#ofthevanyar

( @ofthevanyar )

“Oh lord,” he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He wasn’t quite sure what was worse - the undisguised dislike, or the not so subtle flirting.

“What did he do this time?”

@ofthevanyar There was much to do. So much to rebuild, so many problems to solve. Amarië had thrown herself into her work - a constant balm against the sting of rejection she felt. “Perhaps,” she answered, looking up. Her quill - white except for the ink stained tip - was redipped in her inkwell. (This one was plain metal. Once, she had used one made of emerald, a gift from Finrod. That had been tossed into a box to be forgotten) “But maybe we should have. Maybe -“ she took in a sharp inhale and lowered her head back to the page in front of her. Arafinwë was King of the Noldor now. He may not be her king, but she would not blaspheme in front of him.

If Arafinwë had taken note of the change in quill, he did not mention it. Knowing how bitterly Eärwen had taken the flight of the Noldor from Aman, he could only imagine how Amarië must feel. For while his own wife mourned the departure of her children, while she might scorn her husband for allowing them to go... Arafinwë remained... and once she forgave him ('if,' his mind unhelpfully supplied,) she would have him to comfort her.

Findaráto was gone, having made the perilous journey to Arda so that those of their people who insisted on leaving were not left to Fëanor's rule. Often, Arafinwë felt all the more a coward for leaving what ought to have been his duty to his sons and daughter. Almost as much as he felt guilt for not having forced them to remain (though such an act was not in his nature.)

(@ofthevanyar - your honor, I’ve missed them)

"And what would you have me do? Put my cousins in chains and throw them into a dungeon?" Finrod sighed heavily. "We don't even have dungeons in Nargothrond."

@ofthevanyar

( @ofthevanyar - have a former Queen of Nargothrond!! Feel free to message me if you’d like to plot)

@ofthevanyar

Fat white snowflakes came each winter in Lindon. And each winter, Rani found herself straying further west for her long season of rest. It wasn't that winter was bad for business (though, she supposed, that too was true). Mostly, it was that her leg did worst of all in the cold, and usually, she could afford the long stay. The winds of the coast made for a chill in summers, but in winter, she found them a balm to the frost brought down to plains and forests from the northern mountains. Even now, she thought, in the small room in the Havens which she borrowed this time, wrapped in a blanket and huddled in front of the small stove, she could feel some of the chill from outside seeping through the stone walls.

At the knock upon her door, Rani rose, grabbing her cane and walking to the doorway, leaning on the frame.

Well, this was not her usual clientele.

He was too little to be wandering the halls that late at night on his own, his sole company a stuffed animal he held to his tiny chest, its fluffy head comfortably tucked under his chin.

Gil-galad thought, as he padded forward towards the lone source of light at the end of the corridor, that the nursemaid who took care of him was nowhere to be seen, but he still wanted that warm glass of milk she gave him when he woke up in the middle of the night. He supposed he would find some in the kitchens, because that was where food was stored, but he didn't know how to get there.

Anyway, he was hungry enough to try to find it for himself, and tired enough to know he needed his glass of milk, perhaps something sweet, too, if he hoped to be tucked in again and rest. He kept being disturbed by nightmares, and the restless energy he felt all around wasn't helping.

The Prince wasn't tall enough to reach the handle, nor strong enough to push the door open, and he pouted. The wood creaked, though, when his little slipper collided with the ornate wood.

That hurt, and Gil-galad let out a resounding curse he had heard a guard say the other day, one that was too inappropriate for someone as young as he was, but that made him giggle because it was a forbidden word.

"Lady Amarië?" he whispered in the way only children whisper. Maybe she was in there, or maybe not, in which case he should go on with his exploration. "Are you there?" Gil-galad said when he reached the next door, this one closed. "I," he jumped from one circle embroidered on the thick carpet to the next; "want," now from flower to flower; "some milk," he chanted, jumping at each word.

Old one eye watched with an intense curiosity, this woman he had met before. He turned his head to the side as he tightened his jaw. Yes. This woman was not new to Hel's service.

Not new at all.

He knew Loki's daughter had the means, no, the right to tinker and toy with the fates of Midgardians as she pleased. But it still didn't sit right. Longevity was not meant for beings less than his ilk. He wondered what Elli would have to say, being kept away. Wondered how the balance would be altered.

He kept his wonderings to himself.

(@ofthevanyar)

"I said I'm fine, it was just a bit of blood." Andreth huffed, but sat down on the bed, lest she invoke Amarië's wrath any further.