Starlight In Her Hair (Shiva the Cat/BennyQ)

[Shiva the Cat]

Yurë was a little taken aback by Raugad's staunch defense of the filthy beasts, but his words did little to chip away at the hardened shield against them that surrounded her heart. The orcs were not created by Eru, but by The Enemy himself. Their very existence was an act of rebellion against the order of the world, and Raugad's sympathy with the creatures would do little to aid in his defense when his own judgment came. For her part, now that she'd seen them, the maiden would have been glad to see every one of them wiped clear into the Void, like brushing dust off a shelf.

And yet...the sound of the she-orc's cry still echoed in her ears: the bestial sound of a mother whose young was being torn away from her. The mother of the piglet she'd killed had made a similar noise last night, although Yurë hadn't thought much of it at the time. Death was a necessary part of the world, and the young boar had needed to die in order to sustain her body (and Raugad's as well, though the Maia found herself wondering if the tradeoff had truly been worth it). Orcs certainly needed to die as well in order to preserve the lives of elves and men alike, because the latter peoples had been planned by Eru. That alone was enough to raise their value above Melkor's stinking foot soldiers, no matter how Raugad might scorn them.

That thought did send one little barb darting through Yurë's mind that she couldn't resist tossing Raugad's way. "And why should these 'Upstarts', as you call them, revere or respect you? What have you done for any of them, besides torture and slaughter them for your own amusement and that of your old master? I suspect they fear and loathe you just as much as the orcs do, but the key difference is that the orcs are so weak-willed that they will bend to your every desire, and that is why you defend them so. But I will not."

No, she would not defend the orcs, she never would, Yurë was sure. But inside, she had to admit that much of that the Úmaia's argument did ring true. The orcs had no say in their own creation, and by her own admission they were too weak-willed to oppose the masters that had demanded such wanton violence and destruction from them. In that sense they were to be pitied, but unless by some power their very natures were to change and make the creatures into a people of peace, they would always be hated and hunted.

Will Raugad face the same fate? The idea was beginning to strengthen glumly in the maiden's mind, like a stubborn weed taking root. If this was how he showed repentence, by scorning the Free Peoples and defending villainous marauders like the orcs, the Úmaia would find little sympathy in the Halls of Mandos. Yurë would probably never see the orcs swept into the Void as she wished, but it seemed very likely she would see Raugad cast through the Door of Night, never to return.

Why did that trouble her so? Other than declining to kill her outright, it wasn't as though he'd shown her much kindness. He was still the stubborn rebel, still cruel in his words and deeds, and his heart clearly held nothing but scorn for others. Well, that and his strange little misplaced sympathy for orcs. But Yurë supposed she needed to recognize the courage, misguided as it was, in standing up for the wretched creatures when all creation looked on them with hatred. Raugad had strength in his character, there was no denying that, and strength in his body as well. He had experience as well, knowledge that could still be useful if turned against the other remnant servants of the Enemy still skulking in the shadows of the world. What good could Raugad still do for the world, she wondered, if only his spirit could be turned away from his current path, which could lead to nowhere else but his own destruction?

Though every fiber of logic in her argued against it, Yurë wanted to save him. Not just because she knew Lady Varda desired it, but because it seemed such a waste for an existence like his to wink out of existence, like an extinguished candle. Yet as she studied the Úmaia's face, the idea of redeeming each and every last one of the orcs somehow seemed easier. How in the world could she ever get someone like him to admit to his wrongs and apologize for them, while at the same time acknowledging the greater authorities of the world and showing the proper respect to its inhabitants?

As they continued on their way, the daunting task turned heavily in her mind as she tried to find the most approachable angle, and she was pleasantly surprised as Raugad entertained the idea, even in jest, of honest work. Yurë recalled how he had mocked the idea of scurrying about on a farm, but in her own heart, the idea was far from a horrific one.

Over the course of her journey she had met several farm women who seemed perfectly content with their lives, happy to aid their husbands and raise their children on the wages of their own work. On a few occasions when the Maia had allowed her own fancies to drift, she often tried to imagine herself living such a life, serving Yavanna in a quiet, distant way by raising her own olvar and tending to a small number of kelvar with gentle affection. And when she was feeling particularly daring, she even imagined taking a husband not from her fellow Maiar, who would always pity her, scorn her, or view her as an outsider to their society, but from the First- or Secondborn (most likely the latter; elves never seemed to take as much interest in agriculture that mortal comrades did). Perhaps she would even be given a child, as Melian had, though Yurë knew better than the harbor this last idea as anything more than a diaphanous dream, unlikely to ever come true.

And what would Raugad make of such a life, she wondered? The idea was both intriguing and amusing, although Yurë suspect that any attempt at making such a life was just an excuse to avoid the judgment that awaited him. Still, if he were serious about it, the experiment might be enough to lure him out of the mountains at least. "Perhaps when you've grown bored of extorting orcs and eating mushrooms, we might seek out some homestead or another where we can both find work, and I can demonstrate for you," she suggested. "If you can dispatch with such aggressive creatures as those we've just left, I sincerely doubt you would have much trouble subduing a raging bull or a rebellious horse. And you would get much better meals and a more comfortable home out of the situation as well. But perhaps your next order of business will offer you something a bit more substantial than iron boots and a scrap of cloth?"

Her expression was completely innocent as she spoke, though the sunlight washing over her briefly did give her a stronger air of confidence and grace. Her fingers were still dancing lightly on the hilt of the knife at her belt while her other hand brushed a strand of hair from her eyes as she gazed ahead, trying to determine where exactly their path laid ahead and how much longer it was to their destination.

 

[BennyQ]

The sigh was very audible from Celevonaur’s lips when Yurë just had to speak on the questions he posed to her. Even if she had no intentions of ever dwelling in thought upon the subject, he had wished, perhaps futilely, that she might at least stay quiet with the appearance of doing so. Rather, she attempted to kindle the conversation another way, calling out his words in regards to the Upstarts, whether elf or man. What had his kind done for them? Very little, since they were poisoned from their very beginning to engage in an destructive rebellion against their teachings. Their refusal to see sense had sparked tremendous punishment from his ilk unto theirs, though he could now see how ineffectual that turned out to be, producing more rebels than it did subjects.

But she was wrong. The difference was not as keen as she thought. Elves, while not overtly obedient, still often carried out the intended objective when desired, despite their repeated claims to opposing the Dark One, and had succeeded in sowing dissent and mistrust among their own kind in certain circumstances. Men on the hand were quite susceptible. Their only problem is that they did not stay inherently so without the occasional reminder. And had the common occurrence of turning such teachings and designs to their own empowerment, if they were allowed to stray from the true path set before them by Celevonaur’s kind. There was an example very close to them, in fact. She would see. In time. She would see that the might and power of Raugad and others were not so easily forgotten or shaken off.

“You reckon so?” He simply asked her, letting the question hang in the air. He cared not what she reckoned. It was too late for reverence or respect of any kind. The Upstarts had been induced to rebellion by Yurë’s ilk and had succeeded in tearing down any such dream or ambition for an orderly, unified world. Now they withdrew behind their fortress land and left those they used to fend for themselves. Perhaps because they too feared the weapons they had created.

What she did reckon however is that he might grow bored of this continued adherence to a plan that was no longer feasible. What could Celevonaur ultimately accomplish, using some mixture of orc or man, along with a region or territory he instilled his power into? What dreams did he truly have in regards to such hierarchies and rule? [i}Very little[/i] in fact. That was the domain of Mairon and others like him. Celevonaur was interested only in the dance of flame and heat, of steam and lava, how it all connected with the land and waters and the airs above. He shook his head. Such curiosities belong to naïve children like the one following me.

“Firstly, I very much enjoy mushrooms. And I will continue to enjoy them long after my form no longer requires such sustenance. Do not speak so ill of them.” Celevonaur said, rather seriously, though of a topic that might seem so…ludicrous. “And those aggressive creatures that I farm are infinitely more useful than any bull or horse. They produce tools, food, drink and can be, somewhat - minimally perhaps - communicated with, whereas those beasts are simple minded and prone only to their base instincts. Heh, aggressive creatures. Do you not consider raging or rebellious to be aggressive traits? Seems I would be effecting more effort in order to garner less bounty.” He said disdainfully. And as with those aggressive creatures, they could give him something more substantial than what he had received. Like information.

“I am tired of beasts anyways. And this next one shall drain my patience, and yet there is one after as well before my day is done.” Celevonaur continued, deliberating choose a path under the mountain pines where the foliage cast the thickest shadows, concealing him from the warm sun above. He didn’t need Her looking upon what he was doing. The new boots allowed him to stamp and thud over the rocky ground quite easily. There was a cave up ahead, large, able to consume a double-sized hovel that the Upstart mortals dwelt within on the lowlands behind them. On the ground was the prints of orc and goblin, but also something much…larger. These creatures, Celevonaur knew, did not come out in the sunlight so it was entirely safe, when he paused in front of the cave entrance to face Yurë, entirely at ease with the outpouring of malice that came from within.

And still, the topic at hand…was farming. “Mushrooms then.” He said with a smile, looking into her face, himself appearing more sturdy, more tall. It was almost as if he was mocking her with such a ridiculous topic, twisting her strange hope for him to pick up honest labour. She was right. Anything to avoid being returned West against his will and submitted to judgement. Yes, he would consider even this. Only because she was suggesting it, too. “I could grow mushrooms in lieu of handling and taming beasts. It is still honest work, no? They require dirt and moisture. Not even sunlight. If I took up such a life in my cave, maybe you might be persuaded to leave me alone. But then another would simply come. Perhaps they might not cook as well as you.” He said, his voice dropping low, as if he might be ashamed to compliment her. And perhaps reveal that if he did take up such a life, he might prefer it with her preparing his meals. He had no better meal in his long lifetime than the one she made yesterday.

A vanguard of orcs was coming to the cave’s entrance to investigate the sound. They stalked quietly, with bows, yet did not realize their presence was known. The maiar would be aware, their senses keener, yet Celevonaur showed no regard as he faced Yurë, still talking about…mushrooms.

“Is this a life you imagine for yourself? No longer a lapdog for the Valar, but here in Middle-Earth, free, unbound, as we were intended to be? Are bulls and horses something you wish to govern and manage? Then you shall have the perfect training when dealing with these,” he said, jerking his head towards the cave, where the orcs could be heard faintly whispering about the two at the door. They were planning to strike and take them captive, not knowing who they were dealing with. “At least the bulls and horses won’t try to directly maim or kill you when you go out to manage them.” Celevonaur said to Yurë. He was talking as much as she did now. Every new strategy to chase her off was rapidly failing. Everything short of violence. Perhaps using some of her own tactics might do the trick.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Yurë took a strange sort of relief in noting Raugad did not make any claim on the allegiance of the Free Peoples, so much that she was willing to let the subject drop between them. Regardless of the fugitive's opinion on orcs and their like, if he at least understood that he wasn't owed anything by men or elves, no one could accuse him of seeking to dominate the eastern world. Benefit from them, perhaps, but did not elves, men, and dwarves alike all benefit from one another? Were Raugad's crimes truly so terrible that he should have been cut off even from those willing to trade with him, few as they must have been?

In the Maia's mind such a punishment did not seem just, but then again a lack of ambition was not an indicator of past offenses. It is not for you to judge she reminded herself, though the voice in her mind sounded very much like Lady Varda's. Your only task is to take him across the sea. Do not trouble yourself with such matters.

This was easier said than done; both to cease troubling and begin taking. In regards to the latter, force was still out of the question, especially with the stink of orcs still thick about them (though beginning to fade, and mixing with some thicker, earthier smell). Glancing up at the sun again, Yurë wondered if any of the Wise were watching her now, and if so, did they wonder why she had not moved outwardly against her foe? Would they suspect cowardice on her part, or perhaps a heart too soft for the task at hand? The maiden set her jaw, then dropped her gaze to the path ahead of her. No, Lady Varda and even Lady Nessa were much wiser than their handmaid, and if Yurë could see the folly in such an open strike, they must have as well. She was doing the right thing, letting Raugad drag her all over the mountainside like this, if it meant she earned his trust in doing so.

If she could just get him away from this bitter country, bring him somewhere greener and more at peace, where he could let his guard down...perhaps then if force was still needed, she could slip Aulë's manacles onto those sinewy wrists...

The sound of falling water some distance to her right caught the Maia's attention, and made her wonder how far exactly they were from the sea. The stream that poured over the rocks must have started higher up near the peaks, cutting a deep gorge through the rocks and preventing anything from growing along the steep banks besides some damp, stubborn lichens. And yes, some of Raugad's mushrooms as well, in the little nooks that were constantly sprayed rather than soused by the cascade. The Úmaiar would have to be acrobat though, if not a spider, in order to reach the hidden treasures halfway down to the water's choppy surface.

"Hm?" She jerked her head up with a flash, realizing the fugitive had asked her some question or another. "Ah, yes, I suppose one could say so," Yurë muttered with a noncommittal shrug. The answer must have served well enough, or else Raugad had nothing else to add to the subject at hand, and he turned both his attention and his feet towards a shady path where an offshoot of the river trickled lazily through a soggy channel between some enormous boulders. The moisture in the air made the smells of the forest all the more pungent, and while the Maia hoped that the scents of pine and stone would drown out the less pleasant stenches on the air, she was sorely disappointed.

Indeed, the smell of orc almost seemed to be getting stronger, along with that unfamiliar muddy scent that made her think of worms and toads and other unpleasant underground creatures. As usual, Raugad barely seemed to notice any of it, and had gone into a fanciful little tirade about mushrooms. Despite a growing sense of warning around her as well as the unpleasant air of the little valley, Yurë did have to smile a little at the ridiculous idea of Raugad the Balrog, reduced to nothing more than a simple mushroom farmer.

"I might be persuaded," the maiden agreed. "I cannot speak for all of my kind, but I think there are some in Valinor who would consider imprisoning someone underground to toil in the muck for all eternity a fitting punishment for crimes such as yours. Perhaps you can make such a case to Lord Mandos yourself."

And oh by the heavens, if Raugad smiled at Mandos the way he was smiling at her now--why was her heart beginning to race, and what was the strange heat rising into her cheeks?--even the Doomsman himself might be moved to sympathy. For a moment, Yurë could have sworn she saw that other form of the fallen Maia beneath the withered shroud; golden and beautiful, calling to something primal in her that longed to rise up and overtake all of her poise and self-control.

His next statement did nothing to ease her mind of course, and the maiden had to remind herself to breathe before she had the presence of mind to respond. "I...well, thank you," she stammered, immediately dropping her gaze from him face. "Truth be told, I never cooked before undertaking this journey. In my first attempt, I burned a poor rabbit into cinders. I couldn't even convince a fox to eat it by the time I was done. But I've practiced a great deal since I arrived on these shores, and perhaps one day, I--"

Yurë froze, her gray eyes locking on movement some distance farther up the mountainside. Since turning onto this path she had noticed the immense cave opening carved into the rock, and had correctly assumed this would be their ultimate destination. She hadn't expected the small, though well-armed contingent of orcs to scuttle forth, no doubt summoned by Raugad's unsupressed rambling about the mushrooms. Both of her hands twitched as she tried to gauge which would be the better weapon: knife or bow. It would be a relatively clear shot to pick off one or two of the brutes, but doing so would be sure to give away their location in the trees below. And she supposed if this was another "diplomatic" meeting, killing the beasts was probably not the most appropriate way to start matters.

Inclining her head towards the creatures, she glanced back towards Raugad, all sentimentality gone and replaced by the huntress' wariness. "More friends of yours then?" she asked as she reached for her bow and arrow again, deciding it was better to be safe than sorry. "You didn't seem too keen on my shooting the last bunch of them, what's so different about these?"

If it hadn't been for the orcs, her thoughts might have lingered more on the Úmaiar's last question: Is this a life you imagine for yourself? No longer a lapdog for the Valar, but here in Middle-Earth, free, unbound, as we were intended to be?

It was a rebel's question, one that Yurë would never have dared entertain in Valinor. She would not speak the answer aloud now, and her mind was too focused on the orcs to linger on it, but underneath all her heart knew the traitorous answer.

Yes.

Swallowing again, the maiden drew her bow and aimed for the nearest of the orcs. "Shall I fire then?" she whispered, not looking at Raugad, not thinking of his questions, focusing on nothing but the prey before her.

 

[BennyQ]

Humorous. Many of my kind think the same about those in Valinor. Imprisoned underground, far from the heights and airs they enjoyed so much. Clip their wings and they won’t be able to fly away. He recalled what joy and relish such thoughts were for him and others like him. He got a glimpse of that fluster and frustration the victims might have in Yurë however when she began to stammer over his compliment on her cooking, causing him to grin a little wider. Really, this was a surprise to get such a reaction from her, Celevonaur having some experience with the female Úmaiar in Angband. He had imagined what it would be like going that far with Yurë, if her kind even allowed such bodily activities. His foot was in the door, it seemed like. All he had to do was press in and he might truly clip her wings in ways she would not expect. He listened to her tale with casual attentiveness, sizing her up when she abruptly halted in her tale as she glanced over his shoulder.

He shifted his face low and downwards to get in her line of sight. “Yes? Perhaps one day you’ll…” he repeated, trying to get her to finish her thoughts. Yes, the orcs were very near. But the concern did not show on his features, continuing to smile, with dark eyes boring unblinkingly into her dusky face and features. He knew they were there. He had acknowledged they were there. He was not worried. So why should she be? Aw, did she not trust him? He thought with dry humor. Her fears and concerns were mockable. “Friends of mine? I have no friends. Your precious Valar have seen to that. These?” He said, jerking his head towards the cave, still without looking or facing the orcs. “No different than farm animals to me. Would you shoot your own beasts for a common show of hostility? Well I suppose so, if they are as numerous as these creatures. Put your bow down, little one. We are not here to fight.”

Celevonaur even dared to put his left hand on Yurë’s left shoulder, moving around, behind, and then to her opposite side, his arm now slung across the back of her shoulders, half tucking her into his side. Now he finally faced the darkness of the cave. And the creatures who stalked just within, hidden in the shadows. “Don’t be afraid. Put your bow down.” He whispered to Yurë, eyes straight. And then, drawing himself up from his somewhat hunched shape to his full, true height, an entire head taller than Yurë, he spoke out in the Black Speech of Angband.

”Greetings. Come out and show yourself.” He said, some of his innate power in his voice, drawing the orcs out by the commanding tone of his voice. It echoed down the cave threshold.

And the dark magic in which Melkor had instilled in these beasts could not resist. They complied. And one by one, the grey skinned orcs strode out, crouched, their long arms nearly dragging along the ground, as they carried an assortment of short bows and long, rusty knives. They hissed yellow teeth snarls at the pair. One they knew. The other disgusted them with her…cleanliness and airs of purity.

”What do you want?” One of the larger orcs hissed at Celevonaur. Shorter, maybe, but the orc had wider shoulders and was more muscular. That was who Celevonaur set his sadistic grin upon. A perfect example. His arm dropped from Yurë’s shoulders and he took a few steps forward. As tiresome as the orc challenges could be, he rather enjoyed the lessons imparted, when it came to challenging his movements. He went wherever he damned well pleased.

”A parley with Karfu. You will take us to him.” Celevonaur spoke. His speech was firm, authoritative, each word pronounced perfectly and deliberately. The orcs answered in the same tongue, but did so with slurred or incoherent pronunciation.

”I will only take your head to him. Yours and the…” the orc spat, looking at Yurë, “she-elf.” it finished in the common-tongue. It waved its long knife up and towards Celevonaur, threateningly. And the Úmaia stepped towards him, his head raised high, as if daring the orc to aim for his neck. The orc bought it and the moment it shifted its legs apart in preparation to lunge, it sealed its own fate. For Celevonaur was faster, and struck two fingers into the orc’s neck, stabbing its windpipe. The other orcs jerked and twitched defensively, but neither leapt in, as Celevonaur seized the larger orc’s arm, twisted its wrist until the knife dropped, then heaved and flung the orc to the ground. He lifted his new dwarven boot, and over the protesting howls of the other orcs, he slammed it down on the orc’s neck…and ended its life.

He still held the orcs twisted arm however and began to drag the limp body behind him. ”Move it.” He hissed at the other orcs and after such a display, coupled with the dark incantations woven into the Black Speech of Angband, they obeyed. And the foul lesson of their comrade being dragged behind the dark entity and his companion was more than enough. They scurried ahead of him, obedient now to his wishes, glancing back over their shoulder for him to follow. And Celevonaur, dragging the dead orc by its arm, glanced back as well.

“Are you coming?” He asked of Yurë. “You’re not going to let me go in there alone, are you?” He smiled, knowing full well he didn’t need her, but was mocking her stated quest to trail and eventually arrest him. What if he went in there and roused all the orc tribe to his defense?

The opening tunnel was long and narrow, but eventually gave way to a vast chamber, full of tents, holes, pools of water (and pools of some other liquid that wasn’t water). There were smiths, butcher shops, and even lavre of some insectoid was cultivated. There were orcs of many shapes and sizes, from the smaller snaga species to the larger warrior types. All stood by, silently, and watched the two otherworldly entities stride through their midst. All looked on with increasing hostility as the dark one dragged one of their fellows through the cave. Celevonaur was heading towards the large, bright glow at the back of the cavern. A great bonfire, upon which a spit made of large tree logs sat overtop, and from it dangled a dented, beat up cauldron, boiling with some foul concoction.

And around its perimeter strode a troll. Olog-Hai. Celevonaur knew the type. He once had a duo as his personal bodyguard, though they perished in the War of Wrath. How Melkor crafted this particular folk, even Celevonaur did not know. Nor did he care. They only existed to serve their function, as shock infantry and beacons of fear to the Upstart rebels.

This one however spoke the common tongue quite clearly.

“No, no, no!.” The troll bellowed, whacking a subservient snaga with its large metal ladle, sending it sprawling to the ground. “I said black leaves, not brown, you imbecile! You-“ the troll caught sight of Celevonaur and Yurë and suddenly began to stammer.

“R-R-Raugad! You came b-back! And…who is this she-elf? You brought her here to kill me?” Karfu stammered, stepping back a few paces in fear, even though he could probably stomp on both the duo as one might step on an ant. He was clearly intelligent, as he understood who, and what, Celevonaur was. The troll waved his ladle defensively, as if to ward them off. Perhaps he had been in the mushrooms too heavily. Celevonaur grinned, finally letting go of the dead orc, continuing to let Karfu ramble on, which he could, until someone stopped him, which not many of his own kind dared to do. “N-No, your kind doesn’t consort with elves. Vampiress. Is that what she is? Here to suck my blood? Well you won’t get a drop out of me, Sharp-Tooth!” He snarled his own dirty teeth at Yurë.

“Enough!” Celevonaur said, casually, but with much more inherent power in his voice, so that the simple word echoed. And the fire beneath the cauldron spiked for a brief heartbeat, dancing up around the belly of the tub. “Be silent and I will tell you my demands.”

“What did you do to my d-door warden?” Karfu still dared to ask.

“He was rude to me. All I did was knock politely and he said some very rude things. Here, you can have him back. For your pot.” Celevonaur grinned.

“Are you mad? Raw meat like his would upset the delicate balance of my stew. Four. That is the magic number I’ve learned. No more than four ingredients, or you’ll-“

“Be silent.” Celevonaur said again. “Come here.” He then gestured at the large troll, who was trying to beat a retreat to the far side of his cauldron. “Come here.” Celevonaur said with further mock charm. “She won’t bite you. Not unless I command her.” He flashed Yurë a smile. Slowly however Karfu came around. Celevonaur reached into the folds of his cloak. Karfu again raised his ladle defensively but relaxed when Celevonaur merely drew out a piece of cloth. He stepped to the troll and turned, again not allowing Yurë to see what was on the cloth.

“You recognize this symbol?” Celevonaur asked.

“What is that, the sun? You know ( hate the sun. It makes me feel all-“ Karfu began to ramble again.

“It’s an eye, you idiot. Or shall I take one of yours and add it to my own stew?” Celevonaur snapped, this time his anger showing.

“An eye? Well…yes, I’ve seen it before. One of my patrols took some trinkets from a group of humans from down on the plains. One of the tools had it, on a cloth wrapped on the handle.”

“Do you still have it?”

“The tool or the cloth?” Karfu asked, turning to stir his stew.

Celevonaur’s anger really spiked. His eyebrow twitched and a vein made itself visible in his forehead. Suddenly, Karfu yelped, as the flames danced up again and scorched his shapeless foot.

“The cloth.” Celevonaur said.

“No- ow!” Karfu whined, falling onto his rear, making the cavern shake a little. “No, we strip all the cloth and use it for our own garments! It’s probably on some snaga’s loincloth. I can…summon them all if you want a closer look.”

Celevonaur just stared. Did the fool really just…no, he wasn’t going to consider it. “We’re leaving. Friend, if you want his blood, go for him now.” He said to Yurë, as he began to walk past. Karfu looked at Yurë once, then scrambled onto his feet and immediately tried to put distance between him and Yurë, even as Celevonaur was heading back to the cave entrance, bereft of the dead orc he had dragged in.

Outside, he stood freely this time, under the Sun. His cousin. He glanced up, one eye shut, staring at Her. Then he raised the cloth and frowned, examining the symbol, and the sun, side by side. It did look similar. But why? Such connection made no sense. He waited for Yurë to join, before finally showing her the cloth he took off the humans, from their first meeting the previous day. “What do you make of that?”

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Put your bow down.

Yurë's eyes narrowed in suspicion as she turned towards the Úmaia, wondering if perhaps this was the trap she had been sensing all morning. Still though, she did lower her bow, though her fingers remained tightly closed around the smooth gray wood. She was surprised to see Raugad's face so close to hers, and even more surprised to feel his arm circling her graceful shoulders, pulling her against a body that was hard and shockingly warm to the touch. Some resonant heat within the maiden began to rise up in response, and while her own body had tensed at his touch, she didn't pull away from him. More than the scent of the orcs or mud, she felt herself dominated by the smell of fire and stone, metal and leather; the scent of something primal and much, much more dangerous than the creatures in front of them.

As she looked up at Raugad's profile (Up? The last time she checked, both the Maia and Úmaia had been the same height), a shadow much too dark for the midday sun chased away any humanizing thoughts of mushrooms and farming, reminding Yurë what exactly it was that had taken her in its arms. The grating speech he directed towards the orcs did nothing to reassure her, and a fresh burst of resolve gave the maiden the strength to twist a little in an attempt to escape Raugad's grasp. Whether she was freed by her own efforts or the Úmaia's focus on the matter at hand she couldn't be sure, but in either case she raised her bow again, eyes flashing as she picked out the most likely target.

And yet...she didn't fire. Why not? she found herself wondering. Perhaps she was waiting for some unspoken signal from the fugitive, or she might have just found herself subconsciously following his lead and attempting to look as threatening as possible. The latter did seem to be effective to a point, though one of the orcs had begun to wave his knife about rather ominously, and while Yurë couldn't be sure she thought she heard the words "she-elf" spoken in a tone that was far from flattering. The ridiculousness of the remark was almost enough to break her scowl into a bout of laughter, and only Raugad's sudden bout of violence was enough to drop her dark mask into one of bemusement instead.

"If you're going to insist that I not shoot any of these filthy creatures," she said finally with a look of distaste at the orc corpse being dragged along the ground. "You might reconsider cutting them down like so much cordwood. One may begin to suspect you're doing it out of sheer amusement, and you wish to deprive anyone else of the pleasure," Yurë added in a flat tone, keeping a wide berth of the stinking bodies as she followed Raugad into the tunnel.

After their visit to the last orc encampment, she was better prepared for this one, and rather than expressing any fear or hesitation Yurë's face only showed grim determination, and a little bit of impatience to complete the Úmaia's business as quickly as possible. But even she had to pause at the sight of the enormous figure standing before the cooking fire, shouting in common about cooking of all things.

Like orcs, Yurë had only ever heard of trolls in Vairë's histories and around the campfires of men on the western slopes of the Misty Mountains. Her own interpretation was that they were simply larger orcs, whose sizes had been blown out of proportion in the many tellings and re-tellings of ancient battles and isolated attacks in the wilderness. The creature before her now was so huge that she could not even put a name to his race, and all she could do was stare in wonder not just at his bulk or hideous face, but in the bizarre fashion in which he cowered before the much-smaller figure of Raugad.

Why not just sit on him and be done with the matter? Yurë mused, trying not to smile as she got more used to the situation and saw fresh amusement in it. And when the giant turned his attention on her, accusing her of being a vampire of all things, it took every ounce of her self-control to avoid bursting into hysterical laughter. Being mistaken for an elf was one thing, but a vampiress? Why, the Maia resembled the very opposite, with her dark skin and light hair, while the bloodsucking demons were known to be pale as ghosts with manes like shadow. No wonder The Enemy was defeated, with idiot servants like these she thought with lips pressed into a thin, straight line as light danced merrily in her eyes.

Playing off Raugad's words, Yurë did her best to appear menacing as he continued to hound the poor giant, but suspected she was failing miserably. It was probably all right though, considering the Úmaia was intimidating enough for the both of them as he continued with his interrogation. Still when he was finished, she couldn't resist lunging a little in the troll's direction, purely out of the amusement at seeing a creature that could crush her with little effort flinch in fear. Shaking her head, she turned and followed the fugitive out of the cave, finally giving way to a burst of laughter once they were out of earshot of the entrance.

"Of all the ridiculous--oh my word--I have never--!" she wheezed, unable to finish any given thought before breaking into giggles again. "It was like...a bear...running from a mouse...what in the world did you do to him, Raugad?" Yurë finally managed to ask after she'd taken a long drink from her waterskin, forcing herself to stop laughing but not stop smiling. "I will never forget the look on his face...by the powers..."

She might have started all over again if the Úmaia hadn't pressed the cloth into her hand, forcing her to turn her attention to something less amusing. Taking a few deep breaths, she focused her eyes on the fabric, a spark of recollection immediately coming to mind. "I've seen this symbol before. In one of the tapestries in Vairë's halls. Something to do with The Enemy..." Yurë shut her eyes a moment, trying specifically to remember the image she had seen. But there had been so many, and they all ran together in her mind, each indistinguishable from the next.

As she searched her memory, her fingers began to rub the fabric coarsely between them. Her eyes snapped open as another thought came to mind. "I've felt fabric like this before as well. In a market in one of the towns north of the Greenwood. I was going to trade a man some pelts for a length of it to sew a new bag, but an old woman stopped me. She said it was made by slaves in the south, and called the man...well, something that I believe was not particularly polite," Yurë admitted as she handed the cloth back to the Úmaia. "There was something off about the man's face as well. A strange light in his eyes, and a shadow about the mouth. He was chased out of the village a few days later. I don't know whatever became of him."

Tilting her head a bit, Yurë took another drink from her waterskin, draining it entirely with the plan to refill it at the waterside on their way back. "You were deep in The Enemy's confidence, weren't you? You must know what it means. Or did your master not trust you with such vital secrets as weaving and drawing eyes?"

 

[BennyQ]

The ripple of laughter from his companion’s lips was a most eerie sensation for the Úmaia to hear, pausing to glance over her as she composed herself after such a display of revelry. “He knows what I am capable of. I’ve…shown him.” Celevonaur answered Yurë, despite not at all being obligated to share any such details, though he hoped it might score him cooperation on what he had to ask of her, and others. When he first met the troll, leader of this squalling pack of orcs, he had indeed tried to mash the hunched hermit into the ground. Pulverized meat for his infamous stews. But whereas Karfu was merely the ignorant descendant of his kind who escaped the destruction of the old fortress, Celevonaur was not. All it took was a little mind-invasive memory to show the witless fool who he was. Fortunately, Karfu understood. And thus, he complied.

He waited patiently as Yurë had a chance to examine the cloth, watching her bright eyes as she inspected the sigil. He saw the recognition in her orbs before she answered, and he almost half lost himself to both the answer and their present reality as he continued to peer into their depths. He mentally shook off the distraction, piecing together what clues she offered. In the halls of Vairë, shared with her very potent husband, and thus whatever witness told her about was beyond his reach for investigation and questioning. Not very helpful. His eyes did narrow when Yurë mentioned it as something to do with the Enemy.

She of course meant his ilk and kind. But it was nothing he personally recognized. The devices and heraldry of the dark lord had always been pure black. That, or a more brutal sense of identification, such as the skulls and corpses of their slain enemies upon spikes and stakes. Nothing like the colorful, impotent symbols wielded by the Upstarts on their shields and banners, depicting the lineages of their bloodlines. Not that he cared much. They all wisped away before his fire. But this was something different. He didn’t press her for answers as she delved into thought. Perhaps a moment to take stock of their surroundings, a mere dozen footsteps from the entrance of the cave. Some orc scouts were still watching them from the inner shadows.

It was growing dark, though it couldn’t be later than midday, or even noon. A storm was coming. Clouds were gathering. The weather of the world or some other unseen force?

Yurë finally spoke again. This type of cloth came from a local settlement of mortals, which meant the user of such symbols was not locally present, but an agent of theirs must be. “Oh, do not hold back such impudence on my account. Surely you’ve thought of similar names for me.” He said drily, taking the cloth from her. Usually the Upstarts could conjure up somewhat descriptive names for Celevonaur’s kind. It might have clues to which one of his former…colleagues were up to this sort of revivalism of the dark doctrines of old. Well apparently investigation into the town and the agent of such a symbol were moot as they were chased off. But he could see patterns and other signs that the average mortal mind might miss.

He watched her drained her waterskin, this time his eyes upon her bobbing throat as the clear water passed her lips. Celevonaur gulped, perhaps in thirst, perhaps in reaction to something more earthly within him, but seeing she had nothing left to offer on his request, turning the questioning back to him, he merely strove forward again in his trek, following a high path among the rocks and trees upon the mountain side. There were many shelves and tall cliffs above. And many precipice and drops to the other.

He ignored her questions a moment. Deep in the confidences of Morgoth? Hah. He was a weapon, a tool to instill fear and defeat in their foes. Nothing more. Celevonaur realized that now. He had been lied to. It hadn’t been a temporary contingency of war. Morgoth always intended for him to be nothing more than just that. Powerful perhaps, in might and violence, but impotent elsewhere. And Celevonaur did dream that he could be so much more than controlled fire. Sadness suddenly overtook him. He…wasted so much of his life and original power. Now he was only a shadow. By the Maker indeed… Yurë could exhaust him just so with just a word or a phrase. He felt so tired. His shoulders sagged slowly over the next few minutes. His height diminished. His staff was used more and more to hold himself steady as they walked over uneven ground. And it was getting colder.

“We never used such symbols. The Master knew all. And could enact his will more speedily without the need for script or runes, as your favored rebel pets preferred to use. This is something new. This is something…entirely of Middle-Earth, for Middle-Earth. He who uses it now clearly cannot enact their plans or will without the need for such base communication.” There was no plans or schemes for what happened if Morgoth was ever defeated. He always thought himself infallible and invincible, until they busted his crown into a collar and chained him up for the last time, to be ejected from the walls of the world. Seemingly forever.

Clearly, he did not speak of his old master with much respect, and there was venom half-concealed whenever he spoke of the coward. And whoever seeks to follow in his footsteps is a fool. Not that I care yet…it just angers me so that such foolishness should persist. It was the only way he might get personal retribution for the lie he had been told. “No matter.” He concluded abruptly. “It is a dead end. And nothing you need concern yourself with. But of course, I won’t stop you if you wish to go investigate this on your own. Perhaps you could start by checking with those slaves in the far south, the source of such material.” Celevonaur mused to her, once again returning to the old, and perhaps boring, attempts to persuade her to leave him alone. He had to keep himself in this mentality, and keep from drifting off. If only she was not so distracting with her…

He glanced over his shoulder at her. Her silver hair, her sunkissed skin, her feminine, flawless form that her garments sometimes outlined so perfectly when she engaged in certain actions or vigor. He looked at her eyes and he knew, somewhere in them, the light of the Maker was still pure and untainted. She was everything he was not. He envied her innocence. No, he craved it. And because she had it, and he did not, he hated her.

And by the Maker too, he desired her as well.

She might catch him staring. He didn’t explain why. Just scoffed and looked forward again, before pausing abruptly as he stared at the sky. “There’s going to be a storm. It may not be safe to visit the other tribes this day, though perhaps your advice might be right. The answers may lie in the villages of the mortals. Perhaps…perhaps I shall go there next.” He said with a smile, bringing his eyes back to her. Oh, him among the ever so impressionable humans would be disastrous, perhaps from her viewpoint. From his…it would be very amusing.

Rain started to patter. Lightly. But growing. Strong. “May not be safe for you, I mean.” Celevonaur pointed out. “Best return home, little one, lest you be swept away by truths you may not wish to hear. I shall be here, in this region, relatively speaking, so you need not worry about the loss of your query.” He said to her with a smile. “And maybe my next meetings may bear fruit without you intimidating and offending everyone’s fine sensibilities.” He said, waving his hand dismissively as he took off again, with greater speed, up the mountain side. The steep mountainside. With a walking stick, it was easier for him to gain anchorage and ascend. For those unaided, it would be slippery. And with the rains growing, it would grow dangerous.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

"Why should I trouble myself thinking of additional names for you, Raugad? You told me what you wished to be called, that is all the effort I need to expend," Yurë answered placidly as she handed back the cloth. True, some part in the back of her mind was still trying to see the fire spirit Celevonaur within the old man's diminished form, but when he wore as cantankerous of an expression as he did now, the harsher-sounding moniker fit him particularly well.

What had others called him? she suddenly wondered as she tucked her empty waterskin into her belt and followed behind the diminished creature. The tones of the ugly tongue he'd used with the orcs probably included some form of address or another, but it had been impossible for Yurë to pick out anything in particular. The giant hadn't called him anything at all, though she suspected he too had in mind some of those choice names the Úmaia had hinted at earlier. A small smile cracked through her lips again as she remembered the hulking creature's behavior, and she wondered if Raugad had ever commanded such creatures during the Great Wars, or if they had been left in the charge of some other, possibly less fearsome commander.

A new idea suddenly made the Maia stop in her trail, and stare directly at the crooked back before her. "Of course it could not be directed by Melkor himself," she agreed slowly. "But you cannot think you are the last of his commanders hiding out in these lands. Perhaps some old comrade of yours is seeking to rebuild what has been broken." Her eyes narrowed slightly as she quickened her pace, closing the gap between Raugad and herself. It was impossible to tell of course if there was some message in the scrap of cloth, or if the Úmaia was even the intended recipient, but if so that only hastened the need to bring him back to Aman. The Valar would have little trouble determining of Raugad was part of some greater conspiracy, or just a cast-off member of the old guard about to be ground down under the feet of new threats.

Naturally, the fugitive's renewed suggestion that his would-be captor abandon her quest was all but ignored. "Rather suspicious to bring that up again just now, don't you think?" the maiden commented. "I know you think me a fool, Raugad, but really. I am not blind, you know. If anything, these developments have given me all the more reason to stay near you, though for all I know you may have planted that bit of cloth yourself. This entire day may very well have been an extremely long, extremely tedious pantomime, in which case I suppose I must applaud your ambitions and effort, if not the results. But I have no intention of going anywhere without you."

But when he looked back at her, Yurë suddenly had the distinct feeling that despite the Úmaia's words, he did not want her to leave his side just yet. There was a heat in his eyes that suddenly made her entirely conscious of her mortal body again, and blood began to rush to her cheeks as her body tensed, as if ready to spring. Unbidden, the image of Raugad in the steaming pool came to mind again, making her swallow hard and breathe just a little bit quicker. The cold drops of rain were utterly forgotten as they began to fall on her burning skin, and she could not find the strength even to raise her hood as long as his eyes were locked with hers.

They might have gone on forever like that, but thankfully the rain did more to cool the Úmaia's focus than the maiden's, and he finally broke the spell by turning away from her. Yurë breathed out a sigh of relief, and immediately glanced up ahead to the riverside, thankful to see a shallow spot where she might cool her own senses--under the guise of refilling her waterskin, of course. Heavens forbid Raugad ever learn what had passed through her mind just now, and she tried to cover her disturbed senses by forcing even more hauteur into her voice as she lightly stepped past him.

"I do not fear men, only those who would control them. Nor do I fear truth, so long as it is truth. And until my mission has been completed, I have no home to return to, so I would suggest you not waste your breath trying to convince me otherwise." Raising her hood, she risked one last glance back in his direction before slipping down a low, mossy embankment to where a false island of debris rose up in the middle of stream. Quickly as she could manage, she dipped her skin into the clear, icy water, noting that it was moving a little more quickly now than it had previously. Perhaps the rain was heavier higher up the mountain slopes?

After checking to see that Raugad's gray head was still in eyesight (though gradually retreating), Yurë stared back down at her rippling reflection, observing there was a curious light in it she'd never noticed before. A pale pink aura the color of dawn was radiating out from beneath her hood, though as she splashed her face with water it quickly faded, along with the resonant heat in her body. Had this been happening every time Raugad had looked at her? she wondered, praying that wasn't the case. It would be humiliating enough if the Úmaia knew the thoughts she'd been having about him, let alone if he could clearly see whenever she was entertaining them.

You need to calm down and focus she told herself, rising back up to her feet with a renewed sense of purpose. Mortal lusts were just physical needs, like thirst or hunger, and if ignored they would become too distracting for her own good. Yurë had to acknowledge she hadn't tended to that particular need in a long time--a very long time--but perhaps when she got a moment alone she could...

The river suddenly slammed into her back like a boulder falling off a cliff.

At first, she didn't even know that it was the river. Yurë's first thought was that the giant from the cave was much sneakier than she had expected, and had tackled her bodily from behind. Her face slammed immediately into the rocky bottom of the streambed, but it didn't stop there. She was dragged forward with as much force as her initial fall from the sky, and her flailing limbs sought helplessly for some firm object she could use to right herself. But every time she brushed against a rock, fallen tree, or some other object caught up in the flash flood, it either tore at her skin or escaped her grasp.

After a few moments the Maia resigned herself to being caught up in the sheer force of the water, but now the cold was beginning to set in...and the dark. At first she had been able to see somewhat through the frothing water, but now her chest was beginning to heave for air, and the rushing all around her body was beginning to penetrate into her mind. Kicking helplessly against the bottom of the river, Yurë tried to propel herself upward one last time...only for something hard and heavy to collide with her skull, stealing the last of her vision.

So he gets his wish after all was the last thing the Maia thought before she lost consciousness. The lucky bastard...

 

[BennyQ]

The old spirit was hardly persuaded by Yurë subtle counter to what other names there might be for one such as Celevonaur. She used again the name denoted to him by his enemies and that was contentment for him enough. Now they know where they each stood. Companion though she may be, for this short day, the ultimate divider still lay between them. She was no ally to him. So how could she be a friend? And what of his actual friends? His old comrades? He found it laughable, mentally running through the lists of those of their order who might have done so, from his own fiery captain down to Aulë’s golden goose himself. All fools. So had he been. He had borne witness to the wrath of the new order, whom this creature behind him followed. He seen them split the lands in their contest for dominance. How could any stand alone against them, when together they had only barely managed mastery of a greater half of the world?

The smart thing to do would be to stay out of their way. To hide. To be a coward. Look how they reduced him to this. Perhaps he was still a fool. A blind fool, certainly, wandering without aim or direction. When was it last he had truly been his own mind and soul? Long, long ago, when the world was less broken. He truly didn’t know what to do with himself now. But he knew one thing; he would never be a lapdog or servant for any power ever again.

“Is that what you think,” he sarcastically muttered under his breath to her answer of it being an old colleague of his. As if it wasn’t obvious. She was young and probably did not know the rosters of heros and champions that served each of the Powers that be and had been. She had no information for him. He certainly felt the fool for even asking her and thought as much of Yurë for not asking enough. At her ridiculous presentation of what his motives and plots may be, he simply cast an astonished, questioning look over his shoulder. Truly? She thought that of him? Fire was not subtle. Fire did not scheme. Fire was hot, blunt, and destructive, on the front, on the fore, it did not sulk and sneak about. In any case, she was not retreating, reaffirming her commitment to watch him. Rain pattered harder. Faster. Heavier. Fine. She may follow, if she could, and resign this attempt again to the rest of the forgotten, failed persuasions to have her gone.

Suddenly, he was aware that she was not following. No, she was still in sight and hearing of him, but her presence had dipped aside, like having a bright torch at one’s back, now to knowing there was only the deep, cold vastness of Arda instead. As it always had been. And yet this familiarity was strangely…uncomfortable to what had been before. But why should he care? If only for a short time…good riddance to her.

The rain beat the mountain peaks, an endless barrage of miniscule projectiles that hammered and pulverized the legions of dirt and mud. Slowly it liquified and under thick cloud and mist, the mountain side began to move, pushing mud, and water, in a great onslaught downwards in broken tendrils. For Celevonaur, who knew well the ways of the world, of its natural powers, and its workings in this region, he already anticipated the flow of moving earth and water. Apparently, unfortunately, and most humorously, his companion…did not. He turned to finally check on her whereabouts and saw her immediately swept off her feet and carried downstream in a most violent surge. A lesser being would be dead in minutes, from drowning or the mere violence of the physical thrusting and tossing of their body.

For one of their kind, it would be damaging, traumatizing, and perhaps the destruction of their earthly form, but not true death. Not for them. In the grey mists, the weaving and bobbing of tree tops, and in the flash of thunder, there he stood, a tall pinnacle of black garment and sweeping hair, unphased by wind or gust or pelting of the waters. He saw her flailing in the waters and laughed. Dangerous to their kind, yes. But a trained maia could overcome it. Some even treated this as a sport. And if she was truly one of his order, she would know how to shield her core body…

But the seconds ticked by. The laughter died on his lips. Okay, the joke is over now, clamber out and let us continue. Yet she did not. On she was thrust about by the water, in its ceaseless, enduring battle to alter the landscape with its violence torrent. He saw no manifestation. Felt none of it. Did she not… His heart began to race. Why should he care? She was being tugged further and further away from him, until soon she would be out of his sight, buried and drowned, forever lost, her houseless spirit perhaps carried leagues away from here, and more leagues and more centuries, before she might return renewed and replenished to follow him. He could be long gone. He could be free of her. He would never have to see her face again.

And that was when his heart unfolded, and extended its petals all throughout his mind and body, and Celevonaur knew then…he would never not see her face again. And there was so much left to do. To touch and taste and to…yes, speak to her. He went from mockery and contempt for her inability to safeguard herself to anger at it. Someone would have to rectify and correct her.

The rain soon pattered on his empty boots. Bare footed, Celevonaur sprang across the rocks, upright and a glow in his eyes, racing along the embankment, slipping but never falling, leaping with boosted strength when it proved uncrossable in other areas. He knew this was dangerous. Even at his full might, he was not strong enough. Water was the anathema to who he was. He had to be smart. Smarter than the lifeless, unfeeling machinations of the world. He did have one advantage, and though he remembered next to little of those early days of his existence, Celevonaur was older than the world. He who believed himself once worthy to rule over its occurrences was not going to bend to its whims or dangers. He raced alongside until he not only caught up, but surpassed the trail of the surging river, until he came to a large stone that sat aside. Up he sprang, and watched the water, under which the limp body of his watcher dragged about. He knew that the bodily mind could suffer only so long without air before it became irreparably harmed. He was very close to the point.

He leapt. Like an arrow, he sped through the air, neck craned, arms at his side, and plunged into the surface of the water with a ripple. Down into the depths he continued to dive off his momentum, his predication correct, for at the end of his momentum, just an arm’s reach away, came the body of Yurë. He reached, and snagged her elbow in his grip, and was abruptly tugged along with her. But now they were together. It took a few boucnes and tumbles, under both his feet snagged a watery rock, and was able to leverage against the current while clutching Yurë. In this fashion, he tugged her to him, hugging her body close, and was able to push sideways back onto the shore. They broke free of the water, still pelted by the rain, and a brief struggle brought them onto land.

Celevonaur panted, wheezing even, for he had shattered all his reserved fëa, and pushed even beyond that. He was old. His lungs heaved. And he shivered with cold, unable to even keep up that simple protection spell. But despite his visible weakness of limb and body, he continued on, grabbing Yurë and dragged her up by her arm, to beneath a large tree, where the torrent of rain was less. He left her there, half covered in mud from the drag, soaked even more, while he gripped the side of the tree and just tried to breathe, glaring daggers at the world about him, that seemed to mock and laugh at his attempts in thinking him superior. Look how he almost perished himself. And look how the world went on, ceaseless and unchanging. His anger and contempt of it was nothing but a memory blown apart by a light breeze.

He thought he could hear him, above the din of thunder and rain. Had he done this? A simple clash or strike high enough, when the mountainside had been pelted by endless rain, could send it all sweeping downwards. A joke. A sport. Well it almost killed him and another unintended victim. He doubted it cared.

It was time to make a fire. A pit was dug. Rocks arranged. And wet logs situated. No lesser being could manage this, with such wet and soaked materials. But Celevonaur was not of this world. He put his hand to the end of a log, still wheezing with every breath, muttering the dark words of incantation and spell. A little of himself, into the fabric of the log, and slowly there came a whistling and a sizzle, as an inner fire greater than the water began to dry it all away. Soon a spark ignited and vapor rose, as an unnatural fire consumed the wood and danced even among the pelting rain. Turning, he grabbed Yurë beneath her shoulders and dragged her even closer. She had lost her weapons it seems. That could be found later. For now, he let her heat and dry beneath the fire, as he sat on his hip, next to her upper back, propped on an elbow, with her head resting in his lap.

And he touched her face.

With a finger, he drew away the soaked, dirty silver strands that draped across her features. He pulled the hem of his sleeve over his palm and brushed away the mud from her flesh and skin, his knuckles often grazing in the softest of caresses. Celevonaur had never performed such a service for anyone, yet this was…it was nice. Her skin was flawless, smooth, like a silk, yet far more durable. She was beautiful. He looked over the rest of her figure, the wet clothing hugging her body in most flattering, and perhaps undignified, ways, showing more clearly the size of her chest, the curve of her hips as she lay on her side, the way the wet clothing hugged even her inner thighs, forming a shape there that he knew all too well. It had been so long since he played like that with one of her gender. Did they do the same among the Valar? He presumed them all to be prudes. But how could they be, when even one as unknown and strange as Yurë could be so gorgeous.

Putting a hand on her shoulder, he caressed it along her side, from her elbow to the side of her abdomen, down onto her side of her hip, and the back again, marveling at the scape of her figure, of how it curved and dipped with her slenderness. His hand returned to her face, which he cupped, feeling her inner temperature growing. Between him and the fire, there was more than enough to share. And he did share, with her, letting it flow from his finger tips into her body, until he settled for a soothing stroke of her hair, perhaps more relaxing for him than it might be for hers. Eventually, his own exhaustion caught up with him, though he would slumber less than he, as the day storm passed away and the dark evening began to fall. The fire renewed, Celevonaur awoke again, and turned her slightly so that her other side might dry next to fire, before he decided to go off on a short adventure, planning on returning the next day.

She might awake, and find herself alone, but if she had a smart mind (which he doubted) she might detected the essence of him in the fire she lay next to, and know who it was that saved her.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

It was the same dream as always. She was falling, faster and faster, an icy wind shrouding her body as her hair floated wildly around her head, glinting in the--no. There was no moonlight this time. Where was the moon? Where were the stars, for that matter? And the ground? All around her was darkness, and cold. Had the wind always been this cold in dreams?

She was beginning to wonder when the ultimate impact would hit, when suddenly Yurë became aware of something warm at her back, and something soft beneath her. Her eyes open slowly as she began to realize the first rosy fingers of dawn were creeping over the sea, shining through the wide windows over her bedroom and onto her silky pillow. A soft breath escaped her lips, and she relaxed against the firm body behind her.

"A bad dream?" someone asked, not in the common tongue, or even that of the elves, but in the oldest, highest language of the Valar. Yurë mused sleepily on how that tongue had always sounded so imposing during her years in Valinor, but in his voice--and she could tell by the firm prodding against her rounded backside that whoever was laying with her was definitely male--even such a simple question was beautiful and comforting.

"The same nightmare as always," Yurë answered back in the same language, arching her back a little as a pair of lips burned against her neck, and a large hand reached around to cup her bare breast beneath the blanket. A soft moan of pleasure escaped her lips as she pressed more firmly against him, but while she had wanted to turn around and look at his face, he tightened his grip on her, preventing her from doing more than squirm helplessly against his body.

"Don't. Stay just like this," he murmured, letting his hand drop lower and leaving a pleasant trail of heat in the wake of his fingers. Obediently, Yurë kept her face turned towards the windows, staring at the rocky path down to the beach below the little stone house on the hill, and noting how the ship anchored in the cove seemed to bob on the ocean with the exact same rhythm as his fingers teasing her wet and hungry opening.

"Please!" she gasped as the sensations were growing too much to bear, and to her joy she soon felt him thrusting inside her, half-growling and half-groaning into her ear. Yurë's hands instantly found his as he held firmly onto her hips, pushing himself even deeper inside until she was utterly filled and nearly mad with lust. Although she didn't bother to stifle her shrieks or moans, the Maia did suddenly shut her eyes as she felt herself getting closer to the edge. The sun would be coming up soon, and she didn't want to see it. If the sun never rose, they could continue on like this forever. Even the endless desire for him would be better than--

The thoughts were instantly wiped from her mind the moment she felt his seed releasing inside her. The heat of him filling her womb was enough to finally achieve her own peak, and she was screaming his name as the waves took over her body. She might have burst into flames right then and there for all the heat she was feeling, but before she had even finished riding her own high, a red light forced Yurë to open her eyes. The sun was rising, and he was pulling out of her.

"No...no, please don't leave me. Stay this time, please..." she murmured, summoning the strength to finally roll over in the bed and look at the face of her lover, but he was already gone. Still, she could feel some invisible being leave one last burning kiss on her lips, even as the ship in the cove was beginning to alight into the sky.

"I will come back to you, I promise," he whispered from a thousand miles away. "I love you, always."

*****​

And then Yurë was cold again, and the ground was hard beneath her. There was no bed, nor was there a little stone house on a hill, nor was she anywhere near the ocean. It was dawn however, and the rising sun was hardly so dreadful to her now as it shimmered on the surface of the river and shone through the lingering smoke of a dying fire beside her. Groaning at the stiffness in her muscles, the maiden forced herself to sit up straight and try to remember what had happened. What had actually happened.

The river, she remembered falling in the river. Someone must have pulled her out...but surely not Raugad? No, he would have probably turned tail and made a run for it as soon as he saw the opening; after all he wanted nothing more than to be rid of her. But there were neither humans nor elves in this part of the mountains, and the idea that an orc would have saved a Maia was even more laughable than the idea of an Úmaia rescuing her from the rapids and rocks. Perhaps she'd simply washed ashore on her own? Possible, but unlikely given how far away from the water's edge she was. And the ground around her was utterly dry.

Well whoever it was, they couldn't have left very long ago, considering the state of the fire. Yurë glanced around in search of any fallen wood that would be dry enough to burn, but just as she was about to reach for a fallen tree branch she noticed something laying in the dirt beside her. It was a knife, orc-made but very good quality and very sharp, neatly sheathed and close at hand to where she'd lain.

It was Raugad's knife.

Frowning, Yurë reached for the weapon and tested its weight in her hands. Why would he have left it behind? Was it his stupid idea of a parting gift? He couldn't have been careless enough to drop it. Turning it over slowly, she reached again for the tree branch, and as she tossed it onto the fire another though occurred to her. It had been raining last night...or afternoon, or whenever it had been. Even beyond the little circle of earth where she'd slept, she could still see the freshly fallen dew on the ground. Who then could have started a fire that had burned this long, besides perhaps a fallen fire spirit?

It was him the Maia realized with a strange sensation in her heart. He pulled me from the river. True he had since left her behind, but he'd continued on his way utterly unarmed, with known enemies in these mountains. That meant either he was seeking a deathly escape from the Valar, which was very unlikely indeed, or he would return soon. At the very least, he wouldn't be going far.

Swallowing hard, Yurë tried to rise to her feet, still finding them shaky and uncertain, but eventually making it all the way up. Her body felt lighter now, and she realized her pack, quiver, and most of alarming of all, her bow, were nowhere in sight. Panic served to rouse her better than anything else so far, and she reached suddenly for the hidden pocket of her cloak, which had by some miracle remained fastened around her. A moment later, relief washed over her body when she felt Aulë's manacles still securely stowed in the lining, as well as Lorien's crystal vial and the few other treasures the Valar had gifted her for her journey. And while her bow and arrows might have been gone, the silver knife on her belt as still there, which raised all the more questions about Raugad's own knife. He couldn't have intended to leave it for her as protection, not when she had her own.

I will come back to you, I promise the Valarin words echoed in Yurë's mind, and some half-remembered dream made her face burn. Her fingers reached up to touch her lips, trying to recall which of those shadows in the mist had been real, and which were just the phantoms of a lonely, fearful mind.

Well, if nothing else, the growling in the Maia's stomach was enough to turn her attention from dreams to reality, and it was with grim realization that her entire supply of food was gone as well, along with her tools to hunt it. Breakfast would have to be gathered then, and once she'd seen to her mortal needs she could start the process of hunting Raugad all over again.

He wouldn't have gone far she told herself as she began to scan the ground for tracks, as well as the nearest greenery for any edible bits. Before long she found more of the berries she and Raugad had eaten the day before, and though there were more than enough to sate her own hunger, still she began to gather more in a fold of her cloak. Her rescuer might be hungry this morning as well, after all.

 

[BennyQ]

You’ve been foolish.

I warned you what might happen if one of THEM came looking. Have you not listened to a word I said, when I first found you, a little miserable, struggling little hatchling could barely fly, with torn, pocket-holed wings and fire that wouldn’t even ignite the weakest of grass and leaf? Who carried you from the downfall when surely the waters would have consumed you? I told you your kind would be hunted and disdained, that if you drew too much attention to yourself, that THEY would come, hunters of a sort who slew all your forebears and kindred? This is how you repay me, with games and pranks and jests that could lead to both of our ruin…?

The beast did not seem to pay attention. It circled about him, on that cold, frozen peak, the ground shaking under every step it took, with gusts of cold snow blown against his face whenever its wings hefted or moved. It moved before him, and Celevonaur stared into an abyss flanked by razor sharp teeth, wide enough for him to openly walk into it, as the creature answered him. His friend, supposedly. Perhaps the last of its kind, fled to the northern wastes, there to recuperate and replenish, or to fall into extinction and oblivion. Celevonaur knew not of their making or their machinations. He was not involved, though there had been promises that Balrogs such as he may have used these as steeds when the era of their dominance had come.

Yet despite his wisdom and teaching, the beast had grown less and less heedful of what he had to say. And as it grew in size and stature, bolder and more reckless in what it could attempt to do. There was nothing more left to say. The beast answered that it would be more sensitive to Celevonaur’s desires but it felt like a non-answer if anything. Non-committal. And yet you, Spirit of Might and Fire, can you not overcome this danger without the need of subtlety and nuances? You disappoint me, my contingent father. And it’s laughter followed Celevonaur down the mountain side, where it was green and sunny yet again as She rose to her zenith, signalling the middle of the day, and the warmest. The mudslide, the flash flood, what little ruin of it was left was soon evaporating and dissipating. The crooked trees and tumbled stones would correct themselves. The world would go on. And those bound to it for all eternity would as well.

May the Void take it all. To think he actually craved a stewardship role of this place, with its beasts and people and unswayable nature.

He had reacquired his dwarven boots on his trek up the mountain. On his return, he had to follow the trail and bed of the roaring river where it had swept Yurë away, down to where their new campsite was located. He wondered if she was up or still unconscious, though he didn’t reach out in thought, in fear she might be up and suddenly come looking for him. And where he had been. And with whom he had just interacted. He was making his way back to her anyways, that should sate her. He still couldn’t understand how she could have nearly been destroyed by the flash flooding. Was she not…trained? The only other explanation could be some sort of long con or scheme. Why the damsel in distress? He learned never to trust such a thing, especially after that elf witch came into Angband and put them all to sleep…

He saw something among the mud and sand that didn’t belong. Silver wood, which he knew was unnatural and of no naturality to this side of the world. Drawing closer, he saw it was an arched point of Yurë’s bow sticking out of the ground from where she had lost it. Archery was never his thing. An annoyance, being peppered with such projectiles, often harmless against his thick hide in his greater form. Now, not so much. Sighing, he decided it was yet another task he had to do for the baby maia, bending over to retrieve it. Yet the moment his fingers touched the hollowed wood…

…he gasped. And sprang back, clutching his hand, looking with bewilderment at the weapon. There had been a flash, and the sight of an angry, divine face in his mind. Oromë. The Great Hunter. The Horn Blower. Lord of Woods. Those of Celevonaur’s kind were forbidden to touch. In fact, for the first time in his life…Celevonaur had been burned. His fingers ached with the painful sensation, a bright red, almost blistering. He couldn’t believe it. It had…burned him, in anger and defense of itself. He snarled, kicked a spray of sand harmlessly at it, and went further on his way, putting it out of his mind.

He returned to the campsite. And saw her, up and about, bending over a bush of berries. For a moment he watched her from the shadows of a tree, not caring to hide his presence, so that his spiritual signature would soon become noticeable to her at last. But he watched her at first, bent over, head tilting to the side as he admired the backside of a gorgeous, flawless Raiment. How it had passed through mostly unharmed when a lesser being would have been torn to shreds was a marvel to him. He wanted to test it. He wanted to taste it.

“So you’re up and about. Finally.” He spoke out, his voice deep and clear in the midday clime of the region. He came over to her, boots heavy on the soft earth after the flooding, snatching a fistful of berries from her gathered bunch without permission or leave. He tossed one into his mouth, holding the others for later. “You look well, I suppose.” He said, sizing her up and down. He wasn’t going to mention he had been the one who saved her, though it was obvious. It made him feel…awkward. And shy. He wasn’t used to such heroics or attention on such. But this Age of the world seemed a clean slate for that. First, rescuing fledging hatchlings from the destruction of Angband and now…fledgling maiar from drowning in floods.

“I can’t believe you allowed that to happen to you. Never go swimming in a storm. Even I know that and I hate water, besides for bathing. Are you trying to return to your pay masters as soon as you can with a death? Let me tell you, an arrow through your chest would get you there a lot less painfully than drowning yourself. I’m sure your Raiment is still suffering from cold shocks.” He said, flatly putting his hand on her shoulder, gauging her bodily temperature. It was less than normal, but strong, and recovering. Of course, this was still her original form and still held much of her power, unlike his, long since diminished, and recovering much slower.

Slowly his hand went up along her shoulder, up her neck, and he cupped her cheek, as he gazed into her eyes. Like a physician. But he was no doctor. One ainu to another, he was inspecting her. “Give me the berries. You need to go and rest by the fire. Or shield yourself in one, if you know how. But if you did, you wouldn’t have been so shocked into paralysis by the cold of the water. And you would have escaped. Did they not teach you how over there?” Celevonaur asked, quite angrily, as he removed his hand and jerked his head in a westward direction. Angry that they would send someone so defenseless into this dangerous world. And he was warning the hatchling about her…he knew now why he had been mocked for his worries and fears, if Yurë was this helpless.

In any case, if she did not want to heed his warning, he turned and started to head back to the campsite himself, to sit by the fire. And if it was her duty to watch and apprehend him, she would follow regardless. As he walked though, a small smile came over his lips. She was alright. And safe. And that was pleasing to him, in a strange way. Maybe he should tell her that.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

At first Yurë thought the heat at her back was merely the light of the rising sun, but the movement was too swift even for Ariens' vessel, and what was more was that the sky was still the same dusky rose color she'd awoken to. No, it wasn't the sun approaching the shivering maiden, but the presence of another Ainu--this Ainu--was unmistakable.

"I thought you might want some breakfast," she murmured, straightening her back and holding her bounty out in offering, her expression utterly unsurprised at seeing the fugitive return. Yurë had no idea how she herself might look at the moment, but Raugad looked restless and cross as ever, and for a moment she wondered if maybe the river had been a dream as well. The Úmaia seemed about as concerned for her well-being as she could have expected, and yet his words still hinted that the incident had been entirely real.

That meant the maiden owed him a debt, one she could not begin to fathom how to repay.

"Thank you..." Yurë said slowly, suddenly unsure how this most recent event worked into the balance of her mission. "You pulled me from the river, didn't you? I can't imagine who else it would have been." Oh if only it had been someone else. If her life was in some other person's hands, that meant it was little matter how it weighed against Raugad's--no, Celevonaur's--life.

And suddenly he was Celevonaur, in Yurë's eyes at least. For surely no Úmaia would have bothered to drag her body from the icy channels of the river. Whatever it was in Celevonaur that had driven him to save her, it must have been some part of what he was in his brightest days. A spark of hope ignited in the maiden's heart. If she owed him her own life, and repaid the debt by leading him to his certain doom, that surely had to be wrong, even in the eyes of Mandos. But if she could save Celevonaur's life, the way he had saved hers, then perhaps all would be well after all. The only question was: how?

Well, she supposed not strangling him for his condescending tone would be a start. Life debt or no, Yurë couldn't stop her eyelid from twitching slightly as he berated her, and her hand jerked just enough to spill a few of the berries onto the ground in her carelessness. "I was not swimming," she explained through a tightened voice. "I just needed a bit of water. I didn't expect the whole river to come slamming into me out of nowhere. You might have warned me, if such events are so common in this part of the world." She was about to continue on about how she was actually rather fond of swimming--in still ponds, or off the warm golden beaches of Aman--but his hand on her shoulder immediately stilled her tongue.

Yurë could feel the heat of him even through her cloak and dress, and the sensation bubbled shadowy glances from her forgotten dream back into her mind. The Maia bit gently at her lower lip, unable to force his hand away, or even move at all as it slipped onto the bare skin of her neck and cheek. Instinctively she tilted her head upward, her eyes staring into his with a swirling mix of suspicion, daring, expectation, and bashfulness. She suddenly remembered the heat on her mouth just before the dream had ended, and she swore she could feel the ghost of such heat on it even now.

Had he kissed her before he'd left?

She shook her head violently in response, breaking free of the spell and turning away just as he bid her to return to the fire. What an utterly preposterous idea. The only thing more ridiculous was the Yurë had wanted it to be true.

Dumping her berries unceremoniously into his hands, the Maia turned and made her way back to the fire, adding another log and allowing this much more natural warmth to suffuse her body. "Unlike you, Celevonaur, I have no mastery over fire," Yurë stated, rubbing her hands together. "My Creator saw fit to give me sharp eyes and light feet, and a temperament patient enough not to kill every annoying creature that crosses my path, no matter how tempting the idea may be." Her eyes glanced pointed back in his direction for a moment. "I am grateful enough for those gifts, I see no need to ask for others. Moving forward, I shall simply have to be more careful around rivers, and I'm sure I will be fine."

Yurë paused, and at the sight of the little smile that had chipped away at Celevonaur's scowl, she couldn't help but flash one of her. "If not, perhaps I can count on you to save me again? I certainly didn't expect you to do it the first time."

The teasing expression faded away after a moment, with perplexion and renewed gratitude taking its place. "Why did you save me, Celevonaur? I thought you hated me. If I had awoken with nothing but my fëa back in Aman, I wouldn't have been remotely surprised. Yet...here I am."

And now what will you do? a voice asked in the back of her mind, and Yurë prayed she wouldn't have to decide that at least until the afternoon.

 

[BennyQ]

There was a severe rejection of wanting to take personal responsibility for the rescue in Celevonaur. Yes, he had done it, and it was a most heroic and noble thing to have done, especially for an enemy. But it was so anathema to the way he lived and had been taught, that the world was mean and dangerous, and that everyone must strive and prevail on their own, without any help or aid. But was that true because of his experience or filtered that way because of the lies of the craven dark one thrust beyond the confines of this world? He completely ignored her direct questioning that it had been him to pull her from the flood. But his silence may as well be as damning as him outright admitting to it. He did not want her thanks.

But the way she looked at him, in that moment? It nearly made him break and confess to it. Yurë looked at him like he was something ablaze and radiant, like the Sun above, the greatest which one of his Order could have become. It made him uneasy, because he did know why, and he felt so miniscule and small compared to such expectations, knowing full well how far he had fallen. He should just stay where he was. Here. At the bottom. Living up to no one’s expectations, enjoying that the standard of any hope or regard for him was already on the ground.

He might have warned her, yes. But she was supposed to be the hunter, a Steward of the Powers that be, supposedly capable and powerful enough to deal with the traitorous kind such as Celevonaur. She should have known. She should have been prepared. It was not his fault. But at least she did not continue the blame as he inspected her temperature, grazing her cheek, and finding Yurë to be abruptly…docile. What was going on behind those eyes? He could read nothing of her thoughts. There was something going on. Something concerning him. He could not condemn her for it. His line of thinking regarding her had gone much the same path. And he had even taken certain…luxuries, when she had been unconscious. He was growing bold with his touching.

It was she that broke the trance, one that had fallen over him despite being the initiator of it. He asked for the berries and he got them, all of them, spilling out of his cupped hands as she brushed past him with a haughty stride that had him once more enticed, as his head tilted and eyes fell to the sway of her hips as she approached their campsite. She refuted any control of fire but he didn’t believe it. He felt it within her. Look at her now even, so close to the flames, unbothered by its heat. It was natural to her, as he knew she was capable of no protection given how water had overcome her. She cast a glance back, speaking so confidently, and yet so…ignorantly, even of herself. He judged that this Raiment she wore was her first, and the most recent, and that told him much of who she really was.

Only when she glanced at him and asked with the same haughtiness as her stride that he might save her again did he start to approach, holding the berries in his hands, falling elegantly into a cross-legged position alongside her by the fire. There he could dump the berries onto a small pocket formed by his clothing in his lap. She guessed correctly now that it had been him, the obvious no longer an open secret. But her smile, which he delighted upon so much, soon faded as she asked a most pointed question…why did he do it?

This was the answer he long prepared in his mind, false and yet confident, as usual. And so far from the truth that really was.

“Because if you perished, little one, they would assume it was by my doing. And then they would send someone else, less humorous, less curious, and more deadly, to finish your task for you. And I am not ready for that.” Celevonaur spoke softly, staring into the fire, for he knew if he met that silver gaze of hers he would spill out the truth. Because he cared.

He picked up a berry and consumed it slowly, chewing and swallowing, before he would speak again. The lie sounded more complex and elongated in his mind. Now it felt so empty, having spoken it. Would she see it as well? See through his words? “You need no mastery of fire as I have to protect yourself from such extreme cold, little one. As for your…Maker’s gifts, they are not as special to you as you think. We are all born with such abilities, far beyond what the Upstarts possess. Or well, in my case…” he faltered, not wanting to explain the nature of his current weakness to Yurë, and how it might happen to her if she ever suffered a catastrophic failure like her near-drowning and perished. He might need to inflict it upon her if he still wished to escape. Not all secrets should be revealed just yet. “But each of us, we Ainur, and all our children, belong to one of the Orders. Like those of your Elder King, as he claims, who are experienced with air and flight. Or those of his consort,” my former Mistress, “who are skilled with light and fire.”

“Or those of the earth, of the Smith,” Celevonaur put his hand on the ground, running his palm across the grass and dirt, “know the song of rock and stone and metals. Those of the forests, of the Hunter, and the grasslands, and all the animals and beasts under the sky, under the Green Lady. Every Ainu has their place. You belong to one of them as well. It is written within the sinews of your spirit as much as your body. I know that you are young, and only newly come into this existence, and perhaps you are the youngest of our kind that walk this world, but you are no different from any of us. You have it within you as well.” Celevonaur looked at her, bringing his hand over to brush and grab her shoulder. Had anyone ever spoken to her like this, trying to include her within the vast umbrella of hierarchy and order that existed in Arda? Or did they always try to shunt her aside so they didn’t have to think of the uncomfortable reasons why she was among them?

Celevonaur had been here since the beginning. He knew most of the progenitors and the Unbegotten of their kind. He did not know her, nor did he recognize any of those before within her. She was truly an enigma. And it would be a riddle that would bother him perpetually, until the shattering of this world in long aeons yet to come. He had to know. He had to know everything about her. Because he cared. “Who were your parents? Perhaps I’ve…met them.” He asked her directly, albeit in a whisper, thinking he might recognize the names. He let his hand drop, moving to pick at the berries in his lap, watching her as the fire continued to dance before them. He already did know them, he just wasn’t aware, even as one brightly smiled down at them both.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

What had Yurë been hoping for when she asked Celevonaur why he'd saved her? That he'd wanted to redeem himself with at least one selfless act? That because she was made of the same material he was, he had a natural sympathy for her? That it had been for her own sake and the sake of preserving her company, because he actually liked her?

Well, the Maia supposed his answer could partial match with this last idea; after all why list her qualities (assuming they were qualities) in a half-hearted attempt to flatter her now? Yurë had absolutely nothing she could give Celevonaur now besides her company, but he was right in the fact that it was probably preferable to that of whoever would follow after her. "Well...thank you, again. What you did was very brave, and at great risk to yourself with little reward. You have my word that such a deed will not go unnoticed in the eyes of the Valar. I will make sure it does not. Assuming I do not fall in any more rivers," she added with a completely flat expression, though her eyes were continuing to sparkle ever so slightly.

The light quickly died though as Celevonaur began to ramble on about the abilities of the Ainur and their orders. Yes, I know my skills are unremarkable in their nature the maiden wanted to snap back. True, the degree of her abilities seemed to surpass many other Maiar, but the Úmaiar was correct in that there were others nearly as swift and sharp-eyed as she. And I know the only Order I belong to was extended to me out of pity for my loneliness, nothing else. I need no reminder from someone who had everything I never will, and threw it all away for empty promises.

Out of respect for what he had done for her though, Yurë said none of this. Instead, she just gave him a cold glance over her shoulder.

"I serve Lady Nessa," Yurë stated with a fresh chill in her voice. "And I have been in the halls of many of the Lords and Ladies in my time. None..." The words caught in her throat and she swallowed hard before turning away. "None of them had a place for me save Lady Nessa, and until now, Lady Varda. She specifically asked me to find you, you know." Her voice and expression softened as she looked back towards the Úmaiar. "I don't think she wants you dead, Celevonaur. Otherwise she would have sent someone much stronger and more terrifying than me to destroy your body and send your spirit flying back to the Halls of Mandos immediately. I think Lady Varda just wants you to come home to her."

Any advantage the maiden might have hoped to gain from that statement though was quickly quashed in the Úmaiar's iron-hard grip on her shoulder. Yelping a little at his touch, as though it burned her, Yurë tried to pull away. "Who are your parents, Celevonaur? I know no more about my creation than you do yours, so don't ask such foolish questions," she snapped, his insistence finally overcoming her sense of obligation. But as his hand dropped away, her own body relaxed somewhat, and she felt more than a little guilty at her harsh tone.

Sighing, she folded her hands in her lap and stared into the fire. "The elves of Valinor always thought I was the child of Tilion and Arien, conceived and born during an eclipse when their two vessels were drawn together side by side," Yurë said finally. "As I have never actually met either of them, I cannot say for certain whether the stories are true or not. I have always felt stronger under the full light of the sun and moon, so perhaps there is some truth in the story. But besides Melian of Doriath, I have never heard of any Maia giving birth, and I cannot imagine why The Creator would allow Arien and Tilion to have a child, just for it to spend its days beyond their reach, with no purpose of its own, and not even knowing the truth of its own existence."

Looking up, she could see a bank of clouds had passed in front of the sun, leaving Yurë feeling more cold than usual. "No, Celevonaur," she murmured, her voice hardly above a whisper now. "I do not think I have any parents, any more than I have an Order. I have often thought myself some broken, imperfect thing no longer suited for her original purpose, but still useful to the world in other ways. That is why I came here in the first place, after all. To complete the task Lady Varda gave me."

A new idea occured to her then, one that made her turn her attention back to the fugitive with renewed curiosity. "Celevonaur, do you fear death? I mean true death; the oblivion of the Void," she asked. "I thought you might, before you saved me, but you could have drowned in that river just as easily as I could have, and that would have been the beginning of the end for you. I...I don't wish to see the person who save my life so utterly destroy. Will you not return to Aman with me willingly?"

Without thinking, her hands reached for one of his, clasping the gnarled fingers between her graceful ones. "I can and will speak in your defense, I give you my word on that. I know it is only one life in your favor, but it was the life of your enemy, and one you could have easily forsaken. It may not be enough to clear your debts to the world, but it may keep you out of the Void yet. Isn't that what you want?"

Her grip tightened ever so slightly, the heat of his hand coursing through her body and driving away any lingering chill of doubt. The more he dragged his feet and risked her life, the more likely his own end would find him sooner or later, and he would be out of Yurë's reach. She couldn't let that happen.

"There is a ship waiting for me in the Grey Havens of the far west. It's a long journey, but there would be plenty of time for you to atone along the way. It's the only way to save you, Celevonaur. Otherwise the Valar will find you, and I will not be able to help you. I am not so young or naive that I don't understand my own debt to you, so please, let me help. Please, Celevonaur." Her eyes were larger than usual as she looked into his face, but there was a stern, stubborn resolve around her mouth and in her hands and the faintest white glow of power radiating from her body.

 

[BennyQ]

The young Ainu’s response was a little disheartening, and perhaps a little pitiful. Even among the cohorts of Utumno in the very beginning, those who had been swayed by Melkor had a sense of belonging. Some were won over or ensnared individually but there were always others who shared their Order and familiarity. Even Raugad himself once had many brothers, Gothmog greatest among them, and as toxic as they could be to one another at times, taunting, brigading, they all shared a bond and connection. But to hear Yurë speak of her own upbringing, and of serving many, and yet finding no place until given one out of pity by Lady Nessa seemed to pluck at his heart strings in ways Celevonaur never felt before. Empathizing. That’s what it was. He could relate to her predicament, because he too was feeling the same way, now. There was no one else for him. He was alone. Cast out.

He had saved her from drowning and the trauma of being dehoused from her Raiment because of that. She was company. A kindred spirit of sorts. Another Ainu. A familiarity. One much more keen than what any other Maia might feel like, almost as kindred to him as if all the Valaraukar of the past were gathered together in one place, before the Discord. And when she mentioned Lady Varda now taking an interest in Yurë, he felt his curiosity coming dangerously close to being sated.

So, his former Mistress guessed at it too, huh. He was more concerned with that than Yurë’s words about the Queen of Light asking for him, seeking him back. Obviously not dead. Their kind could never be killed. They could be imprisoned or worse…cast out into the Void outside of Eä. It felt like Yurë in her worldly innocence was just trying to placate him. He did not believe it so readily. The entire War of Wrath was the Valar sending mighty spirits and armies to break their holdfast, disrobe them of their earthly Raiments, and send them back to Mandos to be imprisoned or cast out forever. They had almost succeeded, if not for the injuries he inflicted them, allowing his broken spirit to flee the ruin of his Balrog shape and shadow into the far east, where he recuperated and dwelt, even to this day and present. Of course they would come again. Yet sending Yurë was strange. Was this a test for her? Was she still too naïve before she would assume the lapdog role and do her master’s bidding without being so foolish as to learn and talk with him first? He had given her every reason not to heed him, being so hostile…and yet, saving her life.

Did his former Mistress predict that? Did She know him that well?

His question came off as an insult, though it was only curiosity. Yet her response only strengthened his growing theory. He just shrugged off the question, who his parents were. Mother, he had none, except perhaps an adoptive one in the form of Varda. His father, everyone’s Father, was of course the Maker, who seemed so distant and uncaring to Celevonaur now that he reflected back. Why make all of this…and yet do nothing when his children nearly destroyed it in their rivalries for mastery of it all? No, he didn’t want to consider that. It was too intense, even for his ancient mind per the reckoning of the world’s flow of time. “I know more about mine than you know about yours, clearly.” He simply stated matter-of-factly to her reply.

Then she told him a story. Of the Sun and Moon, the Hunter and…his kinswoman, how they came near to one another in their voyages across the celestial plains. How strange that they should be so vague about it. It sounded rather lusty to him, without the vividness that came with it. He smiled inwardly, knowing if one like himself got their passions flared enough, it would never die down until it was tempered through indulgence. And his kinswoman it seemed…had her fair share of passions as much as any of their Order. It seemed Yurë understood the truth behind her conception, yet could not grasp it so easily. Were they really so cruel as to hide such knowledge from her? It sounded like something Melkor might do in his cruel, nefarious games. Why not the Valar as well? After all, they were all kindred Ainur. Why shouldn’t they be similar in their ways and schemes?

Yurë however refuted her lack of parents, but he just shook his head at her, as if that should be the wrong thing to say. He was going to tell her that the most obvious truth was very likely the answer. And that it only proved his point. If the Sun, if Arien his kinswoman, was her mother, and Varda it was who commanded her, then Yurë must be of the same Order…as Celevonaur was. It was quite an amazing discovery, one that seemed most exciting to reveal to her, but Yurë suddenly took a different tact, and darkened the glow that was becoming radiant in his mind, when she asked him flatly if he feared death. Not death as the mortals knew it. True death. The oblivion of the Void.

Something icy wrapped around his heart. He felt a lump in his throat. Oh, yes. He very much feared it. Will you not return to Aman with me? And there it was. She wasn’t engaging him in philosophical conversations about beginnings and belonging. She…was…threatening him! Return, or face the Void. It was what he feared. What he suspected. It was all he knew her kind wished of him and his ilk. She offered to speak in his defense. To what purpose? Perhaps a wider cage to accommodate him? They could carve out a cell in the Void larger than Arda and it would mean little. It was all empty! Empty and cold. And he would become cold, the opposite of who he was. He would go mad in there. And he would not willingly step near to any Power or creature that could take him there. He would cling to this Realm like a madman first. He would rather have his spirit torn asunder instead.

She gripped his hand though. And he wanted to rip his away. And yet for all his suspicion and translation of her meaning, he felt through her tightened grip…that it was not so. He knew malice, and there was no malice here.

“They won’t find me. They erred by sending you first, little one. I know what to expect now from others.” Celevonaur said softly, in an almost teasing tone to Yurë, as if he was comforting a frightened child or pup. He met her eyes however and it would be clear he meant those words. He was going to keep hiding. For now. “Do not underestimate what I can do. I’ve…died already, before. That’s why you see me like this, weak and disparate. But I will regrow. I do not fear the loss of body or limb, for I know what to expect now. My spirit will endure and survive out here. I have to. For you are right. I…I do fear the Void.” Celevonaur sighed. “You’ve not seen it. Even if it was long, long ago, before the Pillars and the first marring, I remember it, beyond the confines of our Father’s halls. For a fire, even as mine, it would be sucked in and snuffed forever. It is everything that I am not. I cannot endure it. No one can. Not even the mighty Powers who rule this world. I am right to fear it. And I know that will be my judgement for my crimes if I return west. There will be no other avenue. So I cannot return, little one. Never.”

“And I do enjoy your company. I really do.” He also confessed, turning to face her now, rather than sit facing the fire, crossing his legs as he peered at her, holding her conjoined hand to his in his lap. “But you cannot help me in this. And I would not ask you to tie your fortunes and fate to mine. Not unless you accept one core truth about yourself as well.” Celevonaur said, before gazing up at the sky, where the Sun shone down brightly on them. The wetness from the flood the previous day had long since evaporated. There was a gentle heat on everything, including his flesh and touch. He glanced back down at Yurë.

“I do know your parents. They are not fond of me. One never was. The other probably not at the moment. But she – we – used to be, of one another. But I know enough about her that she would be proud of you. The elves of Valinor are right about where you come from. They are your parents.” Celevonaur said and raised his eyes to the bright sky above for a brief moment to indicate of whom he spoke. “I can sense apart of her in you. I always have, but I could never place it, until you told me this tale. It was like it was…at the tip of my tongue, this answer. And if she is your mother, then you belong to her Order. You are of Fire and Light. You are of the celestial skies and stars. In fact, it has been woven into your very hair right now. I am surprised I did not recognize it until now. Did you select this color? Or did it come with this Raiment when you formed it?” He asked her, reaching out to brush her hair, letting a few silky strands linger in his palm before he returned his hand to his side, letting it slip and fall back against Yurë’s form. It was the same color for which he was named. Celevonaur. Silver-Fire. It was her mane of beautiful hair.

“Can you not accept this truth? At least consider this. You say Lady Varda gave you this task. Not Manwë, who is Master of Arda? She gave it to you, because She knows your truth as well. You are of Her Order, indeed the greatest of all Orders, under Her majesty and greatness, as I have now learned after all my mistakes. I do not know why She did not claim you at first. Perhaps She merely wished to give you a chance to be able to be whatever you wanted to be, before She put a predetermined path before you to follow. But if She gave this quest to you direct, then I think She believes in you. And that is tremendous power and respect to have, little one.” Celevonaur said to her, and he hoped she would heed him, for he felt strangely tied to her acceptance of this. She could live the life of honor and proud service to the Mistress of Fire that he never did. But he still could, vicariously, through Yurë.

And maybe, just maybe, the Valar might let him watch from afar, if they did indeed spare him with a more worldly imprisonment not beyond the confines of the world. Yurë was the youngest of them all, yet the most purest flame he had ever seen, and she could achieve what neither those who remained loyal or turned disloyal ever could, not burden with weariness or conflict of body or mind.

“As for my return, I still do not wish to even discuss that!” Celevonaur then declared again, though with a smile. “At least…not on an empty stomach.” He offered as a playful branch of truce and concession.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Yurë's shoulders tensed a little at his placations. "It is one thing to patronize me, Celevonaur. But to think so little of the powers of the Valar is not only disrespectful to their position, but idiotic arrogance on your part. Do not forget they defeated your old master. Do you truly think you yourself can outwit them when he could not? If so, I fear your end will come even sooner that I could imagine. A stubborn bull is much easier to catch than a frightened rabbit, after all." Her body relaxed slightly, but the warning tone in her voice did not dissipate. "Make no mistake, the only reason they have not sought you until now is because the Eyes of the Valar have been fixed on much greater threats than you. But Lady Varda in particular never forgot you, and there are others among the Lords and Ladies of the West less merciful than she who will not be content to leave you to your own devices in the far places of the world. A wiser person would accept the offered chance at redemption rather than gamble their life on freedom that can only be fleeting at best, but I suppose that is why Celevonaur is not counted among the Wise," she added with a shrug.

"You will also forgive me if I am still doubtful about my origins. You hardly seem like an authority, since at the approximate time of my so-called birth you were a world away, probably busy feeding babies to orcs or some other equally-enriching activity," Yurë continued drily. "Unless Tilion or Arien deigns to come down from the sky and clasp me to their chest as their own child, I see no reason to assume I am no different from any other Maia, except perhaps that I was a bit late in my awakening or that some portion of my history was removed from my memory. The elves are fond of their songs and stories, and I can understand their desire to see some resolution to the tragic romance of two Maiar doomed to spend eternity apart from one another. But I hardly expected to see such sentimentality from you, Celevonaur."

With every word the maiden spoke her voice seemed to be growing higher and tighter, and each sentence came quicker than the last. She had also begun to lean away from the fugitive, feeling a growing heat radiating from him which, combined with the fire, was growing unbearable. Yurë wasn't aware of it, but a rosy glow had begun to permeate her skin and her eyes had begun to glow a fiery red, and when Celevonaur reached out to touch her hair she immediately jumped to her feet, crying out as though he had pained her.

"Don't touch me!" she shrieked, grasping at either side of her head with her hands. "You know NOTHING about me! You have no right to say such things, you monstrous traitor!"

The sights before her had turned into a whirl of colors and stars, and all she could hear besides her own screams and the blood pounding in her ears was Lady Varda's sweet voice: He will mislead you with his pretty words. Be cautious of him.

But why had Varda asked Yurë to complete this task? She must have asked herself that a thousand times, and still no answer came. No answer, save what Celevonaur was suggesting. But if the maiden really did belong to the Great Queen's order, why had Varda never laid claim to her until now? After Nessa and Tulkas had brought her to the Ring of Doom, Yurë had been presented to the Queen of Stars before all others...but Varda had only smiled and said she had no use for her just then. Just then.

Was it possible she had been waiting for Celevonaur?

Yurë took a few deep breaths, feeling the heat subside as the glow faded from her skin. When she opened her eyes again, they fixed on the fugitive with the same gentle gray as always. "Forgive me. I...I lost myself for a moment there. No doubt due to the lump on the back of my head," she added with a half-hearted joke, gingerly touching the spot beneath the windblown silver tresses.

As a lock blew in front of her eyes, the Maia had to acknowledge she hadn't chosen that color herself, any more than she had chosen any othe part of her physical form. Her mortal body was merely a more solid version of the form she had worn while falling from the sky, but while her skin certainly made her think of the warm sun on the beaches of Aman, Yurë always thought the color of her hair reminded her more of the moon than anything else.

A new idea came to mind as she glanced up in the sky, and saw the ghostly shape of Isil about to sink beyond the horizon. "Celevonaur...for arguments' sake, let's say you're right. Let's say I am the child of Arien, and Tilion. You seem to forget there would have to be as much of my father in me as my mother. Possibly even more." Tilion, the hunter. Swift as Oromë himself, keen-eyed and bathed in the light of Telperion. Beloved by Lórien and vanquisher of the dark, yet erratic and uncertain in his movements through the sky. So devoted to his love that he gave up the bounds of the world and chose to sail alone through the sky just for a chance to be near her...

"Perhaps," Yurë continued as the moon began to fade. "Lady Varda believes me to have the same hunter's spirit that Tilion possessed. She knew I would be able to find you, and I did." There was a strange comfort in that, and suddenly the maiden felt a twinge of regret that she hadn't given the Order of Oromë a fairer chance. The Hunter had always been pleasant enough to her, in a distracted sort of way, and it was really just the likes of Kémos and his companions that had always made her want to turn her efforts and attentions elsewhere. But she certainly saw a greater appeal in the wilds of the world than the vast oblivion of the sky, beautiful as it might have been.

"That was his bow I carried, you know," she added, the regret weighing on her even more. "I don't suppose you came across it when you pulled me from the river? Having lost everything else is an inconvenience, but that really was a fine bow. I doubt I shall ever hold another one like it."

Yurë sighed heavily, but tried not to let her thoughts linger on the loss, a task easier done if she waved off all questions of her origin. "Ah well, I suppose if you refuse to discuss your return to Aman, I can refuse to discuss my background. You are correct in that both seem like foolish matters when the question of hunger is at hand. Though you seemed quite content to eat nothing but berries yesterday. Did all that talk about mushroom draw your appetites elsewhere?" Again, she somehow managed to keep her mouth completely straight while her eyes danced merrily.

"I'd offer to hunt something for you, but until I find my bow and at least one arrow I'm afraid that's wholly out of the question. We might wander a bit further downriver though to see if the scavenging is better. And I imagine this stream must lead to some sort of human inhabitant eventually, yes? Worst case scenario we might beg something...if your ego dared allow such a thing..."

 

[BennyQ]

It took great effort not to remind Yurë that his dark master had first defeated himself before any other could have overcome him. She knew not of the early battles in the first days of Arda’s making, where Melkor had often single-handedly defeated all the gathered powers and undid their work with an almost casual indifference. Only when he began to imbue his powers into the very earth and become Morgoth did he become weak enough to be overcome even by the Upstarts and less mighty Ainur acting in concert. But he did not broach such a conversation with Yurë, not in this moment, for as she more intensely refuted his claims, so too did she prove it, for Celevonaur could feel the rising heat and temperature right in accord with her unleashed emotions. Finally, he had provoked and needled her to a loss of form and posture, only to earn a most unexpected, yet not unwelcomed, result.

He could have laughed about feeding babies to orcs. How did she think orcs were first made? He let her persist in her ignorance of the workings of Angband and Utumno long ago, content to watch as she proved his estimation with each defiant word and refuting statement that she lashed at him. The fire was crackling now, speedily consuming what fuel was thrust within, yet being prolonged by an outside force that was unnatural in origin. And it certainly wasn’t Celevonaur, the Silver-Flame, who was doing so. She leapt up in shrieking protestation when he touched her hair and while his eyes were upon her, stilled and warily of a physical assault, he could most readily feel the lick of flames from their hearth kissing even the caps of his folded knees as he sat. Yes. This is what he delighted in. Unkempt, unrestrained fire, and here it was, robed in flesh and raiment, and it was beautiful to his eyes.

The fire died soon after though. The moment of reckless fury passed and Yurë restrained herself, much to his dismay. The teachings of the Valar did hold a restriction on her, but he had seen it now. True fire, and heat, the likes of which he had not felt since his own begetting in the first days of Arda. How he was so bereft of it now. Yet there was indeed some strange pleasure to see it in her, something he could vicariously live through. She was one of his kin, he just knew it, and after all these long years in isolation and exile, of the long centuries of battle and conflict, it felt nice just to be around one of his own.

To her request for forgiveness, he just waved his hand, his dark eyes locked on hers, like embers that had lost their heat and inner fire. He didn’t need to say no more. The demonstration presented here should be proofs enough of his argument. “There’s no lump back there, I checked.” He pointed out casually, with a half-smile, again admitting that it was him indeed who drew her from the flood and ensured her well-being. Still, it didn’t answer her earlier remark, or his own introspection about himself. Where did this sentimentality come from?

The bow, yes. Celevonaur did know where it was. He had touched it and it had burned him, hollowed and sacred as it was by the Valar, who had powers indeed greater than Celevonaur, who was not of the Wise. The aching burn still lingered in his fingers, a most unpleasant sensation for a Fire-Spirit. He did not inform her of that just yet. With such a weapon, her display of anger right now could have led to violence of a sort he might not recover from. Without it, he felt he might be able to manage her in a skirmish should they come to blows. Barely. Even with her youth and inexperience, her flawless Raiment was much more mighty than his recuperating, broken form he wore now.

Mushrooms were also his delight, and hot meat was never unwelcomed. But when she mentioned following the stream downriver to find a human settlement, the more fragile and mortal cousins of the elves, his eyes flashed with sudden disdain and weariness. “We who are great among the sentient beings of this world must beg from those of the lowest common muck? I think you might indeed have a lump on the back of your head.” Celevonaur said with grumpy disposition, rising to his feet. He glanced down at the fire, dancing its final struts, having burned much of its wood and kindle from Yurë’s display of anger. Did she not see? This fire on its own should have lasted until dusk. Now it would hardly persist for another quarter-hour.

“You’re right, mushrooms do whet my appetite. And the cave is far to where they bloom in plenty and bountifully. Along the way, we might find your bow, if we are lucky. I make no promises.” He shrugged and kicked some sand and dirt onto the fireplace, helping the fire to its last dying breath. He cared not to leave it behind, that it might spark another congregation and bring the forest down in flames. He just began to move up the river side, where he knew her bow to be. He would just pretend that they came upon it.

And to spark again the conversation of her parenthood.

“And that is true, what you said, that you are half your father.” Celevonaur spoke to her. “But I have never heard of any male giving birth. And I know also that there is none mightier than those of my Order. Of these two factors, one can assume you have more of your mother within you than your father.” Celevonaur pointed out plainly. Those were indeed incontrovertible facts, as natural as the sky being blue and snow being white.

“If you were indeed like your father, why did not the Great Hunter take you for himself? I know that he has a charitable nature. It was he who saved the Upstarts in their first days from our hounds, when there was no Sun or Moon, and brought them into the west. If he could show such affection for those children who were not his own, why did he not claim a wayward Ainu such as you into his own ranks, when you shared more in common with him than the elves? That is most unlike him, one might think.” He questioned her in turn, this time wanting her to think of the solution. Because the Mistress already had a claim to you and she is greatest of those Powers in the West. No one would contest her decisions and schemes. But whatever it was that the Mistress had in store for Yurë, Celevonaur could not fathom.

“Besides, I would think one of a hunter’s disposition would be more patient and tempered in order to better stalk and observe their prey. You have behaved most unlike that in your pursuit of me. Does the hunter pet and caress the stag before they put an arrow through its neck?” Celevonaur asked Yurë with a pointed glance, tapping the side of his own neck, guessing perhaps that she had thought of shooting him through the throat with her bow, to which he was now taking her to. “Instead you confronted me, sought to speak with me, to understand me. A hunter does not do that. Fire on the other hand…two flames joined together create an even larger burst. And fire certainly dances the way you just did now, so impassioned and furious as you were. I might even admit that it scared me a bit, little one. You certainly were…infuriated.” Celevonaur grinned with his choice of word, before pausing abruptly and sweeping his eyes over river and forestry.

“There.” He pointed to a distant patch of sand before them. A glimpse of silver wood gleaming under sunlight could be seen through the blanket of sand that covered it. Had he not brought her here, it might have lain there undiscovered for Ages. “As for your quiver, it must have been lost down the river and its contents scattered. But I have a knife. And there are many birds and deadwood. You can fletch more if you wish.” He offered her, rather plainly, before turning to face her.

“Or you can abandon this pursuit of becoming a huntress and embrace the power and might that has always been in you, kinswoman.” He called her with a challenging smirk. “If you still don’t believe me…I can teach you something, that only those of our Order would know, and if you can manifest it, then you might come to accept that there is some truth in my thoughts about you.” Again, he dared to reach out and touch her shoulder. “Will you give me that chance at least…Yurë?” He said, using her name for once, as he peered deep into her eyes. She was indeed beautiful. And a fire like hers made him want to dance and delight in its glory, akin to a child-like mind, concerned only with play and mirth. Like he used to be, before the dark master made his false promises of luxuries and pomp.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Yurë had hoped the mundane subject of mushrooms and other scavengings would be enough to hold Celevonaur's attention for the time being, but apparently his hunger for food was nothing compared to his hunger for conflict. They were not ten feet from their starting place before that haughty look contorted his face and he was once again rambling about his superiority to the mortal beings of the world. And, well, everyone else.

"For one so superior, you can certainly starve to death as easily as any other," the maiden grumbled under her breath, neither hoping nor caring if he heard her. Her own eyes were busy following the riverbank to her left, keeping a sharp gaze out for any glint of silver in the dirt, or indeed any other of her belongings that might have washed up along the pebbly shores. Her own appetite was mostly forgotten at this point, her mind whirling in angry confusion over the things he'd said, and for a moment she thought about drawing her knife and simply launching herself at his back. That would certainly put a quick end to all his troublesome words.

But still she kept on walking. Yurë told herself it was because she owed him her life, but something inside her wondered if maybe there wasn't some truth in what he said about her abilities. She'd only shown a hunter's instinct when it came to tracking him down, and when the time came to make that final, deadly blow...she couldn't do it. The knife was still resting heavily against her hip, and her hands were hanging limply at her sides, still shaking a little with the explosion of emotion from earlier.

There was fire behind that rage, you cannot deny this a voice in the Maia's mind whispered. Even her desire to lash out at him, impotent as it might have been, was still fueled by something hot and destructive inside her. Was it only her well-trained self-control keeping such danger at bay? What would happen if she were to take Celevonaur's advice and let him guide her as she explored this new side of herself? What would she become?

The Maia shut her eyes. He is Úmaia she reminded herself. He wants nothing more than to bring out the worst parts of you, to make you like him. It made sense. After all, he'd already proven his ability to leave her behind (though whether that was through his own irresistable desire or her dogged stubbornness was yet to be determined). If Celevonaur couldn't rid himself of his jailor, then certainly the next best thing would be to drag her down to his level, bury what little grace she had in the dirt and ashes of his own sins. With his seductive words he could make her as proud and vain as he was, help her unlock a dangerous power and invent an enemy for her to point it at. Then not would only would Yurë be a failure in her mission, but a traitor to her kind as well.

Though her eyes were still closed, the maiden became aware of a warm light washing across her face, and she realized with some relief that the sun was high and bright. New resolve filled her and gave Yurë the strength to look back towards her would-be captive yet again, who was now pausing to point at something in the sand near a curve in the river. “There," he said, as though he were point out nothing more valuable than a particularly shiny rock on the bank. But Yurë knew what the item was even from that one sparkling glimpse, and with a cry of joy she leapt to the riverbank, pulling free the Bow of Tilion.

"Thank you," she whispered to the tinkling waters of the river, unsure of what Ainu had been kind enough to drag such a treasure up from its depths, but certain it had been no mere chance that had returned it to her. As she stood up to examine the weapon in the sunlight, Yurë realized it hadn't come through entirely unscathed; the string had broken. This was hardly a great matter of concern though, and she recalled with some irony that as Celevonaur spoke about Oromë, she still remembered one lesson the great hunter had told her.

Sitting down on a fallen tree with the bow across her lap, the maiden withdrew her knife from its sheath and brought it close to her temple. "Lord Oromë did accept me in his company, for a while," she remarked, suddenly cutting a thin lock of her silvery hair away at the scalp. There was a curious spark of light from the ends as she did so, reflected straight into Celevonaur's eyes as Aulë's blade severed the strands. With a deft movement of her hands Yurë twisted the long threads into a thin, but strong cord, then set about stringing the bow with her own hair, just as she had the last time it had needed a repair.

"I was actually rather fond of him," she continued, sheathing her knife then standing up to test the bow's tautness. "Lord Oromë was the one who taught me to string a bow, though Lady Nessa was the one who suggested I use my hair. She was always rather fond of it, for some reason." Satisfied with her work, Yurë tucked her bow under her arm and fell back into step beside the Úmaiar, her expression falling a little as unpleasant memories began to surface. "It was other members of the Order that I eventually grew to dislike, but I was in no position to ask that they be sent away for my sake. So I withdrew myself and began to follow Lady Nessa, Oromë's sister, instead. She was more than glad to have me, and while her other maidens might not have been the most exciting of company, they at least did not trouble me."

Unlike Kemós the Spearman. Even now, the thought of his face, his hands on her body, made Yurë shudder. It had all been a mistake. Had the foolish young Maia known then what the slightly-less-foolish, slightly-older Maia knew now, she never would have allowed the hunter to take such liberties. And yet...when the maiden imagined Celevonaur in place of the spearman, laying beneath the oaks during that warm afternoon so long ago, somehow the idea seemed more palatable. Pleasant, even.

A sudden touch on her shoulder made Yurë gasp, and for the briefest of moments she wondered if perhaps the vision was coming true. She had only half-listened to the offer he'd been making, but with those fiery eyes locked on hers she suddenly felt her will weakening, the oh-so-tantalizing "yes" lingering on her lips. Hearing her name on his lips felt like a caress on her bare skin, delicious and irresistible.

"Alcalantë," she suddenly said, without knowing why.

The bow grew heavier in her hands, and a fresh breeze suddenly broke through the trees, shattering whatever spell the Úmaiar had nearly cast upon her. Alcalantë. There was a dignity in that name that had been all but forgotten in its long disuse, but it gave her new strength now as she strode past Celevonaur.

"If you're going to call me by my name, you might as well use my real one. The Valar truly named me Alcalantë, Yurë is just a nickname. I don't intend to do much running anytime soon anyway, so you might as well call me Alcalantë," she added with a glance over her shoulder.

"As for teaching me something, why don't you teach me where these famous mushrooms of yours grow? I could do with a proper breakfast after all, I think," the maiden continued, holding her head high as she continued down the path.

 

[BennyQ]

There it was again. The pure, unadulterated expression of joy and happiness from his companion, a sound most unused to Celevonaur’s ears. By contrast, the yelps and jeers of orcs and trolls in a similar state of euphoria was a dreadful, irksome noise but this…this was wholesome and genuine, of a sort he never felt himself since the first days of his existence on Arda, long lost to the fog of memory and age. At her gratitude, he found himself smiling, finding joy in the act, but realizing almost in the next instant…he was aiding and abetting the enemy. His enemy. The expression was short lived and once more, his guard was a steely faced as the slopes of Thangorodrim. But even that could be broken.

She did reveal that Oromë had taken her in at first, but the lessons of hunt and chase were learned rather from the Lady Nessa. Strangely. Not that Celevonaur cared about the upkeep of bows or archery, deeming it to be a coward’s weapon, recalling how the Upstarts used to pepper his once mighty hide with such infantile projectiles, in lieu of facing him down like true warriors. In any case, they had been cut down like grass before the flame. She told him how her time with the Great Huntsman was not all bright and welcoming, only proving his point that she was more the fiery kindred of her mother than the crafty wild spirits like her father. But he did not broach this. Yurë had a very unpleasant look on her fair features, as if she recalled some memory of discomfort. Given how she recently lashed out, in fury and danger, Celevonaur wisely chose not to target that at this moment. But he did put the observation away in his mind’s pocket for later prodding.

No, not Yurë…Alcalantë.

“What?” Celevonaur asked at first, thinking he didn’t hear that correctly. He knew the elven tongues. He understood them, despite disdaining and not using them. As an Ainu of the world, he was blessed with greater understanding and fast learning of things and the many, myriad speeches of the Upstart was something he unfortunately grasped. If it wasn’t for convenience of communicating with servants and rebels… She explained though. Alcalantë…was her true name. That was the name they gave her. How very apt. It made him smile again and this time he wore it in reply to her matter-of-factly spoken revelation, as if it was his victory to hear that name. How is it that all the stars were aligning on this fact and she refused to see it? Look how boldly she strode forward, like a light in the darkness, heedless of any danger it might cause her.

“They grow in my cave, little one. You clearly know the way. Lead on…Alcalantë.” Celevonaur said, savouring the word, almost with flawless pronunciation of the elvish word. They had names for him too in their tongue, his true name in his own birth language long forgotten during his much lamented service to the dark. “You’d truly prefer a simple meal of mushrooms and broth in lieu of innate power? Suit yourself.” Celevonaur merely shrugged, somewhat offended by the rejection but again noting that he should not be empowering the woman who might very well lay him sideways and drag him to the Void. Still, watching her strut forward, with a confident sway in her hips and posture, he could not deny it was a pleasing sight from the rear.

“Falling seems indeed to be the title of your tale, little one.” He commentated as he followed her up the path, what was left of it after the heavy rain and flash flooding of the previous day. His boots sank heavily into the mud, whereas someone as agile as her seemed to be able to walk without disturbing the wet earth’s rest upon the ground at all. “But you are fortunate. There is always someone to pick you up at the end. To help you on your feet.” He also noted, perhaps with some envy, as he felt he had always been, proverbially, thrown to the wolves, so to speak. Or dropped in water and made to learn to swim or sink, all by himself.

“We’ll eat and then…then you can take me down to this human village, if you so wish. Would that please you?” Celevonaur then asked her, before reaching out to grip her shoulder again, halting her. But only to say… “The cave is up ahead.” He pointed out, before pulling himself forward and ahead for the final stretch of the trek, until they stood before it’s dark, looming threshold, various bits and pieces of his belonging still laying about in the grass and rock. The rain had beat the snows away, turning it into a dangerous, slim sheet of ice that glimmered upon blade and stone. But neither darkness of the cavern nor cold of the wilderness should be a bother to fire-spirits like them.

But he knew how to see in the dark, without torch or lantern. Did she? He decided to test that…by walking right into the pitch darkness of the cave, where there were many stones and boulders to trip and stub a toe upon. He knew where to step and move. “Be careful where you step. I prefer not to taste the sole of your boots upon our meal.” He even deigned to warn her, his tone of mockery and jest thick in his voice. Of course he knew what he was doing. Would she trip and fall again? Or would she finally ask him for the help he had been offering?

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Was it just the Maia's imagination, or was there an odd note in Celevonaur's voice as he repeated her name? Yurë--no, Alcalantë--had to admit she was surprised the fugitive was even using it. Yurë was the name of a servant, someone whose entire purpose was to carry out the will of others, and she had expected the self-important fugitive to continue in that vein for the same reasons he probably called her 'little one'. But although Alcalantë sounded strange and almost foreign to her ears, with a grace and gravity reserved for tragic heroines of the ancient days, she felt a peculiar strength in it as well, very much like that she felt when looking towards the sun or moon. And there was an amusing irony as she realized that before the Úmaia spoke the name, the last person to do so was his so-called enemy, the Lady Varda herself.

May you return to Aman swiftly and safely, Alcalantë.

Alcalantë kept the memory to herself of course, but couldn't hide the little smile at the thought as she continued on her way. Her journey had not been particularly swift, and its safety was certainly up for debate, but she would complete it, even if it took a thousand years. You could always put a bit of valerian in his mushrooms a helpful idea piped up in her mind. That might make Celevonaur a little less obstinate.

Ah, if only valerian were in season.

"Some people do not desire power for power's sake," she answered, her eyes noting a vaguely familiar trail that seemed to lead back towards the direction of the Úmaia's lair. In truth she would have preferred their path to continue on along the stream, which surely had to lead to a settlement sooner or later, but if Celevonaur wanted to return to his hole first, she was too hungry to argue. Picking the occasional berry as their course followed along the mountains, Alcalantë soon found herself missing her waterskin as well, but tried to ignore the growing tickle of thirst as they walked. "If you had the ability to return my pack to me, that would be one thing worth learning," she continued. "But I have no enemies to conquer or slaves to subjugate, so I cannot imagine what else you have to show me."

After a few moments though, Alcalantë glanced over her shoulder with a softer expression. "You're right about one thing though; I have been fortunate," she admitted, slowing her pace enough to allow the fugitive to catch up with her. "Surely you can understand then why I owe my allegiances where I do? Tulkas, Nessa, Lord Oromë, Lady Varda..." She shut her eyes a moment as the faces passed before her, and for the first time a curious sense of homesickness washed over the maiden's body. "What would have become of me if none of them had been there?" the Maia wondered aloud.

She was startled at her own voice as soon as she heard the words, and the maiden was quick to open her eyes and turn around to continue on her way. She hadn't made it far though when suddenly Alcalantë felt Celevonaur's hand gripping her shoulder with a warmth that was almost painful...if it weren't so pleasurable. It was impossible to ignore the heat of his body drawing closer as well, brushing against the swell of her hip and evoking a momentary glow from her bared skin. But it was all over in a moment as he passed her, pointing out his cave and moving ahead of her on the path. “The cave is up ahead,” he pointed out.

"Oh...so it is," she answered, stepping lightly after him. The Maia had been so lost in her own thoughts she'd barely noticed, but then again with the sun at this angle it was hard to spot the opening in the shadowy crags of the mountain. As she followed Celevonaur into the shade of the peaks, she also couldn't help but notice a growing chill, and she shivered a little as she pulled her cloak more tightly about her shoulder. There was something more ominous about the cave now than there had been two days ago (Two days? Was that when she first arrived?). Perhaps the afternoon sun provided more light than it did now, or maybe her nerves were finally beginning to wear thin with the events of their long stroll. Either way, it took all her courage to step across the threshold and into the darkness of the cave, her vision failing her only a few yards inside.

And that wasn't all that failed her. Usually Alcalantë's footing was sure and light, but in the gloom of the hole she was utterly oblivious to the frozen pool of condensation on the floor, and before she knew what had happened her body was careening forward. She fully expected to smash her face on the rough stone below, but to the Maia's surprise she collided with something else instead; the warm, musk-and-smoke-scented body of the Úmaia. Her arms reflexively wound around his torso, squeezing with a remarkable strength as her feet struggled to gain traction, and for a few moments Alcalantë's face was pressed against what she assumed was Celevonaur's chest, judging by the sound of the heart beating within.

The maiden wasn't sure how long she stayed like that, but however many moments passed she was certain there were far too many. Eventually though her feet found purchase, and she quickly let go of him, turning her face back towards the white circle of the entrance in the hopes he wouldn't see the burning blush on her cheeks. "Maybe you'd better go ahead," she mumbled, taking a few cautious steps towards the outside. "I don't see very well in the dark. I'll wait for you outside...or get a torch, if you take too long." How she was going to light said torch was utterly beyond her at the moment, but she could worry about that later.

Feeling along the wall, Alcalantë made her way back outside, thankful now for the nerve-soothing chill. Maybe it would be better if he never came out of there after all she thought grimly, before shaking her head and beginning to gather wood for a fire.

 

[BennyQ]

What would have become of me if none of them had been there? The Maia mused to him.

You would have been free and innocent, as we were meant to be The Úmaia wanted to answer her, but did not.

How would the world have been, without those of greatest might, wisdom, and knowledge not been there? Each Ainu would have been free to exert their own vision for Arda however they wished, each unique and independent, yet adding to a greater canvas. Instead, whether under Vala or Melkor, they had been divided into camps, to fight mercilessly with one another for a world vision not entirely of their choosing, but supposedly best for their Order and status. Instead, all they got was ruinous war, a marred world, with the followers of Melkor scattered or ejected, the so-called victors too timid to depart their fortress where they dwelt at ease and comfort, free from the world’s turmoil. Well, Celevonaur was still here, and if they weren’t going to project their power and might over the vast emptiness of Middle-Earth, then he just might. All he needed was time to recuperate and gain his core strength back.

She followed him tepidly into the darkness of the cave, her footsteps faltering, and he could predict the loss of balance before it happened. Half his mind delighted in such a prospect, to see another lapdog of the Valar put on their rear in humorous circumstances. Had it but been anyone else. Yet Alcalantë was not just anyone anymore. She was his kin, if even a little deluded in her allegiances, and might be the closest he had to any sort of family in this Little Kingdom. He was going to go back and give her his arm to clutch and steady, but he was hardly halfway there when it happened. But he did manage to be before her before she toppled like a hewn tree, falling right into his waiting arms, catching her under her shoulders, her body bearing down, causing them to wrap around her back, and hold her steady.

It was…an embrace. One that, when she recuperated upright, they were very close, very near, their breath mingling, their noses almost touching, their torso molding gently. Her face was nuzzled in his chest, against his clothes, where his heart beat hotly just at the very sensation of her nearness. It sounded very loud in his ears in that quiet place. Could she hear it too? Hear how it sped up for her? His arms were around her sides, his biceps pinching her slightly, his hands resting on her lower back. He thought she might speak first, to apologize or even chide him for not warning. But she said nothing. And he said nothing. He just held her. In the dark. Unseen by no one, not even the Powers that be, or her parents high above. They were alone. And shame his face could not be seen, for it no longer bore the anger and spite of Raugad, but the delight and innocence of Celevonaur, the true Celevonaur, who’s real name was long forgotten.

Slowly she detached and his hands fell away from her body, gliding over her sides and then off of her, returning to his own, but twitching as if seeking some excuse, any justification, to latch onto her again. Her scent was in his nose. It would not depart. He didn’t want it to depart, but it would. “I can see in the dark. And I can make light. You go back then.” Celevonaur agreed with her statement, suddenly frowning, as the moment she turned to walk her way out, abrupt shame and anger filled his being. No, that old Ainu that he had been was gone. Dead. Removed. That Ainu was weak, falling for lies and manipulation, so fresh faced and eager eyed he had been. Celevonaur swore to never be so vulnerable like that again. How could he show such timidness before his enemy? He must never do that again. He should have choked her out and buried her in these caves.

Chest and heart panging with remorse and sadness at the conflict within, Celevonaur went to gather up his query, the various, tasty mushrooms that grew in the dark. He must have found a torch, because a few minutes after she departed, the glow of a bright light could be seen deep down the cavern, illuminated behind bends and curves in the tunnel. And yet when Celevonaur emerged, he came with mushrooms in both hands, and no torch to be seen.

A humble fire was crafted and his dented kettle was set atop, with only boiled water and some wild herb to make a broth alongside the mushrooms. Still, it was delicious and quite fulfilling. “Meat would have rounded it out nicely. But I see you have no arrows in which to hunt.” Celevonaur pointed out, relapsing in to a cold, stoic sort of way, only concerned with what she could do for him. He thought archery a coward’s weapon, but he was aware of the procedure and crafting from the forges of Angband. “Wood we have in abundance. I suppose you’ll require iron for the tips. The human villages deal in such metals, refined or otherwise. I rather not seek out a dwarven hall for their finer wares. And I doubt you wish to revisit my orc servants and seek out their works.” He added with a smile. He knew that made her uncomfortable.

They could go down to the village. And maybe Alcalantë could see for herself how aimless and unguided those Upstarts were. And how much they could learn if they but harkened to an Ainu such as them. But did he have the patience to teach them? Not he. Someone ought to do it, however.

It would be the same temple-town and village that the ambushed travelers had been heading to, two days ago, when he first met Alcalantë. “What was its accursed name again? Tarla? Tarlu? In any case they’ve erected a pile of stone in a fanciful manner and the mortal fools think it’s a marvel of construction.” He laughed mockingly. For a race barely a millennia old, the humans were learning. And multiplying at rates no one expected. When Celevonaur first arrived in this region, there was one human settlement. Now over the past century, a half dozen had sprung up.

It was late evening when they would reach the outskirts. The smoke stacks of many communal fires could be seen rising above the treeline. Some one hundred huts and hovels of various sizes were scattered about a trio of hills, upon which the largest was a tall stone structure. The largest and thickest column of smoke rose from its ceiling. There was a bustling marketplace and here a thousand or so mortals and their families dwelt, with many more in farms and homesteads outwards for a few days trek. Laughter, conversation, and the labor of hammers and tools could be heard. Animals flocked in pens. A pathway long trodden by unseen elves and now dwarves in great companies and carts dissected the village of Tarla. These people had not known violence or strife for a few generations.

And yet, Celevonaur hesitated a moment, pausing a step and looking at Alcalantë. “After you. I take it you intend to announce yourself as some sort of emissary out of the west. These proles and serfs will flock to your infinite mercy no doubt.” Celevonaur sneered with a smirk. That’s what he would have done. Reveal himself in his true power, if he had it, and coerce whatever he wished out of these fools, like he did the goblins. But not now. Not yet. He needed a while longer. Another generation of these Upstarts might live and pass before he had it. But he would have it back.

The marketplace would have the scarp iron Alcalantë needed to fletch new arrowheads.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Alcalantë couldn't recall any time when she'd ever been more thankful for wind and sunlight, gray and shaded as it was. Every step she took away from the cave's entrance seemed to diminish the heat and darkness she'd felt within it, but the flames in her own heart were not so easily quenched. Why had it felt so good? Was that what came of incarnating one's fëa into a body of flesh and blood? Never in all her years in Aman had anyone's touch resonated with her like that, calling not only to the spirit inside her, but something older, something more primal.

Her eyes lingered on her hands a moment as they ran over the bark of a fallen branch she'd gathered for the fire. It had taken the power of the Valar, combined with her own strength, to create the body she would use to carry out the Queen's request. The maiden could recall the efforts, the pain, the exhaustion and pride she'd felt when it was over and she stood naked before Nessa's silvery glass, admiring her new form not so much for its beauty as its completeness, and the sense that this was something that was truly hers. Before then, she'd been noting more than a wandering spirit of little power or regard, seeking an Order...but now a new question kindled in her mind.

How had her fëa come to be?

She knew the explanation as the Valar had given it of course: Eru had created all Ainur, Valar and Maiar alike, each to serve some purpose great or small. But how? What was a fëa made of? And whatever it was, had Celevonaur's own spirit been made of the same material as Alcalantë's, in a time before his corruption and her memory began? Perhaps that was what he'd meant when he said they were of the same Order, although the Maia thought the resonance went deeper than that. His arms around her felt like a memory older than the stars, and the way his heart had pounded against her chest matched her own in a strange yet harmonious syncopation.

It was nothing but a dream.

When she'd been away from the cavern for nearly half an hour, the wind had finally cooled Alcalantë's mind to clarity, and by the time she returned with an armload of fuel she wore an expression of indifference, as though that brief embrace in the dark had been nothing more than the misstep she so desperately wanted it to be. The maiden had no comment at Celevonaur's admittedly convenient ability to start the fire, nor did she have anything to say about the food. It was only when the subject of arrows came up that her face turned back towards him in interest.

"I would need feathers for fletching as well," she remarked, taking one spare piece of wood and holding it up critically in front of the fire. She could make an arrow or two out of it if necessary, she supposed, though without any tools beyond her knife the task would definitely be slow, and the quality would probably be shoddy. Glancing back towards the treeline, she furrowed her brow a moment before looking back towards her companion. "Come to think of it, I don't recall seeing any birds in days, save for fowl on a few farmsteads. Did you do something to them all?"

Her tone was half-joking, but the concern still weighed on her mind. She had seen the remnants of other predators the past few days, and she could hardly imagine robins and finches would draw too near the territories of the marauding orcs or ravenous trolls. Surely though, there must have been some sort of carrion birds dwelling in the highest reaches of the mountains? Perhaps even one of Manwë's fearless eagles, who would be hunted by no creature of this sphere? But no; if there were any eagles nearby, surely they would have caught sight of Celevonaur ages ago.

Perhaps they've all flown on to gentler climes Alcalantë mused as she sipped at her broth, hoping they hadn't all been hunted to extinction by either two- or four-legged predators. Once they move on she would keep an eye out for any sign of ground-dwelling birds as well; after all, quail could be quite crafty, and their feathers made decent fletching.

She had to admit though, the idea of getting a set of ready-to-shoot arrows was much more appealing, giving their current situation. Of course, there was the small matter of how she was going to pay for such things, but as the Maia patted at the hidden pockets of her cloak she could still feel one or two trinkets she thought she could part with. The idea of trying to pass herself off as a foreign dignitary, as Celevonaur had suggested, did have its appeal as well, but dressed as she was, with no baggage to her name save her bow, it seemed utterly preposterous.

"I shall be as I always am: a stranger, reliant on the kindness and mercy of others. It's served me well enough so far, though I suspect I shall have to do a bit of kitchen work if we plan to stay in an in tonight," the maiden remarked once the meal was over and they'd set off down the trail leading to the road. "It's already getting late. I don't imagine we would be able to get there and come all the way back before nightfall, will we? That is...if you want to come back."

There was a note of hope in her voice making it clear she at least wanted him to consider what she'd said previously about leaving. "If I could get some supplies, we wouldn't have to come back to this place, Celevonaur. We don't have to go to Aman just yet if you don't want to, but what about somewhere warmer? Somewhere prettier? With plenty of decent hunting--beasts and mushrooms of course," she added with a smile, which quickly wrinkled into an expression of disgust. "And none of those stinking orcs."

Taking several light steps forward, Alcalantë moved directly in front of him, her eyes beseeching. "Please, just consider it? I promise, I won't ask you again if you'll agree to think about it."

The Maia left him with a lingering gaze before allowing him to continue taking the lead, and as promised she said nothing else on the matter the entire way to the village.

Not truly believing Celevonaur would give the idea of going south much thought, Alcalantë had instead focused her mind on wondering what the town would be like. She'd encountered many during the course of her journey, all different, but with many similarities that overlapped. Like most of the others, there was a ramshackle wooden wall encircling the settlement, though rather than forming a complete circle stodded with gates, there was a wide arc stretching across a gash in the mountainside, leaving the northern side of the town sheltered by the mountains themselves, the centermost of which was crowned with some enormous black trapezoid protruding from the slopes.

Alcalantë might have stopped to stare longer at the strange structure had Celevonaur's form not continued onwards towards the town. A gaggle of grim-faced, but apparently apathetic guards allowed them to pass through the sagging gates with the muttered warning that they would be shut at sundown, at which point neither of the strangers would be allowed to leave.

"But you do have an inn?" Alcalantë had pressed the most animated of them, a stooping man with sad eyes leaning on a rusty pike.

"Only one inn in Tarlang," the guard grumbled, gesturing down the muddy street leading to the center of town. "On the square."

Well, they wouldn't need to sleep on the streets then, hopefully. "And is your market still open?"

"Until sundown," the guard repeated, turning his forlorn face back beyond Tarlang's gates.

Although the guards hadn't paid much attention to the strangers, as the Ainur made their way past the rows of windowless houses Alcalantë could somehow feel unfriendly eyes on her, and the suspicion that they were unwelcome was only confirmed when they reached the unnervingly quiet marketplace, still busy with people at almost all of them utterly silent.

This was most bizarre of all to the maiden, who had come to know markets as cheerful, bustling places where wives gossiped in flocks and the men constantly tried to out-haggle one another, all while children played underfoot and got in everyone's way as much as possible. There were no children in the Tarlang market though, and while most stalls had at least one or two patrons none of them were there for pleasure, as far as Alcalantë could tell. The vendors only spoke to answer questions about goods and prices, and handfuls of black coins were passed across the tables without argument or negotiation.

A fletcher's stand did catch the maiden's eye relatively quickly, and although the wares probably wouldn't serve much martial use she was confident they could take down small game easily enough. Alcalantë selected a bundle of the best-looking arrows, then turned apologetically towards the man across the counter. "Good afternoon, sir," she began in a sweet tone. "I would like to purchase these arrows from you, but I'm afraid I'm a stranger to your country, and I don't have any of your money. I was wondering if you might accept this as payment instead?"

Reaching into the pocket of her cloak, she withdrew a small disc of a curious green stone, hanging on a thong by a square hole in the center. "It's jade," she explained, sliding it across the table to the fletcher, whose eyes had grown suspicions the moment she'd mentioned having no money. "I believe it's quite valuable in the south, but even if you choose not to trade it, the stone is known to bring good health and long life--"

"No one lives long in Tarla," the man interrupted, sliding the amulet back to her. "I'll take money or trade goods, but only that as me and mine can use. Food, tools, clothing...not your silly rocks."

"But--" the maiden protested as he unceremoniously seized the arrows from her hand.

"Off with ya now," he snapped. "It's gettin' late, and I need to be closin' up and gettin' home. You'll do the same, if you know what's good for you."

Dismayed but not defeated, Alcalantë was ready to reach into her cloak again to make a better offer, when suddenly a new voice spoke up.

"Now now, Master Alrek, we mustn't be rude to our guests," scolded a surprisingly handsome young man in a black robe who seemed to appear almost from nowhere. He was as pale as all the other faces in Tarlang, but at least his mouth had spread into a smile when he looked upon the woman, and his eyes were the first friendly ones she'd seen since their arrival. And yet...was that a spark of recognition in them as they passed over Celevonaur's form, just before the man ignored him entirely?

"Deepest apologies, My Lady," the man in black greeted in a musical voice. "We seldom have new faces in our fair village, and never in all my years can I recall seeing one as lovely as yours. Allow me to compensate for this fool's behavior with a gift." Snatching up the bundle of arrows, he pressed it firmly into the maiden's grasp. Alcalantë stared dumbly at them for a moment, then back towards Alrek, who had shrunk to the very back of his stall.

"There, that shouldn't lighten your opinion of us, hm? If not, perhaps I can offer a bit of hospitality up at our temple? I'm a priest, you see. Brother Kham, at your service," he introduced, gesturing towards the black building on the mountainside. "Surely you could do with a warm place to sleep, and a hot meal..."

 

[BennyQ]

I would need feathers for fletching as well. Come to think of it, I don’t recall seeing any birds in days, save for fowls on a few farmsteads. Did you do something to them all? Had he? Perhaps indirectly. Birds belong to the domain of the sky, and under the protection of its Master, and therefore more naturally inclined to detect the evilness and darkness of a Maia such as Celevonaur. Indirectly, perhaps, he had scared them away. But did something to them? He had not. In truth, their incessant chirping and songs, declarations for mating and romance, were both irritating to his ears…and yet strangely surreal to behold.

He didn’t answer her. Maybe he wanted her to think he had done something. Let her think him more dangerous. In truth he was so harmless. He needed more time, to recuperate, and gather his strength, and reembody himself into his true state of fire and might. Soon.

It was with utter disbelief that Celevonaur glanced at Alcalantë sharply when she explained her intentions on how she would present herself. A wanderer. A stranger, who would repay charity with service. With…menial labour. His jaw dropped at the sheer eccentricity of all of it. She, a Maia, a herald of the Powers, would be content to spend an evening of a day doing work befit for kitchen wenches and serfs? She certainly couldn’t expect him to want to do the same. He closed his mouth and lowered his jaw with a disapproving hum when she mentioned they won’t be able to make it there and back before it got too late. And he certainly didn’t wish to stay in no settlement of mortals and upstarts.

But then she offered him a new arrangement. It wasn’t to be permanent. Not here, or in Aman, but they could…travel. Together. He suddenly wasn’t at all concerned about the destination…as long as it involved her. He thought of how nice it might be, how contented, to be with another Maia, someone who at least understood what it meant to be of their kind, and Order. He had been alone so what seemed like forever, that now the chance of pleasant companionship, certainly not too hard on the eyes, was now a reward deeply sought by his heart. But he had to tarry. He could not come off as gleeful or excited, unveiling this strange, and weak, ambition to Alcalantë.

He was not at all loathe to leave the orcs, Alcalantë all too right about their stench. But for a moment he gazed over his shoulder, to the mountains, and thought about the other. Could he leave the beast behind? It knew little of the world, and the place it was supposedly to fill in the order of things, and Celevonaur felt he had a responsibility, as a spirit of fire, and the creature being fire made flesh. Who put this duty on his heart though except his own mind? He glanced back and saw Alcalantë had approached him, pleading with him, to consider, and that she wouldn’t press again. And those eyes, twinkling like stars come down to earth…

“As long as it contents me, then.” Celevonaur answered in a whisper, just as Alcalantë moved back to allow him to lead her to the village. And he did so. His answer was both affirmative to her query, but also leaving space for him to change his mind if he so wished it. And she couldn’t feign ignorance on that. He did assume they would have some time before such a decision was made to depart this region of Middle-Earth wholly. That would allow him to set matters straight with the beast. As if he was still in control of things.

The village of Tarlang was not far by Maiar reckoning, but then again very few locations were, whether above ground or below ground. The two figures, one robed in white and one robed in black, approached the gates and Celevonaur felt some trepidation at the sight of spears and armored thugs. Hardly soldiers of the sort he fought before but in his reduced state, he had more vulnerabilities at this time. And he hardly expected Alcalantë to be of any help. He stood by while she diplomatically maneuvered them through the gates, getting some information about an inn and the market. Barter, exchange, transaction, what did Celevonaur the Maia who was timeless and immortal know of these things? He followed her through the gates and into the crowded settlement.

They were barely a few steps in before the complaints began. “It stinks in here.” He muttered to her. Well it wasn’t as bad as an orc den but still.

It was the innocence of the mortals that got to him. They really didn’t know, not a single one of them, of the true structure and nature of this world that they inhabited. Neither the dark master or the Powers that be ever came to them. They did not know the names of this world’s stewards and caretakers. Their understanding of the workings of the sky and Sun and stars were primitive at best. “What is that sound?” He even muttered to himself in aghast curiosity. It was called…laughter. And it was so contagious. He saw an older boy, with a ball, easily and gracefully maneuvering the object through a gaggle of younger children, avoiding their attempts to rob the ball from him with relative ease. They screamed and struggled and shouted, all with glee to obtain it, and yet the elder did not relinquish it once, smiling and laughing with the effort. And when he finally did relent, and looked up, and smiled foolishly and apologetically right at Celevonaur…the Maia couldn’t help but grin back.

Before he snapped out of it. No! You share nothing with these fools, who are so weak and pathetic to even take one ball away. Yet look how they delighted in such innocence and youthful play, not at all so different from that Valarukar, who once in his own youth, so long ago, had similarly delighted with childish laughter and smiles to the play and dance of fire and lava. It was no different. And for a second, he felt it. All because of that smile.

They didn’t get all smiles and cheers from the townsfolk. Many looked on them, especially him, with suspicion too. That, Celevonaur was used to, and made him feel even more at home. Please, start a fight, so I have no use for this pretense. He followed Alcalantë where she needed to go, striding through the market place where the mortals did this strange activity, speaking numbers and weights and quality with the goods in their hand. Bargaining. What a strange concept. Alcalantë eventually picked one and he lingered a few steps behind her, watching and observing, and hearing everything.

Look at her, speaking to the mortal upstart like he was an equal, or a superior! She called him Sir! Seeing a fellow Ainu denigrating themselves like that was ridiculous. She ought to just take what she needed. The fool owed it to her, to their kind, who laboured so long to structure this world for them. Even worse, the man spat on Alcalantë’s attempt to do this strange exchange of goods with him, citing her goods as useless, and Celevonaur felt his temper flare up, his body growing heated, at the disrespect one of their Order was given. How dare he? No one lives long? You’re about to find out just how short that is…

He nearly stepped forward, ready to upend the entire stall and seize the man off his feet, when another stepped forth. And his voice was the speech of…snakes. Celevonaur paused only because of an unrecognizable familiarity about the man’s conduct. it almost felt like home, though the parts of home that he did not exactly like. The newcomer purchased the bundle, and barely gave Celevonaur a glance as he pressed them to Alcalantë’s hands with a fair sounding greeting. Snakes, snakes in the grass, and in the pits. That’s all Celevonaur was reminded of. And he watched Alcalantë. Did she not see as well?

Brother Kham as he announced himself (who’s brother was he?) then offered them to come up to the temple above, offering free lodge, free meal. Celevonaur slowly made his way up to Alcalantë’s side now, peering into her face. At least you don’t have to lower yourself to menial labor. And he wouldn’t have to force himself to intervene to spare the embarrassment…that only he would feel at the thought of her having to do something like that. But the temple…

Not long ago, Celevonaur had stopped a group of thugs attempting to derive tribute and bounty from travelers…for a place such as this. They said it was in honor and gift to a god. A false god surely, but Celevonaur did not exactly what. And now he was here. Those five men, in the beginning…they worked for this Brother Kham. They tried to take the young girl from her father, to use her in some fashion, as a gift to their god.

There seemed to be a pattern now in how they selected Alcalantë. Suddenly, it seemed to amuse him greatly.

“Lead on then, brother.” Celevonaur spoke for them, putting his hand on the back of Alcalantë’s elbow, as if to both nudge her along, and yet protectively escort her. To help cement the idea she might be helpless and fragile, an easy mark, and maybe these fools would take the bait, if it surely be a trap.

“Looks like they found us out, she-elf.” Celevonaur whispered jokingly to Alcalantë, as they followed Brother Kham up a winding passage up the mountain side at the rear of the town, coming towards the base of the angular black temple that had been erected. Above, from the ceiling, a great plume of dark smoke was rising. Celevonaur sniffed twice. He knew how different burning things would smell. He smelled burning wood and burning oil…and something else. Burning flesh. Or, well…burned flesh.

The interior of the temple looked like any great hall, consisting of a large open area about three-quarters of the building’s length, with a large, raised firepit in the middle, and marked locations in a circle about for praying adherents. A large, blackened metal pole rose from the pit, and large iron rings jutted from its length midway up. At the rear was a raised dais, where the tribunal of elder priests sat, and further behind, the secret, guarded rooms of the temple, from the sleeping quarters to the cells…to the treasury. And the door, leading further up the mountain, where all the exalted and the blessed may travel. And most often didn’t return from their…divination.

These people, they had seen the dragon. And they had spoken with the dragon. And they had come to worship it as the avatar of god, of fire made flesh. And the dragon spoke to them, and made demands, and in return for its enriching of them by the destruction of their enemies, they gave tribute in gold and silver. But lately, it had been demanding a more fruitful tribute, one more beneficial to its stomach, than to its horde. Misrepresenting its demands, the priests selected those they thought were both weak, and yet precious, like gemstones. To them, that was defined…by the nubile body of a young maiden.

And now one had entered their temple. Willingly.

All the men there looked older than Celevonaur. And yet among the mortals it was men such as these, who had seen the long decades of life, that were considered wise and fit to rule and lead. And they did here. Just because they had the badge to do so didn’t make it that they were always right. And it would be far more sinful if they knew what they were doing was wrong, and yet did it anyways. Yet there was precedence, since the first man walked on this Middle-Earth, that such a form of tribute had been done by their kind, no thanks to the dark master now long detached from such events. But his evil lived on, in their hearts, and in their deeds.

Brother Kham ascended the dais and took his seat in the midst. And as if by cue, four others came out, two to each side, also seating themselves, while the two Ainu had to stand before them. Like supplicants. Celevonaur glanced over his shoulder to the raised firepit, smouldering with embers and occasionally the dance of a lick of flame over the edge. Beneath the charred and ash covered logs…there were bones. But of what creature? Flies hovered near the edge. Celevonaur knew of no flies that fluttered near smoke and heat willingly, unless there was some other form of decay to attract them.

The villagers looked starved and thin. These men had noticeable bellies under their robes. And grease stains around their collar and sleeves, where they wiped. True evil was in the mundane banality of average people, carried out everyday, unnoticeable.

“I wish to bid welcome to our guests from afar. A traveler from the southlands! What a privilege to meet one of your…complexion. And you, good lord and weary traveler, we see you are a man of experience and maturity. Our good people, bless their simple hearts, possess fires that burn low in their minds, but we see the light in you.” Brother Kham pronounced to them. Celevonaur lifted an eyebrow. Was this pretty rhetoric or did he know who and what they were? It sounded like rhetoric.

“We-“

“You asked us here.” Celevonaur interrupted. “You purchased a bundle of arrows for my…companion.” He said, quickly deciding between words like friend, colleague, kinswoman, sister even, before deciding on companion. “And now you offer us lodge and board. How generous of you, good pious elders. But you are right about my experience. Such things do not come without a price. What do you want?” He snapped rather impatiently.

The elders exchanged a glance. They must not be used to people talking like this. They weren’t alone, these five elders. They had supplicants too, thugs and blind followers who would do anything for them, now waiting in rooms and antechambers behind and ahead. Brother Kham raised a hand and silenced them abruptly, smiling politely.

“You are right. We do request a favor, the smallest of favors, and we ask it of the huntress, who shall have little to no barriers to its completion given her skills.” Brother Kham replied, looking at Alcalantë, as if to cut the rude Celevonaur out of the conversation. “We are a pious people, devout to the master of the mountain, and it is our custom that one should ascend to the peak every now and then, to offer thanksgiving and small tribute of our bounty, collected from the farmers, merchants, and toilers of the village. It has been…difficult to find a volunteer with the stamina to ascend. We would like…her to go.” The beast was hungry. And an unknown assailant had stolen away their expected tribute to send up as an…offering.

So they would trick this one to go. A small fee for the arrows and lodging, in exchange for further gifts and blessing, which would outweigh that cost. It was ingenious. And nefarious.

Celevonaur’s eyes narrowed. He knew his…friend, did not linger on one peak or the other for long. These upstarts might indeed be close to the truth that height and ascension might bring them closer to the true Maker. Maybe he ought to take a page from Alcalantë’s book and give them the benefit of the doubt. He looked to Alcalantë to what answer she would give. He wasn’t going to let her go alone, obviously. But he knew her generous spirit…might be inclined to repay a favor with a favor. How hard could it be to deposit some trinkets on a mountain side for these old men?

He sniffed again. It didn’t smell right. If they did stay the night here, he might be able to investigate more.

“The village, and ourselves, would be eternally grateful. And whenever you should return, you shall always have comfort and board here, with our blessing.” Brother Kham smiled, continuing on. Easy to offer, when it was very likely nobody returned alive at all. And the village merely assumed that those offered…were taken up to the heavens to be with the gods, to return fire and light to their meagre, hard lives. And they would continue to harken and obey these elders, giving coin, produce, and even their own children, to continue the possibility of light and warmth, for they feared the cold, and the night, where greater dangers not like them existed.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Despite Brother Kham's gentle voice and fair face, there was something about him that just seemed off to Alcalantë. Others who had shown her kindness during her journey had always had a certain warmth and light behind their eyes, giving her a sense that perhaps the Valar were not so very removed from the secondborn of the world. Had the maiden spent more of her time in market squares she might have recognized the hungry gaze of a swindler that looked her up and down, but the priest was more than that. What a pity the Maia had never witnessed madness firsthand, otherwise even she would have agreed with Celevonaur's instinct to stay as far away from the town as possible.

When she glanced towards her charge though, all she could see in his face at first was skepticism, then a gleam of amusement. That put Alcalantë more on guard than anything else; whatever made the renegade crinkle his eyes like that couldn't be good for her.

Yet when he touched her arm, the maiden felt oddly reassured, relaxing her shoulders and tilting her head curiously at him. Ignoring the remark about being mistaken for an elf, she whispered in response (or was it a thought, communicated from her mind to his?). "Do you know these people, Celevonaur? He didn't seem to recognize you."

Her thought was interrupted by a blast of cold air slamming against the mountainside, sending her hair flying in front of her face as she instinctively pressed closer to the warm body of the Úmaia. When the wind died down, she noticed the heat wasn't just coming from Celevonaur's flesh, but the black face of the mountain itself, growing warmer with each step towards the gaping maw of the temple door. Without the cleansing iciness of the breeze, she could also pick up the heady smell of the smoke, and wondered what in the world Kham and his brothers could have been cooking for the evening meal.

While there was a prodigious fire burning at the heart of the temple when they entered, and the smell was even stronger, Alcalantë raised her brows in surprise at seeing absolutely no sign of a meal anywhere. A shame, considering the size of the hall looked like it could have held nearly everyone from the village down below, assuming there was enough food to provide for them all. Times must have been difficult in that region indeed.

But why then did the men who joined Brother Kham on the dais look so well fed?

She shot another hesitant glance towards Celevonaur. His face had gone dark again, almost surprisingly so, and his voice was even colder than he had ever used with his jailer when he fired his accusatory questions back towards the priests. Alcalantë had the momentary instinct to scold him, to insist that he shouldn't be so rude to those who had offered them warmth (almost an unreasonable amount of it, in fact) and board, even if they did so in the hopes of gaining something for themselves. Something about the entire temple seemed wrong though, the way Brother Kham seemed wrong. That such an enormous fire should be burning in an enormous and mostly-empty room, the smell of burning meat and incense, the well-fed conditions of the priests...

Who did they worship in this temple?

Alcalantë's eyes grew even wider as she stared at Celevonaur, sure that the question must have reached his mind from her own. But if he had an answer for her he neither spoke nor thought it, keeping his attention instead focused on the old men before them. But they seemed to have little use for the old man standing beside the tall young woman before them, and Brother Kham even had the gall to ignore the Úmaia completely as he turned his attention towards the maiden.

"We would like…her to go.” Up the mountain, to make some kind of "tribute" to some unknown master. None of the Valar, Alcalantë was sure of that. If the great Lords and Ladies would ever choose to dwell in a place like this, they would never be so cold-hearted as to let the people of the village suffer so (not to mention Celevonaur would hardly have made it this long without being found). Was the Master an Úmaiar then? Some ally or another of her charge's who would see to it that the rebel escaped his captor?

The maiden narrowed her eyes a little as she observed the figure beside her. The entire way up the mountain she had reminded herself that if Celevonaur had wanted her dead he could have simply left her in the river yesterday. Why put himself to all the trouble of the journey if he was going to let one of his sneaking friends do her in instead?

Raugad enjoys the suffering of others she remembered from the old tales. But that was Raugad, not Celevonaur. Surely the ainu standing beside her now, the one who had saved her life and embraced her so firmly back in the cave couldn't have been the same being, now that The Enemy was driven from the world and the Úmaia's will was his own. Then again...he had called her naive.

Finding her voice, Alcalantë forced herself to look back at the priests. "Much as I would like to help you," she began slowly, forcing herself not to glance at Celevonaur. "I am afraid I am honor-bound on a task of my own." Reaching down, she clamped one long-fingered hand around the Úmaia's wrist, raising his hand slightly. "I cannot be parted from this...man. If I were to aid you in this task, he must be allowed to join me." Now she finally risked a look towards her companion, inclining her head towards the men on the dais. "What say you, grandfather? Shall we aid these people in their tasks?"

Thankfully Brother Kham interrupted before Celevonaur had a chance to say either yay or nay, and by the time he'd finished a hint of a plan was beginning to spark in the maiden's mind. "I understand your plight, Brother Kham, and I do truly wish to help you. If you would allow me to speak to my companion privately, I may yet be able to persuade him."

"Of course, My Lady," Brother Kham simpered, stepping off the dais and gesturing towards a door near the rear of the temple. "I did promise you shelter and a meal after all. If you will both come this way..." He led them down a dark corridor into a small vestibule with a set of open doors at each end. The only light was from a small brazier suspended from the ceiling, and yet somehow the room seemed just as warm as the fiery hall had been. The priest gestured for the pair to sit on a long, uncomfortable-looking wooden bench on one side of the room, while on the other he poured some fragrant red liqueur from a silver ewer into a pair of goblets.

"I will return with sustenance shortly," he remarked as he offered the drinks to the travelers. Then passing back through the doors they'd entered, he shut them heavily behind him.

Immediately setting aside the cup and its contents aside, Alcalantë looked back seriously towards her companion. "Well then, you must know something about this place. Tell me," she said, folding her hands in her lap and making it perfectly clear she would not move until Celevonaur had let her in on the secret.

 

[BennyQ]

If there was any alarm or worry at the suggested change of plans by the young maiden, the elders did not show it, leaning towards one another to whisper their thoughts on such a thing. It didn’t matter. Yes, fathers or brothers or even husbands had helped the young maidens up the mountain side before. Neither came back. The entity of winged fire would be pleased either way. Celevonaur of course just stood there, limply, allowing his hand to be raised as if he was deficient in mind and body, peering at Alcalantë with a bemused look. Grandfather she called him again. He rolled his eyes and looked aside. He didn’t complain, for once. That might as well be as good as assent for her.

He knew what was up there as well. Couldn’t she see it? She must see it. This must be a stratagem of hers. There was no way she didn’t know. She knew he lingered here, but not the winged flame? He was curious to see what sort of meeting might take place between the pair. Then again…he had a rising sense of trepidation. He didn’t want them to meet because they would be at odds. And he was rather…fond of them both, in a way.

In either case, he wasn’t going to lift a finger to help. Well, that’s what he thought anyways.

The answer was given without any verbal input by him. They had a night to consider it, with fare and lodgings offered to them. A small price for the elders, who would gain the winged flame’s trust and assistance. Or control of, as they foolishly believed. Having ruled these dormant minded folk for decades, able to overcome nature or external foes, they really did believe themselves infallible in any task they put their minds towards. After all, they were not the ones labouring, but only the ones dictating. Like Kings. And tyrants.

The two ainur who certainly didn’t belong in this place and time were led to a small chamber in the rear, where the Brother left them to fetch their fare. Celevonaur folded his hands behind his back and circled around the room, turning sharply at the corners, counting the paces, inspecting the material. He ignored the wine at present. Dark, enclosed, cramp…just like the pits and halls of Angband…or before. He never liked it, but it had always been a means to an end, a fortress, or a place of defense, or strongpoint. Or a place to hide.

Well then, you must know something about this place. Tell me.

Who did they worship in this temple?

Celevonaur gave a flourish of a turn as he came to face her, turning on one heel, the other leg swinging a little before it stomped down next to his other foot. He smiled at her, very knowingly, having the answers to both questions. “I know it is a pitiful mockery of another place, the first these Upstarts ever constructed, out there.” He gestured vaguely with his head towards the east. He only knew rumors of course. He decided to answer her inquiry with another, ever the obstructionist to a clear and concise answer. “Do you know who it was who taught these mortals how to build, to lay log upon log, or stone upon stone?” He asked her in reply.

The answer was…the dark one of course. His former master. But that wasn’t entirely true. Yes, He had come out of Angband to behold the awakening of the Secondborn, and had walked among them, but he was not solely responsible for it. Those Firstborn who remained behind, the Avari elves, they too had taught and educated the Secondborn. Has had been intended by the Maker. But from Celevonaur’s point of view, these mortals only had their civilization because of what his former master had shown them.

“Do you smell that, though?” Celevonaur asked her, taking several sniffs of the air. “Burning flesh.” He grinned maliciously, though he fell silent as the door opened. It wasn’t the Elder, but two younger servants, bearing trays upon which bread, butter, vegetables, cut fruit, and cold porks were spread upon. He stood silent, watchful, until the pair departed, before he looked at Alcalantë. He came to the center of the room and looked at the brazier hanging from the ceiling, the metal that contained the little fire no doubt scorching hot. Without hesitation, he stretched to his full height, bones cracking in his fragile Raiment, and reached up to take the brazier bowl. He unhooked it from the ceiling and then moved to sit, placing it on the floor between him and Alcalantë. Despite the heat, his hands showed no harm or damage. Not even a blister.

“You are well traveled, little one. You’ve seen the world after the great fall of my kind. You’ve been to other settlements, of mortals and…elves.” He said disdainfully, as if speaking the very word was disgraceful. “Tell me what you think, in comparison between there and here, and I will tell you if you’re right or wrong. A little game, no?” Celevonaur smiled at her, the light of the room now below, so that their faces were illuminated from beneath, with their eyes cast in shadows. Hers might glow with the light of Aman. His were…dark, reflecting only the fire in the dark pools of his eyes.

To goad her, he picked up one of the red grapes…and tossed it at her gently, where she might catch it or let it bounce off her body harmlessly. The flame of the brazier which he removed of course might be well for reheating the bread…and meat…if they dared. After seeing what Celevonaur saw in the temple hall, he was not inclined.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

There was a trick in Celevonaur's question, Alcalantë was sure of it. But frustratingly enough the Úmaia had hidden it behind those clever eyes and velvety voice, and the humor he seemed to find in the situation irked her to no end. "My understanding," she began slowly. "Was that the elves were the ones who taught Men all that they know, they themselves being taught by the Valar."

Her gray eyes automatically shifted in the opposite direction of Celevonaur's hands. Even in the darkest of caverns, where she knew no exit or entrance, some innate sense could always determine the West. For all her other doubts, this was a surety she had always depended on, and Alcalantë had always assumed all Ainur had possessed the same directional sense of home. How curious then that the fugitive should have indicated a separate direction. Had he been gone from the light of Aman so long that it was utterly lost? Or was it only that--

The maiden paled.

No, Celevonaur knew exactly where Aman lay. He was referring to another power entirely, one Alcalantë was so sure had been utterly driven from the world.

"The Enemy," she whispered finally, looking about the antechamber with fresh horror, as though she expected Melkor to come striding through the double doors at any moment. "This is a temple to worship your former master, isn't it Celevonaur?" The Maia suddenly retched as she realized what the odd roasting scent had been, and she found herself gripping at the edge of the little table by the wall, lest she lose her legs entirely and come crashing down to the floor.

She hardly noticed the servants that had entered with refreshment, nor did they seem to notice or care about her distress. Only when the maiden's eyes glanced distractedly across the platter and caught sight of the cold meat did she find the strength to shove her body away, stumbling as far away from the table as she could get. Even as Celevonaur brought the brazier down the from the ceiling, it couldn't chase away the bitter cold that seemed to gnaw through her bones, and Alcalantë had to pull her cloak tightly around her to get any sense of grounding.

As the lavender fabric brushed against her nose, she caught some distant scent of Vairë's halls, where no doubt the garment had been woven. She was remembering other things that had been woven there as well, tapestries of black temples on the walls, bodies burning in sacrifice to the enemy, men who fed upon the flesh of elves and other men, even children. The Maia had thought such things were long past; cast into the Void with the architect who had started it all. She could never have imagined they continued to this very day, while the Valar ruled peacefully in their green country a world away.

How could they let this happen? Was this corner of the world truly so far out of their reach, or even their sight? Tulkas would have been strong enough to tear the temple down with his own hands, and Oromë swift enough to hunt down the monsters that dwelt within it. Why then did it still stand, engulfing the land in its misery and corruption?

Alcalantë raised her head, a new thought occurring to her. "The Enemy is vanquished," she stated, more for her own benefit than Celevonaur's. Summoning her strength, she rose tall again as she faced him head on. "The priests must know it, or else they're being mislead by someone." Her eyes narrowed a moment, clearly suspecting the Úmaia of such a ruse, but if that were the case, why then hadn't they recognized him? Indeed, Brother Kham had been almost disrespectful to the old man.

"I suppose you have nothing to do with it," Alcalantë continued in a flat voice. "But someone else is clearly answering their prayers, if that's what you could even call them. Who is it?"

“You are well traveled, little one. You’ve seen the world after the great fall of my kind. You’ve been to other settlements, of mortals and…elves.” He said disdainfully. “Tell me what you think, in comparison between there and here, and I will tell you if you’re right or wrong. A little game, no?”

"I want nothing to do with your games," the maiden shot back. To emphasize the point, when she saw the grape come flying towards her, she deftly snatched it out of the air and crushed it in her palm. Letting her fist drop to the side, she took a daring step towards her prisoner. "Those men out there have killed their own people in the name of one who has been forever banished from this world. You know this, and yet you still brought me here. W-why?"

A strange emotion fractured that last word she spoke, and suddenly Alcalantë cast her face down again, unwilling or unable to look Celevonaur in the eyes. "Maybe you truly are what the Valar have said you were," the Maia whispered. "To save a life from water, only to cast it into the fires of a temple of a dead tyrant...for what purpose? Does such pointless death truly give you joy, Celevonaur? Is that why we came to this town, and why you told me nothing about this place?"

Her hands twitched a moment, tempted to seize him by the clothing and shake him in her anguish. But instead she turned her back on the fugitive, no longer caring if he stabbed her in the back; nor would she be surprised if he did it. But the blow never came, and when Alcalantë looked back towards the Úmaia it was with exhaustion on her face, but not quite defeat.

"So what comes next then? Will you share that part of your mind with me at least? Or shall I have to determine an escape for us myself?"