#sonsofdoom

@sonsofdoom

“Kano... I...”

"Tyelko? Is everything alright?" The tone concerned him and he abandoned his task, ducking inside the tent. He'd only been with the Fëanorion host a few weeks, but he was settling in nicely. "What is it?"

Erestor closed his eyes after the quick-tempered response from his father – it was hardly unsurprising, there had been songs sung about the fury of Moryo the Dark – but that didn’t make it any less frustrating. He breathed in deeply through his nose, then out through his mouth slowly – a subtle attempt to demonstrate to Caranthir just how frustrated he was becoming, and all thanks to the elf opposite him. He then opened his eyes, giving a small smile as he tucked his hair behind his pointed ear. “Adaneth, would you mind preparing some flower tea? Thank you so much,” Erestor uttered politely to one of the younger, serving elves, deliberately slipping into his non-native Sindarin tongue just to make a point. He neatened himself, giving her a smile as she bowed and made her way out. No sense of fear in her footsteps – part of which made Erestor proud to have helped build the moral foundation of Imladris. He watched, tilting his head as he kept himself perfectly poised, back straight, legs crossed, the perfect picture of polite elven bureaucracy until she was out of earshot, his head now snapping back to his father. “I want you to listen, and not just wait for me to be finished talking,” he stated firmly, his eyebrows having furrowed into a scowl. “If you wish for me to be harsh, I can be harsh, however diplomacy and supposed ‘flowery words’ have got me far further than waving your fists about like some sort of orc has ever got you. Besides, if you didn’t want a monk for a son perhaps you shouldn’t have sent me to a damned monastery. You can’t blame me for your shortfalls. We have rules and we have regulations for a reason – everyone lives the same way, even me, even you, even my dear friend and colleague Commander Glorfindel – who has the same sword skills that you so greatly admire.” He then brushed down his knees a little before glancing back up to him. “I wouldn’t speak this way if I didn’t want you here as long as possible, but this isn’t Thargelion, my Lord. The people here have a certain expectation of me, and I have to fulfil it.”

Now, he lay in bed surrounded by their belongings. He had made the trip, however dangerous it may have been to see them one last time before the funeral and collect their things when all was said and done. Eldalote, Orodreth and Findulias had taken what they desired, and Finrod left with what was now his and what would be sent to Galadriel. At the base of his bed, the trunk sat open with various possessions, apparel, weapons, little things collected. Several of their robes were scattered across the bed next to him, and gathered in Findarato’s arms as he slept. He had finally fallen into an exhausted slumber that would bring him little rest. The golden light about him seemed to have faded, that joy he ever held was gone. Color had drained from his face, his curls in a tangled mess. Even sleeping he shown an helplessness surpassing any he experienced in the ice. At least then, he had his family. 

@sonsofdoom

“Ah, excellent! I’m afraid some of Arafinwë’s lot are reluctant to take part, one of them wants to fight me, and I’ve heard little from Nolofinwë’s brats either…I think Irissë is up for it though. Tyelko, you want to go first and take her?”