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Starlight In Her Hair (Shiva the Cat/BennyQ)

BennyQ

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100 S.A., Middle-Earth.

The ruin of Angband was complete. Those who had walked in mastery there now wandered as paupers in the wilderness.

They had fled far, an endless push to escape the ruthless nets of their overthrowers, tireless and ceaseless to outrun judgement before the Máhanaxar. Their dominance of the land was complete and all who witnessed the great ruin were utterly shaken in their belief to resist the oncoming storm. To the one who barely outran the thundering spears of the pursuers, it was not quick enough, and to the ends of Arda there would be no hiding from its truth. Mastery over the lands had passed to those who sat in blissful ignorance of its ongoings, content in their anarchical views to simply let things be. Yet as the long years toiled back in endless journeying, under the renewed rays of the bright Sun, it perhaps contained therein within the flaming rays a hope that such philosophy might extend to those that got away.

But then again, coming from his cousin of old, it could only be a token of mockery and disdain. Any light, whether hot and red above, or distant and cold during the night, he shunned, though once he had been a mighty adherent to the sources that fueled such endless momentums of radiance. No longer. He had made his choice, enamored with the speed and craft that his former Lord could accomplish, and abandoned the teachings of his old Mistress and discipline.

That seemed eons ago. So long ago. Even the memory of an immortal became corrupted, when their hearts and minds turned away from that which birthed their existence. And too suddenly had come the harsh reality that his new Master was not so infallible. He had lied and restricted to his Umaiarin servants the true strength and wisdom that should have been theirs to begin with, as he had promised in the days of their first corruptions to the Dark, and teased them with small offerings as bribes and rewards. From the Dark, which encompasses all, only from its depths may new lands and new treasures be brought forth and created. That had been a lie. The Dark had no light or bounty to give. It only stifled that which he had been born with, which his old name now forgotten save by the Maker used to signify. Now he had lesser names, given by lesser entities, and it suited his now fallen and broken form.

He never consorted with the Upstarts, as he deemed all races that sprung up to pervade the lands like flies. To elves, men, and dwarves, to orcs, trolls, and wargs, he thought himself above their feeble, fast-burning spirits, hardly a blip on the face of this mighty land that would one day be ruled by him and his ilk. It was they who gave him names. Lughâshgûl among the servants, Raugad among the slaves. They were not personal to him, merely a statement of how they depicted him. A towering spirit of flame and shadow, encompassed by the night, and yet mighty in strength. A boon of morale to his minions. Or a hunter in the night, a catcher, with whips of cruel flame, who dragged back those who tried to escape his Master’s halls without permission. A terror to his foes. He saw no reason to correct them.

None of all did he care for, except the one spoken by those who came from over the sea, who had some knowledge of him by the mouths and minds of his distant kindred. Celevonaur, the Silver-Fire, for that was who he had been in the beginning, a radiant light, and whom he often wished to return to, when his faith in his Master was least.

Nothing was so traumatic as the loss of one’s form and body. For an ainur, who’s very spirit was bound to existence and time itself, it could never be truly quenched, but ever and anon it might take shape or form. And these shapes and forms became bound to the natures of reality, to feel hurt and pleasures, to taste and drink, and to feel victory as well as defeat. It became outward representations of the ainur’s mind and heart, taking shape in whatever cause or direction the user’s mind went. Once a majestic figure of light, he had been reduced to a monstrosity of shadow and flame, crafted so by the teachings, lies, and tortures of the one who had been greatest of his kind; Melkor. Corrupted from such dazzling heights, now reduced to the hue of smouldering embers.

And he had lost it, the first and foremost greatest shaping that his spirit could take. Much of his original power had been embodied in its form, and much of it lost, when his form was taken from him. A dehoused spirit, incapable and impotent, left to drift on the cold winds that sped from the west after the ruin and breaking of the lands. Eastwardly he fled, and continued to flee, mired in only his thought and grief, until slowly again, his power gathered, and he could take shape again after many decades without. It had been a tremendous compelling of his own willpower not to let that be his fate, to at last take control of his own path in this strange existence. Nothing again that was ever as majestic or mighty, however. It pained him that this shape was no greater in stature than the Upstarts themselves, who now seemed in abundance in these distant lands once empty.

Celevonaur’s shape now represented his defeated spirit. Hunched with grief, weathered with stress, and yet still his strength and sharpness of mind was greater than those he now resembled. His skin was pale from lurking in the cold caverns of the northern mountains, hating and disdaining the light of his cousin. His beard and hair were white as well, a token of the coldness of his heart, for the fire seemed to have gone from him completely. No whip of flame or fire brand of ire to draw upon his foes, grasped by mighty paws that could crush a troll’s skull. He was just…like a man. Weak, and frail, and his power did not seem to grow no more. Was it lost to him forever? Or simply locked away, because of his fear of those who now held power over Arda? Secrets and knowledge once known to him, locked behind the faded memories of dreams of a bygone era, never to return. This was his fate.

And the world and all its masters and overlords seemed content to watch him suffer. Well, so be it.

He was not alone, however, in regards to those aligned with his former master. Many had fled, craven and cowardly. Like their Master who was rumored to beg for mercy before the end. They dehoused him, bound his spirit in cruel chains, and took him away. Celevonaur swore it would never happen to him. It must not. He could not bear the humiliation of being dragged before Her. Akin to his old Master, She must be like him in every way. Cruel, merciless, and brutal. There would be no pity for him there. He had no choice but to subsist out here. And be free of all those who claimed to rule or own him, whether his fallen Master or old Mistress.

These lands had a name to its inhabitants, though Celevonaur learned it not, for how could they be so audacious as to give a fleeting title to a place that existed long before their coming and shall exist long after their passing? The mountains of the north ended by branching into a fork, drifting north-east and then east again, and another range south-east, and then east. Between them was a desolate, cold land, of dry lakebeds, shrubs, and tundra plains, as was further north, across the mountains. Endless winter. The poison of the old fortress still lurked up there. The first stronghold, where he should have learned that his Master had been a fool. To the south of these range ran a road, east to west, crafted by dwarves, yet adopted as well by the fledging race of mortal men. A curious breed, though those who had been seen in Angband had been either pitiful slaves or snivelling grovelers. He thought nothing of them.

But to them, these lands north of the great forest, called the Greenwood, and around a solitary peak that sat further south of the mountains like a lone island in the sea, the lands were called Unen, and were inhabited by descendants of those men who fled the first great conflict in the east at their Awakening, those who decided to stop along the fleeing journey to the west, and settle in the vast, unoccupied lands between their distant homeland and the wars of Beleriand. These folk were simple, living in wood and thatch communities, struggling with fires, or simple metalwork, and had little in terms of exchange except for trade and occasional treaties against marauding orc bands who fled the defeat into the wild east. They too had no pity from Celevonaur, though once they served him in their thousands. Only the cowards had fled and were not worthy of his attentions anymore.

Yet rumor was spreading, of a great temple being risen, of stone and rock, in the town of Tarla, and from it came a sweeping influence of control and authority, simply because these wilder-men had not ever witnessed anything so grand or imposing before in their brief existence. It was no more than a single storey building, of jagged stone and a modest hall for prayer, with a clear circular opening in the ceiling, from which a great plume of smoke was ever rising.

Sometimes, Celevonaur liked to look at it from afar. It made him recall the vast forges and armouries of Angband, the sweltering heat and roaring fire and the trains of molten liquid flowing felt like an entombing nest to him. This was just a paltry momentum to those days. But the first created and crafted fire he had seen in a long time. It led him to test his old dormant powers, to some success, but never as it had been before.

Perhaps it might also have been note to him that often many would go inside the temple, yet few would come out. Such was not uncommon in Angband. It would soon become understood amongst those that dwelt nearby in their isolated communities that a dreadful power might linger within the temple, that if not appeased by blood, or gold, it would extend to consume them all. Messengers and heralds of this began to spread across the land, extending this doctrine of faith, by sermon or spear. It was heeded quite extensively. And so the wealth and majesty of that temple-complex began to grow. And those that interpreted the flame and spoke to the Dark grew to great power among their kind. But Celevonaur knew their power to be fake. Someone was teaching them the old arts of manipulation.

Yet they were ever mortal. And came to realize that the old hermit who lived in the mountains was not. He grew to become an enigma among them, ever avoiding them, yet sometimes observing them, and they to him. And still he heeded them not in any great detail, learned their language yet never conversed, their fickle and frail lives soon to be passed on or snuffed out, as was their sad fate. What they left behind would hardly exist beyond a hundred thousand passages of the Sun.

It did however become his concern, when he heard the name Melkor spoken among the adherents to this bloody faith one day, chanted in unison by many voices, crying out to him for aid, for boon, for vengeance against their enemies. There would be no answer. Yet they thought to try…

A most curious riddle, one that finally seemed to inject a purpose into Celevonaur. Who was advantageously making use of his former Master’s name? And why?

~~~​

The caravan was overturned. The horses slain, blood drenching the dirt road and grass on either side, the chests and various trunks broken open and looted through. But there was no treasure worth more to the Heralders than the living ones. Four men, some young, and some old. And one maiden. How she must rue the day when she begged her father to take her along on one of his voyages, to see the world, to come outside the limits of her village, and experience its beauty first hand. Her governess, an old crone, had spoken severely against her but the maiden had been adamant. And so her father relented, and brought her along, and now…

…and now they were prisoners to men of cruel cloth and leather, armed with ashen spears, and merciless in the way they handled the prisoners. In particular was the cold gleam of their eyes when it passed over her, and she wished for nothing more than return to her little hamlet and never depart it again. She swore never to take up such foolish notions again, to adhere to the advice of her elders, to refrain from play in the rivers or fields. No, there would be no return. These men made their intentions known. They would feed the fire. And so too would their dark deity be sated.

Her screams had echoed out when they tore her from her father’s protective embrace, beating him, and mocking her cries for pity when they dragged her apart. “Yet we paid our dues to the masters of Tarla! All that we could spare!” Her father, master of the caravan, cried out.

They only laughed. “Not all that you can spare.” They said, preparing to bind their arms, and throw them in the back of a cart, ringed with a cruel cage of steel. Bound as prisoners, even though they paid tribute! It mattered not. The Heralders were rewarded by their master based on their offering. It mattered not where it came from, loyal or faithless. Who was to know? Who would hold them accountable? The fire was bottomless in its appetite. Surely it would bless them with the warmth they craved. The warmth of great dwellings, the warmth of luxurious garments…the warmth of many wives ordained to do their bidding.

“You’ve been withholding your greatest treasure of all, old man.” Their leader said, as he grabbed the maiden by her jaw, sneering into her side as he inspected the wares. To the flames…not such record how her final hours must be. Or how she might be…tainted, beforehand. “Do you think you can possess greater wealth above our master and savior?”

Celevonaur strode onto the road, grasping a slender rod of dark oak. Say that Liar’s name, I dare you. Yet they did not notice him. That Liar had no need of such things. It would be a waste to send such tribute to his false temples. No, Celevonaur would have greater use of it, for greater purposes. For I have not failed or fallen, as that coward has.

“Please, I beseech you, do not do her no harm. G-Gold, that is what you crave, yes? Spare her, and I shall find you a weregild worthy to repay this insult-“ the old man began to stammer, but the Heralders cut him off with cruel laughter.

“See how he seeks to abandon you to save his own skin?” The leader mocked to the maiden, inciting poison in her mind against her own father. When he tried to speak out against this, he was cruelly silenced with a blow. “But do tell us,” he then whispered hotly in her ear, “what you would offer for your father’s safety, hm?” He coaxed her, letting the imagination of what he expected be evident as his eyes wandered her form. Yet when they returned to her face, he saw her attention elsewhere, and was angered. Her defiance in ignoring him was not permitted! He would make her harken to him in all things! He would-

Some urge made him follow her gaze and looked over his shoulder, at the strange man who so silently and easily stood in the midst of the road, blocking their passage. The caravaneers assumed he must be some companion to the Heralders. The Heralders thought him some hermit, harmless and frail. With his walking stick. He wore only a tattered cloth wrapped around his midsection, pinned at his shoulder, and if it bore some color it had long ago faded. Trousers torn and cut at the hem of the sleeves covered his legs. Sandals with straps barely holding together covered his feet. He looked ready to fall apart with the simplest gust of wind.

“What you want, old man?” The leader mocked Celevonaur, throwing the bound maiden aside to land heavily in the grass. Him and his six companions, two left to guard the prisoners, formed a line facing him. None seemed wary. Or worried. “Come to pledge your services to the great god, Melkor? How devout of you to seek out his-“

“Your god is false.” Celevonaur said in a flat tone, his voice as deep as the depths of the ocean, yet spoken with a force no greater than a mountain breeze. “He offers lies and deceits. And the one who preached this to you, he is no different. Tell me, who it was.” Celevonaur demanded.

The men exchanged a glance, then laughed. “A non-believer. They shall rectify your lies as they peel the skin from your bones. And burn the Lord’s light into your exposed flesh by the brand. Take him.” The leader ordered his fellows, four advancing immediately, two to flank, while two approached more slowly. Still they did not draw their weapons.

Celevonaur sighed and closed his eyes. His senses were sharp. Every footstep echoed in his ears, his mind perceiving their distance, their speed, the weight of each man, and their state of readiness. In the darkness of his eyes, half immersed in the world of the living, and the other in the world of shadows, he saw the outline of their corrupted shades. As the two flanked him, one reached out to grab his shoulder roughly. And thus did he spring, quicker than a snake in pounce.

Five men moved against him. When it ended a half minute later, two were dead, one unconscious, and the other two with broken bodies to the point of never being able to move without assistance. The remaining two exchanged a glance of worry, though one rushed to the horses to make an escape, but the sixth was of sterner stuff. He seized the maiden by her hair and put the knife to her neck. “Stay back, or I give her a red smile you’ll never forget.” He threatened, as Celevonaur came to a halt a few paces away. He did not care for the human girl. Her lifeforce was fleeting, made to vanish in under a century, hardly a mark on the greater world.

But they intended her for the flame to that Liar.


He’d rather the open circumstances of her mortality claim her, whether it be a wound infected, or taken by disease, or lost in the bloody transition of birthing more of her upstart people into this world. But never in service of that Liar. If she perished now, there would be no bounty to be given. That still counted as a victory for him in his efforts to disrupt…yes?

There was something in the poor maiden’s eyes as she gazed desperately at him. What was it? He had seen it before. Pleading? Hope?

“Leave her, let’s go!” Cried the captor’s companion, mounting his horse, but the other did not heed him. The leader…that had been his brother. Vengeance must be had. Blood for blood. The knife began to dig into the maiden’s neck, drawing crimson essence, and she cried out, half gurgled by the cruel grip.

“You bastard, you’ll pay for that.” He hissed at the hermit through gritted teeth. “Lay down your stick, old man.”

Celevonaur…complied. He threw the quarterstaff on the ground. And then turned, a few paces away, with a snort and began to walk away. That was all the captor needed, flinging the girl aside and like a predator, pouncing on prey that foolishly turned its back. But Celevonaur knew. He long learned the low cunning and trickery of low men and orcs such as this. He side-stepped, so that the man’s arm with the knife aimed for his back instead plunged by his side, and he seized the man’s wrist to still him. His elbow flew back, caught the man’s nose, before Celevonaur whipped him around in front of him.

Spirit of might. With an open palmed strike, Celevonaur struck the man in his midsection and sent him flying against a tree, where his spine snapped, and he fell to the ground, feeling nothing beneath his neck. Celevonaur picked up his walking stick and peered down the road. The remaining Heralder had fled rapidly away. All their horses and the wealth of the caravan…left behind.

He had no need of it personally. He knelt by the one who had been the leader, still choking on blood from a fierce blow that Celevonaur gave to his neck. He tried to resist as the hermit rifled through his pockets, strange that he did not take the purse of coin, yet took instead a folded cloth. Upon it was covered in black ash, in which a strange icon had been drawn. A red circle, within a greater red circle. And the inner sphere had lines emitting from it, in all directions. Like an…Eye? Despite the cries and protests of those still bound…Celevonaur strode away, his task done, folding the strange cloth in his grip. And the fruits of his former master’s worship…disrupted. It wouldn’t be long until nightfall came. With the wolves. Those who could still walk should flee. And those who could not…there would be no worse fate than left to their hungry machinations when they did come.

Yet only a few paces from the bloody scene he left behind, Celevonaur paused…and turned, gazing into the hills around. He had a…premonition. Of something. It was strange. A presence. There was a presence of a kind…he shook his head. There was nobody that his sharp, dark tangerine eyes could not see. Turning about, he hastened rapidly from the scene.
 
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Her earliest memory was the fall.

If she had existed before the moment when the moon drew too close to the sun and scorched its mark across the silvery vessel, she had no memory of it. No one else in Aman could remember seeing her before that day either, although the great Lords and Ladies all insisted she must have been somewhere at the time, though no one claimed her as their particular servant. But if any had knowledge of the strange maiden before the near collision of Anar and Isil, they did not choose to speak of it, and eventually the Valar had greater concerns to tend to than the appearance of a strange Maia who fell out of the sky.

Tulkas and Nessa still showed kindness to her though; after all it was Tulkas himself who had caught the Maia in his powerful arms at the end of her fall, no doubt saving her fair form from shattering into pieces on the Pastures of Yavanna. He was also the one to give her a name when she could not recall one of her own, and took to calling her Alcalantë in the days following her arrival. His wife, the fair and sweet-natured Nessa, had dressed the Maia like one of her own maidens, and would have been content to keep her in her own care had Alcalantë not been summoned to appear before the rest of the Valar for an inquisition, for in those days Melkor was still a powerful enemy and had many spies in his service.

But it did not take long for the Valar to determine that Alcalantë was no such creature, and indeed seemed to fear the dark more than anything else. Once her innocence was assured, then came the trouble of finding a purpose for the maiden. While she had a firm command of speech and a form that was more swift and nimble than any other Maia, she was utterly untrained in all practical skills. Even worse, she lacked the patience to learn anything that might have been helpful to Yavanna or Estë, and although she was possessed of a gentle nature that was a comfort to Nienna, she was also too restless to remain in one place long. And so it was she was returned to Nessa's service, who was more than happy to have a new dancing partner and competitor for her long races through the woods while her husband was away. Though Alcalantë never could catch her mistress, she was the only one of her maidens who could always manage to keep Nessa in sight during their jaunts, and it seemed the Maia could run for days without tiring. So it was that she earned the name that was more commonly used among closest to her: Yurë.

Yurë was always happiest while at Nessa's side, but she could occasionally be found in the company of others besides her mistress. Several of Oromë's hunters were madly in love with the fair dancer, and would often invite her to join them on their treks through the woods. She rarely accepted, not being overly fond of killing but still enjoying the challenge of seeking something that was lost, and while she had in time learned to use a bow the maiden refused to shoot any deer that crossed her path, knowing how her mistress loved them. The elves were more pleasant company, though Yurë found it difficult to spend much time in their crowded, if beautiful, cities. On occasion though, she liked to visit the harbor at Alqualondë and look at the white ships bobbing peacefully in the water, and with the wind in her hair she would sit for hours wondering where they were bound.

She was never sure if it was a dream or a memory that haunted her mind, but after seeing the sun and moon colliding above her during the fall, the second thing Yurë always remembered was the world spread out beneath her like an enormous map. She could see all of Valinor in those brief moments; the mountains and the woods, the shining waters and the green fields. Beyond that was the sea with its treasury of islands, and beyond that, the land of Endor; strange and dark, but calling out to her heart with a strange, irresistible song. Once she had asked Nessa if it was possible to go to that strange place, but her mistress had looked so sad and asked the maiden why she wished to leave her. So Yurë had never spoken to her of the land across the sea again, though the thought of it often lingered in her mind.

Perhaps that was why she enjoyed her time with the elves so much. She knew many that had been born in that mysterious place and joined the Valar in the west, and while most were content to remain in Valinor there were some who seemed to understand Yurë's wistfulness. They took an interest in the Maia herself as well, calling her Isilanariel out of the half-joking theory that she was really the child of Arien and Tilion, the Maiar who steered the sun and moon respectively. Of course there could be no truth in it; Yurë had appeared fully grown, exactly as she was now, and with the exception of Queen Melian across the sea no one had ever heard of a Maia giving birth. But there was something in the maiden's looks that did lend a certain romance to the idea.

Her skin, for one, was darker than that of any elf, and appeared to have been beautifully bronzed by the sun overhead. By contrast, her hair was the color of silvery moonlight, while her eyes were the darker gray of the scorch marks on the surface of the great vessel in the sky. It was generally agreed that, in shape, Yurë resembled a daughter of men more than those of the elves, although having never seen a man herself she could neither agree or disagree with that assessment. Regardless, she was taller than either, with a face that could be as noble as a queen's while she was in a serious mood, or open as a child's while she was lost in thought. Like most of Nessa's servants, she usually dressed in shorter gowns and tunics that rarely went below the knee, to allow greater freedom of movement during a dance or run, and being of a rather practical mind she eschewed all bodily decorations except for the occasional flower tucked in her long hair by her mistress.

But even rarer than flowers in Yurë's hair was a smile on her face. She was not melancholic, exactly, but more thoughtful than joyous by nature. There were times though, while she was dancing or looking upon a new spot of land she had never seen before, that a hopeful light would shine from her eyes and her plush lips would part in pleasure as she gave herself up to the happiness of the moment. Sadly, over time these moments grew fewer and farther between, until the day Nessa had taken her aside to ask her what was weighing so heavily on her heart.

"Nothing, My Lady," Yurë had insisted, forcing a joyless smile onto her face. It was clear Nessa hadn't believed her, but she also didn't press the matter further, and the maiden was glad. After all, how could she tell her beloved mistress that with every day that passed, she was growing more sure that her purpose was not at Nessa's side, but somewhere in the dark lands beyond the sea? And what that purpose was, well...she couldn't quite say. But if she were to tell Nessa any of this, surely she would either think her servant mad or worse: falling under the shadow of The Enemy. If that really were the case, that would mean being sealed away in the dark with Melkor and the rest of his followers until the end of existence, a fate too horrible for Yurë to even consider.

So she insisted all was well and carried out her duties to the fullest, and occasionally she really did have moments of joy. But it wasn't enough, and Nessa continued to watch her closely, consulting with her husband and brother about what could be done with her most beloved servant. And when the Lady Varda had mentioned finding the ones that were lost...oh it had pained her, but she gave up Yurë's name.

And that was what had led to this moment, a world away from Valinor in a barren land colder than Yurë could have ever imagined. But even as she looked at the ominous wall of mountains to the north, she was smiling.

The orders had come from Lady Varda herself: "Find the rebel Celevonaur and bring him back to Valinor for judgment." Of course, Yurë knew next to nothing about Celevonaur or any of the other Maiar that had rebelled; all of those events had taken place in the time that was lost to her memory, and what she did know was only what others had told her. But she did know how to hunt, and her feet could carry her far and fast before she would need a rest. Lord Aulë had gifted her with a set of manacles and chains that would dominate her quarry if he did not come willingly, although Yurë hoped they wouldn't be necessary. Likewise, for her personal defense Lord Oromë had given her a silver bow that had once belonged to Tilion, and although she couldn't be sure, for a moment the maiden thought there had been something knowing in his gaze, but had been too timid to ask further.

A ship would carry her across the sea and wait for her return to bring her and her prisoner back, but beyond that Yurë was on her own. Her mistress had tearfully embraced her at their parting, and prayed their reunion would be swift. But as the light of the West faded behind her, Yurë felt new strength and hope filling her as Isil lighted the seas ahead. She would finally see those strange lands she'd first witnessed so long ago, would walk amongst the people there and taste the strange and foreign air. It was like a dream coming true.

Of course, the glamour began to fall away not long after she'd stepped off the ship and begun her long search for Celevonaur. The lands she crossed in her sprints were beautiful to be sure, but the people were strange. The elves she met were unlike those she had known in Valinor, and the first men she encountered had far less grace and beauty among them than she had expected. A few had even dared to make amorous advances on her, or bodily threats, and it was only due to her quick reflexes and a few well-aimed arrows that she had escaped unmolested (of course she hadn't shot directly at her attackers, just near enough to make them fall back). But she had encountered kindness as well, and words of advice from old people seeking to guide a young foreign lady as she made her way through the world alone. It was through their gossip that she had heard of the great temple in the north and the terrible evil that dwelt there; a being of death and fire that was said to have been born in the last age.

There were not many balrogs left after the chaining of Melkor, Yurë knew. At the very least, if she did not find the one she was looking for, perhaps he had a comrade who would be willing to give him up. So she followed the river northward, skirting the forest and taking care to stay out of sight to all but the friendliest of faces. Yurë had shed her normal raiment long before coming to this part of the world, and wearing a simple gray woolen dress and black fur-lined cloak against the cold, she might have passed for any other peasant woman if it weren't for her height and her coloring. Thankfully, she had learned that the people of a place called Harad far to the south did resemble her somewhat, and people in this part of the world knew so little of the country that once its name passed her lips they were content to drop the subject. If that wasn't enough to ward off trouble, the bow and quiver on her back usually provided enough of a threat to keep people back, although she had yet to kill a single creature on her journey.

Today though, things might have been different.

She had heard the attack on the caravan before she'd seen it, and raced to crest the hill up ahead and witness the event for herself. A large group of wicked-looking men had surrounded a smaller party of travelers; merchants, if she had to guess. The former were heavily armed and shouting nonsense about some god or another while rooting through the broken chests and caskets like a bunch of pigs at a trough, and the sight made Yurë's stomach turn. She'd seen men like this many times during her long journey, but always she had been too frightened to do anything besides run away. Now though, her eyes had landed on the sight of a young girl, being tossed around with all the roughness of any of the other valuables of the caravan, and without thinking the Maia's fingers reached for an arrow and her bow.

Eyes going dark as storm clouds, she was about to take aim when a new figure appeared on the scene: an old man, leaning heavily on a cane. Yurë's shoulders slumped in disappointment, realizing he was about to walk right into the fray. "Turn back you old fool," she whispered, raising the bow again.

The robbers were hardly intimidated by this new arrival, although in their taunts a word seemed to rise up that gave Yurë fresh pause. Melkor. So men in this part of the world still worshipped the traitor, did they? It was both disgusting and a pity. Someone ought to have told her that their "god" was sealed away in the darkness forever, never again to rise no matter how many people they might burn. The old man seemed as unimpressed as she was, and she almost smiled in amusement at his courage until she heard his voice.

That is not the voice of a Man.

Alarm tensed through Yurë's body as she watched the old man with fresh eyes, her bow at the ready in case she was noticed. Regardless of what the Maia saw, the wicked men still only saw an old hermit leaning on a stick, and it was so much the worse for him when he finally moved. No man, not even an elf could deliver blows as swift and powerful as the old man dealt to the robbers, and the watcher shuddered to think what damage he could have done with a greater weapon than a stick in hand. He fought with such vigor and recklessness that for a moment Yurë thought he meant to go right through the poor girl being used as a shield, and felt an enormous sense of relief when he finally did pause and lay his stick to the ground.

But Yurë had watched Tulkas spar enough times to know that the fight was not truly over, not yet. She wasn't even surprised when the old man intercepted the knife meant for his back, though she was impressed at how he'd send his attacker flying into a tree. That was enough to finally scare the rest of them off, and when they were finally out of sighed the maiden let out the the breath she'd been holding without even realizing it. She wondered for a moment if the stranger intended to speak to the people he'd rescued, but no; he merely searched the bodies of the dead men then continued on his way as though the fight had been nothing more inconvenient than a gust of wind. For a moment, Yurë could have sworn he was looking in her direction, and if she hadn't immediately ducked behind a tree she would have been sure he'd spotted her. The next time she looked towards him though he was continuing on his way, the caravan utterly forgotten behind him.

The maiden was torn. On the one hand, she feared for the safety of the robbers victims and wished she could do something to help them. But then she recalled her mission, and the gravity with which it had been given. She could not be sure at this point if the old man really was Celevonaur, but if he was, and she let him escape...what would her Masters and Mistresses think of her?

"Forgive me," she whispered to the people in the road, turning to follow in the old man's footsteps. Quick as he might have been (especially considering his aged appearance), there was no Maia in the world faster than Yurë, and she had little trouble circling around him to appear in his path ahead. Now that they were out of sight of the road, she didn't trouble to hide her presence, although she did keep her black hood drawn up and her bow in hand in the hopes of appearing a bit more intimidating than she really was. Taking a step towards him, she spoke in a voice with all the warmth of the sun and silkiness of moonlight, and her eyes gleamed with a strange light as they peered out from beneath her hood.

"I saw what you did back there," she stated, not raising the weapon just yet but tightening her grip on the bow and arrow. "It was noble of you to save those people, but I wonder how you did it. No man of your age should have the strength, and no elf could look the way you do. Who are you?"

The words came out more harshly than she had intended, and she recalled a conversation she'd had with Nessa before leaving. "You can bring him back by force if necessary, but you might get him to come willingly if you show yourself the way I see you," she'd said kindly, stroking her servant's hair. "You have not been tasked with judging Celevonaur, merely with bringing him home. I do not think Lady Varda would fault you for showing kindness and mercy when appropriate."

As the memory faded into echoes in her mind, Yurë suddenly reached backward and replaced the arrow in her quiver, then lowered her hood enough to reveal her face. "I am called Yurë," she continued, her voice much gentler now. "I am seeking one who is lost. Would you be willing to help me?" She took another step forward, sure now that she could see a light in the old man's eyes not dissimilar to her own. The question was now, would he run? Would he attack? Or would he merely continue on his way, brushing past and ignoring her the way he had the frightened girl back in the road?

Yurë held her breath in anticipation as she waited.
 
The foreboding on his mind did not lessen as he departed the scene of the skirmish. A droning weight settled on the back of his mind, the feeling of unkind eyes boring into his very skull as if to determine the truth and reality of the consciousness inside. Only few had that sort of power, especially over a valaraukar like Celevonaur. But could one truly be here, in this spatial plane, seeking him? He glanced up again between the trees, catching sight of the blue sky and dotting of clouds upon it. And Her, always watching, silently judging. He stepped aside, to the flank of the forest pathway leading up into the mountains, moving into the shade of trees where She could not see. No, it was not from Her. Something else was wrong.

He pressed on, quarterstaff now a walking stick, rhythmic striking the ground in his quickened haste to escape whatever hostile vigilance seemed to befall the woodlands. He hadn’t felt such weight on his mind since the Great Siege and Fall. Perhaps it was only mere coincidence. Just the messengers and hunters of Oromë wandering the wild east again, as they had done in ancient times, and skirmished with the forces of Melkor. But of those, there were none left. He did not consider himself so anymore. Perhaps they would pass him by. As if they would care for such distinctions. Go on with their hunt, as in old days, and not be bothered by the evils of the dark.

Celevonaur was not ready if that was not so. It still felt too soon since his disembodiment, the loss of his former body, and the vast majority of his old strength and power. He was not capable of such a fight of titanic magnitudes, the sort that broke and drowned a continent of the world. The shape he had taken now, while perhaps superior to that of the mortal Upstarts, was still greatly reduced and far outmatched by any ainur that served the scheming Valar. He could not suffer to lose. He could not bear to be dragged in chains to humiliation and judgement, to be cast out of the world, forever shapeless, nameless, and forgotten to all memory. He was not ready either. He must escape.

But centuries of having rendered such a fate to so many in the cause of his former Master, it felt cowardly to want to flee from such a state, when so many had gone to their destiny with such bravery and courage. The Upstarts included. All he knew is that unlike the Great Liar and Cheater, Melkor, he would not go begging or pleading for mercy before his end. He would fight, to whatever means he was capable of, and hold some personal honor and dignity when he should ultimately fall.

If only he had made better choices in the beginning. From the safety of the shade, he glanced up to the kingdom of his distant kinswoman, and frowned at the glory that was not closed to him. All saw Her flame and were glad, honoring Her in such ways that he envied. Why Her, and not me?

Those who survived the Great Siege and ruin of Beleriand, those he had met at least, felt somehow differently about the entire affair. Whereas Celevonaur now saw how vain the pursuit of dominance over Arda was, of how Melkor could used them as tools and pawns in their own desires, others were still blinded by the shroud of lies cast over their minds. The orcs, wherever they congregated, sought only to continue the quest of destruction despite not understanding or knowing its ruinous source. Others felt mastery could have been accomplished with greater cunning and tact. And others beside, reckless in all thought and deed, wishing to have dragged the entire world with Beleriand into a shattered, broken land rather than submit to any mastery of the Valar. None could see the finality of their own ambitions, that it would bring ruin to all, including themselves. The Father had created them to live free, not to serve such a self-destruction goal. Celevonaur could see that now. And it was far too late to turn back. All he could hope is to pass unseen by those who thought they could render judgement upon him.

But what had the others done, those who remained subservient at the feet of the Valar? Was that not a life of slavery too, albeit in golden shackles rather than the crude iron ones that Melkor figuratively cast upon them? It was all a cage, whether mental or real, and the whole world seemed askew when looking from the inside out. And even here, in the vast world beyond the confines of fort or wall, Celevonaur carried that cage with him. The deceit of Melkor ran deep. And while he might openly shun his former Master’s teachings, that philosophy was too deeply embedded in his core, like a disease that lay dormant at times, and yet rose to strike when his thoughts were weakest with despair and sorrow. The only release it seemed…was its spread to others. If he would not destroy the world and the Valar, it served to reason that he must therefore destroy…himself.

As Melkor intended, not just for the Valar, or for Arda, but even himself, and all who had served him, for he truly thought of them as nothing more than objects in his ambitions and whims. Such was his narcissism, spread to all his servants, spread into the very world itself. And Celevonaur had been foolish enough to think it the path to the future. And now because of it, he was hunted, by those who were akin to Melkor, and no doubt shared his delusions of power and grandeur. No more will other powers that be dictate my life. This is where I stand now, free…and unshackled.

Celevonaur must do all to maintain it though, however desperate, however much it might pain or hurt him. He thought he was making great speed. But even a horse might think the hare a dullard despite outpacing the tortoise in all regards. That droning that was at the back of his head, it vanished, but only to seemingly pierce the side of his mind, then abruptly…it was before him, and all around. The site of the battle was behind him, yet without warning did a new figure trod upon his path, causing his feet to falter and come to a halt, spread and set proportionally with his shoulders in a defensive stance, though his quarterstaff remained upright and in hand, the butt of which pressed to the grass beneath. He understood now what the panging alert was in his mind. The presence of another…like him, of which only one of the ainur could detect, in shape or invisible.

But she was not. She was very real. Her skin was dark, but he knew it was by now taint of evil that eroded the color. It was natural, like the dusky tones of those who dwelt in the far south. Her hair was white like the stars of his former Mistress, while her eyes held that piercing brightness of pureness and power. But his eyes did not linger on what could be gleamed under that dark hood, instead falling to the silver bow in hand. No one in this part of the world had a weapon like that. He knew at once what this figure was, unbroken and unbent as he was not. An ainur, in the fullness of their shape and power. A hunter then, of Oromë, and he did not know whether this was a chance encounter…or something far more sinister.

The intimidation worked. Celevonaur pursed his lips and raised his eyes to the dusky-hued face as her lips moved, forming words with such elegance and pomp that it was practically music. He felt he heard it before, in some dream or vision. No, just the hazy memory of the time that she-elf princess came into the halls of Melkor, begging to sing in service to his majesty. She fooled them all and cast a spell of sleep upon them. And a Silmaril was taken from his Crown. That had been the beginning of the end.

Without the counsel of Melkor however, Celevonaur finally saw something long bereft to his eyes and mind; beauty. She was, as the prisoners of Angband once described, beautiful. There was something about her that he could not name. Something that he…craved. He felt a strong lust, to want to stroke his hand through that star-caught hair, or to graze his knuckles upon the softness of her face, or to gaze upon her form without covering or barrier, to see the perfection of a bodily form of the opposite sex. He felt the need to gulp hard, as if unable to wrestle his mind and focus away from such trivialities. This entity was not his friend. He had to be wary.

She was speaking. No, she was not hunting him, but had indeed come upon him by chance, and witnessed his skirmish with the bandits upon the road. How noble of him to save those people, though it had not been his intent. He merely wished to deny any fruits, whether treasure or living bounty, to a Temple dedicated to his former Master. How deluded these mortal Upstarts could be, far more than their elven counterparts. However, a tinge of fear spiked into his heart when this ainur could glimpse that he must be neither man nor elf given his strength. Was this it? He could feel a net enclosing about him.

But still, he did not speak, and would not speak, while under threat by that weapon. He could feel its divinity, its sacred strength, of some greater spirituality forged into its length and shape. More so, he could feel another familiar tinge coming off this woman as well. No hunter of Oromë looked or felt as she did. So who must she serve and why? And moreover, why was she out this far east?

As if to read his thought, she voluntarily disarmed herself, arrow replaced, and bow lowered. He felt no less safer. She introduced herself as… Yurë. Celevonaur narrowed his eyes. He knew enough of the thrall-tongues of elves, even finding it to be a superior language of sorts to the distorted tongues of orcs. She was seeking someone who was lost, which was a relief, as Celevonaur did not consider himself to be…lost, and therefore was beyond this entity’s purview. Right? She stepped forward and he could not restrain himself from subconsciously gripping his staff in greater force. Whatever the harmless reason of their encounter was…she was still an ancient enemy and foe of his, going back to the first Shaping of Arda. He did not know her in any of the memories since, but he knew her to be apart of the Valar’s host, and therefore no true friend to him.

He looked up again, still safely concealed by the shade of trees, and out of sight of Her. Yet why did it feel like Her rays of light fell harder when this entity showed herself to Celevonaur?

“Who am I?” He said quietly, in his deep baritone voice, bringing his eyes back to hers. If there had ever been any light of Eä in them, it had long since faded, blocked by shrouds and mental walls thicker than the battlements of Thangorodrim had ever been. A faint smirk came over his lips. “I am just a man of my age who has the strength to do what I did, looking the way I do. I know thus that now you are no elf either, though you bear the name of one, for an elf would have had the eyes to witness what it is I did. Are you sure you saw what you saw?” Celevonaur inquired back with a flick of his eyebrow, not only lying, but twisting the question of identification back onto her, onto Yurë. Runner. That’s what it means.

Speaking the lie though was as natural to him as it was to breathe. There was no indication that he was giving a falsehood. No darting looks, no quickening of the heart, nothing. He claimed to be a mortal man. He looked the part. He might be aged, but even aged mortals could do great deeds before their end.

“As for someone who is lost, I might point you out as the one. You do not exactly fit with any of the elves or men who dwell in this part of the world. You must be from the south. I walked there once, in my youth, so long ago. You are of their tribe, are you not?” Celevonaur said in regards to her second question. By appearing ignorant, she might not think him to be the mighty spirit akin to her that he was. And what he said was true this time, in a sense. He had walked in those parts of the world, when Arda was young, and mostly unmarred, and he had been a free spirit of fire who sought out the deep chasms and fissures of the world that opened up deep into the world’s crust. Volcanos they were called now and possessed underneath them a labyrinth of tunnels and holes that bore forth rivers of flame and lava from the very center of Arda. He once delighted in that. No more.

He took a step forward, gaze shifting to over her shoulder and beyond, though in her hair he caught a glimpse of…moonlight? His very intention and body language seemed to show he was done with the conversation. You have your answers, leave me alone. “If you seek those who are lost, the highest points would offer the best vantage point to gaze about you. Try the settlement. They have a great structure of stone, where any who are lost might seek to gather to find their bearings. Go, then.” He said, raising an arm to point in the general direction of the mannish settlement, where the temple dedicated to the worship of Melkorite truths was located. Yes, go there, and let my two enemies destroy one another. It was hardly a great structure however, scarcely taller than a hill, but he wanted her gone from his sight and mind however possible.

Yet, he knew not, that from that point onwards…she would forever be in his thoughts now.

He still hadn’t given her his own name. But any of the multitude that he had could reveal him to be an undesirable in the eyes of the Valar. And he was not ready for any strife with their servants. He took another step forward. They were nearer now, enough for him to lash out and strike with his staff, if things turned hostile. “Am I free to go now? Or will you restrain my passing as those who I vanquished tried to do?” He said, matching her gaze, eyes as deep in nature as was his voice, challenging her cause to stop him. But then again, why would he be so defensive, if he had nothing to hide?

With a snort, he decided not even to await her permission, for he did not require it, and began to move towards her with the intent to pass her by, eyes on the rising mountain ahead where his cavern lair was. And shared, with another.
 
Over the course of her journey east, Yurë had realized her greatest disadvantage in this task was not ignorance of the world beyond Aman (whose ways were quickly becoming second nature to her), nor even her limited skill with a bow (which was moderately improving with regular practice). She could move quickly and tired only on moonless nights, and was fair and soft-spoken enough that all but the most wicked of people were inclined to show her kindness. But all of this meant nothing when she realized with frustration yet again that she was not even sure what her quarry looked like.

"He was once a being of fire, one of my most beloved," the Great Queen had told her when she'd accepted the undertaking. "In those days he was a creature of extraordinary passion and beauty. You might once have known him by his golden hair and skin, but alas when he fell into shadow, so was his beauty corrupted."

Yurë had shuddered a little in response, recalling the shapes of balrogs and ungoliants that were woven into Vairë's endless tapestry. Surely Lady Varda had not expected her, a wandering dancer and wary runner, to hunt down such a being? It would be a miracle if even Yurë could escape their wickedness, and the idea of capture seemed utterly impossible.

Thankfully, the Lady had expected no such thing. "He was terrible once, hideous and frightening to behold. But his master is gone, and his body and power are broken. He is a thing to pity now, but even pity cannot stand before justice. Therefore, servant of Nessa, you must bring Celevonaur before me," Varda had commanded. And what could Yurë do but bow to her Queen in submission?

But when she'd looked up again, she saw no cruelty in the Lady's eyes. Certainly then whatever justice lay in store for the fugitive couldn't be too terrible, could it? At least, no worse than the atrocities Lady Varda accused him of. Still, the Queen had warned that Celevonaur would not come easily. "He was clever even before he fell under Melkor's tutelage, and I doubt he is less clever now. He will try to mislead you, and if that fails he will try to persuade you to abandon your quest. He may even attempt to harm you, but he will not be successful. You have my word on that," the Queen had said, and for a moment Yurë had watched Varda's bright eyes move from the setting sun in the west to the rising moon in the east. For neither the first nor last time, the Maia wondered if the Lady of Stars knew more about her strange origins than she was letting on, but the maiden was far too obeisant to ask.

Now as she stood before the old man, she seemed to feel the Queen's reassuring hand in the warmth of the sun that was filtering through the trees, and Varda's words echoed in her mind. He will try to mislead you.

Yurë did not believe the person before her was a man any more than she believed he was a rabbit or a rowan tree. Her entire life had been spent among beings of her own kind, and while they could take any number of forms there was still a certain sense about them that would resonate with her. But while she was quite certain the being before her was a Maia, she could not be sure he was the one she sought. During the course of her journey she'd encountered others; servants of Yavanna primarily, or the occasional hunter of Oromë tracking their own quarry. But the Valar had warned her prior to setting out that there were still other wicked Maiar in the world, wandering aimlessly with their master removed from it. Many of these were so far gone that the only thing left to do was eradicate them entirely, but thankfully that task would be left to others, and all Yurë needed to do was avoid them.

The old man before her certainly didn't look monstrous, but what servant of the Light would tell such an idiotic lie as claiming to be a mortal man? Surely he must have known what she was; did he think he could fool such a creature so easily?

She would need to act carefully. If this being truly was Celevonaur (and if he was, Lady Varda had been right; he was pitiful), Yurë could not afford to lose him so soon. And besides, hadn't her mistress said that the wisest tactic would be to bring him to Aman willingly? That meant before anything else, she needed to earn his trust. Then at the very least, if her instincts were wrong, he might at least be convinced to point her in the right direction.

Slinging the bow onto her back, the maiden took a step forth and held out both hands towards the old man, hoping he would see she meant no harm. "I saw a father who will get to say goodnight to his daughter at least one more time," Yurë replied gently. "That is hardly a crime to me, and I have no wish to detain you. But perhaps you will allow me to walk with you a bit?"

She paused a moment, trying to select her next words with the precision of a jeweler selecting gems. "You are correct in naming me a stranger to these lands. I come from very far away," Yurë continued, positioning herself beside the old man (and just far enough away to be out of range of his stick). Lying did not come naturally to her, but during the course of her journey she'd learned the rudiments of lettings others' assumptions stand in front of delicate truths. "The one I seek is no man, and I do not think he would dwell in a mannish settlement. But all I know of him I know secondhand, so I cannot say for certain. Can you tell me a bit about the place? Perhaps if it is a fine city I may be mistaken."

The idea seemed unlikely though. So far Yurë had not seen a single settlement of any kind that could measure up to the glorious elven cities in the far west, and in these bitter cold and wind-swept lands she could hardly imagine any place as civilized or beautiful as Tirion or Valimar. Besides, if the mannish settlement really was so wonderful, then why did the old man seem to be heading away from it, or at the very least bypassing it?

"Are you going very far, grandfather?" the maiden asked as they continued onward, noting that his pace seemed hardly hindered by age. "Is there anything I can do to aid you?" A wicked sense of amusement danced through her mind, although her expression remained mostly blank, with the slighted hint of feigned concern. If he insisted on pretending to be nothing more than a grouchy old man, then she could play at being the soft-hearted girl worrying after his health. If there was one thing Nessa had taught her servants well, it was how to give an entertaining performance, after all.
 
Sheer annoyance flooded his mind and face when the dusky-skinned woman refused to be cowed or turned aside. Both her hands were stretched out now, but no gesture or word on her part could conceal the true nature of her being. Celevonaur knew. It simply could not be missed. Her essence was empowering, all too…clean, and far too threatening and dangerous. A young woman she might appear as, but in true shape and form she was leagues above the Upstarts who might share her resemblance and youth. She was ainur and she could only have one purpose here. And that was the defeat and destruction of any follower of Melkor, which included him. Hopefully, his own weakened and still recovering spirit might not be so evident so as to be detected in reverse. But something had drawn her to him. He had to be wary.

No kindness, no soft-spoken words, or deed of politeness from her could sway Celevonaur from this view. She was his mortal enemy. And he doubted she had the capacity of thought to comprehend he was no longer a servant of the fallen Vala. Her mind was locked and bound by the Valar across the sea to do their bidding. Ah, he understood that all too well, what it was like to be an unwitting slave to higher powers. Poor her.

He snorted to her gentle comment about a father and daughter being able to spend another night together. The mortals were fleeting in life and that outcome would be threatened again and again to them, until they both passed on, like wisps of flame before a strong wind. All he did was delay an inevitable and it seemed to him a redundant thing to have done. Their paths would take them to the same eventuality. But when Yurë asked, or rather invited herself along for the walk, this time Celevonaur let out a very audible and exasperated sigh. She was going to follow him right back to his mountain home. He hung his head for a moment, wishing she would just drop the act, shoot out the accusation he perceived her to be holding, and either seize him for judgement before the Powers or let him be.

But why would he deserve such peace and rest…when for so long he had been a servant in denying it to so many others? Celevonaur swore he would make that right somehow. But that was between him and the Father, not with this…young spirit disguised in mortal form. As he was.

She agreed to his observation. She was indeed from far away. She didn’t say where, he noted, which only confirmed his suspicions. She strode beside him and his eyes drifted to the opposite side, where it was still bush and foliage and not her glowing brown skin under the Sun. He still wanted to touch it, to feel its smoothness, and its inner heat against his cheek. He knew not why such an urge came to him, where before he never knew such desire. Not even for the jewels and looted plunder that passed into the halls of Angband.

The one I seek is no man and I do not think he would dwell in a mannish settlement. “Your line of thinking, as ever, is astonishing.” He murmured sarcastically. Did all these young upstarts, mortal or immortal, have to be so obvious? She asked about the settlement he had mentioned, if it might be a fine city, which did cause him to cast a look of incredibility towards her. A fine city? What exactly did that entail? He had been to the settlement the locals called Bleakhost. It was a patchwork of hovels with creaky roofs and mud walls. A model of hygiene. With a mangy collection of stones in the shape of a hall, with an open chute in the ceiling, which they called a Temple. And did their fire sacrifices. Was it a fair city? Perhaps, by the perception of beasts.

“If it’s a fine city you seek, perhaps you should-“ Celevonaur began again, bitingly, but ceased himself. He was about to reference the elf refuges on the coast of the distant sea in the west…yet would a mortal man, as he was deigning to disguise himself as, know of such things? This far east, there was only rumor of the great strife and conflict that had been his entire existence. Elves to them were but fleeting apparitions in the woods. And dwarves but tellers of strange tales and stories, to match their strange language and appearances.

Are you going very far, grandfather?

For some reason, that stung. Ainur himself, his spirit was ageless and immortal as hers was, though his outward appearance merely an extension of the heavy sense of guilt, remorse, and defeat that he carried. But grandfather? Truly? His feet came to a pause and he gave another long, suffering sigh, shoulders slumped and gaze downwards, eyes closed for a moment. Her curiosity and persistence knew no bounds clearly. He tried to be scathing. She returned with obedient stoicism. No, he wasn’t going to lead her towards his home where she might pester him, until she acted upon a truth she must surely know about him. What was taking so long? He decided to wait her out. Force such conclusions to come to a head, if they be true. Looking aside from the road, and her offer of aid, he spotted a fallen log and approached it, placing his weight upon his staff as he turned and seated himself down upon it. His bones never strained like this before for such a simple act. He was truly weak of body. But his spirit lost no edge of its fire.

Collapsing both hands upon his staff, upright between his legs and before his face, he gazed at her fully now. The dotage was evident in her expression. Must be some trick to feign such devotion to garner what information she needed. “It seems it is I who must aid you, if you are to ever aid me in seeking what I wish.” Which is to be rid of you in this very moment. He ignored the question of where he was heading. If she could withhold information of where she was from, then she didn’t need to know where he was going.

“The city,” he began slowly, thinking that perhaps to a mortal mind it might be considered as such, “is called Bleakhost by the local tribes. They gather there to do their trade and discuss their policies of governance. Follow the road we have just left and in an afternoon’s walk, it shall bring your tireless feet there, southerner.” He explained to her, gesturing with his stick back down the forest path they had come.

“Though, you might deign to be careful, as a thing like you,” his eyes looked her over, recalling the young maiden he had just saved, “seems to be a commodity high in favor there, to their council of elders and priests.” He warned her, with a sly smile. Mostly in interest of the thought…of two of his foes coming into some sort of conflict. Good. It would force them to leave him alone.

“The one you seek might have passed through there, on the trading roads of the dwarves. But if it is your irksome tenacity that he flees, then a wiser individual might avoid all such locations. And make himself as scarce as he can in the vast wilderness of this world. You might as well chase a black dog in the lightless night.” Celevonaur went on, gazing at her critically. He might have made a mistake. How was he supposed to know the one she is seeking was fleeing? Might just be a lost friend or relative. Something entirely harmless. A guilty conscience was slipping into his thoughts and he needed to control that.

So he decided to throw her a hook…by deigning to appear interested now in her quest. “And who is it that you are seeking, Yurë?” He asked her, shifting his staff to rest against his chest and over his shoulder, beside his face, no longer impeding his sight of her. And her of him. Mairon perhaps? But that coward surrendered at the end of the War, did he not? Yet the image of the strange symbol on the cloth he had fired into his mind. That symbology felt familiar. She could not truly be seeking…Raugad, as he was known to the rebels and captive Upstarts. Her answer would resolve this riddle in his mind. It was either him…or it was not. And she would answer with words…or assault.
 
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“Your line of thinking, as ever, is astonishing.”

The words were softly spoken, but with a tone that actually cracked a smile across Yurë's otherwise blank face. How often had she wanted to speak similar words to the other foolish dancing girls in Nessa's train whenever they made some inane comment about flowers or trees? Of course to be so rude before her mistress was unthinkable, but it was refreshing to see another Ainu that wasn't bound by such congenialities. And why should he be, after all, masterless as the wretch now was.

No doubt if the maiden were in his position she would have been utterly lost and terrified, totally beyond the realm of even sarcastic humor. Yet...the old man didn't seem miserable. Annoyed, yes, but obviously being alone couldn't trouble him too much if he was so eager to be rid of his erstwhile companion. Yurë's smile faded into a renewed look of curiosity as she continued to follow a few paces back from him.

Perhaps it was just her imagination, but as she watched the slowing movements in his limbs, he almost seemed to age further before her very eyes. Had she been mistaken after all? Was he really so broken that his body was already tiring, or had she really stumbled across nothing more than a grumpy old mortal hermit? The apology was ready on her lips as he turned and sat down on the log, but when Yurë looked into his eyes fresh confidence roared up like a flame inside her. No mortal man has eyes like that. She was directly in front of him now, close enough that she could see the burning embers in the deep pits of his skull, and a shiver ran down her back. It almost felt like he could see straight through her clothing, even through her skin, until her very soul was naked and vulnerable before him.

Not since her awakening after the fall had she ever felt such a sensation, and most astonishing of all was the fact that the sensation wasn't totally unpleasant. If this is what his eyes feel like, then what would his hands--

Swallowing hard and forcing the thoughts into the darkest shadows of her mind, Yurë pulled her cloak more tightly about her as if that would provide additional shelter against his gaze, then set her jaw and nodded attentively as he described the city of men. Of course she had absolutely no intention of visiting such a place, not with her quarry directly in front of her, but it was only polite after all. Besides, with all of the old man's veiled threats about the inhabitants of Bleakhost, he couldn't honestly expect that a poor friendless girl would go to such a place alone?

No, it was clear to her now he was just playing the game; provoking her as she had done to him earlier with the jab about his age. The maiden let out a soft sigh of exasperation. Perhaps she just ought to have out with the entire matter. He would run, probably, but Yüre doubted he could be faster than Nessa, and even that great Lady never really managed to escape her servant's sight (although at the same time, Yurë had never managed to actually catch her mistress unless she desired to be caught). Glancing upward, the Maia judged there to be a few hours of sunlight left yet, and unless an untimely storm blew up there would be a waxing moon in the sky tonight. A healthy chase would certainly be less tedious than this banter.

"If the one I seek knew me, he would know better than to flee from me," she replied with a little flash of pique in her eyes. A moment later though, she regretted the sharp tone in her voice, realizing with fair regret she sounded a little too much like Lord Tulkas before a fight for her own taste. "He does not know me though," Yurë continued in a gentler tone, leaning against a birch and running her fingers against the smooth white bark. "He would know that I am no one to fear if he did. I am nothing more than a servant sent to find him on behalf of others. It is those that I serve he fears, I think, and perhaps not without good reason."

Glancing up through the trees again for the comforting sight of the sun, the Maia took another deep breath and looked back towards the old man. "The one I seek has many names, but the one that was spoken with the most kindness was Celevonaur, so that is how I've always thought of him through the course of my journey. I was asked to bring him home, and I cannot go back without him." Dropping her hands, they began to play with the fabric of her skirt, ready to jerk it out of the way the instant she would need to break into a run. But maybe she could still get him to linger, or at least own up to his identity and listen to what she had to say.

"If there is any mercy left in the one that I seek, I hope he will show it to a friendless maiden in a strange land. And in return, I expect mercy will be shown to him as well when his judgment comes. Such things cannot be put off forever, can they...grandfather?" Every muscle in Yurë's body was taught as a bowstring as a chill breeze suddenly tore through the trees, making her long hair dance in silvery wisps around her face as she prepared to spring.
 
The sigh of frustration from the dusky hued woman’s lips brought a smile to the pale mouth of Celevonaur as he watched her. She pulled her cloak about her, despite it being a warm, sunny day, and knew he was causing her discomfort with his most otherworldly eyes. It was something he hadn’t considered yet, not perceiving that the hue of his eyes might be deemed unnatural to those who were learned in the ways of the world. And the Upstarts. They themselves thought of him differently. Only one of the Elder born, or a fellow ainur, might tell the difference.

If this girl knew the truth of his identity, she wasn’t letting on.

If the one I seek knew me, he would know better than to flee from me. The girl taunted back, eyes flashing with some unknown knowledge known only to her and not to him. Still, he willed himself to show no emotion to this. Was she dangerous? By appearances…she was not. But Celevonaur knew full well that while his fellow kin might take very innocuous appearances, forms, and shapes, any ainur, even the least of their Order, was still very powerful and mighty. And after his defeat, even the least of them could still overpower and defeat him. Her words were a warning, one he should very well heed, and he did. He felt he was no coward in avoiding her searching thoughts. It was only practical. He was not ready to fight. But he would have to. For his freedom.

Her next words brought a strangeness to his thought, however. The one whom she sought, which must surely be him, would have nothing to fear from her? That was doubtful. Perhaps he was mistaken, and with a flicker of hope that the Valar had overseen his escape, he might not be forced to suffer a premeditated defeat against his ancient foes before he was fully recovered. And he would not be outnumbered. And he would not lose. The Valar were dotards. Once they realized the difficulties of the pursuit, surely they would let up. And then he would be left to explore this strange creation of the Father all on his own. As he believed he had always been destined to do.

But his hope was not lasting. She said it. She was sent as a messenger for others, whom she hinted was the real reason for that query’s fears. Celevonaur’s fears. But as long as they did not manifest themselves before him, especially Her, he was not overly worried. But then she spoke his name. His true name. Celevonaur. Spoken from her lips, it sounded so remarkable and enticing. She had thought of him often? Even without ever having met him? Celevonaur knew they had never met previously. He would know. He would have remembered. A face like hers? Skin like hers? Hair, of a colour and radiance, that which he once possessed, and was named for? Celevonaur. The Silver-Flame. It felt uplifting to hear it spoken of with such respect.

But he fought so very hard to present a façade, that the name meant nothing to him. But you have always thought of him. Did you ever think to believe that he had been reduced to this pathetic, former shadow of his once brightening flame and glory? He wanted to pick her mind and thoughts about what she might have presumed. It could just have been a wandering curiosity for her. Even that was desirous to Celevonaur. Every little bit, every memory, if even a rumour of that time, Celevonaur wished to know.

But to hope for such a return was to claim that his actions and choices in the interim had been wrong. Or erroneous. And he still had too much pride ever to confess such a thing, to any other or even himself. He had not been wrong. Led astray maybe, but his ambitions, his choices, he felt they were pure to his principles.

Such things cannot be put off forever, can they…grandfather?

She looked like a bow ready to snap with a projectile pulled back to the breaking point. How apt, given her actual possession of a bow. Celevonaur gulped, and the action could not be concealed, the gesture laborious and visible in his withered neck. He met her gaze, and the wind lapped at her silvery hair and caused it to often drape across her face. His fingers twitched, perhaps his mind imagining he was stroking them aside, and his fingers indeed believing that such envisioning were true right before his very form.

“That sounds like it must be the hope of the one you seek.” He answered quietly at first. Answering for himself. He rose to his feet, without aid of his stick, standing tall and bold. “Mercy, you say? The one whom Celevonaur fears are with a surety most certainly without mercy. You call it his home, but it seems to sound as nothing more than a prison, behind tall, sharp mountains akin to the bars of a cage, with a great moat separating them from…what, I imagine? Have you ever been in a cage, Yurë? You have, if you did not know it, and if you did know it, you might understand this…entity’s wish to refrain from being caught. Or known.” He spoke confidently, hinting that he had a very intimate knowledge of both the man she sought…and the inner workings of his mind. Naturally.

Because it was him. And he was all but revealing himself to her. He could be cunning. And like the false King upon His mountain in the West, surely his servants would fail to recognize it, as the King once did, with his own brother.

He took a step towards her, a faint smile on his lips. He could prevail in this, without fighting, without the need to reveal himself. “And if he does not wish to return home, what will you do?” He asked, another step towards her. “Such a sense of duty you must possess, to forsake your home to forever remain in the vast world. Which, I thought, or once thought, was destined to be the home of all living beings, to explore and wander where they will. Such joys you must have, entrapped in that fortified land, experiencing all the joys of the world afforded to you, while so much more is left unknown to you. But possessed by these others you readily serve.” He crossed the distance, until he stood within arm’s reach of her, and paused there.

“Tell me, do you think it is…worth it?” Celevonaur asked her directly, head tilted curiously to one side, sizing her up from toe to silvery mane.

He was speaking rapidly, nearly losing his composure, hoping to till the soil as quickly as he might, to plant as many doubts as he could. “This duty, and the eternal prize of being locked behind the walls of your master’s home, unable to see the majority of the world, that only they are permitted to rule and reap the rewards of? Perhaps this Celevonaur seeks such enjoyment himself, as is naturally promised to him, and all others. Would you deny him his natural rights and privilege?” His hand twitched, but so close to her face, so close to realizing his fantasizing, his hand did begin to rise. And it would extend, slowly, to reach for her face and to cup her cheek, gently, as a teacher might with a student who questioned the use of such wisdom he was being taught.

If she moved not, his hand would glide over her cheek. And if she moved aside, or struck his arm down, he would accept it. So be it.

“The friendless maiden could thus see the vast world she knows so little about, and lose that moniker, and perhaps earn herself a friend…if she but accepts this Truth. For it applies to her as well as Celevonaur. He would not deny it. To you.” He affirmed to her, the first seed of corruption to be placed in the untiled, untried soils of her mind. And using his own powers, thus revealing his true nature, he reached out to place a thought directly in her mind. He could not read or glimpse what was within, but only offer up…a suggestion. Or be a thoughtless automation of your masters and do your duty instead, the choice is yours. But the light is so much better on this side, if viewed without the lens of another placed over your sight and mind.

But it was a lie. For it was his own lens he was trying to fit over her thought, to make her turn aside from this goal. And perhaps…pick up another.
 
Yurë could feel her cheeks growing hotter as the old man's eyes locked with hers. Her first instinct was to immediately look away, the way Nessa's dancers did when the hunters of Oromë turned on them with amorous intent, regardless of whether the interest was reciprocated or not. She had always scoffed at those foolish creatures for that, either because they were feigning modesty when they had no intention of rebuffing the hunters' advances, or because they were too cowardly to send them off with force. And while Yurë didn't exactly want to send Celevonaur fleeing off into the woods if she could help it, neither did she want him to think she would be so easily cowed with nothing more than a look.

So she met his stare and returned it with equal audacity, her shoulders moving down and back and seeming to emphasize the length of her swan-like neck as she held her chin high. On the outside she really might have been some southern queen or princess exerting herself over an impudent commoner, but behind the silvery flash of her eyes her mind was reeling as she listened to his words. Technically his description of her--their--homeland was accurate, but Yurë had never thought of Aman in such stark terms before. True it seemed small to her now that she had traversed it so many times and seen something more of the wider world, but it was hardly a prison, much less a cage.

"Has Celevonaur found a new home then?" she asked when he was finished, her voice dry as the wind rippling through the trees. "Someplace of beauty where he has found peace and comfort among his many friends still lingering in this world?" Yurë's posture relaxed a little as she spoke the words, though her mouth was still as firm as ever. Judging by their current surroundings, she could hardly imagine the ainu before her was hardly living the life of peace that most experienced in Aman. If the weather wasn't bad enough, the hardscrabble farms couldn't be keeping him very well fed, and if the old man had a house of any kind she doubted it could offer either comfort or security from the dangers of the outside world.

But she did have to pause at the idea of friends. From what she had been told, Celevonaur was one of the last of the fallen fire spirits in Varda's service, the rest all having been captured, banished, or lost long ago. The Great Queen firmly believed her prodigal servant was currently living and acting alone, and while under normal circumstances Yurë wouldn't have dreamed to doubt her, she didn't like the idea of suddenly being outnumbered by the self-proclaimed enemies of the Valar. Glancing around as if some shadowy figure was ready to burst out of the trees, the maiden finally let out a breath that could have easily been interpreted as another sigh of exasperation, even if it was heavy with relief.

There's no one else here. He is utterly alone. The idea should have given her comfort, and yet there was something pitiful about that as well.

"I left my home because those I love and honor have trusted me with this task," Yurë continued, catching a glimpse of the sun again and feeling reassured with the statement. "I was asked to carry it out, not demanded. Nor was I ever forced to remain anywhere I did not wish to be." Taking a step forward, she met his eyes again, though there was less ferocity in her gaze now, and a softer light behind them. "Not all powers in this world are like the Great Enemy. A person may do a service to another without being forced to, but out of regard for those that have shown them kindness and friendship. And it is possible to remain in a place out of love rather than fear. But perhaps you--I mean, perhaps Celevonaur has forgotten such things in his long absence."

Her voice was unwavering as she spoke, and while Yurë did not doubt the truth of her words, even she had to admit they were as pretty as one of Nessa's flower crowns; lovely but hardly encapsulating the true wilderness of the world. She did miss home, and her mistress and the few she considered her friends. But there was something dreadfully anticlimactic in the idea that Celevonaur would accede to the idea of returning so quickly. If he did agree, and it was something as simple as turning around and going back to the waiting ship, then she would be back in the fields and forests of the West in only a few months' time; the blink of an eye to an ageless being like her. And the idea of returning so quickly...well, yes, it was disappointing.

The old man must have seen the shadowy doubt passing across her face, and as if from a distance Yurë noticed new energy had slipped into his voice, making him sound less like an old man and more like a seductive courtier. He will try to mislead you she reminded herself. He claimed to want freedom. She could hardly fault him that, and might have been inclined to agree if the blaze of his eyes hadn't suddenly reminded her of the fires she'd seen woven into Vairë's tapestry. The maiden had never witnessed the battles of the Great War firsthand; Nessa was hardly of use in combat. But she'd seen the violence and wanton destruction that had nearly destroyed all of creation in the Great Enemy's quest for dominion, and she could hear Varda's voice in her mind reminding her why Celevonaur needs to be brought back.

"He needs to answer for what he has done."

She stiffened as she felt the hand caressing her cheek. Others had touched her in such a way when the wanted something from her, but only Nessa had ever done so out of genuine affection. If he hadn't touched her, Yurë might not have recognized the rebellious thought in her mind was not her own, but her guard was firmly raised now, and her body had gone still as a statue.

"I would see justice done," she answered finally. "Tempered with mercy, but justice all the same. When the price that is owed has been paid, then I will say Celevonaur has earned his freedom and may live as he pleases." The maiden paused, then shrugged slightly, stepping out of his reach and taking a small length of silken cord from one of the inner pockets of her cloak. Tying her hair securely out of her face, she turned slightly away from him, raising one of her brows carelessly. "And when my own debts of gratitude are paid to those I serve, who is to say I would not seek out a penitent, wise in the ways of this world? I should think he must have a great deal of knowledge to share with a foolish girl, far from home."

"But that is far in the future," Yurë continued, smoothing back the thick silvery hair from her brow. "In the meantime, it is getting late. May I see you home, grandfather?"
 
The rogue maia didn’t know whether to feel suspicious or astonished when Yurë seemed to play along with his game of semantics. He was indirectly admitting himself to be the one whom she sought, speaking with such intimacy that surely only the real Celevonaur would know. So why hasn’t she changed her form into something more warlike and come after him? He quirked his eyebrow at her answering query, if he had found a new home, and if it was restful and gave solace to his personage. Many friends still lingering in this world… As if he had them from its inception. Nor did he have them during his height of power. Friendship? A token of weakness, of vulnerability, and the bonds of friendship were the things that delighted the torturers and questioners in Angband. Fools would do anything to protect a friend. He had no such delusions. Ever.

He did not answer her remark except for a pointed stare. Yes, wouldn’t she like to know. Perhaps she might feign peace now and return later with many of her more skilled and mightier compatriots. They had nearly overcome Celevonaur last time, managing even to de-house his mighty, black and terrible form. He had yet to recover. So why doesn’t she do it herself? Why seek to trick me? He couldn’t fathom actual genuine aid or curiosity on her part. Celevonaur understood only his brand of philosophy. And to him, all else behaved or acted in a similar way, for their own self-interest, or the interest of the higher powers they served. She will drag you before the mound of thrones, for your humiliation, final defeat, and at last, your own thrusting from Arda. And he so desperately didn’t want to be thrown into the cold dark, where there was no heat, or fires, to delight him. Even with his kinswoman so far above, glowing bright and round, he preferred her mocking touch to the complete absence of any of that.

I left my home because those I love and honor have trusted me with this task. I was asked to carry it out, not demanded. Nor was I ever forced to remain anywhere I did not wish to be. He could have snorted with laughter. She spoke the statement proudly and boldly, but Celevonaur felt his lips twitch in a very unkind smile, as if he knew much that she did not, and her ignorance was only making her appear foolish to him. Very foolish. Which only served to spike his suspicions. She was far more powerful in might at this moment. Why am I humoring this…naivety?

“So you say.” He merely answered when she expressed further reinforcement of this ideal, that some could act on behalf of others for nothing more besides good faith and good will. Something for nothing. It seemed a foolhardy exchange. And you so happily obey? You are more brainless than the orcs of my master. No one gave such gifts or favors without expecting something in return. That was simply the way of the world that he knew. She lived far too closeted a life. But I have not forgotten. I, who once received the gifts of Melkor, and so went down the path that led to this point.

But as he stood before her, hand caressing her cheek, he realized that he didn’t care about any of that. In that moment he knew there would be no greater gift, nothing more worthwhile, or capable of offering recuperation to all those false gifts…than to know Yurë. In all senses. Touch, feel, thought. Her skin was soft as silk. There was light woven in her hair. And in her eyes, bright and keen, there was a well of youth that he could only envy now. While he might one day resume the form of his younger self, his spirit was far too damaged, too traumatized, to ever have such vigour as Yurë did within her face.

The possibility of that beauty didn’t last long. She talked about him owing a price, one that must be paid, and he fought the urge to laugh feyly at her words. You mean with my total and complete ejection from the circles of the world. Never. Reality seemed to return and smote him across his face.

Just like that, she seemed to deny him the new treasure that he sought. She stepped out of reach of his hand, turned to wound her hair away, its light no longer dancing for his delight or appreciation. Her gaze was elsewhere, if even momentarily, and that seemed to sting. And without the focus of her eyes, it felt as if he indeed was thrust into the void, cold and empty. What was this he was feeling? Give it back to me!

Then she seemed to imply something else, that one day she might come in search of someone…like him, to learn and know the world, without the lens of another placed before her. His brow furrowed intensely at that concept. Yes, he would teach her. He wanted to teach her. But how could he, when her very concept of justice in this case involved turning him over to her superiors? What game was she playing now? Celevonaur felt a confusion of a sort he had not known in a long time. Melkor had always made things clear to him, but he realized then it had only been nuances that he had not the wit to see. Yurë was puzzling him, yet the inverse did not seem true, and the clear meaning of her words was no less obvious as those of Melkor’s were. He was still peering at her, very taken aback by her statement, even as she asked to take him further to his home.

He didn’t consent verbally. He just jerked his head in the direction of the looming mountains to the north and started to walk towards them again, using his staff to support his frame as he walked, cutting into the peaceful solace of the forest with the occasional thud of the butt into the soft ground.

“You have debts to pay? To those you serve? And yet I thought you were free of such service through kindness. And friendship.” He questioned her with a bemused snort, speaking forward as he walked, yet his voice clear and deep enough to resonate to her as she followed. “That you owed nothing and do so only because of affection. Yet now you are indebted? Sounds as if you are not as free as you think, young Yurë.” He said, speaking her name with a slur, feeling his lips smile as he pronounced it. It was a lovely name, unique, and different, as she was. Did the elves give her that name? What did her parents or people name her?

“Have you ever tried to be elsewhere? Without your master’s sight or knowledge? To know the freedom perhaps that every step or action you might take would not always be watched, or recorded? Where is the freedom in living in such a guarded place where everything you do, whether you frolic in meadows or dance upon the mountain tops, is known to everyone and all? You call that remaining out of love? I say you live in a deluded sense of fear. You simply don’t know what else there is, because they don’t want you to know.” Celevonaur said, pausing suddenly and turning to look back at her. He jerked his head again towards the mountains. “Come with me and you’ll come to a place where none can see you. Or hear you. Or know what you do. Perhaps you will like it. Perhaps the boundless possibilities of such a life might drive you back to your master’s feet, preferring the stability of having your life dictated for you.” He challenged her with a sly smirk. He was forcing her to defend her ideals…and yet accept herself as a thrall.

He snorted quite disdainfully again. “Asked, demanded, ordered. Justice, mercy, revenge.” Celevonaur went on with a roll of his eyes, turning to begin walking again. The trees were giving way to a rising cliff of stone. And yet, on he spoke, ignoring the burning ray of light from the sinking sun upon the back of his neck, as if trying to chide him for what he was about to share with the young maia.

“Do you not see that these words all mean the same thing? You might look at water and think all beneath is blurry and muddled. But those who dwell under might look above and see the sky as the same. The teachings instilled in your mind is the same as the surface of water, muddling you to the inherent truths before you. All powers in this world are the same. That is why they are Powers. They make reality whatever they wish to make it. And you, my dear Yurë are but a pawn in their game. As Celevonaur was. But he is no longer a pawn. And if you wish to learn from him, one day, here and now or in the far future, as far as your mind can fathom, he will not teach it to you. Even were he forced to regale you with it, you would never understand, for your mind is locked.”

The final branches of the treeline were thrust out of his way, revealing a tall shelf of stone and rock that rose to heights far above, which now only a bird could ascend. The wall stretched in either direction to their sides, revealing no passage or valley in which to proceed further. But Celevonaur, with an air of confidence in his steps, turned eastwards and continued for a short distance, until the shelf served northwards, revealing the cold, dark entrance of a tunnel concealed by the bend of the stone. There Celevonaur paused before its gaping maw, peering into the darkness, and yet seeing all. It was but bare rock, but the jagged edges smoothed away, revealing the strange solidified molten rock of lava torrents that had long ago ceased their torrents. But the rock remained, in strange patterns, and was but a small momentum to the throes and mighty rivers of fire and lava that once criss crossed the formulative world of his youth. His delight and power.

And now his home.

There were a few objects scattered around. Loose logs, a tanning rack, a few tools, a whip. Bones scattered on the ground, ashes in a small pit, and several other walking sticks and staffs sat neatly against the cliff side. Not much of a home. Celevonaur paused and turned back to her, gazing at the concealed sun behind the trees, the sky turning a bright flaming orange, before the wall of night would come upon it all. “And here we are, the door to my modest home. I hope you are proud, forcing an old grandfather indoors because of some obligation of time. How the love of freedom begets the giving of freedom to others.” He spoke in soft jest. Late? Early? Day? Night? What were these things to a sleepless immortal anyways? He faced her fully now, his staff out to one side, his other hand limp at the other.

“You’ve seen me home. Now all that remains…is your decision, Yurë.” Are you going to arrest me, leave me…or join me? Pick, your duty or your freedom.
 
Yurë was surprised Celevonaur put up no argument when she asked about his lair. She had fully expected he would be content to sit in the glade well into the night, trying to dissuade her from her task until his tongue was tired from wagging. Then again it was getting colder, and the Maia could feel it the instant the rim of the sun dipped behind a wave of clouds overhead, fat with rain and snow that would no doubt begin falling by evening. A shiver went down her back, and for a moment Yurë almost wished the old man's hand was still lingering on her cheek. There was a strange warmth in it she had never felt before, and like a fresh breeze it seemed to stoke a small flame deep inside her, giving it new strength and power until she felt a surprisingly pleasant inferno in the bottom of her abdomen.

There was danger in a touch like that though; a risk that the fire might spread until her mortal body was wholly consumed and beyond her control.

So the maiden merely pulled her cloak more closely about her, and narrowing her eyes just in case the old man was still trying to lead her astray. Celevonaur seemed much more interested in belittling her ties to Aman, however, and best as Yurë tried to look past them, his words still needled at the back of her head.

"You must have seen many summers indeed, grandfather, to have forgotten what it is to love another person," she shot back, raising her hood to shield herself against rapidly cooling wind. "To feel affection is to be indebted. The more you care for someone, the less you will not do for them, because once the task has been completed the reward is paid back tenfold." In the chill gloom of the approaching evening, it was hard for Yurë to picture her victorious return to Aman in her mind, but nonetheless she tried. The Lord of Waters would tell the others when her ship was returning, and she had little doubt Nessa and Tulkas would be there to await her return. Possibly even the Great Queen herself if she meant to take custody of the captive immediately.

Still keeping pace with the old man (though feeling slightly more weary with every mile), Yurë stole another glance at the back of Celevonaur's head. What would Varda do with him once she had him back again? The fates of other rebels were only whispered about among the Maia, and only spoken or asked about aloud by the bravest. But Yurë knew there were some that had done their penance and were almost fully accepted back into Maiar society again; mostly those that had been taken by Melkor against their will and served him purely out of fear. Those that had joined him willingly suffered much harsher consequences: imprisonment or hard labor, almost always beyond the spheres of creation and out of reach of their more loyal comrades.

And the worst of them...well, the worst would be banished entirely, never to return to this world.

But surely that would not be the case for Celevonaur. No, if he were truly that wicked and dangerous, Lady Varda would not have sent a Maia as insignificant as Alcalantë the Runner after him...would she? If so, the Great Queen either grossly overestimated her current servant, or underestimated her former one.

Why did he choose to serve Melkor? Yurë wondered a she continued to follow after him. She suspected that would be the key to his ultimate fate. If he really was cruel and vicious by nature, without any hope of redemption, then perhaps he was right to fear the justice awaiting him in the West. But while Celevonaur certainly seemed clever and more than a little cantankerous by nature, he certainly didn't strike fear into the maiden's heart. And he had helped those people back in the road, without any benefit to himself and a fair amount of risk to go with it. She shook her head, nearly knocking back her hood in the process. Lady Varda will show him mercy she told herself, sure the Great Queen would not be so wasteful as to banish one who still had the smallest amount of goodness inside him.

To Celevonaur's credit though, he was trying his hardest to hide it. For a moment her eyes flashed red in the depths of the hood at the idea of being called a pawn. "Celevonaur seems to know an awful lot about someone he's never met," she snapped. "And I would hardly give credence to his judgments of character, considering he chose to ally himself with one who was soundly defeated by the powers he scorns so much." A thought occurred to her then, and a rather taunting grin shone beneath the shadows of her hood. "I wonder if that's why he gives so little thought to bonds of friendship and affection? Because he chose his last friends so poorly and is now too ashamed to face his former ones?"

They had come to the bitter black line of mountains by now, and Yurë's smile faded at the thought of attempting what would surely be a slippery climb once the sun was fully concealed. For the moment though it was shining in one last hopeful ray of brilliance, emphasized by the shadow of the coming clouds and night. For a moment, Yurë thought Celevonaur would take the opportunity to flee, but he was still standing there when she turned back to face him, albeit he had pointed out a rather ominous-looking hole in the cliff as his place of shelter.

The Maia hesitated. Dark places in general unnerved her, and the though that the old man might have a companion or two waiting to strike from the shadows still lingered in her mind. Would it perhaps be better to part ways now, and come back in the morning? Well, the light of day might give a little extra radiance to the immediate mouth of the cave, but it would hardly address the problem of others hiding farther in the mountain. Besides, what if it was all a diversion, and the cave really was nothing more than a hole in the wall? If she left her target now, it was very likely she would return tomorrow and find him long gone, and the search would have to start all over again, only this time Celevonaur would know he was being hunted.

There was no choice then. She needed to stay with him. "Very good. Now perhaps you might return the favor by granting shelter to a lonely girl for the night? I do believe it's starting to rain," Yurë replied placidly as she sat down on an upturned log that resembled a stool of some kind. Glancing around, her eyes felt distastefully on the bones and other refuse littering the floor, and gently kicking away a loose scrap of what she hoped was an animal skin. "I'd be happy to straighten things up a bit for you in return, or maybe help with a bit of cooking?" Since assuming her current shape and eating food for the first time, the maiden had acquired an interest (albeit not much of a talent) in the culinary arts, and even carried a small portion of rations with her for those rare occasions she had a chance to experiment.

Regardless of how the time was spent though, as she lowered her hood again the expression on Yurë's face was clear as she stared defiantly back at her host: she wasn't going anywhere.
 
Celevonaur seems to know an awful lot about someone he’s never met. To this…sly, snapping remark, he merely cast her a pointed look of exhaustion. Truly? You are still caught up in that game of semantics? He was fortunate to return his gaze to the path ahead when he did, concealing the sudden instinct to snarl, brow furrowing and teeth flashing, when the girl just had to rub in his failed allegiance to the losing side. Who knew He would turn out to be such a coward before the end, when so many he deemed lesser chose to perish in combat. He felt an abrupt urge to want to strike Yurë and force these understandings upon her. Yes…He would enjoy watching that from the Void, His wayward servants still performing His bidding.

But the burning desire was more from the fact that she was…right. He had chosen poorly. He had let a fleece be laid upon his eyes and his thoughts to be muddled with promises and platitudes. He could see that now about the word of Melkor. It was all empty platitudes, meant for the hearer to instill whatever meaning they wished, and thus diluting the minds of once self-determined individuals into witless followers. Like him. Oh, he could have struck her so hard for forcing him to confront such truths that he wasn’t ready for. Yet all Celevonaur could do was grit his teeth and trudge forward, through space and time, to whatever fate he could crave out amongst himself. And it would be nowhere as grand as the promises he had first been swept up in. For having risked for so much, now he was doomed to have so little.

This time, there was no concealing the groan of irritation when Yurë now asked, now insisted, that she be given shelter. She already seated herself, in a place where he usually liked to sit and ponder the strange music of the woods or mountain slopes. His eyes fell flat upon her at her next offer. Cook? Straighten things…up? This must be more of her foolery. What was there to even tidy up? He was almost certain she was having a go at him. Much like his own ilk. Toying with one’s food before making the bite? His hand clenched around his quarterstaff, his unnatural strength causing his fingers to crush small indentations along its length, the wood splinters cracking as quietly as a snapped twig under foot might be.

Cook. Yes, cook. Something their kind didn’t need, yet was a luxury that could be enjoyed. Being a spirit of fire, he enjoyed it heated. But capturing and butchering animals for such a need was not an easy task. His eyes fell upon her bow. Not exactly his weapon of choice. But then a cruel thought came to him and he released any façade of anger, breaking into a smile as sized her up again.

“How very kind of you.” He said drily. “I do have a pinch in my stomach. Something warm and juicy gnaws my desire. I hope your little bow there simply isn’t ceremonial. Why don’t you hunt us something for the pot?” He asked her, trudging about, until he uplifted and revealed a small black kettle half buried in the dust, and stained very much with it. It hadn’t been used it some time, but there was plenty of water nearby, where it could be washed. And he could add some wild berries and mushrooms for use.

That is, if the poor girl wasn’t such a naturalist and could bring herself to slay the creatures and children of revered Yavanna. He imagined her type to be vegetarian, as some of the Upstarts and rebels were. She offered after all. And one should not make bargains with demons and devils. If this does not provoke her true intentions…

Well, he would have to sit and enjoy a meal with her. At least he might get to see her squirm with discomfort. She was clearly no hunter of Oromë who delighted in such things.

Try, at least. “In exchange, you may happily seek shelter within my cave.” Quite spacious, enough to fit a thousand. If she wanted to make lopsided deals with him, he wasn’t going to refuse. “The hares are quick here, the stags even more. Do bring plenty. I shall fetch water and other amenities. If that’s permitted by your leave of course.” He left her with a snort and wave of his hand, dismissing her authority even as he mentioned it, taking the small kettle in both hands to a nearby spring of water to cleanse, and after that, he would fill its shallow depth with contents of wild berry and mushrooms that grew around here. A modest fare, consumed more so out of boredom than by need. Best to enjoy all the old luxuries. I doubt any such grow in the cold, dark Void where she intends to take you.

He wondered if he should just run. But she had proven she was quick on his feet. And she had at least recognized the strength of his spirit. He would not be able to put any great distance between them to muddle the trail. And what if she doesn’t seek to apprehend you. What if she decides…to stay? Celevonaur did not know which fate was worse. Was this how the Valar tortured his kind? With minor inconvenience and annoyance? It was ingenious in a way. He was too rational a spirit to simply attack someone without provocation.

Instead, his feet found themselves making their way back after a short while. The pot was rinsed cleaned and filled with berry and mushroom, which he spilled aside, and returned once more with water in the pot. In the pit that served for a hearth, he lay a few twigs and branches that were no way conducive to fire starting, but he did not need such elements or tools are some Upstarts required. Seeing that he was alone, all he had to do was touch one end, and close his eyes. And from his inner spirit, he drew out just a small piece of himself, and from his heart through his hand, it went into the end of the branch. There it sparked, and then caught flame, at once sparking as if fuel had been doused upon it. Soon the entire pit was aflame, dancing in the wide pools of his eyes as it bright a smile to his face. Whether for heat, or destruction, he delighted in it.

And as one might cup water to rinse their face, Celevonaur reached into the bowels of the flame, and cupped his hands within, drawing some out to wash across his features in a refreshing manner, feeling its heat invigorate him. Standing tall, with no hunch or ache in his limbs, he retook his seat and awaited the return of his companion.
 
Yurë had to acknowledge that there was a certain absurdity at the idea of two creatures such as herself and Celevonaur (and judging by the indignant gleam she caught in the old man's eyes when she insulted the Úmaia's bad decisions, all doubts of the old man's identity had evaporated) doing something as mundane as cooking or tending house--if she were so generous as to call the cave a house. In Valinor, the maiden did of course have minor chores to attend to in Nessa and Tulkas' house: sweeping away any leaves or litter that might have blown in through the many open doors and windows, clearing away furniture when the gentle rains of summer constrained the dancers to the inner halls, and of course repairing or disposing of those household goods that somehow managed to break whenever the master of the house was in a particularly rambunctious mood. Cooking was a much rarer activity however, usually only done by a select few servants while the Lord and Lady were entertaining guests. Until she had crossed the sea, Yurë had always known eating as an activity of pleasure rather than necessity, and since stepping foot in the lands of the east she had wished on more than one occasion she'd bothered to learn the skill from the kitchen mistress back home.

In the meantime though, she'd learned enough to avoid starving her current form. When inns had been plentiful the maiden had marveled at the skills of the cooks she'd met, but in the wilds she preferred to forage for whatever olvar might be in season. Hunting was her least favorite method of obtaining food, but she'd managed it on a few occasions when the grasping fingers of hunger had clawed into her stomach, though the meals had tasted like ash in her mouth.

Now as Celevonaur challenged her to such a task, Yurë felt a refusal hovering in her throat. The predatory smile on his face did nothing to convince her this wasn't just some trick to send her away while he made his escape. Then again, where would he go? It would be night soon, and the temperature was already beginning to fall outside of the cave. It would be quite ironic for a creature of fire to die by freezing, but considering his current state of frailty it certainly seemed possible. Yurë shivered a little at the sound of the wind outside. No, it would not be a pleasant way to die, though she supposed it would save the effort of bringing him back to Valinor.

Finally, it was the sake of her own comfort that made her agree to the suggestion. If nothing else, she at least knew now where she could get shelter for the night. If Celevonaur wanted to run off in the meantime, she could at least get some sleep out of the rain and wind, and in the morning when the sun rose she could just start the hunt all over again.

"Very well then, I will see what I can find," the maiden acceded, though her expression fell somewhat at the idea of going back outside. Thankfully she had noted animal tracks not far from the cave's entrance outside, and perhaps if she was quick she might still catch up with her quarry before all light was gone. Yurë didn't speak another word to the old man in the cave, but there was another flash of warning in her eyes as they lingered on him for a moment. Then she was gone, quick as lightning, with only a gleam of silver lingering as the wind blew her hood back and sent her hair cascading wildly behind her.

Despite the waning light of evening, Yurë's eyes still had no trouble picking up the impression of cloven hooves in the mud beyond the cave. For a moment she hesitated to follow them, fearing their maker might have been a stag. The maiden hadn't forgotten the promise she'd made to her mistress never to harm one of Nessa's beloved creatures, but after further investigation and the sight of several smaller hoofprints beside the larger set, the huntress let out a sigh of relief as she judged them to belong to a mother boar and her young. Of all creatures, these were the ones the maiden cared for least, disliking their ugly looks and greedy demeanors. She did, however, enjoy the taste of bacon and had eaten an entire plateful at the last opportunity.

Yurë even had experience hunting such creatures back in Valinor, under the tutelage of one of Oromë's most accomplished hunter, Kemós the Spearman. He was one of those who had dogged the runner's steps most diligently when she had first entered Nessa's service, and the tall, broad Maia who wore a man's shape and a beard worthy of a dwarf had made no secret about his desires for the silver-haired maiden. The spearman had a reputation among his compatriots of tracking his prey with all the stubbornness of an old mule, and despite Yurë's marked disinterest in him he had refused to give her up. Instead he'd tried to ingratiate himself with the fair dancer by trying to show her the ways of the woods, teaching her how to identify the traces of different beasts and where to find even the slightest hint of their patience. He'd even been able to help her improve her skill with the bow, and when Yurë had felt his large hands repositioning her wrist and shoulder, and his hips pressed firmly against hers as he adjusted her stance, there was no denying he'd aroused other curiosities in her as well.

But even though Kemós had taught her the ways of pleasure just as thoroughly as he'd taught her how to hunt, he had still come no closer to conquering Yurë's heart. While she was willing to admit he had his strengths, the spearman was simply too much of a braggart, too selfish, and frankly too boar-like to bring her to anything more than general tolerance of his presence. It was good to have him on a hunt, but beyond that his absence was hardly missed.

Still, the huntress did think of him a little when she came across the mother boar and a half dozen young mucking about beside a rotten log. The sow was too big to take down with arrows alone, unless Yurë wanted to waste half her ammunition taking down a carcass she'd have to drag all the way back to the cave, but the piglets looked more promising. They must have been a few months old and beyond the nursing stage (another comfort; Yurë hated the idea of slaughtering very young creatures, even boars), but not yet as big as their mother and with hides that were just beginning to grow a wintery shagginess. Raising her bow, she tried to focus her eyes on the nearest of the young, lining up the target with the path of her arrow.

For a moment the clouds parted overhead, and a silvery beam of moonlight shown down and landed on a snorting piglet with its back turned to the huntress. Fresh energy seemed to fill Yurë's limbs, and she let the arrow fly. At that moment, her target must have picked up her scent, and as it raised its head and turned slightly towards her, the shot pierced cleanly through its neck, ending the piglet's life in a gurgled squeal that sent the rest of its brood fleeing in fear. Yurë let them go, offering a few whispered words to Yavanna and Oromë as she moved to the creature's side.

Some time later, she returned to the cave cradling the piglet in her arms almost tenderly, though she wasted no time in setting it aside as soon as she saw a fire already lit in the hearth. To Yurë's surprise Celevonaur was still there, standing before the flames with his back to her. At first she thought he had started their supper already, but when she saw the pile of berries and mushrooms off to the side her brows knit together in confusion. What was he doing? Somehow she couldn't find the words to ask. Instead the maiden continue to stare at his back, noting he seemed different now than from when she had left. Perhaps it was just the smoke and heat of the flames causing a wavering outline of his silhouette, but she could almost have sworn that two men were standing before her: one the crooked, skeletal figure she'd followed here, and the other...

Tall. Golden. Glorious. That strange fire Yurë had felt inside when Celevonaur had touched her before seemed kindled anew, desperate to reach out to something else that seemed to burn within him. It occurred to the Maia as she watched him that she wanted him to touch her again, not just on her face, but everywhere. And she wanted to touch him as well, to see just how hot the fire could grow before it consumed her utterly. Alas, if only poor Kemós knew how little it really took to rouse the maiden's desires, assuming the right person was standing before her. It was lucky for Yurë though that a cold burst of wind blew through the cave entrance in the next moment, bringing a little flurry of fresh snowflakes with it. If it hadn't, the huntress might have even gone so far as to throw herself at man before the fire, but the chill and another glimpse of the moon outside was enough to chill her heart.

For now.

"I couldn't find a rabbit," she said finally, picking up the dead piglet again. "But I thought this might do well enough." Yurë paused, suddenly feeling quite awkward. "I...I don't know anything about butchering pigs," the Maia admitted, not having any desire to learn the trade either. "I can take care of the rest though, if you'll see to that part." Her own stomach was beginning to growl now, and there was no denying that the riches of Celevonaur's foraging certainly looked tempting in their own right.
 
For a brief moment, a flicker of a timeless aeon, Celevonaur was hale and robust once again. The heat of the deadly flames invigorated him, whipping through every fiber and nerve, reminding the aged spirit of the vigor of youth and an unbridled strength. He was as he had been, in the beginning, before the corruptions and degradations to which he had been subjected to in his allegiance. A capture of his truer self, before the battles and scars and wounding. Before he had been dehoused from his first and original form. But the flame was fleeting, of mortal substance, and could not infinitely rejuvenate the diminished spirit beyond the capture of a few heartbeat’s duration. He was aged once again, caught in the weak, fragile hröa that his deformed spirit had reanimated upon, reflecting his inner, most sanctum-guarded emotions.

He sighed. He felt it would never return to him. He was trapped in this pathetic form for the rest of eternity. Only someone like he could understand what crushing burden that could be. It was not a physical weakness that ailed him. His shoulders once squared and strong now sagged by the weight of emotional wreckage. He was a failure. A refugee. An outlaw. And they were all around. Waiting. Watching.

She had returned.

This…strange entity, a lickspittle of the Valar, who sought now to doggedly shadow his steps and every motion. He had always thought the jail cells of Mandos would be tight. A box, not large enough to stand tall in, nor wide enough to lay down upon, with just a small slit to the outside world, so he might pass it by, while he remained forgotten and ignored in some inescapable hole. But he was starting to realize a cage need not bars or lack of space. The Void too, full of endless emptiness, dark and cold, but…endless. Or what about here and now? Were the Valar so full of hubris they could assign a watch-dog upon Celevonaur, so far from their bastion of power and isolation? And yet simple as Yurë appeared to be, in motive and cunning, in his present form she far outmatched Celevonaur in might and ability. He had to wait. He had to bide his time.

She had been watching him. How long had she been watching him? Did she see his little ritual and spell with the flames? He had to be more careful. He was no longer safe even in this place.

His eyes barely took note of the boar. She had surprised him, not being so fickle or docile as to take the life of a precious child of Yavanna. He supposed they had finally learned the hard wisdom of necessity above preservation. Slowly, Celevonaur rose back onto his feet from where he had been sitting, the actions stiff and slow, only the bare minimal muscles required for the gesture in use. Every other part of him seemed frozen in place, like the spirit that always had its place in the endless ocean of time. He carried no bladed weapon with him, but one was required here. And he would not ask her for any use of what she carried. No doubt hallowed by the Valar, it would be anathema to a spirit such as he.

“Lay it by the fire.” He simply instructed her, a tone no louder than the crackling and dance of flames. Now he was cold, as cold as the snows and grey mountain tops. And then he turned and went into the cave’s entrance. Moments later, he would return with a simple dagger, of black iron, no hilt or guard, and the blade slightly curved, rusted, and broken in small places. An orc dagger. Still, the poor quality might make it no different than the cheap knives that the simple-minded humans possessed in this region. It would suffice for this bloody work, being indeed crafted for such a thing.

He came to the boar’s side, rolled it over onto it’s back, and briefly glanced across the belly, before he raised the knife to just under the dead creature’s neck…and sliced. With tremendous speed and a single stroke. A brief heartbeat, then the beast’s stomach parted and ruptured, its guts spilling out, and dropping the knife aside, Celevonaur wasted no time in shoving his bare hands into the mess and pulling out the unedible, needless items. These he simply chucked aside, a treat for the wild birds and insects, he cared not. The edible, meaty parts, he began to carve out with a knife again. His bloody work complete, he lifted the various segments he kept from the flesh and rose, before holding it out to Yurë, bloody hands and all. Dripping tremendously. He smiled at her over the carnage he presented her.

“Your care now, friend.” Celevonaur commented with a smirk. Discomforted yet?

Eating was something he did sparsely, even in his days of might. But in this current time, he found it possessing recuperative properties, one which his diminished form needed. Or perhaps was coming to rely on in lack of any actual progress, as he perceived of his own healing. He knew the dangers such an earthly activity had on spirits such as they, but he made his choice long ago to become part of this world, to share in its spoils, and pleasures, and rule over it, as if it and his own flesh could be one and the same. As his dark master had done.

“A rare catch, so uncommon in a region such as this. You must have had training to track it down.” Celevonaur noting, now suspecting her to be a maia of Oromë. Come to finish what your kin could not? Three of that clan had not only slain his mighty form of shadow and flame, but nearly captured his wayward spirit once it was so brutally separated from its body. He stilled recalled, with a shiver, how traumatizing that had been.

Well, he should not be so surprised, for if she found him, this boar hardly stood a chance.

“A rare catch,” he repeated, “but hardly glorious. I’m sure with that bow it never saw it’s death coming. A real hunt would be of a prey that could fight back. Now that makes for entertainment.” Celevonaur commented in a casual tone to her, making light of his own former hunts, of tracking down escapees and runaways from the dungeons of Angband. The elves to be brought back, their service perpetual. Humans if they prove tenacious. And orcs…utterly expendable.

“Does this old grandfather still amuse you then? Or will I no longer be graced with your presence come the morning? I have business to attend to, so you know, so you’ll have to forgive me if I am not here for some time, if you find me gone.” Perhaps forever. Celevonaur informed her.
 
When Celevonaur turned to face her, Yurë realized what she had seen earlier must have been a trick of the light. The man before her now was still aged, still gray, and still as grumpy as an old mountain goat caught in the rain. His movement were slow as he went to inspect the results of her hunt, and yet he did not require the use of his staff to approach. And as he bent over to look more closely at the piglet, she noticed the hair on the crown of his head was not quite as colorless as she had first thought. The Maia was tall enough that she should have caught sight of it sooner, but then again they had been at a distance. It was clear now he was much taller up close than she had first thought.

Perhaps it was hunger or exhaustion that was beginning to dull her senses. Under the light of the sun or moon such things never seemed to bother her much, but in the dim light of the cave Yurë suddenly felt a dull ache in her limbs, a sensation that had cursed her ever since she had left Aman. Lady Varda had warned her that taking a mortal body would lead to such things, and if she wasn't careful the servant would run the risk of exhausting her new form entirely. Thankfully Yavanna in all her kindness had provided a small vial of cordial crafted by her own maidens, and only a few drops usually proved enough to keep Yurë on her feet until a proper place of rest could be reached. While Celevonaur was busying himself with the pig carcass, the Maia surreptitiously raised the bottle to her lips, both to avoid seeing the carnage and being seen by the butcher.

Fresh strength immediately flowed through her lives, and she felt her resolve steeling just enough to take over in the process of cooking. Although she hadn't watched her host at his grisly work, the maiden could still hear his efforts, and the uncomfortable sounds of squelching organs and spilling blood turned her stomach for a moment. She was not like the servants of Yavanna, who entirely refused to eat the flesh of any beast or bird, but Yurë had still been taught to respect the lives of those creatures that died to nourish others, and she took no joy in the wanton killing or extensive destruction of their bodies in the meantime. Judging by the look on Celevonaur's face she doubted he felt the same, and her gray eyes suddenly turned flinty as she took the skinned piglet from his bloody hands.

"I hunt because I must eat," she added back simply, breaking apart the bones (quite easily, in fact) and cutting the boar into pieces small enough to fit in the old man's pot with a long silver knife that hung at her side. "I take little joy in it, and I do not believe in killing as a form of entertainment. And even those I know who enjoy the hunt prefer the chase to the final blow, and for them it is a matter of pride to be able to end a creature's life as quickly and painlessly as possible."

From the tales she had heard, Celevonaur was of quite the opposite mindset. The Valar had spoken of him as a torturer, fond of prolonging a victim's suffering as long as possible even while they begged for death. Although his body hardly seemed capable of such feats now, that strange light in his eyes told her that his spirit still looked fondly on such things, and revulsion rose in Yurë's stomach yet again. For a moment, she considered turning the knife on her host, perhaps throwing it towards him as a distraction while she seized the manacles stowed in a side-pocket of her bag. Her doubts to his identity were entirely gone by now, and he seemed to have his guard down for the moment.

But he did still have a wicked black knife at hand, and while she did not doubt her speed there was still enough debris between them to trip her footing. If Yurë failed to place the manacles on those thin wrists, she knew she would never get another chance at them. She wasn't sure how far back the caves went, but no doubt Celevonaur knew them better than she did, and the idea of becoming hopelessly lost in the pitch-black underground seemed like the worst way to die imaginable. And even if she was successful in capturing him, he would fight her every step of the way to the ship, and possibly even try to throw himself overboard once they were on their way, making all of her efforts for nothing.

No, he would have to come with her willingly, or not at all. That meant swallowing her rebukes, keeping her expressions as placid as possible, and absolutely never letting him out of her sight in the meantime. She even kept one eye on him as she carried the meat to the pot, letting the pieces drop into the boiling water one by one.

"If you have business to attend to, perhaps you could use my help with it," she remarked, noting that the water seemed to boil a little more violently as the flames in the hearth grew a little higher. That always seemed to be the case whenever Yurë was around open fires, though she couldn't exactly speak to why, and she'd grown so used to the phenomenon that she hardly even noticed it anymore. Heat never bothered her the way cold did anyway, and she strongly suspected she could walk comfortably through an inferno, at least in her old body. As her gaze lingered on the flames for a moment an idea occurred to her, and she looked curiously back towards Celevonaur.

Was that one of the reasons she felt so drawn to him? Because some part of her was fire as well? It certainly explained why Varda might have chosen to send her, and it gave Yurë a bit more reassurance that even if he did escape her, she might use such power to find him again. In the meantime though, it seemed best not to let him get away in the first place.

"If you are so weak as to be unable to hunt for yourself, perhaps you could use a younger set of hands to assist with your work. Assuming you do work, of course," she added as an afterthought, gathering up the mushrooms and adding them to the pot as well.

"I must admit I'm quite curious as to why you've chosen to make your home in a place like this, rather than a proper house in some village or city. I cannot believe you find caves very comfortable, especially not in the bitter north. Why not seek your fortunes somewhere closer to the sea, where living is easier for one such as yourself? At the very least the foraging would be better," Yurë remarked, eying a particularly untrustworthy-looking mushroom before tossing it in the fire.

Whatever Celevonaur's answer was, she was half-sure it would be a lie, but at the very least it might be amusing to watch him try to make up a story on the spot. And if he did choose to tell her the truth, who knew? Perhaps it would give her further insight to that strange soul of his, and help her figure out the best way to lure him out of this wretched place of his own free will.
 
The girl took the meat in her hands, while Celevonaur’s eyes remained rigid on her face. Even as she turned to the pot, skinning and slimming down the portions to fit, he still lingered nearby, slowly circling her like a shark who has come upon a drowning sailor in the midst of its liquid domain. With her attentions, partially, upon the meal at hand, with her own knife at call, it gave Celevonaur a chance to scrutinize the strange maia at leisure, peering with impunity at the side of her face, or to circle around behind her, to take stock of the rear of the merchandise, before he came upon her other side. He licked his lips slowly as he came about, as if she might be the true meal that he desired. Might be? The flame of the fire illuminated this side of Yurë’s dusky toned face, which seemingly glowed and flourished under its licking brightness. How very…familiar. Like a dream, yet he could not place the memory that made it so familiar.

Yes, the orc blade was still in hand, as was hers. It could get very deadly, very fatal, very soon. He ought to just plunge it in the back of her neck, leave her form here to rot and decay while her spirit fled back to the houses of her masters far in the west. Yet…he couldn’t bring himself to it. Tired. He was so tired. He needed strength.

She tried to rationalize her need for hunting as a base necessity, but he wasn’t fooled. They were of the same Order, very clearly now, and thus it was not necessary to the maintenance of their life force that they must consume and nourish themselves with sustenance. So what else could it be but a sport or pleasure? “A matter of pride to be able to end a creature’s life as quickly and painlessly?” He repeated softly, his eyebrows raised in bemusement. “Sounds an awful lot like entertainment.” He simply snorted about her claim. As for him…well, he needed the nourishment and strength of the succulent flesh they were about to consume. Did she think it ironic she was about to empower him in ways necessary for him to defeat her? What was her game? Why give all these strange concessions to him? He knew her task, even if she had not come out and said it flatly. Still, he observed her, so very intimately.

And his emotions manifested themselves, as a ring of power grew to surround them, causing the temperature to begin to spike. The wood of their fire burned faster, the surface of the water danced as it boiled much rapidly.

The concessions continued to be forthcoming. She even volunteered to accompany him on his business. Now that…was astonishing. Celevonaur could have laughed. Wickedly, like one who was fey beyond redemption. She…accompany him? To coerce tribute and bounty out of the former slaves of Morgoth? And to do so…together. If you are so weak as to be unable to hunt for yourself, perhaps you could use a younger set of hands to assist with your work. Assuming you do work, of course. Celevonaur felt a grin pass over his pale lips again. So there was some backbone to her, though she behaved more like a dutiful servant proud of their service, capable of showcasing it in no way except through obedience in this fashion. Were all the pets of the Valar so…joyously subservient? The orcs despised their service to their dark master. Celevonaur was starting to understand why. Service was misery.

She asked why he chose such a place as this to live, so remote and out of the way. Celevonaur moved to stand across from the fire, peering direct at her now, no more circling or observing the various angles of her beauty. He clasped his hands before his body, knife still clutched within his palm, his other hand atop of that one. A finger tapped the rusting hilt, his expression one of thought and puzzlement, albeit still with his smile.

“What blessing must I have, that so dedicated a servant should fall right into my lap,” a very vivid image soon conjured up of the literal meaning of that, “willing to do whatever I wish, whenever I so wish it. You seek to aid in my business, to hunt for me, to even take me to lands where I might dwell at ease and in sloth?” Is this your tactic, Jailor? To weaken me by dullard living that I practically beg to be taken to Mandos in chains? He put his hand over his chest in a mock show of appreciation. “I must say, I do feel honored. What must I have done in my previous life to earn such fealty.” He snickered, letting his hand drop back to its casual place upon the other, gripping the orc knife. Say it, say what I’ve done, Yurë. I dare you.

Because that’s the type of work he was bound to do. Orc-work. The little necessities, tools, basic garments even, he took as tribute from the slaves of Morgoth, who found their own homes and tribal groupings out here in the vast wilderness of the world. Why couldn’t he as well, who was once master of many countless thousands of such ilk?

“In the bitter north you say, then you should understand why shelter is sought in caves, and not in the open. Do I look like a builder to you? Or perhaps that is a talent you will pledge to me with your next word?” He jested at her expense. He glanced over his shoulder, his expression suddenly serious, before glancing back in the next heartbeat. “They were not always so, you know. Once they ran with rivers. Of fire. It molded the stone, painted them black, made them smooth and sometimes painted in strange swirling patterns. I delight in such things. It is – was – my domain, once upon a time.” He confessed to her in a low voice, the final sentence lipped by his mouth, albeit with little to no sound. But between those of their Order, the image might conjure in her mind, what he was implying. Old lava tunnels, that once oozed the very life blood of the world, when Arda was young. And he remembered Melkor coming to him upon one such showing, and opening the ground himself, causing many great fountains of fire to spew up and rain about in glorious fashion. Celevonaur had been so enticed by such strength and power. And then he had been corrupted, believing he might achieve the same one day.

He knew not why he just told such things to Yurë. He abruptly felt like a fool.

“Perhaps I should have dwelt in a town or city, had I known my efforts to escape the inquisitiveness of others would ultimately be in vain. Are there others like you, seeking to come make a settlement out of my presence, wherever I go?” He asked her, his mocking grin fixated back in place. He said those words. He made himself out like a fool, revealing some youthful hopes that he once had, that he might never have again. And it was still Yurë’s fault to him that he had done those things. Just hers. Not him, who spoke the words. Her, who made him feel that way first, in order to do such foolishness. He had to lash out at her, in order to equalize this strange game in his head.

“No, my fortune is tied to the work and business I do here. And I am happy to do it alone. That being said, I am afraid I will have to…deny your request for help.” Celevonaur said, dropping to a crouch in front of the flames, holding his hands out to warm them. Much closely so that the flames licked, quite visibly, the surface of his palm. The orc dagger in his hand began to glow along its dark metal as it was heated. Perhaps he forgot that regular Upstarts were not capable of this sort of interaction with fire, so close and intimate. His eyes however still looked up at her, above the pot and glow of the fire, while his entire face was encased in it. “That is of course…you swear not to lift a hand in violence or fury, if you are to accompany me.” He offered in sudden condition to her request. That would put her under his command. Her, a maia of good standing and virtue, and him, an umaiar, of guile and sin.

His work might be more justified if this living banner of the Valar’s will was at his side. How better to corrupt the natural flow of the new reality than by doing such.
 
Yurë's patience was like a rope, and she had prided herself on the fact that she'd had miles of it. But ever since leaving Aman she had to admit the world was beginning to gnaw away at it like a dull knife, only cutting one little strand at a time, never enough to cause it to snap. The erosion had gone on months, but in the one afternoon that she had known Celevonaur he had already cut through to her last thread of decorum. Her movements as she prepared the meal grew less graceful with every impudent word he spoke, and the knuckles of her flawless brown hands had turned snow white as they gripped a poorly-carved wooden spoon to stir the soup.

"I think perhaps too many years spent alone staring at stone walls may have softened your mind," the Maia snapped through grated teeth, fixing her eyes on the pot in the hearth. The flames around it seemed to grow redder, and hotter, and a few strands of her hair had caught in a breeze and floated dangerously close to the tongues drawing ever nearer to her face. "I offered you aid, not fealty. Shall I explain the difference to you?" Setting the spoon aside, she rose to her feet slowly. Silhouetted against the hearth, her shadow seemed to make her appear taller than she was, and while her frame was edged in darkness her eyes blazed with a curious light.

"Aid is what someone offers you when they pity you. Anyone with a heart would look upon a broken old man living alone in a cave, surviving off mushrooms and sleeping on the ground because not one person in the world cares enough to grant him even an ounce of comfort, with pity. And even now, old man, I do pity you, although not very much, and I suspect even that small amount is more than you deserve." Her shoulders relaxed somewhat as she felt the comfort of her own words, and letting out little sigh she resumed her place on the makeshift stool by the fire.

"Fealty," Yurë continued, "is given out of either great love, or great fear. I serve Lady Nessa because I love her for all the kindness and affection she has shown me, and I serve Lady Varda because I both love and fear her as the Queen she is. As it stand between us now, I neither love nor fear you, old man, but...I am curious." A strange new light came into the Maia's eyes, and the corner of her mouth quirked ever so slightly.

"When you joined Melkor, was it because you loved him, or because you feared him, Celevonaur?"

And there it was, all laid out before them. If he denied who he was, well, perhaps the wisest thing to do now would be to capture him regardless. After all, he could hardly declare himself just to be a helpless old man while still using all the power he would need to successfully fight her off. In a deep pocket of her cloak she could feel the two metal rings and heavy chain connecting them; once they were on Celevonaur's wrists they could not be removed by any save Aulë himself, and what little power the fugitive had left would be greatly hindered by the power forged within the restraints.

If nothing else though, at least the verbal charade would cease, and they could speak plainly--if still impolitely--to one another.

Regardless of whether or not the fugitive cared to speak of his former master, Yurë found it easier to answer his final question. Stirring the soup much more casually now, she shrugged her shoulder a little at his request for an oath. "In the terms of the Maiar, I may be young, but I am not stupid, grandfather," Yurë replied, throwing in the last address purely out of the suspicion that it annoyed him. "I know better than to make an oath to someone who does not have my best interests at heart; a lesson I am sure you yourself have learned over the years?" No doubt The Great Enemy had demanded several such foolhardy oaths of his followers and held them firmly.

For a moment, she paused and glanced back in Celevonaur's direction. Could that have been the reason he'd acted as he did? Had a hastily-sworn promise to Melkor turned Varda's favorite from a creature of light and beauty into the sad shadow that sat beside her now? Well if so, it's not for you to judge him a voice inside reminded her, but again Yurë felt that pity which she had claimed to be in such short supply rising within her.

"I can offer you the same oath I would offer any stranger though, if you would have it," she said eventually. "You have my word that I shall not raise my hand against you unless my own life and safety require it, or if the life and safety of innocents depend upon it. Will that suffice?" Stirring the soup a bit more, she finally raised the steaming spoon to her lips, inhaling the scent of the broth. Judging it to be edible, if unremarkable, Yurë set the utensil aside and began scanning the cave for any other sign of a bowl or plate.

"I do think you ought to consider the fact that if I had intended to kill you, or even harm you, I would have at least attempted to fire an arrow into your back, or slipped poison into your supper, or something along those lines," she commented as she squinted at the shelves in the darkness. "Also, I am not sure if I am the first person to venture into this part of the world to bring you back, but I do know that should you attempt to kill me and succeed, I will hardly be the last one the Valar send. I am attempting to show you mercy because that is what I received at the hands of the Valar when--" Ah, but it might be premature to tell Celevonaur of her strange origins, and she immediately swallowed the end of the sentence.

"Anyway, if you kill me, it is highly unlikely the next person who finds you will give you a chance at redemption, which is what I have been instructed to offer you. Whether or not you accept is your decision. Come West with me willingly, or resist." Finally finding a single bowl and a large crudely-made cup that looked as though it would stand up to the heat of their supper, she began to fill each with soup. "Of course, such a challenging decision cannot be made on an empty stomach, and so I shall not rush you. But I also do not intend to leave you to your own devices in the meantime."

Sitting across from him, she suddenly offered him a smile that was strangely warm and almost gentle. "If you wish to be rid of me quickly, Celevonaur, the best way would be to accompany me right away, and the sooner we arrive at our destination the sooner we shall part." That said, she began to sip her soup.
 
It seemed he had finally found a crack in the young maia’s defenses, though what Celevonaur didn’t realize is the torrent that was to be unleashed from the breaking of such a dam would be more than he bargained for. The forced retort from the dusky skinned beauty at first brought a smirk of triumph to his lips. There goes the polite and deferring demeanor, and even though he had chipped away at it with his own actions and words, his own narcissism still easily justified it as being nothing more than her true intention, always, beneath her fair exterior. A trap. Bait, laid by the Valar, to capture and beleaguer him. She was always like this. I didn’t provoke it.

Something else was happening though. The flames grew hot, and perhaps to an Upstart it might have been unbearable, but for Celevonaur it was his natural element. And only his element? Her power manifested and grew. And a trickling growth of thought in the far recesses of his mind was starting to realize…it might even outclass him in his reduced state at present. Flame danced around her face. It did not burn her. He did not think she had some relationship with fire as he did, but rather some shielding brought by her own innate power. He was not at first worried. She stood, threateningly, dauntingly, or so it might have appeared to someone of lesser status than them. Anger. Hate. Such great motivators for power and strength. The light in her eyes was ancient and other worldly, and Celevonaur would be slow to realize…that was the light they all once held, the light of their Father, that had long faded from his spirit, but now remained so pure in her. And absent in his own.

Dismaying, but he refused to indulge fear. He had to be bold. He had to be brash. Because of course, those were the natural reactions to hide the fear that he did carry within himself. “Is there a difference?” He still inquired, with a provocative grin. He was playing with fire. It had never gone wrong for him before. Why should now be any different? He expected some high and mighty explanation on her part. Yet her first statement alone dashed away such prepared mental defenses he had for it. Pity? She pitied him? The notion of that suddenly enraged him and his smile vanished as she began to describe why. His heart went hallow and his mind distanced itself from all reality except the figure before him, the flames about her form, and the haunting beauty of her eyes and figure. Yes, he was a defeated creature, of once high nobility and spirit, then a figure of dread and authority, and now…an old man in a cave. Surviving. Hiding. Hiding from people like her. He did not frighten her, not like others, not anymore. Her words sapped his power. And he was left as nothing more than a collection of memories of bygone glories knitted together in this fragile, earthly shape.

Names. She said the names of his foes and enemies. It was all revealed now. And each name, to a spirit of power such as they, conjured their very memory and thought against Celevonaur. And Her face. The Queen’s face, snarled in wrath…and disappointment. It flashed before his face like a burning visage, hotter than any fire he had ever seen or created. He might have been mighty, but compared to they, he might as well have been a mortal Upstart himself, screaming at the stars because of a lack of understanding of things greater than he. He was now becoming angry. Who did Yurë think she was? Shame burned his cheeks thinking she had been fair and a trophy worth pursuing, even if he had to regain honor in this world. Now he hated such a thing. And he hated himself more for such weakness. And most of all, he despised the one who made him think and feel such things.

But when she said the name of the great Coward, of the Liar, the Manipulator, of whom he so readily once believed in, and followed, and gave everything for…there was nothing. No great whirlwind of emotion, or power of thought, or even an image in his mind. Just…nothing. Nothing, like what the great Melkor once fell into. And like what awaited Celevonaur. Which this…creature no doubt wished to drag him towards. He did not answer her. His face had gone serious. His brow was furrowed. His lips tight. His cheeks clenched. His eyes, narrowed. And yet he looked more hunched, more older, and desperate, but it was the cornered serpent that could bite deepest. His hands rested on his legs. And they were balled into fists. He was ready to fight, though there was nothing he wanted to fight for, if he hated himself as he did. It would not go well.

He heard the ripple of metal in her garments. He knew what it could be, if it had to be hidden away as such. The cold anxiety that flooded his body was so anathema to the warmth that he once possessed that he shuddered unseen within himself. How dare she come and do this. To him!

But she did not draw them forth. Instead, so disdainfully of who and what he was, she seemed to ignore his response to return to her diligence of stirring the pot. If only he could shove her face in it. Yes, being called grandfather did annoy him. In his day, he would never have had to stand for such disrespect. He made the servants of the so-called Elder King flee before him once. If only he had power. Real power. …a lesson I’m sure you yourself have learned over the years? He did not flinch his eyes away from her, not even to blink, though he did turn his face slightly aside, to spit contemptuously to the ground. That was all he said. Don’t remind me, little girl. But she was not so little. His shadow might be tall on the mountain behind him, but that was all it was. Her shadow was small, but her frame upright and tall, glowing with unseen power that he could feel but knew would be deadly to him. And that’s how the disparity felt, between her now and his reduced state. He swore he would make her feel such powerlessness one day. He would have his revenge for this.

She made him an offer next. He did not respond to that either. She seemed so content with the pauses and the silence. After all, she was now in control of their shared narrative. It so infuriated him, yet he would not burst forth in rash action or word. Still she stirred the pot, as if the once great Celevonaur was no more danger to her than the ants on the ground. How could she be so…casual? There was not even a retort to the prospect of her using guile to overcome him. So what, she wanted him to come…voluntarily? He, who ruled slaves and mindless servants, and was essentially a slave himself to a dark betrayer, was now to utilize this concept known as free will? Just like that? It’s a lie. All of it. They will humiliate you. Celevonaur did not know this thought was not of his own mind’s making.

She said something else too, that should have been endlessly curious. She too had received the Valar’s mercy. That caused Celevonaur’s expression to change from one of guarded hatred to one of…inquisitiveness, but only for a brief heartbeat. No, he would not fall for her games anymore. He could not have any interest in her. It was a distraction. Futile, useless distraction. Leave me alone with your…interesting presence.

But the deal was made. He could fight, and whether he prevailed, more would come. And if he lost, he would be taken in chains to his judgement. Or he could go willingly and be reduced to that consequence anyways. That choice was obvious. He would never submit to imprisonment and torture. Because that is what Melkor and his old self would have done to one of her kind, if their positions were reversed. She drew closer to him, the soup in hand, and for once Celevonaur was assailed by the fragrance of a simple thing such as a hot meal, finding it so…enticing, and desirous. Like an Upstart might, after a day of labor, returning to a hot meal…and the presence of loved ones. Was this a glimpse of some unseen future or simply his weakness and fear acting up again?

Indeed it was. When she admitted the only way to be rid of her irritating presence was to submit, he found himself…not wanting that. But he refused to allow himself to consider…why.

He stared at the soup she put before him, prying his eyes away from her. The silence seemed to grow as long as the dancing shadows from the fire, sometimes illuminating his face and other times leaving it in shadow. Those arguments rolled in his mind, of personal desire, of pride, of memories gone and of things that might have been, and still could be. He had nothing to say to this lapdog of the Valar, fair though she might be. His eyes did look to her, but when it seemed like he might be ready to reply, to retort, or even to fight, abruptly he would look away. Celevonaur…did not know. And for an immortal such as he, tied to the creation and end of the world itself as his lifetime, who knew how long a time he might need to deliberate.

No answer. She might even finish her soup before then. His own would go untouched and cold. Its fragrance was now gone. His body might be as still as a rock, but the darting of his eyes in his deep thought revealed a busy mind. He could lash out. He could try to run. Hide himself in the deep, dark places, where he could be free…but alone. Or go to be imprisoned, but among his own kind, if they did not thrust him into the cold, empty Void about the Kingdom of Arda. He looked up suddenly, to the stars that his former Mistress crafted, and of the entity that created it all. They did not speak to him. But he did not want to leave them behind. He might be an old man, but truly he felt a spirit younger than Yurë in that moment, just wanting to…run. And be himself again, in some corner of the world.

His mind always returned to his projection. He would never have allowed a defeated foe such luxury. Neither would Melkor. Such compromises were weakness. So why should the Valar? This had to be a trap. It was the only explanation. And while he could not defeat her…perhaps another might. And he could wash his hands of any decision and remain in this paralyzed state of existence, which is all there was afforded to him, and all the other alternatives…dark and twisted to his mind.

“You ask me, little one,” he said in a quiet tone, “to make a decision that will last a duration long enough to see the shape and placement of the continents break and change. Right unto the ending of this world and whatever comes after. And yet only grant me the time of a meal to decide? Do not rush me.” Celevonaur retorted instead, even though she was doing nothing of the kind. “I am the Gate-Keeper and Lieutenant of Utumno. I have held the line against rebels such as yourself for eons. My name is Raugad. That is who I am. That name, Celevonaur, that one is gone from this world.” He informed her bluntly, though he did not speak his titles or his fallen name with any pride. Because after all… “You have won. Do not mistake your victor’s narrative for pity here. Because clearly your pride can’t even allow a vanquished foe to live alone in the wilds, in a cave, staring at walls, eating mushrooms…sleeping on the ground. Does even that offend your elk?” There was no fire in his accusation though. It was…more like a plea. If he had to fight again, it would be the end of him. Forever.

“I do not recall seeing you ever in the wars, yet now you pursue me, even after I defeated your kin after the Fall and breaking of the western lands. Why should I fear someone who comes but at the end of the hunt to steal the kill? You think you can just so calmly regale to me how you intend my defeat?” He made an effort to reach for his soup. His hand was shaky, with fear or anger, or perhaps both. He held it up, fingers clenched around the bowl. The soup began to reheat itself. Venom suddenly became laced into his voice.

“Do not speak their names to me either, whether it’s the false Queen or the craven dark master. Both have lied to me. Both have held me back. I will not suffer their names spoken in my presence.” He stared at the surface of his soup. His threat was empty. What could he do to stop her if she ignored that? “How do I know you will even uphold your word? Your motive is curiosity, not my interests. You say you are young, so how can you know your masters and mistresses have your self-interests at heart? Have you even seen the world? Lived in it? Walked in it? You are a closeted spirit and you speak of things you do not know. Do you even belong to an Order? Or are you just some malleable spirit that the Valar mold whenever they need a tool for a specific device? Who are you, Yurë, and why should I put my fate in your hands?”

With great effort, he raised the soup to his lips and tasted it. Explosive. Deliciously so. His eyes fluttered closed as he absorbed the taste. And with this, the light and heat of the fire seemed to diminish as his power swept back into his body. He felt they were going to fight. He had to be ready.

“I need more time.” He confessed suddenly. “I…I cannot make this decision. Not tonight. You have marred my solace and peace with your inquisitiveness. And I need plenty of both to consider this. But if you will at least not take me in my sleep or the meagre hours of rest that I can take, then tomorrow, we can…” he opened his eyes and willed them to look at her, not believing he would actually say this. “…journey together, by whatever conditions of your oath that you would give to a stranger. None that I consort with are innocent anyways, according to your kind.” He then added, huffing a little in a morbid joke. It was true, though. But was everything else? He was buying time. Time to recuperate. Time to prepare. He might be willing to lie or do anything to achieve that.

“Besides, you wouldn’t be the first to put an arrow in my back. The scar is still there, even though it was upon a different shape that I suffered it. It seems such wounds from our kind linger upon the spirit, no matter what shape or body you take.” Celevonaur then shrugged, his voice returning to his earlier, light hearted tone, careless and brash in his attitude. Maybe he was warning her. He might lose in a conflict between them, but he would not go down easily. And she would not walk away unscarred. And what she took then would be with her. Forever. There was one truth revealed, however. He would not strike first if they were to fight. And if neither would Yurë, then this was about to be a very interesting dance. At least for an umaiar such as him. What else was there to be offered in this life other than this tale?

He also devoured the soup in the space of a single minute. He did not voice his appreciation, but it was there in the so very satisfied sigh that he gave. And his eyes returned to her, and after forcing them to not acknowledge her beauty, the desire came back twofold, and he could not take them off of her. He remembered when another beauty wandered into the halls of Angband. Melkor wished to possess her, just as Celevonaur felt the same. But both were clearly at a loss…for what would they do if they had possessed it? Melkor could only ruin, but it was not in Celevonaur’s capacity to ruin. He could enjoy the rivers and torrents of fire and lava, possessing its own beauty in a way. So if he had her…just what could he do with her?

Maybe you could ask her.

So sudden, so shocking, was that thought that Celevonaur twitched, and reacted compulsively, and crushed the beaker in his grip into many fragments. He could never confess such…such weakness to his enemy. “You’ve upset me enough for one lifetime. I go to find my ground to sleep on.” He said, repeating her words in mocking form. And without further word, he stood up, strode a dozen paces away from the fire, and simply plopped down on the hard rock and patches of grass to lie down. He did not sleep. And if she still spoke or lingered…he might reply or address her again. But clearly what she said and did had discomforted him. And was aided in such by the wandering urges of his own mind. Again, his own fault, but he still refused to hold himself to blame, and thus could only blame… Yurë.
 
“You ask me, little one..."

Why did hearing him address her like that made her shiver so, like fingers running up her spine and closing around her throat? He was hardly the first person to speak to her like that; indeed many of the Valar used the endearment among their Maiar servants. But they had never looked upon her with such bitter malice, shadowed by a pride that was not yet utterly broken. As her gray eyes stared back at him dumbfounded, Yurë couldn't help but notice the age that had hung so heavily on him like an old cloak suddenly seemed to fit him like an armor, hinting at the power he had once been for the first time since they'd met.

In his prime, he would have utterly destroyed me the Maia was beginning to realize, and she recalled dark whispers spoken in the dead of night in Vairë's halls about the crimes of Raugad. Celevonaur might have been forgiven out of love for what he had once been, but what future could there possibly be for the Hound of Melkor? The hatred was still there in those deep eyes of his, along with the threatened violence and the cruel thirst for destruction. If the Valar did choose to restore him into what he had been once the punishments had been meted, who was to say he would not simply turn on them all over again? Starting of course, with the foolish maiden who had dragged him out of his hole in the first place. Yurë shivered again, briefly imagining his hands refreshed with strength closing on her shoulders, as the flames began to creep up her body...

Ah, but who was Yurë to question the wisdom of the Queen? Swallowing her soup, she set aside the bowl and glanced towards the entrance to the cave, desperate to avoid that burning gaze of his. "I will address you as Raugad, if you wish," the maiden murmured, not certain he had heard her. "It does not matter to me. Celevonaur was the name I was given by my Queen, and it did not seem a point worth questioning her about."

Of course, the Maia had not yet encountered anything that would make her question the wisdom of the Valar. At least, not aloud. "I am a servant," Yurë mused, not entirely certain whether she was speaking to him or to herself. If it was the former, it didn't matter; he was beginning to hammer questions into her like blows, each one knocking away a little brick of the decorous wall that held all her doubts and fears at bay. As quickly as she could, she tried to repair the cracks logic. Of course the Valar did not wish her ill, why would they? They were not Melkor, committing acts of wanton cruelty purely at whim. Nessa had even given her a home, a purpose, and Lady Varda had granted her greatest wish of seeing the world beyond the sea.

But...why had it taken so long? Celevonaur was right, Yurë had seen little of the world, although she was hardly the complete novice he had implied. What could he expect though, with millenia of years spent in Aman only a handful of months spent in Endor? If she had crossed the sea sooner, perhaps in the service of Yavanna or Oromë, no doubt she could have obtained a wealth of knowledge by now. Enough, at least, to know how to shut up the rambling villain before her. Only Yavanna hadn't wanted her service. Nor had Oromë. Or Vairë, or Estë, or any of the other Valar save Nessa, who had taken her in out of pity more than any real use for her. Yurë was fast, and could dance well enough on her own, but she had never really fit in among the other maidens in her lady's service, and she knew the way they had all whispered about her in the alcoves of the great hall right up until the day she had left.

"Do you even belong to an Order? Or are you just some malleable spirit that the Valar mold whenever they need a tool for a specific device?"

Yurë whirled her head around to stare at Celevonaur with a sharp intake of breath, almost as though he really had struck her physically. She tried to summon a biting retort, something that would making him regret such rudeness to a servant of the Queen of Stars. But all the maiden could see was Varda herself; not when she had tasked the Maia with bringing back the fugitive. No, Yurë was seeing her the other time, the only other time she'd ever had an audience with the Queen, and Varda had asked the other gathered Valar if this strange creature that had fallen from the sky belonged to any of them.

The hall had been utterly silent. Even more silent than the cave was now as Celevonaur slurped his soup in satisfaction.

The maiden clenched her fist, then swallowed hard, drawing on her final reserves of determination. She would complete this mission, even if it killed her. She would prove to Queen Varda and the rest of the Valar that she was more than just a fleet-footed wanderer. They would see she had uses beyond just what they determined. Then finally she would someone, someplace to belong. She had to.

"As you wish," Yurë said finally to his last plea for time. "I have no desire to drag you kicking and screaming like a petulant child all the way to Aman." Nor would she risk the chance of his escape by hastening to the journey to the point her attention was divided. "We may depart when your affairs--whatever they may be-- " the maiden couldn't help but sniff a little in doubt at the idea. "--are in order. But I shall not leave you to your own devices in the meantime. And if you attempt to escape me," Rising to her feet, the maiden moved herself in front of the entrance to the cave, blocking off that one opening at least. "Be assured I will hunt you down. And I imagine we will bore each other to tears having this same conversation all over again."

Taking up her bow and quiver again, she watched closely as the old man settled into his sleep for the night, knowing with a fair amount of bitterness that she had no such luxury. If they were out in the open it would have been little trouble to watch through the night under the light of the moon, but snow was continuing to drift down beyond the cave, utterly concealing Tilion and his vessel from view. Yurë moved closer to the opening regardless. There was still a chill breeze blowing in, and when compared to the surprising heat of the tunnel (How had it grown so hot, after all? The fire certainly had not grown, though it had hardly died down either) it refreshed her burning face most pleasantly.

Sitting down with her back to the wall, just out of reach of the flakes drifting in on the errant wind, Yurë spent the rest of the night slowly turning her head from the figure on the floor beyond, to the wintry night outside. Her lips moved in whispered prayer to Manwë that he might blow away the clouds and allow her even the smallest glimpse of Ithil, but either the King did not hear her or did not think the request worth fulfilling.

In either case, the maiden's resolve finally failed her shortly before dawn, when her silvery lashes fluttered in defeat and her eyes drifted closed, the sound of her steady breaths replacing the dying wind outside.
 
Celevonaur didn’t know what to think of her response. She would address him as Raugad, if he liked. That was the name he bore at the height of his power and authority. But Celevonaur is what he had been named by his former Mistress, her Queen as Yurë called her. Yet having heard both names spoken from her fair lips, all he knew was that he enjoyed both when she pronounced them. And he didn’t want that to stop.

Maybe it was just the exhaustion and drowsy that this weakened state brought on. Sometimes it reduced him to strange imaginings and dreams. But without rest, there was no stability or foundation to any of his thoughts or desires at that moment. He hated her, he was enticed by her, he wanted to go home, he wanted to remain free, he feared imprisonment, he thought he deserved punishment. Where did he stand? He longed for freedom from doubt. It was all Yurë’s fault for bringing this confusion to him, at such a nice time of the year as well.

At least she wasn’t going to contest his decision to sleep and delay on a decision. Indeed she had little in terms of rebuke to his statements and accusation. It might be wiser if she didn’t, as they were borne of anger and a reaction against his own helplessness. She seemed to know it. Petulant child. They all were, in a way, born of great power and spirit, with little oversight or control in their beginnings, allowing such attitudes to take hold and grow strong against any change in thinking or demeanor. She was not like that though. She was young, and had the benefit of wiser teachers and masters, not like him or the others of his generation. “As you say.” He simply muttered to her final warning.

But boredom was far from his array of possibilities of how their strange partnership might turn. No, she excited him far too much, and he both hated that and enjoyed it.

He didn’t watch or look where she planted herself, but her spirit’s presence was tangible on his mind as he lulled himself into a sleep. This pathetic, weak raiment that he wore. It was frail, it was old, and it needed rest and relaxation to even maintain a level of strength that his old, truer form could muster with just his smallest finger. He bet Yurë wasn’t even aware of the depths of her own power. She could set herself up here as a mighty queen of might and strength if she chose to. Make the rules she thought were right. If only the delusions of the Valar weren’t set on her mind. As they aren’t on mine he thought last as he fell into slumber. Because Melkor clearly wasn’t one of their ilk to begin with.

It was in the twilight hour before dawn when Celevonaur would awake again. Yes, he still required rest in this shape, but not as much as the average Upstart. Slowly and silently he rose into a seated position, carefully rubbing his closed eyes to wipe away whatever foul gunk would accumulate there. For a moment he thought it was still all a dream, looking up at the bright starry sky, as it had been perpetually before the rising of Sun and Moon. But then he saw the rebel Tilion in the night, a crescent sphere of mighty silver, who seemed to be gleaming a degree too brightly down upon them, as if he was pleased to see something that he liked. Summoned, and arriving, with some tardiness, to this place. Celevonaur knew not what the source of that might be. He cared not. Tilion’s presence in the sky, same as his consort, was an affront to the legitimate rulers of Arda.

The other part of the nightmare was still true. Turning to glance over his shoulder, he saw her.

Silently as a stalking feline, Celevonaur rose to his feet, gazing at the restive maia against the wall. A hand went to his belt, feeling the handle of the orc dagger there. All he had to do was go to her, thrust the blade across her neck. He envisioned seeing her eyes snap wide, as he held his hand over her mouth, driving the blade deep and hard across her slender appendage. Her essence would spill out. Her body would fail. Her spirit would become released. And when it did…one forceful blow could send it careening deep into the caves, where she might never get out, and never be found.

And he would be free.


Yet…his determination failed. He was too weak. One misstep and she would be awake, alerted even, and perhaps might already be from the amount of malice his ploy just swelled about them. No, she didn’t deserve it. A beauty like her should not go missing into the depths of the world, among the other nameless things. He let go of the knife and took a deep breath. Oh, he hated himself so much.

It was not yet morning and the consort of the rebel above had yet to reveal Her face. His kinswoman. He was so close to a deeper understanding, not knowing how the maia before him, and the rebels above, were all interconnected. How could he know, when it had never been a possibility before? Melkor had, before, in his most twisted spells and rituals. Celevonaur had seen a failed umaiar brought before the dark master, torn into bits, and those spiritual remnants used to empower Melkor’s twisted creations. The broken pieces of that spirit, reduced to madness, instilled that madness in those creatures, making them ever more deadly, while the poor spirit cried for reunion with his other halves, now impossible. He shuddered at the thought.

Celevonaur immediately began to move away from the cavern. He gave no explanation. He was not going far. Perhaps a few dozen feet apart, enough to be concealed by the brush and growth of the forest without, but still near enough for their spirits to detect one another. Outside the cave, under the silent foliage of the trees, he came across a pond. There he knelt, sighing, staring into the depths and seeing his own frail reflection. He shed his garment, the black poncho shed, followed by his tattered trousers and boots. Naked, dark runes upon his flesh, he entered the pool until it was waist high, then sank down until the water was up to his neck. It may have been cold to a mortal Upstart, but his body felt none of it, shielded by a protective layer of warmth, which slowly began to expand into the water, heating it above the norm as it should be at that time. He rested there and enjoyed the sensation, not caring that the added heat might upset the niche of the pond for its many microorganisms and flora.

She would come looking. He just knew it. There was no way his appointed jailer would let him out of her sight. Still, a smile was on his lips at having pushed the line in this fashion. Would she truly put her duty above dignity, to intrude upon him in this most vulnerable state? How would she feel if he did the same unto her, seeing her in a most exposed state? His eyes flashed open and they peered downwards into the dark depths of the water. That thought…aroused him. Greatly. If she was watching, she would soon see him emerge from the water, in all his glory, in all his arousal. And he was mighty even in his reduced state. Let her look if she did. He was shameless. There was no need to dry. The water evaporated off his flesh in a short moment. He redressed. And finally went to address her.

“Good morning. It’s time to go, little one, and a long ways to go at that.” He simply explained and then turned to begin his trek, quarterstaff in hand, dagger at his hip, curled whip on the other, walking as if he truly needed the support of such.

The region was a mixture of many races. Elves in the woods to the south, dwarves in the mountains to the north, and men in the plains between. And goblin tribes where neither of the three dwelt. To that null region devoid of civilization is where Celevonaur was going. They owed him something. And they might have explanation for the clue that he took off the humans. He felt at his side. He still had it. Good. If his suspicions proved correct, he might share his findings with his…companion.

“Any gifts from Irmo tonight?” He asked Yurë quietly as he trudged along. All he got were nightmares, from Melkor. Even beyond in the Void. Visions of what the cruel and terrible Valar would do to Celevonaur, if he was ever caught, and if he ever forsook his dark master. Well to the abyss with all of them. Well, it did make him wonder what a normal dream would be like. The Upstarts experienced them. Apparently they could be…beautiful.

Breakfast was offered. It consisted…of stopping at wild bush of black hued berries, which had a sweetness to them. Celevonaur crouched and picked a few for himself, but rudely would not wait for Yurë to do the same if she wished to eat, trudging onwards regardless. She was swift, he recalled. Even if he got out of sight, they could still detect each other. It was a strange sensation feeling the hair shoot up on his neck when she drifted nearer, so quickly, like a great predator coming upon his rear sneakily, unhinging its wide jaws to consume him. But then he would turn to look at her and that image felt so ridiculous when confronted with her true size and raiment. But that was the trap. Like a fair maiden of the Upstarts she seemed, yet so dangerously potent and powerful.

And attractive.


He hissed visibly. Again? He let his mind wander there again? He realized he had squeezed the final berry in his palm from his anger and sighed, opening it to reveal the stain of berry juices. He paused to flick his hand and clear the mess away. “Are you bored to tears yet?” He asked her, a hour after they had started, mocking her statement from the previous night. He himself…did not feel bored, strangely. Teasing her was becoming quite the pastime. “I hope you possess some self-discipline in regards to your archery skills. It would not do well if you shot a wayward messenger of those who were about to host us.” By which he meant…goblins. Oh, he could not wait to bear witness to her discomfort when he went to meet with their tribes. Until he had the answers he sought.
 
Yurë's dreams had always been infrequent--unremarkable, for one who found less need for sleep than others of her kind--but when they did come to her they were almost always the same. As she sat with her head bowed at the entrance of the cavern, the very picture of a useless sentinel, her spirit was far above. Higher than the clouds, surrounded by a multitude of stars, she was watching Tilion drifting farther and farther into the west just as the first rosy rays of dawn began to creep along the horizon. All was silent below her, save for the softest rush of wind caressing her naked body (and a body she still had, floating as it was thousands of feet in the air), and the maiden's eyes widened with awe at the sight of night bidding its farewell in anticipation of the next day's arrival.

Such beauty cannot possibly last she mused sadly, and no sooner had the thought crossed her mind that something within her, or perhaps without, suddenly seemed to slip. Her limbs grew heavy, and the perfect balance she had maintained in the air was shattered as she began to plummet towards the dissipating clouds.

"Will you fall, or will you fly?" a voice asked as chill began to gnaw at Yurë's flesh.

She opened her mouth to answer "Fly! Fly!" but her voice was utterly spent. The stars were utterly gone now, and she had turned somewhat so instead of looking up all she could see was the vast green sea of the great eastern forest below her, and the broken lines of the mountains neatly dividing the lands of Endor as they rushed towards her faster and faster. And between Yurë's body and the ground, she could see a broad-backed eagle circling lazily over the landscape, without ever taking notice of the odd, featherless intruder in his realm.

Why is a bird a bird?

The ground was coming closer. Her body would surely be smashed into pieces when she landed on the ground, if the trees did not impale her first.

Why is a tree a tree?

Will you fall or will you fly?


And the impact...

The Maia gasped sharply as her eyes snapped open. Of course there was no pain of a fall that had been purely a flight of fancy, but she was suddenly aware of the ache of sleeping with her back against a stone wall for at least a couple of hours. Groaning, she stretched her arms and legs to the best of her chilled ability, and wondered for a moment where she was and how she had gotten there. But one look at the empty space beside the nearly-dead hearth was enough to remind her of what had happened the night before, and that for all her firm resolve and confident words she had still immediately failed in her task to guard the fugitive.

Snatching up her bow and standing as quickly as she could managed, Yurë at least took some relief in the single set of footprints in the snow leading out of the cave. Apparently Raugad, as she supposed she ought to call him, had no interest in hiding from his jailer, or if he did he was very, very bad at it. One did not require the training of Oromë to follow the old man's steps to a small pond just beyond the cave, and for a moment the maiden relaxed. Gone to fetch water, nothing more she told herself. And yet...if that was all the old man had intended, he certainly had a strange methodology for it.

Yurë hadn't realized he was naked at first, but judging by the pile of clothes on the bank it was quickly becoming apparent he'd come for a morning bath. And in this chill, of all things! The maiden shivered just thinking about how cold the water in the pond must have been, though as she scanned the edges for signs of ice she was surprised not only to see that there was none, but that the water was giving off a steaming heat that she could feel even from where she stood several feet away. Perhaps it was a hot spring? But no, this was the very same pond she'd noticed on her hunt the night before; one of the wild pigs had even been drinking from it when she'd sneaked up on it. The water had been cold then, she was sure of it.

She might have pondered on this mystery longer if the sound of soft splashing in the pond hadn't drawn her attention again, and her heart skipped a beat for a moment as the bather turned for the shore, water glistening on his skin in the morning light.

When the Maia had first laid eyes on her quarry, she had assumed him to be an old man, bent and broken with age. How quickly she'd forgotten the ease with which he'd dispatched the villains on the road, and it was clear now his body was still far from depleted. While Raugad's hair might have been grizzled and gray, and he might have leaned on a stick as a charlatan's distraction, his skin was marred by runes, not wrinkles. His back was broad and straight when he chose to stand tall instead of cower and creep, and while he might not have been encumbered with a bulk of musculature, he was still lean and strong as any wily old wolf. And between his legs...

A strange heat washed over Yurë's body as she quickly whirled around to face away from him, her breaths coming harder than ever. It wasn't the first time she'd seen a naked male body, but she'd never seen--and in this case, certainly never expected--one so well-endowed. And despite Raugad's apparent age, it was clear there was no question of functionality either.

The Maia shut her eyes, recalling her feelings of the night before. The heat as she'd watching him before the fire. The desire to touch and be touched. A wicked rebel curiosity began to kindle in her mind, wondering if she were to slip off her cloak and gown right there and stand naked before him, what would he do? Would the old sinner really be so brazen as to lay a hand on Varda's chosen emissary, push her up against a tree, spread her legs and slide deep inside her, all the while breathing 'little one' into her ear as the fires between them grew hotter and hotter?

“Good morning. It’s time to go, little one, and a long ways to go at that.”


Yurë visibly jumped at the sound of his voice, then stared in shock as she realized he had dressed already and appeared right beside her. Not only that, but he was armed enough to have done away with her right then and there if he'd wanted, and she cursed herself for not noticing either his knife or whip sooner. He could have killed me just now. Of course he also could have killed her when he left the cave in the first place, and she tried to reassure herself with the idea that perhaps things hadn't completely gone to pieces since her impromptu nap.

"I...I hope I didn't disturb you," she stammered, trying to regain the dignity she'd worn the evening before. "You can certainly understand, given my purpose, why I had to follow you. I meant no intrusion upon your, ah, privacy."

The maiden fell into step behind him, but was careful to maintain a safe distance. She thought at first he meant to return to return to the cave for a morning meal (though Yurë doubted she could bring herself to eat anything in her current emotional state), however Raugad quickly turned their course elsewhere, though his pace was still unhurried. His tone was was even light, for him at least, as he decided to while their stroll away asking about her dreams of all things.

Though he was still facing away from her, Yurë couldn't help but narrow her eyes slightly. "What interest would you have in my dreams, Raugad? Did your former master teach you the divination of them, or are you self-taught, like the old women of the south claim to be?" Her voice was more cross than she had intended, and it probably would have been best to give him a non-committal answer altogether, but she could hardly swallow the words now. Guilt and frustration circled each other warily in her chest, all while the image of him rising out of the water taunted her mind, forcing her to focus her gaze on some distant point ahead of them and only allowing the slightest sliver of her companion's outline to inhabit a corner of her eyesight.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, thawing the frost-clad mountainsides, she finally felt her composure returning, and when Raugad spoke to her next she was much more congenial in her response. "I can hardly be bored to tears when I haven't the slightest idea where we are going or what we are doing," she replied casually, following his suit and snatching a couple of sweet berries herself. "I would be grateful if you do choose to enlighten me at some point, however until then you have my word I will not shoot anyone who does not shoot at me first. Incidentally, is that something I should be prepared for?" Yurë added, raising one of her eyebrows as she popped another berry into her mouth.

From what she could tell they were still far from any place of habitation, either mortal or elven. At the same time though, an odd sense of unease was beginning to creep up on her, and every now and then she could have sworn there was some kind of horrible stench on the wind, faint but present all the same. "Raugad...what do you do all day?" Yurë asked uncertainly, wondering just what sort of a trap her quarry might be leading her into.
 
The twitch on his eyebrow lasted only a few heartbeats when Yurë stammered out some strange apology for…watching him? It wasn’t the fact that she had been looking that bothered him, but that she felt the need for this false apology and excuse instead. It was her duty, was it not? To be his jailer and arrester. Coddling him with such apologies felt insulting. He had never been ashamed of his nakedness or appearance, indeed finding little value or concern for such things. There was no privacy in the halls of Angband, for anyone. But she had looked. And watched. Therefore…such things were fair game. He smirked and merely grunted in acknowledgement, concealing his irritation at all things to do with her. It was a moot point anyways. She disturbed him at bath. She disturbed him at meal. She disturbed him all the time. There was no escaping it, unless he was rid of her. And there were only two ways to do that. Slay her, or surrender.

But of course, his cool demeanor, his steady non-responsiveness, it never persisted. Yurë opened her mouth again, called him that name which he so proudly, and brashly, proclaimed himself to be, and his mood was once again soured. And so early in the day as well. He cast his eye up to Her in the sky, so bright and radiant as usual, far more than he had ever been, except in the very beginning. She was probably laughing at him. Curse Her. He supposed she was right. He was Raugad. He still was. He had enjoyed her speaking his other name, his truer name, but curse her now as well. He didn’t want it… It took a moment to simmer his wrath down and maintain the light tone he had when he questioned her. He did not note there had been some sharpness to her retort. It must not have been a pleasant dream she had.

“You speak of utter boredom in accompanying me and when I try to alleviate that curse with a humble inquiry, you knock down my attempt. Suit yourself then, little one. I was merely curious” Celevonaur answered her, continuing his determined trek through the snow-covered forest that served as raiment for the mountain. They were not going down the foothills where the snow-capped peaks would give way back to greenery and shrub, but along the mountain sides, where the ground was uneven, rocky, and dipped at times to immense falls. He wondered what the damage might be if he pushed her over and off. The malice was starting to congregate around his person again.

But to answer her question, he did not know the divination of dreams, whether to interpret or analyze them. They were nothing to him but curious reimagining’s of his memories and hopes, as well as his fears and anxieties. Sometimes they were interesting though. But it had been a long time since he had a pleasant dream, though the occurrence of such was rising since his escape from the downfall.

Well if she wasn’t bored yet, he certainly was. Dealing with these Upstarts, whether they were obedient or not, was taxing on his patience. Just like dealing with Yurë. He stopped before a particularly large pine tree, glancing up to note the cravings upon its bark, as Yurë barked out her conditions for not getting into hostilities with anyone who did not provoke it first. Incidentally, is that something I should be prepared for? Averting his eyes from the orc craving in the tree, indicating the demarcation of territory between one orc tribe…and another, he turned to face her, folding his hands together, snaking them into the sleeves of his arms in a rather casual posture. He smiled at her. “Yes."

Raugad…what do you do all day?

“What do you do all day?” He fired back. “Frolic in fields and meadows over in your guarded, fenced land? Dancing perhaps? Do you grow, create, craft? You don’t have the hands of any of those professions. I think we do much the same. We live.” He turned on his heel and continued past the warning craved in the tree by cruel orc blades. Here, the landscape seemed to change. Less trees. More stumps. But there was still enough foliage. Those who dwelt here did not like the sunlight. They needed to keep some coverage from the watchful entity above. “Not the slightest idea where we are going? Good. The suspense should keep you entertained. But I will give you a hint. We are on an investigation.

Of the cloth with the strange emblem he took from the humans on the road.

It was only a short walk from the large tree when he finally paused again. They were aware of him. They were watching them. And he in turn…knew of them. He could sense their malice. And fear. And most of all…he could smell them. So he paused, and waited, gesturing for Yurë to come closer to him. He would not speak or answer any questions. He waited for them. And they came.

Several shadowy figures, darting among the trees, swift, and low to the ground. But they came out, hunched figures with long arms, and scaly, grey flesh. Their hair was black or grey, their eyes wide and strangely colorful, some hint of their origins taken from a far more fair and regal race. They hissed and grunted, thinking it was some pair of humans who wandered onto their land. Fresh meat. But as they drew closer for the confrontation, they recognized the dark one. And he in turn spotted them. And in the Black Speech, while they still deliberated their ambush, he spoke to them. “Come.”

And they emerged. A dozen orcs. Armed with yew bows and short knives, in leather and fur, eyes darting in all directions like hunting predator. Or fearful prey. For that’s what they were to him. Celevonaur reached over and put his hand…on Yurë’s forearm. Pray, do not attack. These were his people. His…servants. And slaves. Whether they wished it or not.

They certainly did not. “You!” The lead orc, nearly man-high, sneered at him. “You said you would never come back! What do you want with us, dark one?”

And here I am. Take me to your pack. I have business with your chiefs and broodmother.” Celevonaur spoke in the same tongue. Their voices were snarly and hissing. His voice was still booming. But the language was ugly.

They hissed and exchanged looks. The pair were surrounded, and outnumbered six to two. It would avail the creatures naught. They knew of Celevonaur’s power. He had terrorized them before. They knew naught of the woman however. And it was she who was bothering them more.

Who is this one? She smells of…” The orc trailed off, making a noise of disgust instead.

Celevonaur looked back at Yurë. She might not know what they were saying, but his glance indicated they were certainly talking about her now. ”She is my…arm of vengeance.” He described her, looking back to the orcs. ”And she despises you immensely. She told me she wishes to make a necklace of all your eyes. So pretty. So take us onwards, or I will unleash her. Do not anger her. Her power is very immense.” He said in a rather light, joking tone, but to the orcs it only came off as sadistic. And what he said was half true…and half lie. But it worked. The orcs gathered in a small circle, deliberated, then gestured for them to follow, forming a loose cordon about them to escort them further into the dark, snowy forest and mountain-side.

“Still bored? They like you.” Celevonaur whispered to Yurë as they walked on. Ahead, a bonfire could be glimped between the trees, shielded within the threshold of another cave entrance. There were tents pitched about. And many, many more orcs, large and small, of both genders, of all ages. It looked rather akin to a human camp. Furs being dried. Animal carcasses on spits above fires. Cooking cauldrons. Tools and equipment. Well, not much similar. A circle of skulls impaled on spears circled the camp. Some were of orcs, some were of dwarves, some were of humans. They were led into the center of this, into the midst of an orc encampment of nearly forty of their kind. And made to wait there as some of the larger warriors went into the cave to seek those whom Celevonaur sought, while the others stood around…and stared at them. With pure hatred…and yet fear mingled in their glance.

Celevonaur waited calmly, glancing aside at Yurë again. He was enjoying this. “Would you like some water?” He asked her. He could…make them bring it to her. He couldn’t guarantee its quality however.
 
Yurë hadn't intended on keeping her bow close at hand. After determining that Raugad did not intend to kill her, at least not this morning, it hadn't really seemed necessary, especially not when she still had her silver knife on her hip. But after watching her guide observe the strange marking on the tree, and the strange way he spoke that one single word--yes--she suddenly found her hand reaching behind her back, pulling the weapon free as she sought a swan-fletched arrow from her quiver. The landscape was not particularly threatening in their current location, and the sun was still climbing high and unveiled overhead, but the wind suddenly seemed colder, and for a brief moment the Maia thought she could smell something unpleasant on it.

As they continued onward though, she suspected this was yet another one of Raugad's attempts to unnerve her and send her fleeing in failure back to the west. His mocking accusations of her life in Valinor only convinced her further, but while Yurë was tempted to loose the arrow right into the space between his shoulder blades, not even ten feet in front of her, she forced herself to lower the bow. After all, much as she hated to admit it, the old man wasn't wrong. Dashing along after Nessa could fairly be interpreted as 'frolicking,' though the servant's face rarely displayed the rapt joy of her mistress in times like these. It was much the same with her dancing. Yurë's movements were always technically flawless, even for the fastest and most complicated steps, but there was always a void of feeling in her dancing. One of the other Maiar in Nessa's service had once said Yurë was like a windup toy when she danced, and hardly seemed like a living thing with a mind and spirit of her own.

Until recently such comments had never bothered the maiden; it was enough to serve her mistress and be left in peace. That, in her mind, had been living. Since crossing the sea and seeing how other creatures made their way in the world though, Yurë was beginning to have doubts. True, many of the people she had met struggled in their lives, but when joys did come upon them they seemed to feel it more than any Maia in Valinor could. Life was made sweeter for them when death lingered in the shadows, and those who had escaped the grasping hands of tyranny were happy to possess even the smallest things that they could freely call their own. Even Raugad in his miserable, lonely existence seemed to have his independence to hold on to, though he had almost nothing else.

I think we do much the same. We live.

But did she really?

Well, if she didn't watch her footing Yurë wouldn't need to concern herself with living much longer. Shaking her head slightly, she tightened her grip on her bow again, not to use against her guide (not for the moment, at least), but against the watchers she could feel, but not see, hiding among the rocks. Thick clouds of snow were gathering over the mountain peaks, ready to drown out the sun in a matter of hours, though Anar was still gleaming valiantly in the eastern sky beyond their reach. The smell Yurë had noticed earlier had only grown stronger as their path had turned away from the sweeter-scented treeline, and the farther they walked the gladder she was that she hadn't eaten a heartier breakfast. Raugad seemed unperturbed, but the assault of refuse, unwashed bodies, and most pungent of all, rotten flesh and blood, was beginning to turn her stomach, and she was growing rather lightheaded as she tried to avoid breathing in too much of the stench.

"What possible business could you have in such a place?" she whispered, narrowing her eyes at the fugitive and wondering if perhaps he had led her into some kind of a trap. Was the air poisoned, and he planned to push her over the edge of the nearest cliff once she was utterly subdued? Or were the scents coming from some terrible beast that would come and devour her from behind? As Yurë moved closer to him in response to his entreating gestures, she either heard or imagined a sudden sound behind her, and whirling around pointed her arrow at a small group of creatures huddling in the shadows of the crags overhead.

Only the reassuring light of the half-covered sun allowed the Maia to keep her mind enough to avoid breaking her promise to Raugad, and while the arrow longed to fly into the deformed chest of the nearest creature it was still poised and ready in her long fingers. As the figures came closer though, the nausea rose violently inside her, and Yurë had to clutch at every last thread of her resolve to keep from vomiting right then and there.

The creatures were the most hideous things she had ever seen. The might have been some distorted distant relative of a man or elf judging by the general bipedal shapes of their forms, or they might have been some other entirely separate monstrosity made in mockery of the nobler races. The stench that continued to assail her might have come from their bodies themselves, but she also noticed that one of the creatures was absentmindedly chewing on a bit of some suspiciously pale meat, still bloody around the edges. All were armed, and Yurë noticed with some curiosity that their weapons had a style strongly resembling that of Raugad's knife, and she no longer wondered where he'd gotten such a thing.

Tearing her gaze away from the hideous sight of the monsters, she instead looked accusingly towards the fugitive beside her. Were they merely waiting for his signal to attack? Raugad hardly looked surprised to see them, but if he intended to give them the order to kill the maiden at his side he was certainly taking the time about the matter. Was it just her, or was that fear in the creatures' unnaturally bright eyes as Yurë kept her arrow trained on the nearest one, ready to fire and immediately draw her knife to cut Raugad's throat at the first sign of movement.

It never came. The creatures seemed as surprised to see Yurë as the Maia was to see them, and she supposed those gutterral sounds they were making was deliberation on what to do with her. In their clumsy, malformed mouths it hardly sounded like speech at all, more like the grunts and growls of animals, but when Raugad spoke something in the same language, the effect was much greater. A finger of ice seemed to run up Yurë spine, threatening to twist it like a string, and an inexplicable fear unlike anything she had ever known pressed at the back of her mind, finally breaking her resolve and making her hands begin to shake ever so slightly.

But it didn't last long. Cold as Raugad's voice had been, when he touched her forearm his had was shockingly warm; hot even, and the look in her eyes seemed as reassuring as he could possibly manage. Yurë could hear the words in his mind as clearly as she could read them on his face, and although every instinct in her body warned her not to trust him, not when she was so greatly outnumbered, some daring spark in her heart overruled. Nodding slowly, a responding thought came to her own mind, and a momentary flash of red in her eyes warned the fugitive what would lay in store for him if he chose to betray her now. Others will come for you. They will not be as kind as I am.

Yurë kept close at Raugad's side and kept her arrow high as the monsters urged them into the black crevices rotting into the mountainside. The sun would not reach her there, but the disquiet within her was enough to keep her senses sharp as they moved deeper into the monsters' lair. With every step there was something new to offend her sensibilities, from the various skulls used as decoration to the suspicious-looking hides that made up the creatures tents and clothing. New memories came to the maiden's mind, not of anything she herself had experienced on her journey, but of the whispered stories around campfires in the dark.

Orcs. Whether it was her own luck or some secret protection of the Valar, Yurë had not had the misfortune of encountering the filth until now, though she'd met several of their victims in the past. She should not have been surprised, she supposed, that Raugad would keep company with them, considering they had been the foot soldiers of The Enemy so long ago. But with Melkor gone, what possible use could his servant have for the beasts? It could not be any sympathetic reason. Corrupted as he might be now, Raugad was still Celevonaur once, and Yurë could not possibly believe any Maia, even a fallen one, could feel anything but revulsion for the creatures.

"This place is disgusting," the maiden whispered in response to Raugad's teasing. 'Like her' indeed. They would certainly 'like' to put her skull in the collection with all the others, she didn't doubt. "And no, I don't want a glass of water, if that's even what they drink. I want us to leave, immediately. Do you truly have a reason to be here, besides tormenting me?" Her hissing voice was mostly full of rage, but there was a hint of curiosity to it as well. The orcs had kept their distance from the pair so far, though every one that saw them was quick to ensure they had a weapon in hand, just in case.

Though Yurë was tempted yet again to give up this entire foolish venture and flee for the entrance to the camp, Raugad's smug expression was enough to convince her otherwise, and she stayed almost entirely out of spite, occasionally poking him with the tip of her arrow when the desire grew irresistible. He would keep her waiting here in twisted anticipation, she was sure, but she didn't have to make it comfortable for him. If there was anything she could do to make him hurry matters along and leave this place, she would do it, though the ideas were hard to come by between the stench of the place and the hideous sights before her eyes.
 
It was not at all difficult to sense the trepidation within his companion as they came into the center of the orc village. Located at the threshold of the cave, protected by thick foliage of pine trees, the sun was barely visible here, nor did its rays bother those orcs willing to wander about in the daytime. Celevonaur knew from knowledge that this was just an inkling of the total tribe, most living on a night cycle, sleeping during the day. But not at all unaware. Crafted and molded long ago by the Dark Powers, each and every one of them had a link, unwanted or unbidden, however that may be, to individuals like Celevonaur, who once lorded over them in their countless thousands. These might be far removed from those times. It was still itched deep into their own corrupted fëa.

However, his companion’s discomfort was rather amusing. By all appearances, she ought to be a helpless, fragile maiden before such beasts of war and violence. Little did they know that she was the most potent and dangerous individual to ever cross their paths. For now. That would change, once Celevonaur reobtained his full might and stature.

This place is disgusting Yurë hissed at his side. That was predictable, causing him to smirk softly. “No different than mine.” He defended their surroundings. No, it was horrid, and putrid. These were not artists or crafters, they were bred to be warriors, all of them, men, women, and even the children in lesser roles. They were nothing but scum. Which is why…Do you truly have a reason to be here, besides tormenting me? He turned and faced her, smile firmly on his lips, eyes twinkling with a mischief. “Tormenting them.” He said ever so casually, about his reason. Go on, react in fear and anger, lash out and slay them all as you’ve been taught to do, without mercy…and in doing so, do my bidding, as you so boldly claimed never to indulge.

She prodded him with her arrow, which he ignored with utter stoicism, though it irked him greatly. He would not respond with anger, he told himself, swiping her hand away. He would not show weakness and frailty of emotion in front of this scum. The Broodmother was coming.

She was must have been no more than five feet tall, weathered with age from once must have been a greater stature. Her hair was thin and wispy, yet smooth like silk. Her skin was pocketed with scars and gaunt. Her hands were like claws, long thin white nails caked with mud, and dried blood, and no doubt still capable of ripping through flesh and bone of any Upstart. She wore a leather vest and skirt and around her waist was girted a belt, from hung the many skulls of small critters; squirrels, birds, rodents, hares, and even…humans. At least from the size, they must have been full grown adults. They clattered as she walked, on feet no different than her hands. Yet despite her appearance, all the orcs, the vicious to the very least slave-breeds among them, all showed her deference. She had birthed many of them. Adopted and raised others. She held the camp together, while the warriors hunted and preyed on the weak. She was essential to their inner politics and workings.

Around her were three man-high orcs, armed with scimitars, heavier leather armor, boots of iron, and razor-sharp teeth. Much of their equipment looked looted. Dwarven? They surrounded the duo, while the Broodmother sniffed at them and bared her own sharp teeth. She maintained her distance. She particularly did not like Yurë. Too…clean!

”The Dark One returns to us. What more could he want of our wretched existence?” She hissed in the Black Tongue of Angband, however corrupted in their long exile from that forgotten, ruined place.

Celevonaur still spoke the original dialect of that tongue, bold, authoritarian, and discomforting. ”You’ve been holding out on me, Gulfim. I warned you about having dealings with outsiders. One of you…has betrayed me.” Celevonaur said, flashing a smile at Yurë, making the orcs think she was in on his scheme.

”We’ve done no such thing! Our clan has honored the arrangement, unfruitful as you have made it. The Void gives us nothing with your law. Nothing!” Gulfim wailed, but fear was evident in her eyes and body language. Like one playing with…fire.

”You lie.” Celevonaur accused.

The Broodmother twitched, casting a glance at her tribe. She knew what the price might be. She feared it. ”I tell the Dark One the truth. We have remained here, hidden, concealed!”

”Lie.” Celevonaur repeated the accusation, the word sounding much more nastier in the Black Tongue. ”Lie. Lie. Lie.” He took a step towards Gulfim. ”Lie.”

One of the orc guards had enough and tried to step forward, but the Broodmother, smaller and weaker, held up her claw, and the orc snarled and stepped back. Celevonaur snorted in contempt. They just had to deal with it.

”You do not believe. What proof can we offer?” Gulfim lamented.

”What do you know,” Celevonaur said, crossing the distance until he stood, towering rather, in front of the Broodmother. He dug into his inner pocket and removed the cloth with the strange red-painted eye. ”of this?”

Gulfim examined it, head tilting to one side, then the other, then direct to Celevonaur. Well, not to his face. His eyes were too fearsome for her. To his chest. ”Nothing. This means nothing to us.”

”Lie.” Celevonaur said, stuffing it back into his pocket.

”Truth-“ Gulfim began to say, before Celevonaur’s hand shot up, faster than lightning from a cloudless sky, and seized her by her throat. She let out a squeal, causing the rest of the tribe to jerk as if they all had been whipped simultaneously…and wail, holding back in fear and terror. Celevonaur choked the Broodmother, powerfully, even lifting her off the ground an inch or two, before flinging her back. An orc guard rushed to her side.

The other…thrust his spear at Celevonaur’s face from the side. He caught it a foot beneath the blade, an inch from piercing his neck, and with a brief glance…snapped the spearhead clean off. With a twirl of his wrist, he spun the spearhead about and slashed the orc across his face, cleanly taking out his eye, and sending him to the ground. Celevonaur moved towards him, intent on crushing the orc’s windpipe with his boot, squeezing the life ever so slowly out of the beast. Painfully. Slowly. Sadistically.

Gulfim wailed and shot up. ”No! No, I will tell you! Leave him!” She begged for one of her children. ”Karfu. Yes, Karfu knows! He deals with outsiders. The stunted folk. Yes, he knows! Leave my clan alone.” She pleaded with Celevonaur, despite a circle of her tribesmen surrounding the duo, ready to fight and maul and tear. But Gulfim knew…they had no chance against one of his sort, not knowing there were in fact two of his sort. Celevonaur looked at her, foot raised, ready to crush the eyeless orc’s neck, then he slowly lowered it with a snort.

”Fine. But if you lie, you will see each of your children squeezed until they squirm no longer, like the worms they are.” He threatened her and before he turned to Yurë, he looked down at the writhering orc, his physical eyeball on the leaf and dirt covered ground nearby, and tilted his head. He crouched…and simply yanked the orc’s boots off. Good, dwarven boots. Much better than his own. Without another word, he signaled Yurë and began to walk off, leaving the tribe to congregate around their Broodmother, to protect…and huddle in terror of the flaming shadow that had just passed through. They hissed collectively at Yurë’s back.

Scarcely twenty feet away, Celevonaur dropped to the ground, took off his old raggedly boots, and placed the iron dwarven pair on his feet. Much better. He stood up and practiced a few lofty steps, liking the mobility. “Come. There are more in the mountains. They must have the answers I seek.” He said casually to his companion, though deep inside he was full of malice. Towards Karfu, if the fat fool dared to disobey Celevonaur’s instructions.

This is how Celevonaur made his living. He stole from others. Well, not stole. He bartered. Their lives…in exchange for whatever he wanted. That was how it worked, from the beginning to the present.

“And, little one, prod me again with one of your arrows and I shall snap every single one in your quiver. You wished to accompany me. Behave yourself, please.” He said with teasing sarcasm. He however had no intentions of ever touching her gear. Archery was for cowards anyways. He liked to get up close, with his claws – when he had them – and do the work very personally and formally. “If you are wondering, all I did was ask the Broodmother to quit tormenting the locals and reminded her of the punishment for disobedience. I thought such stewardship would be among your priorities. Do you disagree?” Celevonaur said to her, lying about what really happened. It would tell him if she understood the Black Speech or not.
 
Oh but Raugad was enjoying this, Yurë could just tell. While her expression grew darker with each passing moment, and the filthy creatures around them seemed to shuffle more and more with growing anxiety, the old man looked as placid as any might while sitting in a comfortable chair before a roaring fire. And just as surely as she might have provoked him with her arrows, she could feel his thoughts needling at her mind, daring her to loose her arrow in the nearest stinking, hulking body. For a moment, she had to admit she was tempted, but her emotions had never outweighed her logic before, and they certainly would not now. She could see the consequences of such a foolish shot unfolding before her very eyes; the nearest pack of the beasts would instantly be on her, and if she was lucky one of their wicked-looking knives would swiftly send her fëa flying back to Valinor while Raugad laughed at her demise. And if she was unlucky...she shuddered heavily, not liking the way one of the creatures was watching her with his beady orange eyes or the way his bloodstained fingers were twitching.

Instead, she fixed her hostile gaze on Raugad's profile, trying to imagine how he would look when he was surrounded by a different sort of creature. He would face the Valar one day, she was sure of that. Yurë hoped she would be in the hall when it happened, when all the great Lords and Ladies confronted his smug face with all the crimes of his long, wicked life and gave him the sentence he so feared. And Raugad did fear it, the Maia realized, feeling a fresh bolt of encouragement in her heart. Despite how braggadocious he might in a setting like this, he was so terrified of the Valar that he willingly sought out the company of filth like these and let his once glorious form decay into crooked disfigurement, and what power he still had could only be used to annoy others into action.

Yurë's thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of another of the creatures; a female this time, judging by the prodigious swelling in her hip and chest. But orc women were no fairer than the men, and the maiden supposed this one served much the same role as a queen bee in a hive. Or perhaps more accurately, like female hyenas she'd heard of in the far south, who ruled their packs with sheer dominance of will and feasted on the bones of the males who displeased them. But despite her hideousness, the she-orc did successfully command Raugad's attention, and a nauseating question of what sort of relationship lie between the two squirmed unpleasantly through the Maia's mind. Surely he hadn't fallen that far as to take such a creature as consort?

No, there was no warmth or even friendliness in those ugly foreign words the Úmaia spoke to the orc, and when Raugad reached a hand for her it was far from an embrace. For a few curious moments, the she-orc seemed to shrink in fear--or perhaps Raugad merely grew in his dominance over her. Yurë's silvery brows knit together in confusion, wondering if she ought to feel pity for the beast or pride in the regained strength, however momentary, of the former Maia. And when Raugad flashed a surprisingly bright smile in the maiden's direction, that hardly detracted from the conflict inside her, yet either by her own reflex or some unspoken cue from her ward, she drew her bowstring a little tighter.

Maybe that was what had provoked the orc spearman to suddenly make a move for the invader, though later on Yurë supposed the brute had simply seen a good opportunity to attack. To a mortal or even an elf, the beast's movement would have seemed quick as lightning, but to the Maia the spear thrust was slow enough to grant plenty of time to consider her next move. It was a clear shot, and the arrow that had longed so desperately to fly ever since they'd plunged into the darkness of the caverns was ready to fly. She might have still drawn a retaliation on herself, but it would be enough to at least save Raugad.

Why though should she want to save Raugad? The perfect opportunity was upon her. Let the beasts kill him. They could tear his body apart and wear his skull like a hat for all she cared. Whatever was left of his spirit would have nowhere to go but Mandos' hall, and Yurë's mission would be complete. She was sure she could outrun the orcs even in the labyrinth of tunnels, and once she had escaped she would be free to go where she willed. Someplace warm and green where she could make her life exactly as she wished, without the fear of judgment or displeasing anyone...

Of course, Raugad would never allow her to have such peace. He too had seen the orc's attack coming, and countered it as easily as if he were swatting away a fly. An ironic look of disappointment darkened Yurë's expression as she watched him squeeze the life out of the brute. She was a bit surprised at the tone of pleading in the she-orc's voice as she screamed at the grappling pair, but she was even more surprised when the Úmaia conceded, and threw the gasping creature onto the stone floor of the chamber. So even he has mercy in him Yurë mused, and suddenly felt guilty about wishing the mob would tear him apart. Perhaps he did deserve a living judgment after all.

Or not.

"You cannot mean to tell me all of that was so that you could procure a new pair of boots," Yurë stated incredulously as they moved out of earshot of the mob. "Did you not say there were human settlements nearby? Could you not simply have begged or bought a pair there? They would at least fit you better than those silly things." She arched one of her brows as she observed the boots that were obviously made for a much shorter, stouter figure than Raugad. Not only that, but iron would be heavier than leather, though she supposed if he did try to run in them she would have quite the advantage in her own soft but sturdy footwear.

"Are you so averse to honest work that you spend your time thieving from creatures like these?" she continued as they made their way deeper into the mountains. "You've proven to me several times now that you're stronger than you look. Is there no farm nearby that could use a strong back like yours in exchange for a few coins? You might find your life a bit easier that way. At the very least you wouldn't need to deal with filth like that." Wrinkling her nose, she finally stowed her bow and arrow and fished a small vial of pale purple liquid out from a pocket in her cloak. Uncorking it, the momentary smell of flowers in the Gardens of Lórien filled the passageway, but Yurë was quick to reseal the bottle and put it away again. This certainly was not the place to fall asleep.

With the air somewhat refreshed, if still a bit heavy, Yurë kept on hand on her knife as she stayed close behind her guide. "Did you really ask her to leave the people of this region alone?" she asked curiously, a thin layer of doubt edging the surprise in her voice at hearing what Raugad had asked of the she-orc. "I suppose I cannot say anything against that; those things should never have been created," the Maia added with hate flashing in her eyes before they settled back into their usual soft shade of gray. "You hardly seem to care much for the world beyond your cave though. Does it really mean so little to you?"

She continued to watch his back, firmly expecting an answer in the affirmative but strangely hoping to be wrong.
 
The smile that spread on Celevonaur’s lips were his widest yet since meeting this overly inquisitive maia, as she ignored his gentle warning in lieu of disbelief at his new acquisition. Dwarven boots, while not as natural feeling as his hoof-like feet in the days of his strength and old raiment, were the next best thing. And there was much walking to do. His older, Aftercomer-made pair would fast fall apart. As frail as its makers were, not meant to last beyond a century or two. How pitiful. He didn’t expect Yurë to understand. She probably acquired her garments from the elves, the Rebels, and Celevonaur would never sink so low as to wear any of their garb.

Especially their chains.


There was no loss of pace or speed in them, regardless, as Celevonaur ploughed onwards on his unshared quest with his companion. He was in such a good mood after effecting such strength and command over the orcs that not even her insulting suggestion that he, he, the great Raugad who once stood before the gates of Angband before legions of Rebel soldiers, should lower and disavow himself as to do menial labour on a human farm. He simply cast her a look over his shoulder, an eyebrow quirked in utter disbelief and contempt for that suggestion, before looking forwards to his path and trail. That he would serve another, ever again… At the very least she called him strong. Why was that heart warming?

Celevonaur faltered in his pace however when the strange scent wafted over to his nose. He sniffed twice, before recognizing the fragrance of flower, and made a face. He presumed Yurë to have done something, a spell perhaps, to bless the airs about them and that made him roll his eyes. Yes, he knew orcs, and humans, to be filthy creatures but they were matched in equal disgust by the extreme cleanliness of the Rebels. The over-use of such meadow sprouts seemed like a pathetic shield to him, to guard against the natural airs of the world. They were always trying to hide behind such facades.

Did you really ask her to leave the people of this region alone? Stars above and below, he could have mocked the voice that spouted such naivety. She actually believed him, despite what she had witnessed in his display? “I care more than you.” Celevonaur answered back instead. “Lovely, how you judge the orcs not worthy of life, yet they respect us for who we truly are. Yet you would have me labouring on the farm of some Upstart mortal, who could never fathom who we are and what we did for this world they now scurry over. You call the orcs filth, yet they produce and live no different than your lap pets, the…pointy ears. I find it amusing how you deny the existence of such creatures, even though they have fëa just as any of your chosen kindreds, corrupt and wounded though they might be. You would happily see such mistakes removed from the world, because that is what your kind does, they hide from the truth. I merely give the orcs order and structure, in a world they did not chose to inhabit. Tell me, which is more noble then?” He challenged her back, speaking slow and casually as he laid out these thoughts.

He suddenly halted and lifted up his hand, without turning around. “You know what? Don’t answer, just think on it, little one. I know it isn’t by your choice either to be shielded from such truths. Indeed, you are worthy of the same pity I give to orcs. So I will give it to you. And excuse your ignorance.” And then Celevonaur glanced over his shoulder, locking eyes with her, and smiled. So high and mighty, the Valar, and their servants, believing only they had stewardship over life and beings in a far away land they did not even trod in anymore. They were more like servants of Melkor than they knew. That’s why Celevonaur knew…they would never have mercy for him, because his ilk never had mercy for them.

But she was wrong. This was his world. He was apart of it, bound from the day he came down from the heavens, the memory as distant as the last whispers of a fading dream beneath the rising Sun. He did care, in his own way. He only believed that he knew better, through long experience, than those who currently walked within it. If only they listened to him, they would know better as well. But no, he had no interest in teaching or guiding, unlike some others he could name. The folded napkin with the drawn crimson eye seemed to pulsate with the thought.

He turned fully on his heel now, his other leg even giving a flourish of a swing as he turned to face her, his mood still cheery. “And I am not averse to honest work. I simply…do not know how.” He teased. “But if you were to lead by example, I might be persuaded otherwise…” he chuckled, before turning back around and continuing on his march. Yes, that would be a lovely sight, the messenger and servant of the Valar breaking her back on a farm. He doubted she would, because in his narcisstic mind, he figured her to be prideful in her own way, and would refuse. And therefore, prove his point. But if she did indeed do so, then he would be shamed to do so as well, but he was confident enough to think such a pass would not happen.

He glanced up at the sky, shielding his eyes with a hand for a moment. His cousin was awfully bright today. Or was it because of a source more closer to…ground?
 
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