#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.