The Best Laid Plans

Haleth was right: those were Elves.  They were of many different tribes, many being Green Elves or Wild Elves, but among the Nandor and Avari were also taller, brighter Elves, with ferocious grey eyes and a certainty about the sword that many of the other Elves did not possess.  All the Elves wore the same colors and insignia:  reds and golds, marked by an 8-rayed star.  

While the battle was joined, it seemed impossible to discern who their leader was.  They moved in such coordinated attacks, as if thinking with one mind, that the orders didn’t seem to stem from a single source.  But after the battle was over, the majority of the Orcs slaughtered and a few driven away in terror, the Elven commander became apparent.  He remained atop his horse at first, trotting hither and thither to give orders, for the retrieval of both their dead and those of the Men, for the disposal of Orc corpses, but more importantly, for the gathering of supplies and rations for their newfound allies.

The commander dismounted just as Haleth was approaching.  He was tall, even by the standards of the brighter Elves, tall enough to look over the ears of a normal-sized horse.  (His was not normal-sized.)  His hair was a deep brown shade, almost black, and captured behind him in a tight, severe braid that ran all the way to his waist.  His skin was a few shades darker than that of his grey-eyed companions, and his face was dusted thickly with freckles.  An ever present pink tinge lingered on his cheeks.

His delicate pointed ears twitched ever so subtlety as he heard Haleth approach, and he turned to face her.  Instantly his calculating grey eyes pegged her as a commander.  He bowed to her, not low, mostly with just head and shoulders; he never took his eyes off her face.

“Well met.  I assume you are the leader of this tribe of Men?”  His tone was crisp, somehow just as calculating and studying as his eyes, but whatever arrogance there was to be found in it was not deliberate, nor meant to be condescending.  It was the tone of someone to whom nonsense was unwelcome.  Straight to the point.  “You fought valiantly, and I commend you for holding off the siege as long as you did.  Now, to business:  What is the state of your supplies?  I have already sent for some, and will send for more, but before I can make a precise order, I will need precise inventory.”

Haleth inclined her head at the other’s bow, stopping a few feet further away than normal. The height difference was so extreme. The elf was nearly two heads taller than her, enough that she couldn’t get too close. If she did she’d have to crane her neck and that was just … she was tired. She’d been fighting for entirely too long, her back hurt, there were so many things she had to do that she did not have the energy to face, and if she cared any less about her sword she’d be leaning on it to stay upright. 

The elf could put up with her doing the absolute minimum to function.

Speaking of the elf, he–he? how did you tell an elf’s gender–was talking to her. His language was quite beautiful, rolling over his tongue in a way she’d never heard before, but she had absolutely no clue what any of it meant. They hadn’t really had much contact with elves before. Enough to know they existed, but not enough to really know any of their language or mannerisms. Haldar was the one who knew all those things anyway. 

Swaying slightly, Haleth racked her hair back, again, and tried to smile at him. She definitely failed miserably, but the thought was there. God, Dar should be here doing this. He’d love it. All she wanted was to be done so she could lie down and cry.

However, his dark brows furrowed as she started in another language.  “Hm.  So you don’t speak Sindarin.  Interesting,” he mused aloud, knowing that his words were as private as thoughts if she couldn’t comprehend the Grey Tongue.  “Well, let’s see.” 

“Do you understand the language of the people of Bëor?“ he ventured in that same tongue.  After his cousin Finrod had run into that tribe of Men, he’d insisted that everyone learn the language–something that had been quite beneficial for trade.  

”Or perhaps you are acquainted with Khuzdul?“ he inquired in the aforementioned language.  The Dwarves were beginning to become secretive with their language, but Caranthir had made sure to pick it up as fast as he could, recognizing the strange, ugly people as skilled craftsmen and thus crucial trading partners.  “We could converse in this tongue as well if you prefer.”

This should’ve been exciting. Meeting an elf. But all she could think was that this should’ve been Dar’s roll, and she was too drained to focus on more than practicality.

“Drughu?” She offered, not at all expecting it to work. But it seemed closer to the last thing the elf had said. Not too similar, no, and as far as she knew the Drughu had only ever attached themselves to the Haladin, but maybe he’d be able to get the general idea of it? Twisted meanings would be better than nothing. It would be embarrassing to get help and not be able to thank them. “I’m not great at it because they don’t need it, but I know some things.”

“Drughu,” Caranthir repeated aloud, one dark brow arching in intrigue. As Haleth continued speaking in the aforementioned tongue, his prettily pointed ears twitched a bit. Yes, apparently they could move, if the Elf was so inclined to let them, and Moryo generally didn’t give two shits what people thought about him. So, as he listened intently, his grey eyes sharp as his keen mind whirred, his ears twitched. It was a strange, somewhat amusing contrast to the severe expression that perpetually lingered on his face.

“I’ve never heard that tongue before,” Moryo answered in Bëorian–Taliska, Findaráto had called it. “A form of Mannish, clearly, and more related to your own tongue than to Taliska, unless I miss my guess. Perhaps I can–”

He’d just been thinking out loud, at that point, musing on whether he’d be able to extrapolate meaning out of Haleth’s Mannish tongue by virtue of the fact that he knew other Mannish tongues, and the Sindarin (and a bit of Avari) from which the Mannish languages were no doubt derived (the son of a linguist indeed), when he cut himself off.

Haleth stumbled.

In an instant, Caranthir was there.

Great going, Haleth, she thought bitterly. This is exactly what your people want to see right now: their brand new leader making a fool of herself in front of strangers who came to their aid.

She breathed in and out once, then dropped her hand and pulled away from the elf. Tilting her neck back as far as it would go earned her a slightly better view of the elf's reddish cheeks, though actual eye contact felt more a vague hope than a reality at this angle. Another swell of grief at her having to learn diplomacy when Haldar was the polite one rose in her chest, mingled with inappropriate anger at the elves' rescue forcing her to confront that now. It tainted the smile she tried desperately to force as she slipped back into her own language. "Thank you again."

Haleth looked away from the commander as she took another step back, smile fading back into nothing but grim lines of exhaustion, and caught sight of one of her captains being helped up the ground, his leg bleeding still. Her heart skipped a beat. The wounded, the dead, noncombatants--Haldan--she hadn't checked on them yet!

@deathlistenstoher | Send 🔮 and I will write a drabble of a memory that your muse gets to see into.

Haleth hissed at the other boy, swinging her arm back to punch him. How dare he? Attack ‘Dar for something that wasn’t his fault? Call him that? She’d show him. But a hand grabbed hers’ before she could punch, and Haldar whispered loudly, right in her ear, “Please stop. You’ll get in trouble again.”

She shrugged off his hand with an eyeroll, but didn’t continue the punch. Instead she just glared at the boy until he got the message and ran away. Idiot. She could find him later. And then she turned her glare onto her twin, crossing her arms grumpily. “What? I could’ve had him easily.”

“You punched him yesterday, and the other boys the day before. I just don’t want you to end up in trouble with Ma’am again.” His eyes pleaded with her, utterly earnest in their sincerity, and Haleth sighed. 

It didn’t matter how strongly she felt in her opinions, that face always made her weak. She looked away so she wouldn’t have to see his reaction, and said, “I’m not going to stop just because you want me to. They don’t deserve to be let away with those comments.”

A pause. 

Hey anon, I can recommend some other Edain RP blogs if you're interested?

@xfelvesandmen writes Haleth

@strengthandvigour writes Tuor

@the-heart-vigor writes Huor

@morwenfairaself writes Morwen

@hurin-son-of-galdor writes Húrin

As for general Edain content, I follow some but I think most of them are no longer active, or I haven't seen them on my dash for a while:

@houseofhaleth

@teamedain

I don’t tend to do very much writing anymore, but I have a lot of headcanons (posted and otherwise) about Haleth, the Haladin, and Edain at large, plus a few Haleth-focused fics.

Do not assume that a muse is aware of everything that happens in their story. Some muses are AU, or are taken from earlier on in the story.

Don’t judge someone’s characterization from a single post or thread. You don’t know how things developed to get them to that point.