#blackbranch

From my little warrior cats OC story thing. Characters I doodle to unwind

Blackbranch - A serious and proud tom. Blackbranch takes great pride in himself, his family, and his clan. He likes to maintain an image of an ideal warrior, mate, and father, and he can be stern at times and will often try to suppress any display of emotion, but he has a deep love for his family and he will do anything for them, and will support any of his family no matter what they need of him. Blackbranch does his best to be a good warrior, often doing above and beyond of what is expected of him in anything he does and will readily obey his leader’s command in a heartbeat, his reputation means a lot to him, so he wants to appear as good a warrior as he possibly can, 15/10

Violetflower - An intelligent and kind she-cat. Violetflower is one of the sharpest minds in the clan, nothing escapes her notice and she is always the quickest to figure something out, her kits could never get away with anything, she always immediately knew they were up to something based on their body language, no matter how hard they lied. Violetflower always tries to remain kind to any cat she meets and it isn’t unheard of for her to ask her leader to show mercy on trespassing cats, and she always tried to teach her kits that there are often solutions that don’t involve fighting to problems, 15/10

Frostflake - A curious and introverted she-cat. Frostflake has always been quiet, even as a kit, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t had her fair share of misadventures, Frostflake has a habit of wandering off to investigate things she sees or hears, getting herself in a few sticky situations. Frostflake doesn’t speak often only because she doesn’t feel like she has much to say and often feels awkward, but can get quite talkative with cats she is comfortable with,15/10

Amberblaze- A confident and adventurous tom. Amberblaze is always very sure of himself and will never stop to doubt any actions he has made, he is always looking forward, he hates dwelling on the past, it’s not like anyone can change it so why think about it? Amberblaze is always looking for new things to do and places to see, and he will never hesitate in the face of danger, he doesn’t see the point of living in fear, he wants to make the most of his life, and he will grasp every opportunity he can, even if that means breaking the rules (much to Blackbranch’s frustration), 15/10

The imminent domain: don't tell me that some upstart elvish byrocrat didn't try to go collect taxes there because Technically it's part of whazhisname domain

Blackbranch: just. Eöl and the dwarves. They know something about shiny rocks that are actually So important

Change In Career

"-so the accrued interest alone is a truly significant amount, your Majesty, and payable in full to the court of Ingwe at your earliest convenience."

Eol looks the elf who has been talking up and down. "You're, what. Six two? Maybe a hundred and thirty pounds?"

"Ah- yes?" the elf says, bewildered. "I'm sorry what does this have to do with-"

"and you were born here, I take it."

"Yes, your Majesty, in the years of the Trees," the elf says. "I understand you weren't here for them, a pity, they were a truly marvelous sight. Now if I could explain these promissory notes and yearly rates-"

"Did you do some disservice to your King?" Eol asks.

"Wha- No! No, I have served the Financial offices of the King with distinction."

"Are you sure about that?" Eol asks.

"I am!" the elf cries. "I don't understand what is the meaning of-"

He doesn't see the King of Eryn Elglyn move.

One moment, Eol is in his carved wooden chair at the head of the hall. The next, he is in front of the tax collector, handily elbowing him in the stomach. When the elf bends over double, he feels himself lifted up onto one thickly muscled shoulder and is heaved- like a sack of potatoes or an armload of wood- out of the Night Hall, down the stairs, and into the gravel of the path that joins the greater Avar Road through the forest.

Sputtering and coughing the elf rolls onto his knees. His clipboard whizzes by his head to bounce out of sight into the ditch on the far side of the road.

"You tell Ingwe if he thinks he needs money he can pay me back for the arrows he stole to hunt that hind for his wife," Eol says from the top of the stairs. "Otherwise he can come get it himself."

A pause.

"And perhaps consider a change in employment. I'm almost certain he thought I'd assault you, which doesn't bode well. Pick up the harp, or something."

Then the King of Eryn Elglyn turns neatly on one booted foot and goes back into his Hall. The doors won't open again, regardless of how long the tax collector tries.

-o-

The Open Doors

The first place Eol goes, after the shock of the little altar in the woods, is Khazad Dum.

They let him in without much fuss, for he had come with the Broadbeams and Firebeards over the mountains in the Great Wandering and was well known and liked by them.

As is inevitable, he has to speak to the King eventually. Durin II looks upon Eol with old eyes that shine silver, and when the doors close on the council chamber and all the guards are dismissed Eol says in reverent wonder, "You are as old as I."

"I am older," Durin says, "though perhaps a bit north by northwest. You did not wake on the shores."

"I did not. My mother's mother woke, and on the shores I was born. So you are older, if you are as they say."

"And what do they say?"

Eol smiles. "That you died, and were born again, and will do so seven times."

"Well," Durin says, "I'm not certain it'll be seven. Seems a bit much. Still, the break was nice. It's a shame you lot don't get a break."

"It really is," Eol says, and he explains his new predicament.

That Eol was the one who returned the Silmaril was a known fact amongst the dwarves of the great delves, and Durin listens to the tale from its source with fascination. He is even more fascinated by the story of the altar, and admits that a few of his people, who have been in talks with the elves of Greenwood, have noted the images.

"I did not ask to be a token of thieves," Eol says, "nor do I deserve the title. I took what had already been stolen twice, and returned it to its owners."

"True," Durin says, "we mortals do not get to choose how we are remembered, really. I hadn't thought to find an elf with the problem and correcting it is- a poor idea, to say the least."

Eol is forced to agree. The mighty battle that rent Beleriand in two might have made an island of Doriath, but within that realm his half brother was (so stories held) alive and well. If Thingol could find him across the mountains he would.

"I suppose I am asking for succor," Eol says. "if I come to the doors of Khazad Dum, will they be open?"

"Were they not open when you arrived?"

"King under the Mountain, you know what I mean," Eol says, and Durin laughs. "I'd heard you had a short temper," he says.

"Yes, well. Another reason I am ill suited to thievery."

"Will you describe it?" Durin asks. "the silmaril?"

Eol is quiet for a long time.

"No," he says at last, "I will not. For two reasons. The first is simple- the Light it contained hurt me. My kin who came from across the water, those who had seen the two great Trees cast into darkness, their gazes held that light and when they looked upon me I burned. So I confess the gem was handed to me in a shroud to protect me from it, and I never removed the cloth."

"Sound and sensible," Durin says. "Your second reason?"

"...everyone wanted the Silmarils." Eol says. "For one reason or another. The Sons wanted their father's work back, for they had lost him and sworn an oath besides. The Rider wanted to keep the Light for himself. My brother, who never returned to the West but yearns for it always, wanted the Light to remind him of his place there."

He looks down at his calloused hands and then back up.

"I did not want to want it. When those across the water called, I refused. They sent back our emissaries and I refused a second time. I don't know if it would have tempted me as it tempted Thingol. I was not willing to give it the chance."

Durin looks upon Eol and his silver eyes are kind and wise. "You speak with wisdom, Eol," he says. "and should you come to my halls you will not find the doors barred to you."

A wry smile.

It was without question that the surviving Moles (as they called themselves, not Betrayers as some others called them) would not be following the bulk of the Sindar and remnants of other avari tribes over another set of damn mountains. They absolutely weren't following the Noldor hosts, either; that was a recipe for disaster, or at the very least political strife that no one needed.

Sometimes he comes into town for festivals or to work on bigger things and he don't like the sun but he's friendly and quiet and the folk like him.

Generations of men live and die and he never changes but fathers tell their sons and so they are never afraid.

Eol doesn’t think he can be blamed for not noticing.

The changes are so incremental. Tiny, even. So he walks quieter- he’s an elf, and an old one, who fought the Rider and his nightmares before they had ever lit the ends of reeds. Of course he’s quiet. Once not being quiet meant instant death or capture to endure long torture. Only sensible.

The uncanny ability to get into locked places is a little harder but even that has its explanation. Eol is a smith of many talents and most locks, unless they are simple latches, are made of iron- and iron loves Eol, for how he can whisper life into it and make of it blades and points that strike fear in silver fire. It only makes sense that locks fele the same, even if they’re copper or brass.

The not being seen? Well he’d be insulted if you did see him when he didn’t wish to be! He is- was- Eol Secret Keeper, guardian of the road through Nan Elmoth, which could not be found unless you were invited or in need of rest and safety.Making the eyes of men and elves and other kindreds slide away from him is practically second nature.

That he continues to be good at these things- to excel at them- as the years pass is not something he examines closely. When half of the land beyond the sea falls and the elves and dwarves come streaming over the mountain passes, guided by what Kings and Princes they still have, Eol hides in the home he has made.

Maybe they’ve forgotten. It has been a long time.

They haven’t, though. When he ventures after the elves who speak Sindarin most clearly, their outer edges whisper of the King, and how still his heart burns for the punishment of the thief. There are more alarming stories- of how the Queen is diminishing in power and grace, of the deaths of Maedhros and Maglor who fought beside the armies of Aman to the last.

Of the loss of the other two Silmarils, one sent in haste across the sea and the other broken to burn Morgoth at last, an act which had taken Curufin Feanorian’s life and how dare he go out like that, the absolute prick.

Most of these pale in comparison to the moment Eol finds the shrine.

It’s in a small gambling tent, set up on the edge of what he presumes will be a city someday if anyone can get around to actually building it instead of singing songs about the island of a thousand caves or whatever Menegroth has become.

It is simple, set up much like a shrine to a vala- a bowl for offerings, a cloth to place one’s hands for prayer, a cheeky notation of direction- only this one points east, not west.

The symbol is not one of any Vala. It is a tree, its roots and branches meeting to form a circle, burned black. Never a popular or well known house emblem but Eol had always liked it- it was his, after all.

In its center is crudely carved and painted in a brilliant white pigment a gem, which could charitably be called a child’s interpretation of a silmaril from a story told to them by an elder when they were barely able to walk.

Eol stares at it, and at the greasy haired sinda who comes to toss in a coin. The other elf does not see him at all. Eol waves a hand in front of his face as he prays, and listens in utter bewilderment.

“Blackbranch guide my bet, and let my dice fall well.”

Short, sweet, to the point. Well.

When the other elf is done, Eol reaches out again and this time he taps the man on the shoulder. The elf turns and looks him full in the face.

Eol’s mouth says, “Bet on spiders,” before his brain can quite catch up, and then he is leaving the tent and leaving the shanty town and taking to the woods as fast as his feet can carry him.