I'm not—ShakennShakenn

These were old stones, old stones resting on old ground. Cendir’s mount had spooked and bucked him off, leaving him stranded in this strange glade shrouded in unnatural mists.

If someone were to ask him how long it had been, he’d answer that he first lost his way three days ago. But if they were to press him further, he would have to confess to his uncertainty on the matter for he had lost track of time nearly as soon as the low cloud cover had washed over him.

His companions were gone, folded into the fog, though maybe he had been the first one to disappear and they were searching for him now. Calling out his name only for it to fade into the silence of the valley.

It would do him no good to dwell on such things. All would be well so long as he steeled his heart and kept his wits about him. Or so all the stories said. There had to be some truth to that, the alternative was too-

His scream broke the silence that blanketed the world around him, as he felt his leg sink into a trap dug into the ground. Looking down he saw his leg tightly wrapped by a mess of thin silvery threads that simply would not budge. He reached his hand down to try and pull it apart only for it to cling to his hand.

Spiders, his breathing turned panicked, he’d forgotten about the spiders. For all his talk of stories he had somehow neglected the most important one and now he’d be a meal for the children of horror.

He started to struggle as he heard a strange vibrating clicking sound growing closer and closer. There was no use, the web was stuck too tight and he was far too hungry and tired and-

“Well met traveler!” A booming voice cut through the mist, though he could not find the source. “It is a lovely day today is it not?”

“...I have seen worse days I would suppose.” Cendir had been raised to have good manners, even more so when speaking to strangers, but… He looked down at his leg again. It felt a bit disingenuous to discuss the weather when he was to die sooner rather than later.

“Worse days indeed! And there are more dreadful ones to come or so I hear! Won’t that be a grand old time when things finally get started?” A hearty, deep laugh echoed through the valley. “We’ll have to be patient for a little while still, I fear. Our excitement might yet be a few years out!” Clearly whoever the voice belonged to was possessed by some form of madness.

But it was also Cendir’s only hope to not be devoured. “I am afraid I will not make it to see such excitement, my fellow traveler. In my current circumstances I am soon due to end up in the stomach of one of those eight legged horrors that roam this land.”

The silence stretched out for a moment, then another. Finally, a figure stepped out from beyond the mist.

“Indeed that is the case. You seem to have found yourself in a sticky situation if I do say so myself!”

The figure was tall. No, to say it was tall would be a disservice to its real height. It towered, well and simply, as though every time Cendir thought of some apt comparison it grew by an inch or two for good measure.

And, this he would have rather not thought for it was cruel and unworthy, it was some sort of abomination. Half flesh and half tree, branches alternating with muscle and sinew. For, as if its strange nature were not enough, patches of its skin were missing, exposing the workings underneath.

Its clothes were no less disturbing. The cloak was the only truly familiar piece, made of fine blue cloth and embroidered with leaves of silver. Beneath it though, Cendir could see the remnants of a long tunic, stitched together with a stiff white fabric with little buttons running down the middle. And on its legs, rather than the usual hose or even the increasingly popular “trousers”, it wore a sort of thick-knitted stockings in bright colors. They were also uneven, one scrunched up at its ankle, the other raised high over its knee.

Still, Cendir had to try. “Yes, it would be a great shame if I were to die here would it not? Seeing as I would not get to join in on the fun?”

“That is true! Allow me then to-”

“What pitiful creature have you scrounged up this time you senile concept of an idea?” Maybe Cendir had hit his head and was imagining this entire conversation, or maybe the mists carried within them some mind addling fumes. Because this new voice, shrill and sharp, had come from a cat.

At least it looked like a cat, with dark sleek fur and a golden collar around its neck, though he had never known them to be able to speak.

“Ah Tevildo my friend! I’ve found a gnome at last!” What in the world did it mean by ‘gnome’?

“First of all Tavros, do not presume to call me ‘friend’, I am a princely creature and you are but scraps left untouched by the scavenging the rest of you fell victim too.” The cat strode over to where Cendir stood. “And secondly, this is not a gnome because not only does it not look like a gnome, gnomes are no longer a thing that exist and therefore they are impossible to find.” It bared its teeth, ear flat against his head, before addressing him. “Oh, if only I still had but a fraction of my stolen power I’d change you into a mouse and have my fill of chasing you around.”

“Good people,” Cendir spoke, slowly and carefully, “I do not wish for you to quarrel on my account, while I do not know what a gnome is I know enough to say that I am not one. And, as I was telling your,” do not call it ‘your friend’, “companion, I’ll soon be nothing at all if one of the spiders finds me trapped in its web.”

Tavros, or so the cat had called the creature, tilted its head to the side, and in one fell move cut through the viscous web that had held his leg. In its hand it held a spear Cendir had not seen on his person before, long, with a leaf shaped end and a side hook jutting out of the base of the point. A moment later Cendir was picked up by the creature’s free hand and lifted into the air.

“There you go little one, you are free from the spider horrors and free to wait with us for the excitement that is to come.”

One hurdle passed, now he just needed to get directions, and hopefully help, to leave this haunted valley. “I would very dearly like to wait with you but my family awaits my return, if I may ask for directions on how to reach them from here I can let them know I am well and then come back to wait with you.” It was unkind to lie, but he did not wish to offend his benefactor.

The cat broke into laughter before choking on, and then coughing up, a hairball. “Your family will have to keep waiting. There is no leaving this place for you, not anymore. You crossed a boundary, you see, and it is a boundary not just anyone can uncross.”

“But there are those who can?” Some hope was better than no hope.

“There used to be many more. In fact, we both used to be able to. Tavros lost the skill at the same time as the rest of his face, his horse, and his kingdom. And I, well… I lost it sometime when the tale got lost, you see? The world got all serious and a talking cat simply would not do where in its stead a werewolf could stand.” The cat, Tevildo, climbed up Tavros’ arm to come sit upon its shoulder. “Now not even the warlike twins may cross, late to leave as they were. And if your hopes rest on having Bombadil come visit, you will be waiting nearly as long as we have.”

“Is that who you are waiting for? This Bombadil?”

Tavros shook his head. “No, no! Bombadil is an old friend, one of the few that still freely roam, but he is not who we wait for. We wait for the one who wrote us, you see? So he may write us again.”

Cendir did not in fact see. The one who wrote us? His mind turned the creature’s words over every which way but he could make no sense of them. Does it mean Eru perhaps? Though I have never heard Him referred to as a poet or loremaster.

The sun was low on the horizon when she realized she had ridden too far ahead of her assigned retainers. It should have worried her more, but they had proven themselves poor riders every day prior, well, poor in comparison to her.

As it were, it was late enough that heading back would be for the best. A disappointing end to a failure of an outing. She added that to the list of complaints to raise to her cousins. Hardly the most heavy or pressing, little could stack up to abject betrayal, but if she was going to raise her voice at them them she might as well get her effort’s worth.

Still, it’s a real shame their lands are not better stocked. To be out all day and not have a fox or even a squirrel to show for it. She tried to brush the bitter edge off of her thoughts. It was just the natural result of all those years in the city… And those in the ice before that. Yes, that was it, she was simply out of practice. A problem that would be easily solved once Tyelko came back and they could organize a proper hunt.

Just as she’d resigned herself to some future consolation, a flash of dark gray fur dashed through the open plain a little ways ahead of her, hooves nearly floating over the grass.

A hind! A beautiful hind, with a perfect unblemished coat. Maybe she wouldn’t have to wait for a decent hunt after all.

The doe ran forth, rushing over a shallow stream, water splashing onto its legs. And Írissë… Well she wouldn’t have been Írissë if she had not given chase. And chase she did, past the plains, and down into the valley before finally following her quarry into a forest of tall trees, growing so thick you could barely see past them.

As though the dark cover of the woods would dissuade me, she thought with a grin. She had missed this, the desperate flight of a prey who could not escape her grasp. It was far better than- Well that all was long past, and she had better things to focus on.

She dismounted from her horse, silent and gentle as she stalked closer to the hind who had now stopped to drink from a small pond. Perfect, she thought as she crouched, training an arrow on the deer. It ought to be a clean, easy shot by all accounts. She drew the string back and-

In the moment she blamed the wind for pulling the arrow from its course. In a few years’ time, with the whole of the truth laid bare in front of her, she would blame something else entirely.

But while the arrow missed its mark it still did find purchase in the doe’s flesh, lodging itself into the right foreleg. It sent it stumbling forward over itself, followed by the distinct sound of bone breaking and the animal’s distressed bleats.

Írissë sighed as she stood, leaving her quiver and bow on the ground and drawing her hunting knife from where it hung on her belt. The meat would likely be spoiled now, too bitter for her taste, but the pelt may yet be saved.

She held the hind neck in place, fingers buried in the soft dark fur, blade sliding into its throat when-

Crack

The ice groaned and shifted.

“No!” She stumbled back, wild eyes darting around. There was no ice, there should not have been ice, she would have known if she was walking onto ice.

But it was there, ice that had not been there a moment ago, hairline fractures forming under her boots and darting out on the frosted surface. The mist that had been crawling through the trees had turned to a bitter cold wind biting at her skin; and though she could not see the evergreens above, she knew the feeling of clouds heavy with snow all too well.

It didn’t matter that it made no sense for the forest to have turned into a wintry nightmare, nor that it shouldn’t have been possible for it to be this cold in Yávië. No, what mattered was that she knew this cold and she knew what ice could do. Something like hope beat inside her chest as her fingers grabbed tighter onto the doe, she would at least have this. It would not last long but the forest could not go on forever, and, furthermore, she was no stranger to hunger.

The thought comforted her as she tied the body to the rump of her horse, a still-warm reassurance that she would be fine so long as she found her way out of these now frozen woods. Limtal whinnied, nosing against Írissë’s hair. The sudden change in the weather was probably making her nervous.

“We’ll be alright,” she whispered, “we will pass through this soon enough.”

With each hour that passed the air grew colder, the wind lashing without reprieve. And what little light there had been before had been completely devoured by the dense canopy of evergreens.

Írissë could have sworn she’d ridden off in the very direction she’d first come from, but either the sudden storm had changed the path beyond recognition, or the woods themselves must have been shifting around her. The ground seemed to change, roots and stones jutting out where there hadn’t been any the minute prior, and the gaps between the trees narrowing before disappearing altogether.

If she hadn’t been so focused on cursing herself for leaving her gloves back at the keep, and on keeping the hood of her cloak over her head, she might have taken more care in choosing her path. Or maybe it wouldn’t have mattered after all, and the forest would have still lead her as it pleased.

In a not so distant future, at least not by the reckoning of the Eldar, she would turn this question over in her mind like one does a stone made smooth by the sea. Did she ever have a choice?

Choice or not she’d led her horse further and faster through the trees. Her clothes were crusted with the now falling snow, and her eyes were blurry from tears. She blamed the wind chill or the pain from her freezing hands, either option was less humiliating than the admission of fear.

Then, as if to twist the knife, her horse stumbled. It tripped over a twisted and knotted root raised too high above the ground. Any other time she would have seen it, should have seen it.

But she hadn’t, and so Limtal’s forelegs hit it sending her horse to the ground and her over into a ravine.

The mud was frozen, and every branch and root she tried to grab to pull herself up either fell apart in her hands or dislodged itself from the ground just as quick. All the while Limtal’s pained cries cut through her.

Breathing hurt, her hands had been stripped raw from the ice and her own efforts to free herself, and sometime during her fall she had gained a long slash along her leg that would not stop bleeding. Her mount was injured and out of reach with night quickly falling, if it had not already, the trees not giving her any chance to see the sky for herself.

A pair of hands came at her back, one grabbing her upper arm and the other at her waist, pulling her up and out from the horrid ravine. The sleeve of her tunic was torn enough she could feel the fingers against her skin. She knew those type of callouses, born of holding tools in the forge for hours at a time. A smith’s hands.

Curvo! Her cousins had returned from their trip and, finding her gone too long, must have set out searching for her. Her relief warmed her, or so it seemed, as the air was no longer so bitterly cold.

She turned to greet her cousin, the teasing and scolding remarks she’d honed over her time waiting forgotten in favor of sheer gratitude.

The elf in front of her was not Curufinwë. Her cousin’s hair was dark, far darker and he tied it differently than the style this elf wore. His hair was burnt silver, it only looked a little less bright than Tyelko’s, and for a moment she dared hope the difference was just a trick of the darkness. Maybe her wildest cousin had picked up his father’s trade these past centuries she’d gone without seeing him?

“Are you harmed, my lady?” Her heart fell as her hopes were dashed. He spoke Sindarin. No one in her family did in their own company. Certainly not her proud and stubborn cousins.

Gathering herself she pulled away, stepping out of his grasp. He made no move to stop her at least.

“No, I-” her voice trembled the same as her legs. She was shaking like a newborn fawn. “I am unharmed.” Her tongue felt cold and heavy in her mouth and her words were too slow and clumsy. She was faster than this, wittier than this.

“And yet you bleed.” His brow furrowed, face turning grave. Graver more like, he had not seemed particularly cheerful before. “Have you no-” he paused, eyes falling on Limtal’s form. She was still alive, her breathing pained and heavy. “Your mount is injured then. May I?” He gestured to her horse but made no move till she nodded in agreement. Only then did he kneel down next to her horse, hands hovering over her.

“Its right foreleg is broken, and the left one is sprained.” His voice was quiet and grim, but it did not seem unkind. “It is a pity, but there would be no kindness in letting it live.”

Írissë was not a fool, she knew horses well enough to know what a fall like that meant. But she had not wanted to consider it, both out of pity and out of fear. Without Limtal, she was without a horse or means to return to her cousins’ house.

“Loathe as I am to impose upon a stranger, I am expected back and I’ve already tarried enough. If you would have a horse to lend me I assure my cousins will not only return the animal but they would reward any assistance to me.”

“Your cousins?”

She hesitated, “The lords of Himlad.” What choice did she have? A lie would have been found out soon enough.

The elf’s voice was tempered as he answered, “My home, while certainly more humble than the halls you are accustomed to, is not so poor that I cannot keep good stables. Nor am I so lowly as to ask for payment from the sons of Fëanor.”

She had wounded his pride it would seem. “Will you still help me?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Of course I will help. I never had any intention of doing anything else my lady.”

“Thank you.” She turned her eyes from him back to Limtal, then to the woods around them. The frosted wind was gone, as was the ice and snow. Yet the fear remained, that it might return as quickly as it had first come.

“But first, let me deal with this,” he gestured to her horse, her fur matted, “I will be quick to be sure it will not suffer.”

Írissë took a steadying breath. “Allow me to be the one to put her out of her misery. If not for me she would not be in this state.” Her hand went to her hunting knife only to find it missing. She must have left it back at the pond in her rush to flee. And she’d left her bow and arrows as well. How could she have been so careless? Now that the icy nightmare had disappeared, she felt like a fool, what sort of hunter wanders around unarmed? “As much as I would like not to abuse any further, I would have to ask to borrow your knife if you have one.”

He drew a thin dagger from under his cloak but did not hand it over to her. “The slaughter of beasts is dirty work my lady, I would sooner the blood be on my hands than yours.”

She couldn’t help but scoff, “I am a hunter, Limtal would not be my first kill. In fact I-” Her eyes searched for the doe she’d hunted down earlier, even if it had come untied from the horse it wouldn’t be far behind, but the deer’s body was nowhere to be seen. Had some wild animal dragged it off while she struggled in the ravine? Maybe it had fallen earlier when she was too distressed to notice. “I would show you the hind I hunted earlier but it seems to have vanished. Regardless, my hands are plenty stained as they are.”

“I will of course take you at your word if you say you’ve hunted before, you do not ever need to prove your claims to me,” in the moment, his words seemed kind even if his concern was misplaced, “but even then, I must insist we not let your hands be stained any further, it would be too great a shame.” She could not have known otherwise.

Írissë was given no room to argue, for the elf slit the horse’s throat in the next breath. At least it was smooth and quick from what she could see. Limtal had no more need to suffer.

Still, it had not been his call or kill to make. “That was hardly-”

“I apologize if, in your eyes, I overstepped. But the beast was suffering, and the longer we discussed who would be the executor of its fate the longer we drew out its pain.” He ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “Sometimes one cannot wait for compromise, even if in the moment the acting is… Unpleasant.”

That wasn’t… Írissë wanted to say it was wrong, but she remembered the years on the ice all too well to delude herself, and this was not even comparable. Limtal would have died either way, it was her own fault she hadn’t had the tools to carry it out herself. If she had her knife she probably would not have waited for his assent either.

“Now that it is done, allow me to guide you to my home. You are injured and lost in an unfamiliar forest and as I stated before, it is my intention to help you.”

“I-” He was right, what was done was done. The most important thing now was getting out of these woods. “Thank you again, and I will insist on either myself or my cousins compensating you for your aid. We’re strangers to each other, and yet without your help I do not know if I would have been able to find my way back.”

“Then let us be strangers no more, for I must persist in my refusal of payment.” There was a teasing edge to his voice, that of a joke only one person knows. “I will tell you my name if you would give me yours.”

“Aredhel, that is what I am called in your tongue.” A name was a small thing to ask in exchange for his help. She would wear him down on the subject of payment eventually, she was of the house of Finwë after all, and no less stubborn than the rest of her kin.

“Aredhel.” Her name was almost a whisper on his lips. “I am Ëol, a kinsman to Thingol of Doriath.” He held out his arm to her. “Here, you seem shaken from your fall, my home is not far from here but walking through these woods is no easy task.”

Írissë took his arm. Maybe she shouldn’t have, or maybe that wouldn’t have changed a thing. But she was tired and hurt and scared; and Ëol had not been cruel, any oddness in his words could easily be chalked to awkwardness on his part, or exhaustion on hers.

“Why’d you make us take the long way round again? Going through the fields freshly turned as they are, the hems of our trousers will be more mulch than fabric by the end of it.”

“Well, the short way passes by the Old Forest now, doesn’t it? Have you not heard the stories?”

“You mean the tales meant to keep children from wandering off? You cannot be serious.”

“Serious as an Afterlithe with no rain. Now, how about I tell you the one about one Marjoram Appleton and you let me know if you think it serious or not.”

“Oh why not then, walking is never lighter than when there are stories to tell and hear.”

It is the simplest form of good sense, (this all hobbits know) that one should not mosey about within the bounds of the Old Forest. If simple good sense should fail, then common sense advises not to set a single foot deeper into said forest than the strictest need demands.

The Big Folk, Marjoram was quickly learning, had very little of either sense to be found. Her grandmother might have once said all their sense went to steering their overly long, awkward limbs, and so there was none left over for keeping their head on straight.

Shame that she herself had no such excuse. She was much too grown to not know better than to agree to guide one of the Big Folk through this part of the woods. Now, she was more likely than not going to be late for supper and she’d still have a mass of chores left from earlier in the day to get done.

But when old Master Brendan Marlow had sought help to find a patch of honey mushrooms near the border of the woods, he had promised they’d not stray far and had, then again, promised half the harvest found to her. And well, those mushrooms being little Blom’s favorites, she’d been hard pressed to refuse.

An hour or two later the sun was slowly sinking into the horizon. And after another considerable amount of time had passed, they’d gone deep enough into the forest that she’d lost track of the light altogether.

Oh! Mushrooms, and Blom’s sweet face lit up with joy be damned! Marjoram muttered to herself. We ought to have started walking back an age ago.

“Master Marlow I know we’ve not found them yet but it’ll soon be dark and it is high time for me to be on my way home.” She was certain she’d spoken loud and clear enough, but there was always the worry of not being heard when one’s conversation partner had their head buried in a bush. “Did you hear me sir?”

Marlow’s downy white hair was full of leaves and twigs when he finally resurfaced, eyes wide and wild in a way that confirmed he had not, in fact, heard her. “Do not fret Mistress Appleton, I have a hunch the treasures we seek are just a few steps off!” With that, he sauntered off the well trodden path they’d been following.

“And now here’s the thing to know about Marjoram Appleton: she was born the eldest of ten siblings and second eldest of grand total of twenty-five cousins. And Appletons are known to be a mischievous bunch, you know there was that time when-”

“Oh get on with it Merton, I’ve heard plenty of the Appletons.”

“You’re always in such rush, Tom. That must come from your father’s side, you know your great-aunt Begonia-”

“Merton!”

“Alright, alright…”

The point being, Marjoram had spent most of her life chasing after people who had a nasty tendency to run off in any and every direction. So, as instinct would dictate, she took off running after old Brendan Marlow before her head could catch up to her feet.

But him being one of the Big Folk and having had a head start meant he’d made it quite far into the very depths of the woods before she managed to reach him. And there in those very depths-

Well a final thing to know about having (or not having as it were) any sense while walking between those old trees would be this: if the ground turns as soft and wet as overripe fruit under your feet, you must run. When you hear the squelching sound of thick damp moss you run. Run till the sound of it is a dull thud again and it feels firm once more.

But if the moss feels soft and smooth between your toes? If it starts to move and slither in the gentlest of ways? That’s when you ought to very slowly turn around; eyes and ears, and mouth and nose covered as best you can. Then shuffle your feet back the way you came, taking good care to never lift them above the ground, and hope the forest pays you no mind.

Marjoram did not have such luck. Or maybe her heart was too soft to leave poor old Marlow to his fate when she found him, writhing on the ground, tree roots and branches feasting on his skin. These old trees are a different sort, left over from the time before the sun and the moon, they’re used to a particular type of hunger.

Marjoram Appleton was never seen again, not a word from her was heard, lost and consumed as she was by the Old Forest. Just like any soul that dares venture far within its bounds.

“Wait a minute! If she was never seen or heard from again how do you know what happened to her? She might have just left home and this is the excuse her family gave. Or at the worst, come to a bad but more mundane end like so many others do.”

“Weren’t you listening? Everyone who goes that deep into the forest gets eaten by the trees.”

“Have you seen anyone get eaten by the trees?”

“No.”

“And do you personally know anyone that has seen even a sign of someone having been eaten by the trees?”

“Well no but-”

“Then I was right! These are all just made up stories told to frighten little children out of running around in the woods. And you made me ruin my good trousers for nothing!”

“Oh balderdash! You young people never listen to the wisdom of your elders!”

“...You’re going to make us take the long way round again next time aren’t you?”

The dead belong to no one. No matter what kind they are, no matter who they once were sworn to, the moment their consciousness is gone, their body is left an empty shell for the world to claim.

Except, in a place such as this. There is no claiming to be had in the marsh, no slow decay into the earth. The peat and silt preserve the flesh, as though it were frozen in time. The marshes, therefore, chiefly belong to the dead; the only ones who, willingly or not, would deign to make a home here.

And yet…

Craban had likely been called something else before this, something better suited to a child meant to grow into a person with loved ones to call out for him. But now, Craban suited the few interactions with the living he still had, and all life before this had been too long ago for any other name but this one to sing true to him. It is not as though the dead he keeps mind either way.

It is not too long past dawn when he wakes, skin warm and clammy from the humid heat in the room. The air around is always too wet, and he runs cold enough in his sleep to have the bad habit of leaving the fire burning a bit too strong overnight. But he lives alone, and the dead do not complain.

His routine is simple; starting off with a wash by the old copper basin resting on the table near the bed. The water carries the same milky gray film the pools outside do, but it does its job well enough. Then he breaks his fast, a small meal of dark bread and dried leathery fruit.

His clothing follows the same plain trend. An undyed woolen tunic and the hose to go beneath. His boots are worn but sturdy, the sort of soft leather that molds itself to your feet; and then the gloves, those are important, to hide his hands and the fright they give people at times.

Finally, he dons a thick hooded cloak, to guard off both windchill and unwanted stares. Not that there are many who dare wander through these parts.

Tools in hand, Craban steps out the door. He does not lock it behind him nor does he take care to see that it closes well. There is nothing in his hut worth coveting or stealing after all. And it is not as though his neighbors are the visiting sort.

He starts his rounds in the north-east, clearing dead leaves and fallen reeds with the sun rising at his back. It’s monotonous work, the sort of tedium that repeats itself day in and day out. Sometimes, he stops to try and brush the hair out a floating face’s eyes, it does not matter that he fails.

The only truly delicate part of his chore comes after; made difficult by the flat, windy nature of the marsh, and the absence of good beeswax or cotton anywhere to be found. But what he lacks in resources he makes up for in practice and patience. With careful, steady hands he lights the candles dotting the paths. All one thousand seven hundred and twenty nine of them. By the time he’s done the sun has sunken into the horizon. Shortly he’ll head back to his hut, and sleep before starting his work anew.

But first, he sits on an old moss ridden stump, and watches the sky and how his own candles mimic the stars above. Sometimes he laughs, sometimes he tells old stories he cannot quite remember where he first heard them from.

Sometimes he sings. On those nights he can almost hear the dead sing back.

Even a haunted city has its upkeep. After all, horrors uncounted or not, they could hardly be expected to do their own laundry now, could they?

That would be a sight to behold, the deathless kings of old standing over the copper boiler, stirring their own linens. Of course they didn’t bother with all that, that’s what laundresses were for.

“Careful child, you’ll miss your step” The voice in Hild’s head whispered, the underlying hum of it the same as the one coming from the walls. It sounded like the old woman who used to watch her as a little girl today. So, she listened and took care not to stumble on the stairs.

There were never any torches or lamps in the service corridors, leaving her with only the unnatural glow of the stone to guide her way. The first few dozen times she’d had to walk through there she’d gotten hopelessly lost every time, had ran back scared to the storage rooms and refused to come out without someone to help her.

She had eventually learned how to find her way even through the dark and hidden corners, and a little after that she’d met her whispering friend. It wasn’t long after that she’d grown confident, brave.

But back to the subject of laundresses. Hild was one, same as her mother before her. With a husband dead and buried in the fields and four mouths to feed she’d eked out a living washing blood and grime out of a mess of surcoats and cloaks. She’d been good at it too, no stains had ever lingered after passing through her hands, no mark of cruelty left.

Yes, Hild’s mother had gone into the citadel every morning before the sun had fully risen for twelve years and returned home well past sunset with the skin on her hands cracked and raw. In the end she had little more than her death to show for all her efforts.

It hadn’t been a death born of injury or anger. No, her mother had been very good at her job, moving through the looming stone halls as discreetly as a field mouse. And so it made sense she died like a mouse, slowly poisoned by the air she breathed and the water she drank. The “miasma”, that’s what people back at the village had called it. They said it would get them all eventually, even down in the valley where they made their home outside the city walls.

Hild had to scoff at that, the only way anyone would believe it was if they’d never gotten close to the citadel and its looming tower. The air in their little village may stale at times, and the crops may grow wispy, thin, or barely at all. But that was nothing compared to how pale and empty the ground looked the closer you were to the city.

After a certain point past the stinking river only strange, dangerous plants managed to grow. They were deceptively pretty, standing at knee height with long and lovely white purple flowers twisting in the shape of a star. She had tried to pick some to take home to her siblings once and ended up with raw, angry blisters all over her hands.

A necessary lesson to learn, everything she would find here would hurt.

“Best take the long way round now, there’s a lieutenant turning the corner looking for someone to take his bad day out on.” The whispers curled around the shell of her ear, and it was all she could do to stifle a giggle. “The eastern halls are emptier today, you’ll find little trouble there.”

They had not even had the decency to bring her mother back home, just a haggard runner bringing word that she had collapsed in the washing room and that they had disposed of the body already. Oh, and that in all his mercy, the lord of the city had decided to give their family the first chance at filling in the vacancy. The things that pass for kindness in the halls of monsters.

With three younger siblings to take care of, Hild had taken the job. Only half a year in and she was already paying the price for it. Her skin had gained a perennial sickly green tint and her hair had started to fray and fall out in worrying clumps.

Though it was hardly enough to matter to her, she mused as she shifted the heavy wicker basket on her hip, the pay was decent, and her mother had made it twelve years which was plenty of time for her siblings to finish growing up even if she were to just get half of that.

And well, if her friendly little whispers held some truth to them… She would take being poisoned in exchange for some revenge.

“Remember to tip it in gently sweetling, these wells are connected, and you’d not want the sound to echo far.” Hild rolled her eyes but listened nonetheless, slowly emptying the water skin down one of the indoor wells used for every day drinking.

She watched the viscous, silvery liquid pour out, hoping it would at least be enough to cause some problems. It had taken no small effort to follow the voice deep down into the abandoned areas of the mines to find the stone she needed, not to mention the endless roasting process to render the metal from the stone.

Her eyes drifted to her hands, thankfully no one who she might have feared noticing knew enough to distinguish the blemishes from the regular lye burns one could get working in the washing rooms.

“Quickly now. Someone comes your way.” The voice had stopped trying to sound soft and familiar, it had turned deeper and sharper, as it did whenever it was angry or frustrated. Two months ago the change might have startled her. Now there was little that did.

The last silver drop fell out right as footsteps echoed closer down the hall. Hild quickly shoved the water skin back into its hiding place, tucked away under some freshly cleaned bed linens, and ducked her head, pushing herself into the shadows near the wall.

Soldiers armored in that awfully sharp steel stomped on by, paying her no mind. After all, like her mother before her, she was quiet as a mouse.

“This dear little mouse ought to remember not to drink anything offered here today or for the next week.” There was still a slight edge to it, but the usual crooning was back. “We wouldn’t want you to die so soon, would we? Not when there is still so much work to be done.”

There is a thin crack running the length of the spandrel right above him. It hugs the edge, curving down over the rib of the vault almost like a river would around the bend of its bed.

A messy and sharp snap resonates. Like a hound biting hard to get down to the gristle it dearly covets.

Or maybe not. He might be misremembering how a river looks. He misremembers things often as of late. To misremember. Something about bearing or something about change. Or was it something more like wrong perhaps?

Something warm and wet runs over trembling skin. Sticky, clingy, and far too quick to cool.

It doesn’t matter. The crack in the stone continues downward until it merges with joint between two stones.

To inhale is to drown. Or close enough, the air burns the same as water-flooded lungs.

He wonders if the crack goes all the way down to the foundations. If it’s still running there even after it disappears into the mortar. Maybe the heat will make it expand. Make it grow large enough for the ceiling to collapse.

Cold metal digs in on an exhale. Pushes in, before turning at an angle and slightly lifting its edge. Dragging forward, like when you want to peel a peach clean. A scream catches somewhere in his throat and-

It won’t collapse though. That much he knows just from looking at the stone. The very sight of it stings, the sanding of edges, so perfectly cut down to fit. A place like this has no right to be well made, no right to be any form of beautiful at all. It’s an insult to-

A rib, not the ones from the vault, gets tugged outward. Very slightly at first, it could almost be gently if it were anything else. Then the tug becomes a firm pull, unlatching the bone from where it joins at the breastbone.

He’d once known the way stone ought to be cut. He’d sat as a child at the knee of someone who loved and learned it. Now he can’t remember the words for it, now- Another rib gets pulled, working the chest cavity to be splayed open like a book left laying on its spine.

His grandfather’s library had had a painted ceiling detailing all the constellations in the sky, if he could just try to focus on remembering- Blood gurgles and sputters upwards as hair like white bright fire cascades over his face. A hand twists something inside and-

Maitimo howls like a dying animal, the sound tearing something in his throat.

“There you are your majesty, you went away from me for a second.” Long fingers trace the contour of his ruined rib cage. “I almost thought I’d gone too far for a moment there, finally chased your fëa away, running to the halls like a scared little rabbit. But you’re too stubborn for that are you not?” The maiar’s laugh echoes like bells through the room. “Now don’t you fret a bit about this, we both know I’m skilled enough to put you back together after taking you apart.”

The hand trailing over him moves from ripped open bone to bruised skin. It’s smooth and unblemished in spite of everything. The maiar’s vanity is a small mercy, his concern with neatness and order keeping his hands perfect no matter his occupation. One could not guess he’d been one of Aulë’s creatures.

Good, Maitimo forgets to temper his thoughts in between screaming and gasping for air, it’d be worse if they felt like a smith’s.