark of a laugh. "And, of course, to the servants of the Great Enemy it has slain!" The soldier watched as Eol went about the work of the forge, igniting the flames, coaxing them to the right heat. Dutifully the Noldo sat, leaning back upon an anvil as his arms folded over his chest. "Oh, I have heard your name," he said quickly. "But it is... lost. Like an echo of some story or other I have heard, but the particulars escape me." A hand moved to the back of his head, and his usual, absent smile fell. "Many things do, these days. As for the sword..." He shook his head. "Lost with its master in the depths of Moria for two hundred years." He nodded to Eol.

“I am him, yes. And from your story I assume you to be one of the forge workers?”

As they stood they brushed out their robe and folded their hands for just a moment before gesturing for the other elf to enter proper. A precious few beds rested against the wall and it was there they directed their patient. The bedding was little more than simple white sheets and pillows but had been folded by a careful hand and arranged proper in the style of the grander halls in the West.

Elen paused, stepping back to their desk to rummage for another book. It was smaller than the ledger, thin and soft bound so they could curl the pages before they wrote. With that and their charcoal piece they sat across from the other elf and began to write; a date, a time, and a name.

The young elf made his way through the room, a spidery hand passing over the boxes of herbs, and the well-kept books stacked upon the tables he passed. His foster-clan had taught him to read, but never appreciated the words as he had— he was a foundling. He was to have no greater ambition than survive: no books, no stopping for useless study. Finally, he reached the beds. With a sigh the young man settled upon it, savoring the light scent of the linens.

Círdan was not blind, and having once been himself a flustered youth, he suspected there was more to Seldo’s trip than he was saying. A lover he was searching for, perhaps, or one that he wished he was. 

His father had built ships too, once, from the stories he'd been told. His parents met on these very shores, when his mother had followed after some old Noldor, seeking to shake every last bit of forgotten lore she could from them before they fled west. Had his father also liked watching his work sail into the west, into some great unknown (at least, in Seldo's mind) never to be seen again?

cold-hearted sentences, vol. 2 || accepting || @roquenxnar

Fëanárë Curufinwë had been re-embodied for all of a month, and she was already sick of it.

Locals informed her that Imladris was as beautiful a place as existed in Endorë in the Third Age, which was deeply upsetting. It was vacation-home nice, not grand-estate nice, and certainly not city-nice. Worse, it was crawling with atani and naugrim and smaller atani at all times, along with a few familiar faces who had only grown more irritating in the 7,000 years since she had last seen them.

And then there were these...elflings. Why the Eldar had continued to reproduce in a post-apocalyptic wasteland was beyond her comprehension, but whatever the reason, Fëanárë now had to hear the musings of an elf barely past his first century.

In her mind, this was a crime tantamount to the kinslayings.

The ruler his great-grandfather had followed was supposedto be wise, brave, fierce... Fëanárë, by the young elf's estimation, was none of that. He'd followed after the Noldo once the council was dismissed, watching from the doorway as she'd ignited the forge, and resumed her work. Urnarseldo drew a sharp breath before he stepped into the forge, making his way to stand beside the elder. He watched for a while, his lips twisting into a frown as hammer met red-hot steel. "You've got ice-cold water running through your veins." And it was true, at least by Urnarseldo's estimation.

For a moment, he stared down at the younger elf, mouth opening to try to come up with some explanation, some reason he'd been away for so long, but every answer seemed wrong. "Today," he said quietly, silver gaze staring over the forest beyond the falls, "is simply one of the harder days." Myndilon couldn't meet Lindir's gaze again as the musician offered his arm, but he could hardly refuse— whatever energy he'd found to carry himself this far seemed to have disappeared. With a shaking hand, he took the offered support, casting a final glance to the road out of the valley. His shoulders sagged as he moved to follow after Lindir.