#ofsilverandblue

@ofsilverandblue said: Their mysterious guest, clad in a way unknown to her, naturally caught Arwen's interest. He looked noble, and troubled. From afar she could see the anger and concern on his face, followed by disappointment. She watched as he had tea with her father and was then provided with a room to stay in, if he so wished. Later, Arwen went to seek out Elrond to ask what had upset their guest so much, and she was told about his missing friend.

The next day she saw him once again, and took the opportunity to approach him. "Fire Lord Zuko. Well met." She placed her hand over heart in custom elvish greeting. "I am Arwen, daughter of Elrond. I wished to speak to you, and learn more of you."

Zuko stiffened when she approached, as he always did when addressed formally by his title. Titles carried expectations, as well as memories of mistakes that had been made. His golden eyes flicked to hers, wary at first, though there was no malice in her presence, only a calm, piercing kindness. He inclined his head in a small, stiff bow, the gesture restrained but respectful. Daughter of Elrond. The name carried authority even to him, an outsider, and he wasn't so foolish as to dismiss the traditions of this place or its people.

“I… appreciate the courtesy,” he said quietly, his voice rough from sleepless nights and thoughts that refused to quiet. He hesitated, his hand brushing unconsciously at the scar marring his face before dropping away. “But I’m not much of a conversationalist. Especially not right now.”

A soft "hm," of acknowledgment was her first and easiest response as she took this new information into account. Though... even if Arwen weren't real in this moment, Rossiel still wouldn't have minded if the Master of Visions had allowed her a moment's pleasant dreaming ere his brother took over her care.

Stars... her hair must have been a frightful mess-- it certainly felt so. But ever-obedient, she would let herself be fed before that mess could be dealt with. Not much prompting was needed; the stew was good, and healing was hungry work.

Fíli’s hands stilled for a moment in the shining dark of her hair. It was not the pause of uncertainty, nor of distaste, but something quieter, more inward. Her voice had struck some subterranean string within him – Khuzdul, weighted with the solemnity of oath and stone, issuing from lips meant for the lilting cadences of Elven song. It was not quite right, not yet, but there was a beauty in that imperfection, like sunlight splintering through a gem’s flawed heart.

His fingers resumed then, separating silken strands with the measured patience of a jeweller, though it was not gold he teased into order. The comb slid and in the mirror’s glass he met the twilight of her eyes, luminous and questioning. They pierced him, as though she wished not merely to wear the speech of his folk upon her tongue, but to unearth the very secrets of his blood.

“Bundushathûr,” he echoed softly, his accent rolling like thunder deep in the chest. “Strictly speaking, it translates to cloudy-head, but you have the heart of it and its meaning.”

A faint smile haunted the corner of his mouth, for the phrase seemed almost mockery against the sight of her – this daughter of twilit rivers and starlit boughs seated before him, seeking to cloak herself in the rough-hewn syllables of the Khazâd.

When she asked of the braids, his easy breath was snared in his throat. Braids were no mere ornament, not for his people. They were history, devotion, the mapping of kin and covenant in strands bound close. Still, he lowered his gaze to her hair, letting his thumb brush against a strand, testing its weight. Her request was not offensive to him. Instead, it carried a dangerous sweetness.

His voice was low, thoughtful, gilded:

“I will show you one… simple, as you say. A braid the women of Durin’s line wear when they seek to mark the day as blessed. It binds not history, nor vow, only beauty.”

Fíli’s fingers moved again, weaving locks into a pattern that coiled like runes, like hidden carvings. He thought of his mother, of long winter nights when she had set him by the hearth, her strong hands patient with his boyish tangles. How strange, to echo her movements here, with this lady of twilight – her hair dusk made tangible, her presence a mingling of river-song and mountain-stillness.

Send me a [X] to see my muses favorite picture of your muse

Claudia looked around the room, light flooded in from the big windows, a gentle summer breeze that carassed the fabrics and colours all around her. Had the situation been any different she might have stared in amazement and wonder. But now her heart was still racing, her eyes still burning from all the crying of the last few days.

He's not lost, he's just temporarily misplaced.

"It comforts me."

The dark was familiar. Quiet. It was easier to still his racing mind when he sat here, wrapped in a blanket in a corner of total darkness. Perhaps it was some ancient, primordial memory that lingered within him, of a time when darkness had been all he knew.