#sidmarillion

The sun, a blazing heart in the sky, caresses the sea's horizon with its fiery kiss, igniting the heavens with hues of love's sweet longing.

volwë & auriel drawn by @sidmarillion

ft. @curufiins angry jealous curufin below

Curufin did not say much while he was being attended to, hardly even looked in her direction as she worked, as if he was thoroughly unimpressed by her—and he was. He vaguely remembered her name from Maedhros offhandedly mentioning it once: Mira, Mire, something along those lines. What was more curious to him, however, was why his brother had taken to some random woman as his healer, when he was known across nearly every healer he's spoken to as a thorn in their ass.

Boing with Mûrazôr & Mirëa -✧- @sidmarillion

Mûrazôr, willful and spurious a young man as ever, landed himself in the healing ward when a fight broke out between him and a lord's son. Both young men had been injured quite well, but then Mûrazôr was ganged up on at the edge of one of the grand courtyards and now suffered worse injury. Some stitching was required, and a close eye kept on him, in fear of retribution or anger he might unleash. And a worsening of his injury. He was known for often doing both.

The young man whined and moaned at each poke and prod and was thankful for the rather soft bed underneath him. Then when the touching and the cleaning grew painful he growled like a cornered wild animal, rage quickly choking out the embarrassment he felt at being so defeated in a (small, insignificant) battle. His blood was on fire and his body shook a little, adrenaline not quite draining away.

"Perhaps. In this case." Mira's gaze darted to the side, meeting the Marchwarden's eyes, as they stood over the body. Though consciously she knew she should have more of a reaction, meeting an Unbegotten elf when she had spent so much of her life in Bëorean settlements, she felt very little; and that was not surprising to her. Her voice did not even change in inflection between speaking to other healers, or to servants, or to great lords. They were all embodied; a sword would kill all. How was she to react to meeting an ancient when she was growing too inured to death itself? She hardly allowed herself to feel anything anymore. It was not that she was thinking of bodies as meat, separate from the people within--she had sworn to herself never to do that--but rather that so very many people had died, one after another, that she only allowed herself to put another mark in her mental tally, correct anything she could for the next case, and move on. "But he just as easily might have been roused by the talk, and then you might have made a different judgment of my speaking to him. That's the problem with battlefield healing: one starts with so little information that it's impossible to know which path is kinder until the decision has been made. And then, half the time..." Her eyes drifted back down to the body. She fell silent for a moment, the only kindness she could now offer the fallen soldier. "What do your people do, Chief Marchwarden? Bury or burn?"

Beleg was used to death. How could he not be? Even in his earliest memories, it had been there, taken by the shadows. There had been few bodies then, though.

“Bury.” he answered, closing the fallen soldier’s eyes and holding his hands over the hilt of his sword - or the sword that was closest, whether it was his or not. “We are born amid the forest and our bodies should return to it.”

He looked back at her. 

Oh god, he's drunk

He became very serious for a moment, staring into his cup as he pondered a good answer.

"Some of them were miserable bastards. No fun. We used to argue a lot. Enel and I, Tata and I, Imin and I - oh, shit." Realisation dawned on his face. "Maybe I was the problem. Do you think so?"

"-and I suggest that you keep those two scholars seated far away from each other." Elrond was going through the guest list and seating plan of the upcoming feast. He had calculated potential risks of seating the wrong people next to each other, as well as the rewards of seating the right ones together.

"They are simply incompatible..Your Grace?" Starlit eyes rose from the tome in his hand to his high king seated across from him at the large oak desk. Elrond had believed him to be quiet because he was focused and listened intently. Instead Elrond found Gil-galad staring at him. His mouth in particular. As a subconscious result, Elrond brushed his tongue over his bottom lip.

He shut the tome and set it down on the desk. The attention did not leave him unaffected. A faint rosy hue decorated his cheeks and his heart beat faster in his chest. It was obvious that they were not going to get any work done at the moment.

The irony was, as usual, that she would never have said anything had he not noticed the state of his own body. Mirëa remembered well Mûrazôr, with whom she had had many interesting conversations while stitching wounds or applying poultices. Both were of a scholarly bent, though she was not near to the lofty heights of his lineage, and both had a deep interest in the secrets of nature and life. But he was a young man (or so Mirëa thought of him, though they were near the same age), and a chirurgeon quickly learned that the bodies of young men were not entirely under their control. Genitals might respond to any touch, even a healer’s, as a reflex. It meant nothing. Even so, this did not usually happen when her hands were nowhere near the offending organ. She only paused for a moment before continuing to treat his bruises as he covered himself, both with the artful arrangement of his clothing and with the less artful arrangement of words that kept falling and falling and falling from his lips until her ears turned pink with secondhand embarrassment. Had he just said his body longed for sex? For touch? For her? By Eru, she knew not which was more mortifying. The poor man was babbling. “Do not trouble thyself,” she said, when at last he fell silent. “Like any other unintended act of the body, it is a natural effect of the balance of thy humours.” Picking up a pad of wool that had been soaked in a concoction of warm wine and herbs, she pressed it carefully to his bruise, then began to affix it with bandages. “Many causes there may be, though to speak of them all would require a discourse upon theory. There may be an excess of the sanguine humour… or merely a passing abundance of vital spirits. Hast thou, of late, partaken overmuch of rich and warming fare, such as spiced meat and wines? Hast thou found thyself more readily stirred to mirth, anger, or desire than is thy wont?”

The way Mirëa's skin blushed slightly did not go unnoticed by the prince's eye but he made no mention of it, already knowing he had said far too much. Perhaps his look mirrored her own. He should have just bit down on his tongue and been done with it, talking about any other damned thing to distract them both. Unfortunately words tended to tumble out from his lips before he knew fully what had culminated. That first landed him in this mess, after all.

The undertone of embarrassment lingered within him, but a slight grin curled his lips as she spoke, offering her own explanation as to what was happening to his body. How could he have expected her to say anything but? It was not often women spoke so freely and so extensively about their interests – and for sure not around him. But, her ideas were informed.

A slight hiss crept out from between his clammy lips as the wool was pressed into his skin which ached deeply. His fingers clenched in the sheets underneath him, though this made his mind return to the rather persistent problem between his legs. It took quite a summoning of his willpower to listen to all her words so that he would not appear overcome.

"Not in excess of the usual," he answered, but perhaps his usual was more than was normal. Stirred to high emotion was he often, so that was not strange to him either. "Thou shouldst know of the heights of my emotion, brought forth by many a cause - some which have been discussed before...Others, perhaps not. If any be the case here, it is the boil of hatred when spoken to so lowly by those sons of lesser men."