Starlight In Her Hair (Shiva the Cat/BennyQ)

[BennyQ]

As always, he just smiled politely at her naïve and innocent answer, so lacking in truth and reality. Because that was how her masters desired it. The elves, the so-called Firstborn? Perhaps it was fair to think such was the answer, because they indeed served as masters for the longest. But he meant who had been first to teach them, the one who’s lessons and effects would last longest upon their feeble minds? But rapid deduction was one of Alcalantë’s virtues, he’d give her that. The answer was the same as the one whom they worshiped here. And he confirmed her guess with a direct look, a smile, and a simple nod. Though not that he was proud of that fact.

At least she understood that it was former and not present. To receive adulations and tribute like this seemed meaningless and symbolic at best. Melkor gave them nothing and took everything from them, all on the premise of a very simple lie. Why would Celevonaur thus ever seek any sort of worship or following of such an idiotic, stupid people? Men, orcs, even the immortal elves, they were all infallible fools. But not the mighty Celevonaur. He would get his. He, who was among the first to ever walk upon Arda… The idea of worship was ridiculous to him and he desired none of it personally. No following, no rabble, nothing. Those days were done with and had proven to be a failure.

The fire was set between them, though Alcalantë seemed to draw in on herself, her cloak giving off a strange…aura of familiarity to Celevonaur, though he wrinkled his nose and pushed such a contest of memory from his mind. He was more interested in what was going on within hers.

The Enemy is vanquished. “Sure.” He answered her rather indifferently. I suppose you have nothing to do with it. He just shrugged innocently. He truly didn’t. It was true that he had some sort of link to it, through his former master, who was expunged from this world…but his influence clearly remained, Celevonaur indicating it in a silent answer by letting his eyes roam around the room and temple. But then Alcalantë shot to her feet, coming to the same conclusion he had, and had been building towards ever since he took that patch with the painted art off those goons from two, three days ago. She had seen it. Didn’t she know who she was talking to? He was far more knowledgeable about these matters yet she seemed to be…accusing him. He just smiled and let her go through the motions.

The temperature in the room was rising. Rapidly. The flame of the brazier which danced neutrally towards the ceiling was now starting to lean and flicker towards Alcalantë. And the way she caught that flung grape out of the air…it did something to Celevonaur, something hot and hard that coalesced in his inner core. Oh, he liked this. This was fire. This was wrath. He grinned as her temperature rose and rose, accusations and conspiracies falling from her lips, just as his ilk had formerly excelled at. But she ought to know the answer why. Because he wanted to know. And he was yet too weak to prosecute a vigorous investigation of his own. So if she was moved to action on behalf of his work, to find out the meaning and entity behind that strange red symbol on the cloth, it would be a success for Celevonaur. Whatever was out there, stirring trouble, attempting to usurp the role of his, or their, former master, he wished to know. And he wished them gone. That fool, he or she was going to bring the full wrath of the Valar upon them all. And those who come after won’t be so puppy-like such as Alcalantë.

How could he explain the why to her? It was self-preservation, nothing more. And perhaps a little malice in having Alcalantë possibly…destroy his enemies for him. His rivals to influence in the region. So far she had been on the mark, until she started to question his motives. To save a life from water, only to cast it into the fires of a temple of a dead tyrant… Celevonaur’s jaw dropped at first. He didn’t know whether to be offended by her thinking he was so droll in his attempts to murder her, or that he would be loyal to a master he had long forsaken, or that she might dare to strike him from the way her fury made her shake before him, or…that he would try to do away with her…by fire.

By fire!

She turned and started to ask what he might do next, with her or the temple or if she must act alone. And he answered her, by slowing falling on his back and letting out a loud, rapacious laugh. It started off as a snicker, then evolved into a rumbling chuckle, before he laughing aloud in pure mirth at her suggestive ploys on his behalf. “Cast you into the fire? Have you not listened to anything I’ve been saying about you? About us? Have you forgotten who your mother is?” Celevonaur cast back at her instead. She was of his Order, was she not? A spirit of might…and fire. “Their…pitiful flame out there could do no harm to those such as ourselves, even if it burned tenfold than what it is now, consuming all this temple and the village. You’ll be completely safe. I must admit…I am rather displeased and discouraged you think I would be so…so simple in dispatching you. Hardly fit to eliminate one such as ourselves.” Celevonaur said to her, leaning back up with a dark smile, putting a hand over his heart as if he was truly stung and offended.

He reached forward to select another grape projectile, keeping his eyes on her, before throwing it towards her in a casual arc for her to so expertly catch like before.

“You give me too much credit if you think I can prepare a trap for you in so short a time, using these…imbeciles, when I had a small host of orcs at my beck and call that could accomplish so much more. I could cause much pointless death if I wished, yet here we all here, not a single death on my account.” He smiled broadly. That was true, even if she believed him or not. “No, little one, you are mistaken about me, for once. I brought you here for another reason, so you can witness the evil you accuse me of in the actions of these folk. And know that I have no influence or part in this sad story hither.” He reached to take another grape, this one to consume, rolling it about in his mouth. It was rather juicy and sweet. Not something he was used to. It was exactly how he imagined Alcalantë might taste, on her neck, her shoulder…her lips…

Yes, who was it, that was answering the Upstarts prayers? A question Celevonaur wanted solved. And like with the trolls and orcs, he might utilize Alcalantë as his...means to an end.

He dug into his robes and once again drew out that mysterious cloth that he took off the marauders. The one with the strange red circle and the dot set within. Like an eye. A red eye. He tossed it on the ground before her, still half folded. “I’m willing to put my boots and whip that all of those so-called priests have seen this symbol. Maybe one knows from whence it came. What would you wager then? Or do you still wish to have nothing to do with my games? Even if our interests…align?” Celevonaur quirked his eyebrows at her. Didn't she want to know the answer to that riddle? Or would she continue to accuse him of being behind the false, dark worship taking place here?

“Are you really going to be like your precious Valar, leaving the work here half undone? If you take me now, you may never know who else is trying to make use of my former master's influence. I am quite curious. It reflects poorly on me, these imitators. I just want to dwell in peace yet they drag me down with their foul misdeeds." He spoke as if one truly harmed by the state of affairs, though he could also just be sarcastic and dry with her. All the same. He wanted to get to the bottom of it. "Won’t you aid me then, Alcalantë?” He offered her then, speaking the elvish pronunciation of her name rather superbly despite not ever speaking the language fluently. He stretched out his hand as well, beckoning her to resume her seat next to him, to share this meal, and drink, and perhaps they could…scheme together, who these Elders really were, and whom they served.

"Sit, and I will share with you what little plans I do have." He beckoned her, patting the ground beside him.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

She hadn't truly expected either affirmation or denial of her half-accusation of Celevonaur's involvement in the temple, but the more Alcalantë turned the matter over in her mind the more she was inclined to see hope in his half-hearted dismissal. For all the horrors of this place, it was warmer and better furnished than his cave. And if he had a small army of priests to command, ones who seemed to wield unquestionable power over the town, why would the Úmaia bother clothing himself with castoffs of orcs and worse? He very easily could have been easily seated with the well-fed priests on the dais before, yet here he was, locked away with her. And for all he might have hated and scorned the "Upstarts," at least he didn't eat them. Not in front of her, anyway.

"Very well then, Celevonaur. If you say you truly have nothing to do with this place, then I believe you," the maiden said finally. Placing such trust in him was a gamble, one that could be disastrous if her judgment was wrong, but something about the way the fugitive was staring at her gave Alcalantë the tiniest bit of hope. Even if he still wanted her out of his way, she was starting to think he really didn't want her dead after all.

Still, she wasn't quite as confident about his assurances that fire was harmless to her. The Maia supposed the only way to really be sure would be to test the theory, and that was a gamble she was was not quite ready to make just yet. Even if her body could survive the trial, Alcalantë was quite sure her clothing and other belongings wouldn't (except for possibly Tilion's bow), and she had no intention of wandering the wilds stark naked.

Though now that she thought about it, maybe that was why Celevonaur had been so insistent that she pay the flames no mind. There certainly was something lascivious about the way the Úmaia ate grapes...

Alcalantë tried to drive the memory of his embrace in the cave from her mind, only to have it aggressively replaced by the memory of him bathing in the pond the other day. When he threw the scrap of cloth at her feet she snatched it up eagerly, grateful for something more important to focus her attention on. Unfolding it and turning it slowly in her hands, the maiden tried to recall if she'd seen any such symbol in the town or the temple, but it all seemed like a blur to her now. Still, the sense of unease the eye gave her wasn't dissimilar to what she'd felt in the great hall, and the fugitive's hypothesis seemed to have some merit at least.

Taking a deep breath, the Maia held the scrap of fabric back towards her charge. "If it were possible, I would choose both to free the people of the town and keep my guard over you at the same time. But I don't know that it is possible." She swallowed then stared the Úmaia directly in the eyes. "If there is any oath in this world you could make, Celevonaur, that would bind you to your word, then I would ask you swear such an oath for me that you will not try to escape. If you gave me that oath, then I would give you mine that I will do all I can to assist you in destroying this place and those who dwell within it. And whatever foul beast they worship, if there truly is some monster on that mountainside that can be slain by the likes of us."

The maiden folded her hands in her lap as she sat down beside him, letting her gaze drift away. "If you cannot or will not make me any such oath, then I am afraid I must hold to the one I made to the Lord and Ladies of the West: that I would bring you to justice at any cost, as quickly as I am able. I would still wish to do whatever I can to help the people of the town, but you should know that if I have to choose between letting them die and letting you go free..."

The words caught in her throat and her hand began to quiver until she clenched it in a fist. "I will not let you escape, Celevonaur. I will let this body be torn to pieces first. I want you to understand that in the depths of whatever heart you have left."

Her own heart was thudding heavy and slow for several beats, but when the fugitive failed to produce a knife and cut her throat right then and there, the Maia finally allowed her shoulders to relax, even going so far as to help herself to a bit of bread and small pour of the wine. Both helped soothed her mind and body even more, and when she looked back to speak to the Úmaia again it was with a much more casual tone and expression.

"So then, tell me of this brilliant plan of yours. I don't suppose it involves conferring with orcs or trolls to get a few weapons to kill those cannibals with?"

 

[BennyQ]

Between her acceptance of Celevonaur having no influence here, and the revelation of the marking on the cloth, he had thought they would have come to an understanding that their intentions were at least aligned to some degree. That alone should be basis enough for trust, if not the simple fact he could have betrayed or destroyed her in many other places of greater strength and power. But she was a young ainu, inexperienced, and young, and all too headstrong. Though, he did have to give it to Alcalantë. Celevonaur did, after all, warrant the reputation of Raugad. And as eternals, it wouldn’t just be forgotten, because it occurred more than one or two hundred rotations of the world around the Sun.

The rudimentary banner with the strange heraldry was thrust back at him but Celevonaur did not reach out to take it at first, as Alcalantë had yet another tiresome ultimatum for the Angband fugitive. Instead he gave her an outward expression of hurt that she would think so dastardly a thing of him! But again, he knew it was utterly justified. He met her gaze as she implored him to give her some oath or promise that would assure his loyalty to this cause, making him quirk his eyebrows. Oath? Her expectations were strange to him and this was not the tyrannical act of a victor that Celevonaur and his ilk expected of their foes, the Valar, and the Lords of the West. He figured she would use violence and strength to enforce her demands.

If he did not make this vow to her, she would merely stick to her original quest and apprehend him for the judgement and Doom of the Valar.

He snorted with derision and finally snatched the cloth from her, putting it on the ground before him. “Your quest is more important to you than the safety and well-being of your charges?” Celevonaur questioned her, though his words were soft, and easily trodden over by her firm, authoritative voice, determined to keep him before her at all costs, even at the expense of these mortal villagers. And he was the evil one who did not care for them? He looked her over, eyes smoldering with his hidden fire as he saw her own spirit of flame and passion barely contained within her Raiment. She did look lovely in her enraged state. He could feel the heat radiating off of her. He just continued to sit, watching her, and she him, until the fire ran it’s course in her and she returned to a gentle disposition, with the spread of meal between them. Slowly she began to eat and Celevonaur leaned forward, smiling softly, taking delight in the picturesque scene.

By the Maker, she could make even the process of nibbling bread a beautiful thing.

She asked him what they were going to do then and if they required…external aid. “It never ceases to amaze me the hypocrisy of your kind.” Celevonaur shook his head, selecting yet another grape, and using his thumbnails to casually dissect the fruit down the center. Droplets of juices began to flow and keeping eye contact with her, his eyes full of mischief, his tongue wiggled upon the core to suckle and slurp upon such bounty. “You and yours shelter in your bastion of power in the West, leaving the world to its fragile, disruptive ways, and not only do you do nothing, but you disallow others such as myself from intervening as well. So much for the Stewardship of the Valar.” He flashed her a challenging smirk, consuming the grape and chewing thoughtfully.

“I am doing you a favor, Alcalantë.” He said, speaking her name, the elvish contours of the word so…foreign to him, yet spoken so coyly by his lips. “You wish to counteract the evilness in this place and I wish to discover the influences driving it. Are our self-interests not aligned enough of a promise for you of my good behavior?” Celevonaur posed to her.

“There is no oath I could give you that you would believe anyways. But I do have another proposition that might put your mind at ease.” Celevonaur reached forward to take the flagon of wine, topping up his cup, the sound of running wine intermittent with his conversation with her. “My plan is rather simple. We wait until the dead of night for the Elders to slumber, then we move Unseen and silent among them to search their quarters. Surely, we will find something matching this strange…circle, adorning some treasure or trinket they have. That should assure us of some higher entity wielding influence over them. What is to be done after we have made such a connection, I know not, but this seems like a strong place from which to strike out afterwards. But of course, you doubt my loyalty to such an end.”

“You think I will flee. Well…,” gazing up, Celevonaur caught sight of the binding that had been used to dangle the little brazier from the ceiling. He rose up, stiff bones cracking, as he pulled it free of its knot from the ceiling beam and tugged the length down to them. “Bound my wrist, my right hand…to your left hand. Then us be joined together, Alcalantë. I will not be able to flee. And you will have permanent sight of me while we conduct this mission. In exchange for my goodwill…you will permit me to teach and unleash your inner potential, at the conclusion of this quest.” He let the dirty rope fall on the floor before her, a puff of dust emitting from its landing.

He reached over to give her a brief pour of the wine as well, topping her up to a volume that would certainly be considered…excessive. “What say you, little one? Trust such as this requires a leap of faith, on both of our parts. I will permit myself a minor binding, if you consent as well, and there is nowhere we cannot go without the leave of the other, or do anything without the consent of the other. An equal partnership, wouldn’t you say?” Celevonaur smiled, raising his cup and offering her a toast to confirm the arrangement. Was it not fair? She had the key no doubt to free herself, or him, from the shackles. And they would be together, where she could watch him, and he could…use her, as per his secret designs. But surely she had the power to overcome any attempt by his weakened Raiment.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Alcalantë couldn't help but bark out a sardonic laugh. "Do you think me some Great Queen of the West, Celevonaur? That I have been charged with protecting the free peoples of this world from the cruelty that you allied yourself with not so very long ago? I would think such an idea was flattery if it were coming from any mouth but yours." The wine was bitter on her tongue as she swallowed.

"I was sent East for one reason and one reason alone: to bring you to your judgment in the West. The moment any other cause, no matter how noble it may seem to you or me, comes before that goal, I will have rebelled against the Will of the Valar. Against the Will of the One." Lowering her cup, the Maia's eyes seemed to glow brighter as they pierced the fugitive's own gaze. "You of all people should know the fate that awaits rebels, Celevonaur. And you should also know that I am not so arrogant as to think my own judgment--and certainly not yours--is wiser than that of the Lords and Ladies of Aman."

Here her mouth quirked just a little. No doubt Celevonaur did think himself wiser than Manwë, Varda, and Mandos combined, though in the maiden's mind his pitiful, scavenging existence said otherwise. "Had Lady Varda commanded me to come into this country and do all I could to save these poor people, I would have obeyed without a moment's hesitation, and you would be of very little concern to me," she continued as she set the cup aside. "But that is not what I was commanded to do, and I will not listen to your own hypocritical simpering about helping people when you yourself have been content to let this cursed place stand all this time. If you had really wanted to, Celevonaur, I have no doubt you could have managed cutting the throats of a few of those priests out there sometime over the course of your exile or--"

Suddenly she froze, as though she'd been struck. Unbidden, the memory of seeing the old man for the first time, on the road only a few days earlier, materialized in her mind.

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

They only laughed. “Not all that you can spare...”

And then Celevonaur had been there, beating down the five men who no doubt had intended to bring the poor child to this horrible place. He couldn't have known at the time that the Maia had been watching him, nor why she was there. It was no sneaking attempt to win Alcalantë's sympathy or lull her into a false sense of security, so why had he done it? Was there perhaps some hidden kernel of goodness inside the Úmaia after all? Or was it merely that those who dwelt in the temple were yet another one of his enemies, and these either too clever or too numerous to strike at directly on his own?

After listening to his plan, Alcalantë decided it was probably the latter. But it wasn't a bad one, really, and it wouldn't interfere with her own goals in any way she could think of.

"I find it very disconcerting that you think an old lamp-rope is more binding than your word, but I suppose it'll have to do," she said finally as she took the rope from him. "If we escape this place and survive unscathed, you're welcome to 'teach' me whatever you wish. I'm not going to waste my strength trying to keep you from speaking what you will; I'd have better luck damming the river with my own two hands. Er...one hand."

Thanks in small part to Oromë's lessons in woodcraft, and a larger part to the endless hours spent braiding the hairs of Nessa and her maidens, Alcalantë did have a certain knack with making knots. Of course, the cord could have easily been cut with a knife, but as far as she was aware Celevonaur's only blade was still tucked in her belt next to her own. If he tried to cut himself free, or even if he succeeded, then what tenuous trust was strung between them would be likewise severed, and the Maia could at least put aside any lingering doubts she had about dragging the fugitive to his doom. After all, she still had Aulë's manacles in the lining of her cloak, and once those were secured on Raugad's wrists, the only person who could remove them was their maker.

Once she was satisfied with her work, the maiden rose to her feet, firmly pulling Celevonaur up afterward to test the security of the bond. The rough fibers did chafe a bit, but the pain wasn't as bad as it could have been, and as long as her charge didn't try to pull away from her they could move with relative ease. It might have even been comfortable if the Úmaia hadn't moved just a bit too close to her, letting her feel the heat of his body against her own and catch that strange, oddly-pleasant smoky scent of his. Had he done it on purpose, or was his strength really so diminished that the maiden could easily jerk his body back and forth like an animal on a lead.

Blushing a little, Alcalantë quickly turned her face towards the door. "Well, if you've finished, we might as well try and get our bearings in this place. I don't think they actually locked the doors..." She let her left arm go limp so as not to pull the fugitive quite so closely after her, then took a few experimental steps before lightly tugging at the door handles. To her great relief they moved, albeit heavily and with a soft moan that made her wince. The maiden half expected armed guards to rush into the chamber with their weapons drawn, but after several minutes of silence, she decided the sound must not have been heard. Although, who could say about next time.

"We're going to have to be quick," she murmured, looking back at her co-conspirator. "I think we came from the left, so we should go to the right. Are you ready?"

Whether he was or not, she opened the door; quickly but only enough that their two lank forms could easily slip through. To the Maia's relief the corridor beyond was deserted, although she could hear voices coming from the great hall in the opposite direction. Alcalantë held her breath and stepped lightly, not quite running, but certainly quick enough to put several paces between themselves and the chamber with the food in a few short seconds. Her peripheral vision caught and counted every door they passed, those which seemed to have locks and which didn't, those which were open and those which were closed, and those where her ainu ears could pick up more voices within.

There was an intersection at the far end of the hallway that gave her pause and sent a questioning look towards Celevonaur, as though he could provide some insight about which way they should go. Before he could speak though, a door opened a few feet behind them, making Alcalantë instinctively jump down the right-hand corridor and drag her charge after her. They might have relaxed there for a moment until more voices came from further down the hall to her right, leaving them utterly trapped between the two approaching parties. It was then that the Maia noticed the curtained archway across the hall, reeking of incense and oil. Praying the alcove was used for nothing more than storage, she yanked Celevonaur forward yet again, both of their bodies disappearing behind the heavy black cloth.

Alcalantë breathed out a sigh of relief as she realized it was indeed nothing more than a storage area, and a rarely-used one judging by the coating of dust on the oil jugs and cold lamps on the shelves. Unfortunately, she had greatly underestimated the size of the space, and if the two ainur hadn't pressed so firmly against the shelves--and each other--their forms would be easily discernible through the curtain by anyone standing in the hallway.

She didn't want to do it, but the Maia felt she had no choice. Putting her free arm around Celevonaur's waist, she pulled his body tight to hers, silently begging him not to say a word as she heard the two voices in the hall greet each other and being to make pleasant conversation.

Come on...move! Alcalantë prayed silently as the voices dragged on. With every passing moment her body was growing hotter, and while she was capable of holding still for hours at a time while hunting in a wood, with the Úmaia's hard form and intoxicating scent pressing insistently against her it was becoming impossible to keep from squirming and shifting in response.

 

[BennyQ]

Again, there came another lecture about morals and righteous stewardship of Arda, and again Celevonaur fought the urge to roll his eyes into the Void. Why couldn’t she just act? If she wasn’t going to help the disparate peoples of Middle-Earth, then at the very least her kind and ilk could not interfere with Celevonaur’s attempts to do so. It was like they permitted no one to play with the ball, to let it roll where it will, and permit no guidance or aided growth. But she was right, he knew what fate awaited rebels who toyed with the world’s progression, and that fear was the only reason he was putting up with her antics at this moment.

While icy fingers grasped around his heart, recalling the frigidity and emptiness of the Void that might await him, he remained silent, and let her speak of her mandate and so-called authority. An Ainu with so much potential and yet she lived within such narrow bounds. Fire was meant to flicker and dance where it willed, not to exist encaged in a box, like those lamps of the elves. He was not accustomed to fear or being intimidated, however. It made him hot. It made him angry. If only he had more power, and more strength of limb.

In time, you will. In time…

He, who fought in the First War, who beheld the fall of Utumno, and saw the delving of Angband, who chased off the darkness of Gloomweaver Ungoliant, and was in the cadre of their brother Gothmog when he slew not one, but two elven kings in combat. He guarded the gates of Angband for centuries and saw the towers of Gondolin collapse and resisted the advance of the Host of the West, until he was finally reduced and diminished to this frail, weak form. If only he had more power…

He realized in his private, mental raging that Alcalantë had fallen silent, her final words still hanging in the air and echoing in his ears. Perhaps the young Ainu was finally seeing his truth and reason after all. Neither were friends to these Temple Elders and the strange entity they worshiped. And the other who influenced them to do so. “You’d have better luck drying the river entirely, with one hand.” Celevonaur smirked pointedly at her, but was glad she was giving his plan and machinations a chance. She would see, eventually. And without these blasphemers to trouble the lands, he might be able to hide and dwell in peace and solace, until his strength returned. He let her tie the rope to his arm, his muscular forearm extended, patched and withered with aged skin and grey hairs, still looking at her face with that same grin still fixated in place. It wasn’t malicious. It was rather…excited.

At the tug, he rose onto his feet as well, needing an extra second on account of his Raiment’s recuperation and soon stood next to her. And a little less hunched. The rope was biting against his skin and would leave a nasty mark. The less it might tug, the better, so he stood near to her, hovering just at her shoulder, which made her shy away and start them on their quest to discover any link or conspiracy. There just had to be. He remained close behind her, stepping when she stepped, so that the distance between them was always controlled and balanced. “A moment,” he requested, before slipping his larger dwarven boots off, deciding to go bare footed. Those boots would make too much noise. He nodded his readiness to her after and when they slipped out, he paused a moment to close their door before hurrying behind her.

And yet, even bare footed he was somehow making more noise than she was! Not enough to be heard by mortal ears but to Ainur such as they, it might as well be drum beats in the ground. He immediately felt somewhat insecure next to her. Sneaking in the dark, stealth, these were the weapons of the Úmaiar and yet she was performing them much more superbly.

The Elders would have their quarters in the rear, across the hall and altar which they had been greeted. No doubt they had their treasures and tools of influence over the Upstarts with them as well. Would their be a guarded armoury and vault? They didn’t seem that advanced or intelligent to think such things. They soon arrived to an intersection, with Alcalantë casting him a questioning glance on which way they should go. Oh, she was finally ready to heed his opinion? But he had none at the present, still trying to overlay the Temple with what he knew of the strange worship infected upon the mortals by the dark one himself. One entered from a southward entrance, facing north, where the Elders had their backs towards, because they themselves were but stewards of the authority that came southwards down onto the world from the northward direction, where old Utumno used to be…

Judging by their directional orientation, they were facing east, and eastwards they should proceed, straight across the intersection. To their right would lead to the entrance. The left, the altar, who’s heat Celevonaur could still feel radiating. Before he could even point his suggestion…footsteps! A patrolling guard was coming. And while Celevonaur felt like the pair of them could handle one Upstart mortal, Alcalantë was already tugging him to the right. No, there was more than one guard, and more than one group. Still, he was not worried, and squeezed his hands into fists, feeling the knuckles pull against the flesh and strength begin to gather. But no, Alcalantë had other ideas, and tugged them into an alcove, a storage room of some kind, behind a curtain.

It was tight. Alcalantë had gone in first and pulled Celevonaur after her, so that they were facing each other, Celevonaur’s face to the threshold of the storage room, and Alcalantë before him. It was very, very tight. Instinctively, his free hand came up…and rested on her side. Her arm was about him. And their tied arms in an awkward position between their bodies. But there wasn’t much else in terms of barrier. Her chest was to his chest. Their thighs brushed. His groin…and hers…in contact.

Celevonaur looked down at her in the dark, his eyebrows quirked at her, but he said nothing, as those outside confronted and greeted each other in their barking human tongues. He barely heard it. All his focus…was on the points of contact between him and Alcalantë. She had such soft…

There were words of farewell. Footsteps began to move away. The light of torches shone through the curtain, beneath and around it, but began to fade. Keep an eye on those southerners! Someone warned another. That was clearly in reference to Celevonaur and Alcalantë, with her darker shade of skin. Which he was seeing in much more detail at this closeness. It was like…a golden brown, and he felt like it would taste like honey. He wetted his lips right in front of her, but his expression was controlled. But another part of his body was starting to stir.

Yet silence resumed. The footsteps had faded, some going to the entrance of the Temple, others retiring for the night. Celevonaur moved to depart the space first, now tugging Alcalantë behind him, moving into the middle of the hallway and glancing in both directions. He then made eye contact with Alcalantë and gestured with his head to follow, back to the intersection, then the pathway ahead from where they had come. It went straight for a time, torches illuminating the way every now and then, and soon they rounded a corner where the corridor stretched right alongside the length of the Temple from front to back. On either side were doors, the chambers of the Elders. Yet something gave him pause. There were five Elders that he knew of. There were six doors here.

Celevonaur looked at Alcalantë again, not speaking, but hoping she grasped this fact as well.

The walls were stone, but the doors were of wood, with creaks between the boarding so that one may peer inwards. And that’s what Celevonaur did, crouching before one day, allowing Alcalantë to peek over his head if she wished. Who was within the first? One of the Elders, seated at a table, facing towards the door but he wasn’t focused on the door, as if he might know they were there. No, he was more focused on something much more amorous and inviting than two possible spies in his midst. Before him was a spread of meal, a large roast, mushrooms, bread, soups, flagons of wine, and a half-starved servant standing aside ready to serve him whatever he wished. It was late, well past the hour for the evening meal, and yet here was one feasting beyond his capability, because that was his desire. And he had the power to make it happen, taken off the backs of teeming hundreds caught up in their web of lies. Gluttony.

There was nothing to be gained from that room. Perhaps after the Elder had put himself to sleep from such a meal. The next door, across from the first, again Celevonaur peered through the cracks in the door. What was within this one? Not a bedroom like the others, but a storeroom, full of small chests, and there were two more Elders here, laughing lightly to one another, as they peered over the meagre treasure and trinket they collected as tribute from the people of Tarla and beyond. Greed. Gold and silver coins. Necklaces. Ear rings. The Elders wore them, adorned all their fingers with rings, assured each other of their superiority and pomp. And yet deep in their minds, they conjured schemes to remove their fellows, so that they could keep all this treasure to themselves. Jealousy. Nothing would be found here.

But with those two fools here, there must be two bedrooms vacant to be checked. Let them move on.

The third door however was not their succor. As Celevonaur brought Alcalantë to scout it out, they would hear the activity within before they looked. Was that…moaning? And not from pain and torture either, for when they peered, they would see Brother Kham himself, prone upon his bed, naked as the day he was born, his frail, fat flesh moving rigorously in rhythm…with a young, naked maiden atop of his hips. Lust. His grubby hands roamed her back and rear, while she had her head thrown back, moaning as she rode him. And Celevonaur could tell she was faking it. Perhaps she had to, brought here by fear, or desperation, or some attempt of her own to garner influence. No. No, she was too young, perhaps shy of her twentieth winter. She was a prisoner here. And she was trying to make the most of it, to please and appease, in lieu of being punished, her…or her family.

Celevonaur just looked at Alcalantë…then decided to move on. If she had been charged with protecting the free peoples of this world, like Celevonaur assumed her kind to be…this sort of sad scene would not be happening. But she had forgone that.

Alert.

A door further down opened and another Elder stepped out. Yet he was busy, not noticing the two Ainu crouching just a short distance to his left, for he was drying his hands of something…crimson. But he felt safe here. Secure. And didn’t think there would be spies, as he turned to his right and strode to the final room, which he entered without a glance or thought. Celevonaur released a breath he was not knowing he was holding and looked at Alcalantë again, before gesturing at the room this Elder had come out of. He approached, only a slight glance at the drop of blood on the ground where the Elder had stood, before he entered the room, knowing he would find the answer here.

They walked into a torture chamber. And a naked, bloody man hung from chains, attached to the wall, a pool of blood at his feet, trickling down his legs. A table with instruments were to one side, and to the other…more chains and bindings, where other victims could be arrayed, though there was only one. Celevonaur could see that this victim had passed out from his ordeal, however. And he tried to ignore how familiar this was to the trappings of the Nethermost Hall of Angband, the Throne Room of Melkor, where this scene was repeated a hundredfold.

And sometimes he, and his kindred, participated with their whips of fire.

He didn’t want to make it seem like he misjudged by entering the wrong room, or bringing Alcalantë here in some attempt to humiliate or frighten her. Indeed it was an honest mistake. Sweeping his eyes around the room, he spotted a nearby trunk, which he tugged Alcalantë towards, so that he could open it and begin to rummage through its contents. These were just the garments of former victims. There was no clue here. But perhaps Alcalantë might notice…that none of the torture instruments were of the kind made by men, or dwarves, or even orcs. One of the pommels on the curved, evil blades…had the Eye.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Was it Alcalantë's imagination, or was the alcove getting smaller with every passing moment? Surely that was the only reason Celevonaur seemed to be pushing even more firmly against her, their bound hands trapped between them while the others tried to stay as far from the curtain as possible. The memory of their accidental embrace back in the cave made her face grow hot, and a curious light began to emanate gently from her skin, just bright enough to cast odd shadows behind the jars and bottles. The maiden barely noticed. All she could think of was the heat of the fugitive's flesh beneath his rough shirt, hot as fire under her hand and warming her own body in response. Could he feel it? she wondered, with his knuckles just barely brushing the underside of her breast. Is he finding this amusing?

The cave had been an accident, neither of them certain of what was happening. Here, face to face, in the shadowy light from behind the curtains with the guards chatting nonsense only a few feet away, they were very conscious of their positions and proximity. Alcalantë looked up helplessly into those burning eyes of his, glowing powerful and beautiful as the Secret Fire itself, and she half-wondered, half-wished he would kiss her. She suspected he wanted to, and possibly even more than that; she could feel something nudging against the front of her dress, and yet again the maiden was picturing him naked in the spring. Oh, but it would be so easy for him to gather up her skirt and free himself from his trousers, silence her mouth with his and take her right then and there, their pursuers surely within whispering distance and ready to capture them both. That idea only made the Maia burn all the more, and before she realized what was happening the entire alcove was alight with the glow of her own desire, and her breath gasping through parted lips.

She would give them away, she was certain of it. But...no. The voices had stopped, and now Celevonaur was pulling her back out into the hallway, seemingly unperturbed why what had just happened. The light of Alcalantë's passion died immediately, smothered under a fog of shame at such wanton behavior, and she fell utterly silent as she followed the Úmaia down the corridor. The maiden had expected him to make some cruel remark about what had just happened, to tease her about her naivete and lack of self control when it came to physical matters. Thankfully he was much more focused on the task at hand, and she was more than willing to let him take the lead as they continued the investigation. Alcalantë didn't trust herself not to get them into such a dangerous position again.

They were careful to move even more silently than before, and either due to Celevonaur's instincts or else through sheer luck they didn't encounter anyone else. Not anyone who would have noticed them, anyway. The priests they spied upon in the first two rooms seemed entirely consumed by their spoils, edible and inedible alike. Nor did Brother Kham witness them as he writhed underneath the wretched creature on top of him. She saw, Alcalantë was sure of that. The girl looked directly into her own eyes as the ainur peered through the crack in the door. There was no fear in the child's face, but there was plenty of despair. The girl didn't even seem to be asking for help as she stared into the maiden's dark face. It was death she longed for now.

Alcalantë's bound hand twitched at it instinctively reached for her bow. If her hands were free should could have easily taken out Kham at this close range. But they were still vastly outnumbered, and if the girl could not be persuaded to escape in the chaos, who knew what would become of her, or her friends and family? Not for the last time, the maiden wondered how the Valar could allow such atrocities to happen. Did Eru not love his mortal children as much as his Firstborn? Was he unaware that such vice and wickedness existed in the world, or did he command the Valar not to intervene in it? Why...why...why...

The questions continued to echo in the maiden's mind as Celevonaur pulled her into a new room. It was much darker in this one, and the smell was enough to make her stomach clench and flip. Something that vaguely resembled a human body was hanging on the the wall, and the only color that seemed to stand out anywhere was red. "So much blood..." she murmured in a hollow voice that didn't seem to be her own. Alcalantë felt a horrible temptation to laugh then. It was ridiculous, it all really was. What even was the point of all this? Torturing children, slaughtering men as though they were nothing more than livestock. No, worse than livestock. Slaughter was quick and impersonal, the things that had been done in here must have taken time. For what? Their own amusement? She could expect such behavior from orcs and trolls, but mortal men?

Maybe that was why the Valar had abandoned the whole bloody lot after all. That they would do these things to their own kind really was almost humorous in the horror of it. What a pity this wretched place was made of stone, it might have been better to burn it all to the ground.

Did Celevonaur sense that the Maia was beginning to lose the grip on her sanity? Was that why he had dragged her over to the trunk and began shoving random bits and bobs into her hands? Perhaps he had hoped by passing her something solid, something real she might come back down again, but there was nothing of value he could give her. A torn gown. One shoe. A lock of blonde hair plaited into a bracelet. Remnants of human lives, now nothing more than trash cluttering up the floor.

Where's Mairon when you need him?

It was a rather tasteless joke other Maiar would make (though never within earshot of their masters) any time there was a sizeable mess needing to be cleaned up. Mairon was long gone of course, seduced by The Enemy and loathed by all who still stood in the Light. No one was quite sure of what had become of him since his master's fall, and as long as he didn't start making trouble again the lower ranking Maiar like herself didn't particularly care. But the Valar would see him cast into the Void when his time came, there was no doubting that. All the planning and organizing the great genius had been capable of would not save him from that fate.

Where WAS Mairon when you needed him?

Celevonaur had been seduced by The Enemy as well, that was why had had become Raugad. What then had Mairon become?

The Úmaia dropped something heavy into Alcalantë's hands, a sword of a strange dark metal. Too heavy to be elvish, but not heavy enough to be dwarven. Not the gleaming silver of Edain either, and with a wickedness that seemed to fit in perfectly with the horrors of the great temple. Alcalantë's long fingers traced over the hilt, stopping at the perfectly round pommel with a long recess in the middle. It reminded her of a cat's eye, and the eye on the scrap of fabric they found. An eye she had once seen in Vairë's halls.

And so Gorthaur conquered Tol Sirion, and began to breed the great wolves of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, for he was a sorcerer of dreadful power, master of shadows and of phantoms, foul in wisdom, cruel in strength, misshaping what he touched, twisting what he ruled, lord of werewolves; his dominion was torment...

"Gorthaur," she breathed, looking back at Celevonaur. "The Enemy's servant. Celevonaur...what became of him? Do you know?"

Where is Mairon when you need him???

 

[BennyQ]

The tribulations within Alcalantë's mind was not at the forefront of Celevonaur’s thoughts in that moment, as he plundered the chest of looted treasures and trinkets from mortals long expired on the bloody rack nearby. Just the stench of it was doing something to him, awakening a dormant desire he had recently found no use for. But had been the mainstay of his life for so long. The desire to dominant, to possess, to harm and maim, to rule and inspire fear. To gain power. Half of him knew this was the only way to regain his former glory. The other half, quietly, but still vigorously, tried to remind him it had also brought around his greatest defeat and his overall failure. He had to try something new.

Nothing in this chest or room seemed to be helping him. Perhaps that everything here was tainted with the hue of evil and harm he could not sense what didn’t belong beyond the capability of these Upstarts. But when he was thrusting the next item to Alcalantë to inspect, he found her delaying in taking it, which averted his attention from the search to her figure and gaze. She was still gazing at an intricate sword and even in the dim light he could glimpse the deep thought and ponderance in her fair expression. Was that a clue? Something important? Then she spoke a name, a title belonging to someone very familiar to him. His brow instantly furrowed and his heart skipped a beat, but his hands also clenched into fists. He rose to his feet, leaving the rest of the garments and trinkets scattered on the ground. Maybe they should clean that up.

“Gorthaur?” He asked, but stilled his tongue, as the barely alive victim on the rack nearby groaned and lolled his head, though his eyes didn’t seem to open, nor did his gaze lift off the ground. Celevonaur cast a glance, then looked back at Alcalantë with some curiosity and concern.

“Gorthaur? You mean…” Celevonaur’s voice dropped low. His heart was panging, steadily increasing in the throbbing effect. “The…Admirable One?” He asked, before his expression suddenly lightened and he gave an amused snort of derision. “You tell me, little one. Last I heard he gave himself up to your masters when they finally broke Angband. What they did with him…you would know more. Perhaps gone beyond the Walls of Night, I would expect.” He never was a fighter. Mairon had always been the chief lackey of Melkor, perhaps even more so than Celevonaur’s brother Gothmog was. He always had some scheme or project to effect. Last Celevonaur had heard of Mairon was that he had given himself up to the Herald of the Valar. Eönwë, who led the Host of the West to finally overcome the armies and power of Morgoth. To whom Celevonaur had suffered many, many defeats.

Celevonaur had chosen to run rather than face the humiliation of coming under Eönwë’s power and mercy. Had Mairon no shame? Of course he didn’t. He was always cowardly by the views of the valaraukar, the true enforcers of Morgoth’s will, as they had perceived themselves. But he could not possibly know that Eönwë had given Mairon a choice, a choice that might even be available to Celevonaur. Facing Alcalantë, he put his hand on the grip and handle of the blade she held, though he didn’t take it from her. Instead he peered into her eyes with his own fire-hued orbs, trying to glimpse why she would ask about so strange an Ainu, one that she probably never even met on account of her youth.

“Why do you ask about him? You think all this…” he let his eyes roam the chamber, referencing the Temple and its entire concept, “has something to do with Gorthaur? A ridiculous moniker, I might add. Dreadful to the Upstarts no doubt, but to those of our Order, Alcalantë, he was but a whisper of a candle to our mighty tumults.” He explained to her, happy to throw the repute of a former colleague underfoot to further reinforce to his companion the superiority of their spiritual kind. Mairon was not as physically mighty as they but even Celevonaur had to admit he was more devious…and intelligent. Perhaps he had found a way to escape the judgement of the Valar. How? No, that had to be impossible.

He looked back down at the sword, taking it now from Alcalantë’s grip. He brought it up vertically between them, the blade pointed up, though there were no runes or inscription upon the blade, as the weapons of the Upstarts usually held. He did sense a strange power within it. He flipped it so that the blade pointed downwards and the pommel was between them.

And there it was.

It was clearer than the ragged sigil on the sheet he had. Truer to the original source of those who made it. Celevonaur’s mockery and light expression immediately vanished as his eyes flickered to hers, then back down to the eye imprinted on the pommel. “Gorthaur.” He murmured again. Now he believed.

“We should leave. Come, let us return this chamber to how it looked before our entry.” He immediately knelt in front of her, using one hand to throw everything back into the trunk, his other arm still slightly tugged up towards her. Just like that? They would leave, and escape, while this poor victim had to remain, to be tormented, or killed, for whatever crime or transgression he was accused of. But how could they help him, without going to war with the entire Temple complex? How could they help the young woman, forced to give up the delights of her body, for her own safety? Why did anyone let it happen, when there clearly existed the power in Arda to stop it? Celevonaur didn’t care. The consequences wouldn’t bother him either way.

The lid of the trunk was closed and Celevonaur rose up again, facing her now. Did she finally believe that he had naught to do with any of this?

 

[Shiva the Cat]

'Admirable One'? Alcalantë couldn't help but raise her eyebrow a little at the way Celevonaur spoke of his old comrade. And what did they call you, I wonder?

"Eönwë summoned him to the West to be judged by Lord Mandos, but Gorthaur never came. The Lords and Ladies of the West seek him still, as they have sought you," she remarked, wondering if any other Maia like herself had been tasked with bringing the great deceiver back to Aman. Probably not, if the rumors about his crimes were true. Even if Celevonaur couldn't escape his inevitable punishment, there might still be redemption in it. But there could be no forgiveness for the things Gorthaur had done.

"You do know him then?" the maiden pressed further as he mocked the elves' apparently humorous name for the renegade. For all his scoffing though, there was something in Celevonaur's face she had never seen before. Maybe it wasn't fear, exactly, but certainly unease. And as he began to throw the contents of the trunk back inside his movements had lost that languid, arrogant quality they'd always had. Now he was moving quickly, and seemed to be glancing over his shoulder more often towards the door. No one entered, though when the last item was packed away in the trunk Alcalantë jumped at the sound of a low moan emitting from the carcass hanging on the wall.

The Maia's eyes widened in horror. "By the stars...he's still alive." Barely though, and obviously in unimaginable pain. She took an unthinking step towards him, jerking Celevonaur after her, then stopped. There were heavy iron shackles pinning his shredded limbs to the wall, each with a different lock, and no key in sight. Not only that, but his groans were getting louder, and would probably draw the guards or worse by the time they could figure out a way to undo even a single restraint. Pausing, Alcalantë stared helplessly a moment at the man, and then at Celevonaur. Something in the latter's face made her harden a little though, as she thought of her duty and how the very Úmaia bound to her now had probably looked upon very similar victims with a smile on his face.

She might have even thought the fugitive had brought her into this room on purpose; yet another attempt to distract her from her goals with the image of a poor soul in need. Only that same uncertain look in his eyes made her think otherwise, as well as the slow but insistent pull against her bound wrist. Celevonaur wasn't enjoying this, and he wanted to be gone as quickly as she did.

Not before doing one small kindness though.

"A moment," she breathed to the Úmaia, reaching her free hand into the lining of her cloak. When she withdrew it, she was holding the little crystal vial from Lorien's garden. Moving closely enough to the man on the wall to pick up the stink of his decaying flesh and festering entrails, she opened the bottle and held it up beneath the hole that had once been the victim's nose. Taking care to turn her own face away and cover it with her sleeve, the smell of death was soon buried beneath the heady flowers of Lórellin. Before long the man's groaning had ceased, and his eyes had shut again. Alcalantë stoppered the bottle and stowed it again, at least taking comfort in knowing she had eased the victim's pain temporarily. With any luck he would pass from his bondage in his sleep; judging by the state of his wounds she couldn't imagine he would live much longer.

Her task completed, the Maia stepped lightly after Celevonaur as they made their way back to the hall where they'd started. To the maiden's relief, the food and drink hadn't been touched, which made her think the priests hadn't noticed their absence just yet. They barely had time to unbind their hands though before Brother Kham suddenly appeared in the doorway, flanked on either side by burly, grim-looking men each bearing chests.

"Well met, My Lady," he greeted with a bow. Alcalantë felt nausea rising up in her stomach as she recalled how just a short time before she'd seen the poor girl on top of him, yet somehow she found the fortitude to keep a straight face. "I see you and your ah...companion, have had a chance to rest and eat. Are you ready to complete our request? It's well after dark now, and the tribute must be paid before the full moon has set."

At the mention of tribute, the two men with chests opened them, revealing a dazzling array of gold and jewels that glittered in the lamplight. Brother Kham reached inside and withdrew a heavy necklace of rubies, then held it up before the maiden. "We would ask that you carry these tokens to the Master of the Mountain on our behalf," he explained, placing the chain around Alcalantë's neck. His hands felt like dead fish, and she noticeably shuddered, though at the priest's odd expression she murmured something about the cold.

The guards place other baubles on her as well; rings and bracelets and more necklaces, until the Maia wondered how in the world she would ever be able to walk up a mountain so laden. Once she was fully adorned, the priest turned to Celevonaur and narrowed his eyes ever so slightly.

"If you will accompany this Lady, grandfather," he greeted with a note of mockery in his voice. "We would ask that you carry your share of tribute as well." Alcalantë wasn't quite sure, but she thought that the pieces Brother Kham offered to the Úmaia weren't quite as rich as what he'd placed upon her. Was that too an insult, or yet another display of the priest's own greed?

When the Ainur were suitably adorned (or at least, as adorned as Celevonaur would stand for), Brother Kham and the priests escorted them out the door at the far end of the hall. Here they entered a dark corridor, dimly lit by torches that seemed to grow farther and farther apart. Not only that, but with each step the hallway grew colder, and the sound of the wind on the mountainside grew ever louder.

Finally they reached a set of heavy iron doors, the handles of which were inscribed with an eye much as the sword pommel had been. One of the guards pushed the doors open and exposed a moonlit snowfield, well up the mountain overlooking the village. "You'll find the path clearly marked," Brother Kham remarked, pointing to a small post standing upright out of the snow some fifty yards beyond. Alcalantë could see other such posts poking out up the mountainside, like so many grave markers in the snow. "I wouldn't recommend leaving the trail--lots of sudden drops, you know. Wouldn't want you to have an accident."

A cruel smile spread across the priest's face as the doors began to shut. "Best of luck to you both," was the last thing he said, and then the Ainur were alone on the mountainside.

For a moment, Alcalantë stared back at the heavy iron doors protruding out rocky outcrop in the mountainside, wondering if perhaps this had all been a terrible mistake after all. But she had no doubt the doors would be firmly locked and well beyond even her and Celevonaur's strength combined.

"I suppose we'll be taking a walk then?" she remarked to the Úmaia, slipping the rings off her fingers and casting them into the snow.

 

[BennyQ]

That was news to Celevonaur. Gorthaur had escaped? Slippery little toad. For a moment Celevonaur wondered if he should seek out the Aulëan smith and make a pact. Though they had little in common, they shared the same enemies and struggle. And Gorthaur wasn’t as destructive in his purposes as their mutual master had been. But Celevonaur put it out of his mind. Yes, he knew the other Úmaia. But before Alcalantë could answer his question about why she mentioned the name – if she was going to answer – they were both startled by a low noise from the nearby torture victim, seemingly all but forgotten by the immortal pair. Celevonaur just cast him an apathetic glance and made for the doors but clearly his companion had other intentions.

He was already rolling his eyes when he felt the tug of the rope drawing him back into the room. “Alcalantë…” he murmured with some irritation, standing at her shoulder with crossed arms as he looked over the pitiful mortal shackled and at death’s door. So what? That was their fate in life. To die. What did she think she could do, save delay this inevitable, unhappy fate? And what a mysterious fate it was, to die…and leave the circles of the world? Celevonaur had died once before and he was still here, a recuperating spirit of malice, fire…and sorrow, locked in this frail, hunched over shell of a Raiment.

Was that a little envy he was starting to feel?

It was enough to keep his reproaches silent on his tongue as Alcalantë fed the victim some sort of potion. Again, he let out a sigh of frustration but said nothing. Her naivety was exhausting sometimes but there was not the place to raise arguments about it. He didn’t ask what it was, nor cared, and only when she placed the bottle away were they finally able to steal back to their room, footsteps silent in the temple corridors, the door soon shut and the rope removed from their forms. An interesting, fact-finding assignation they just went on, though he now had more questions than answers. But that was the way of investigations. Celevonaur knew, as Raugad, hunting fugitives from the gates of Angband, following clues, evidence, proofs of whereabouts, by any means necessary. He was half a mind to use such tactics on the Brothers. Teach his companion a thing or two about efficiency.

He had just slipped his feet back into his dwarven forged boots, about to pick Alcalantë’s mind about Gorthaur’s fugitive state, when the door to their chamber was rudely opened to them. In came Brother Kham, greeting Alcalantë with a respectable moniker. And none for him? His brow furrowed with indignation but he said nothing, crossing his arms and watching the exchange with the silence and patience of a statue. Tribute needed to be paid, in a hurry, and to his fair haired companion was given a necklace of rubies and gemstones. Normally that should have impressed any mortal Upstart, though to one who had seen the treasure hoards of Angband, looted from a dozen elven realms, or the beaches of Aman, where gemstones were strewn like pebbles in the sand, it showed no impression. More trinkets were laden upon Alcalantë, transforming her into a Queenly figure, though Celevonaur noted her lack of interest in the ordeal. And she just let it happen, too.

At last, he was given his chance. Grandfather.He just lifted his arms limply and permitted it, though he noted that Alcalantë received a more fairer portion than he. “How progressive of you, to adorn your women in greater fashions than your menfolk. Such a humble folk you are here.” Celevonaur had to comment with a mocking smile, but Brother Kham just returned it politely. Oh, it didn’t matter. Neither of them should be coming back. Once completed in their new garments, they were led through various passageways to the rear of the Temple, further up the mountainside, overlooking the silent village and palisade below. The ascent up was weathered in unintelligible darkness. Faintly, with his keen hearing, he thought he could catch the faintest sound…of beating wings.

“Our thanks, Brother. We shall be seeing you…soon.” Celevonaur said with a smirk, nodding his farewell to the priest. The priest returned it with the same sardonic look as before. Like he knew something that Celevonaur and Alcalantë did not. But that was a two-way street between them. Celevonaur knew. Perhaps he would have some answers for the Ainu pair.

He just gestured his ascent to walking. So together, they began to climb. He watched her shed some of the rings. Gold and silver, wealthy beyond what any of the Upstarts in the village might have. He kept his on. It felt…familiar in a way.

“How kind of you to carry out their desired quest of us.” Celevonaur spoke to Alcalantë, finding a long branch to aid his weathered form in walking up the ascending slopes. The remark was clearly sarcastic, given she was throwing away the tribute they wished her to give once they reached the summit. “There are many a mortal in that village to whom a single ring of gold or silver that you now shed would be considered vast wealth, more than they might ever hold or have in their short lives. How smartly the Temple robs it of them. They willingly give up their treasures, unreal or living, to the Temple in exchange for…what? Promises? Promises of salvation? Quite a scheme I might add.”

He looked up to note the position of the Moon. He was full today, a round silver sphere traversing the night sky, set against the backdrop of innumerable stars. Stars of his former Mistress. He quickly averted his eyes, not wanting to think about what he might have lost had he remained…

“What do you think happens if we do not deliver the tribute before the full moon has set?” He asked with some curiosity and interest, albeit indifferently. He wasn’t worried about any consequences, because he knew there wouldn’t be any. He had a different prey to seek out now. And what was the connection between the Eye…and Gorthaur? Speaking of which, Alcalantë had yet to answer his earlier question. Why had she brought that name up to begin with?

There was no real trail up the mountain. The treeline soon gave way to barren, rocky slopes. It would be getting colder. Snow hung low on the mountain shoulders this time of year. Celevonaur, with his aged form and walking stick, was slow in his climb, though he never needed to pause for rest or recovery. “That necklace looks good on you. Rubies, red, it is your color.” He said aloud, looking over her. “But you find it discomforting, don’t you? I never really understood the fascination with these…shiny metals. But those you wear, the rubies, it is said they can capture fire in their hearts, or some such nonsense.” He was referring to blood rubies, though he did not understand the technicalities behind it, not being of the Aulëan Order who excelled in such topics.

“You never told me why you brought up Gorthaur earlier, Alcalantë.” Celevonaur asked again. There was still a hour or two of climbing ahead of them. And there was still so much to learn about his companion with her star hued hair.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

“How kind of you to carry out their desired quest of us," the fugitive sneered as they stepped forward through the snow.

Alcalantë rolled her eyes. "As opposed to what? Refusing them? Going room to room and hoping they would wait patiently so we might slay them one by one? They would have cut us both down after five minutes," she retorted. Although now that she thought about it, perhaps that might have been the swiftest way to send Celevonaur's fëa to Lord Mandos after all, even if it would have cost her her own Raiment in the process.

"We might as well see who or what this 'master' of theirs is in the meantime," the maiden continued. "Or if nothing else, we might find some other way out of this cursed place. You've seemed rather comfortable with mountains so far, Celevonaur." She turned to look at him almost admirably. "Surely you should have no trouble navigating terrain such as this?" Indeed, she'd been half-hoping the Úmaia would take the lead and discover some hidden way back down the mountainside, beyond the sight of the horrific black temple. His movement was slow, however, and almost untroubled in its gait.

Perhaps if he would cast off some of those silly baubles the priests had wasted so much time adorning them with. Alcalantë had already stripped off all the rings and several of the bracelets, not wanting her arms to be impeded if she should have to suddenly draw her bow (and what a miracle it was they hadn't taken that from her; not even the arrows). The fugitive's remarks about the value of gold and silver to the world of men gave her pause though, and made her most closely examine the jewelry.

"Do they really hold such value?" the Maia mused aloud, watching Ithil's gleaming light reflect off the silver bangle on her wrist. The decorative crafts of Lord Aulë and his people held no more worth to her than the flower crowns Nessa would playfully lay on her brow. In fact, she preferred the flowers for their sweet scent and brighter colors. But mortals and elves alike had gone to war over things like the rubies in her necklace, or the gold chains that held them. And even on her travels she had seen such items trading hands in the marketplace: a bangle in exchange for sacks of flour, lengths of fabric, horses, medicine.

A wave of guilt washed over the maiden as she realized how carelessly she had thrown away what could have been life and livelihood for several people in the miserable village of Tarla, if not beyond. For a moment, she was tempted to turn back and try to find the pieces she'd already thrown away, but the wind was picking up and causing the snow to drift. It would take an age to find them.

Instead, she removed the bracelets and tucked them safely into yet another pocket of her cloak, determined to give them to the next poor mortal who crossed her path. In the meantime she could live with the necklaces, which felt pleasantly warm against her neck. And...maybe there was something vain inside her that flared up in her chest when Celevonaur said he liked the look of them on her.

Alcalantë shrugged the comment off as best as she was able. "I never did care for jewelry, no," she replied. "Nessa did once put a red bunch of flowers on my head and said she liked them too. I think I like white ones better though."

If the maiden preferred white over red, then surely the mountainside was the very image of beauty, with the glow of Ithil shining off the snowfields and punctuated by a thousand stars above. For a moment, she wondered how in the world the priests had ever expected their envoys to deliver the tribute without any warmer clothing than what they'd arrived in, but the truth was the Maia really wasn't cold at all. She could feel the wind of course, and that was annoying enough whenever a particularly violent gust sent a white wave over her vision, but the night almost felt like springtime on her bare face. Perhaps it was the comforting light of Tilion overhead warding off the chill.

Or perhaps it was Celevonaur beside her, radiating all the heat of a bonfire and making her wonder how his stick hadn't yet burst into flames.

"Did...did you want some help, Celevonaur?" Alcalantë asked, suddenly a bit shy as she moved a little closer to him and holding out an arm. After all, they seemed to manage moving while bound together well enough, so surely she could be at least as useful as that dead branch he carried.

The way before them was getting steeper now, but thankfully the wind was dying down. Not only that, but the snow at their feet seemed to be growing thinner as well. Had it all blown clear off this side of the mountain?

“You never told me why you brought up Gorthaur earlier, Alcalantë.” Celevonaur asked again, breaking the maiden's thoughts.

She shrugged. "It was by chance, mostly. I was thinking how Saelneré--she was the Mistress of the Household in Tulkas and Nessa's halls--used to sometimes talk about Mairon every time there was a great mess." Usually caused by Lord Tulkas' unnecessary roughhousing. "I knew of course that Mairon had defected to The Enemy, just like you did, and I knew you had taken a new name when you did it."

The Maia suddenly tilted her head curiously. "Did you decide you wanted to be called Raugad? Or did people just start calling you that?" It seemed so strange to think of the Úmaia as the monster from the stories, now that he was so broken and bent, trying to scrabble his way up a mountain in the middle of the night. 'Thlingril' might have been better, or 'Leweg' perhaps, though she never would have dared called Celevonaur either to his face.

"Anyway," Alcalantë continued. "I remembered the elves called Mairon--or, the Úmaia that had been Mairon--'Gorthaur,' and then I remembered the eye from Lady Vairë's tapestries. That's really all there was to it. Why do you ask?"

They were beginning to near the peak now. The snow was utterly gone beneath their feet, leaving shifting black stones that made the maiden grip firmly at her companion's arm, lest they both go sliding all the way down the slope. Thankfully the ground was less steep now, and when it fully leveled out some thirty feet before them, she noticed there was an odd depression in front of them. It was as though the top of the mountain had been cut clean off, and some giant had pressed their thumb direction in the middle of the flattened peak.

There were too many shadows to determine exactly how far down the pit went, but among the black stones there were also curious white oblong objects scattered along all sides of the bowl.

Alcalantë's eyes widened. "Are those bones?" she gasped.

As soon as she spoke, a dim red light began to emit from the middle of the depression, and a warm wind began to rise up from below.

 

[BennyQ]

They might have cut us both down after five minutes. Is that what she thought, of her own skill, and his? Did she not remember Celevonaur defeating half dozen and more bandits by himself, men who were younger, more armed, more prepared, than the elderly Brothers and their few Temple guardsmen? He could have prevailed without Alcalantë’s aid, if he wished. But he did not boast of it. He did not know want her to know what he was capable of yet, in case he still needed…to flee from her, and her kind. Instead, he just smirked in acquiesce to her, letting her have the argument. As for the mountains, while rough and impeding to his pace, he had indeed spent the last century becoming acquainted with these grounds. This particular ground as well. He knew what awaited them at the top. Surely he would have answers.

Alcalantë seemed surprised that the shiny gemstones could indeed hold value. Her thoughts seemed to change and she began to hoard it within her gown and cloak. Celevonaur was not as adorned as she was. He bore a gold necklace, but it was only inlaid with glass beads of many hues, red, blue, purple, green. On each forearm they had given him one bracelet of silver, as well as a single ring embedded with a ruby. Nothing he held in high esteem but he kept it on, due to the nostalgia of once being lord over a mighty treasure vault in Angband.

“Flowers are vibrant, but they are fragile. And they don’t like my touch.” Celevonaur just commented about the flora of the domain of Yavanna. He remembered them being soft to the touch, and easily withering before his heats, and therefore not much of concern. But in this shape and form, he could touch them more easily. He just…never had cause. For some reason, he could imagine Alcalantë adorned with wild flowers in her hair. White, like her hair, and like starlight. He had to look aside suddenly, cheeks becoming flushed despite the cold, thinking of what it would be like to put flowers in her hair, behind her ear, to stroke back those star-hued strands and to look into her eyes and-

Did…did you want some help, Celevonaur?

He bristled and shot her a sharp look, brow furrowed, as if he was going to strike down such a suggestion with as much vitriol as he could muster. In truth he thought she had guessed his strange thoughts of wanting to adore her and…he pursed his lips, unable to even ponder that anymore as Alcalantë came nearer and he could glimpse his own reflection in her eyes. He looked so old, and weathered, and…mean. But when she said his name like that, he felt so uplifted. He wanted more of that. But still, he was too proud to say anything about it yet. Wordlessly only, he assented, and put his hand around her elbow and drew closer to her, hip to hip almost, like they were once in the Temple closet.

At last she spoke of Gorthaur. He vaguely recalled Saelneré and tried not to shiver in fear at the mention of Tulkas, but managed to chuckle lightly at hearing Mairon’s name associated with…cleaning of all things. But the laughter died in his throat when she asked about his name, whether he chose Raugad. “We used our given names, always, with each other. But the names given to us, by the captives, and rebels, or our own slaves, we adopted for the effect. Raugad strikes fear into those who opposed us, so I embraced it. I cared not what it meant, only that it was regarded with a measure of terror…and authority.” He simply explained to her. For military and psychological purposes. But to his mind, and his heart, he was always Celevonaur, the Silver-Fire, even if his flame had long grown black and evil.

His brow furrowed when she mentioned the tapestries of Lady Vairë. He didn’t know what those were. But one of them depicted an Eye? And it had some relation to Gorthaur? Curious. The landscape was changing now, rapidly, the snow given way to…black, charred earth and stone. And yes, there were bones among them, of the same quality and style as the Temple hearth. “They are indeed. The bones of living things misfortunate enough to have come here, no doubt a fate the Elders expect of us. Except…” Celevonaur began to explain, vaguely hinting he knew all along what awaited them. It was his card to play. What Alcalantë or the Elders didn’t know…was that Celevonaur knew, more than any of them, what manner of entity awaited them.

“This Eye you saw-“ Celevonaur started to ask her, changing the topic as if the sight of bones and burnt earth was not uncommon, before he was cut off by a great sound.

Like a great gale, a whirlwind, a great onrush of air that blew ash and snow in their direction. Was that the weather of the world? Some stone crashing upon stone, or the distant rumble of thunder? The gale was ceaseless, whipping their garments furiously about their limbs. The grip that Alcalantë had extended to Celevonaur, he now used to help steady and keep them anchored. Together. There was the peak ahead, gnawed inwards like a bowl, with many great pits and peaks. Just over the lip, among the bones, and black stones…was the glimmer of…treasure.

“Stay still and do not speak!” Celevonaur whispered harshly to Alcalantë, before the tremendous roar blasted upon their backsides. The onrush of wind spiked and rushed over their head, as a huge shadow swept over and swung around the peak, momentarily out of sight. But eventually it came up again, great shadows extended to either side. Wings. Its weight landed upon the far lip, crushing stone beneath its claws. It’s bat-like wings and arms then swooped down, crashing upon the nearest lip of the ridge, allowing the long snout to extend down, mouth as large as the gatehouse of Tarla, with orange, cat light eyes gazing upon them from either side. Sharp rows of teeth and a long, forked tongue flickered out, a gesture of curiosity, as it gazed upon the white clad strange…and a familiar face.

“Who do you bring to my domain…” The dragon spoke in gnarled common speech, “…Raugad?” It inquired, its mouth a dozen feet away from where they stood, a deep orange glow shrouded behind the scales of its neck and stomach. Dragons, winged dragons, breathed fire after all.

Celevonaur’s grip on Alcalantë was like steel now. To encaptivate her…or to protect her?

“Hail, Ghâshbúrz.” Celevonaur answered, in the tone he used solely with lesser beings, like orcs and men. Not friendly. “I’ve come seeking answers. You’ve been engaging in a game beyond your means, my friend.” He chided the dragon many times his size, stature…and strength.

Ghâshbúrz, the Dark-Fire, did not like this address. For a heartbeat his face reared back, before he raised his lips to snarl his clenched teeth at them, even jerking forward as if he was going to take a bite at them. Celevonaur did not flinch. And he held Alcalantë’s arm to make sure she didn’t flinch either.

“We’ve brought offerings.” Celevonaur then went on, as if that might be incentive enough. Ghâshbúrz reared his face again to his starting position, still within reach, still able to assault if it pleased him. He had grown so big! No longer the little hatchling Celevonaur had succoured from the destruction of Angband. Surely that meant something right? The beast said nothing, which Celevonaur took to be assent, so he released Alcalantë’s arm. “Go, lay down what the village sent.” He instructed her quietly, never taking his eyes off of the dragon. And hoping Ghâshbúrz would not notice that the usual tribute was a bit…lessened, due to Alcalantë having shed some on the way up. But the dragon was rich enough. How much more could he possibly want?

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Alcalantë stopped dead in her tracks as the realization dawned on her. Not only did those monsters-in-men's-clothes down in the temple sacrifice their victims within its walls, but they actually sent them to be burned all the way up here as well? It was almost incomprehensible. What kind of horrors had the previous sacrifices suffered in their own long, frigid march up the mountain? How many had chosen to cast themselves off the precipice rather than burn in the heathen fires under the full moon?

Then again, that begged the question of who actually did the burning. There were no other footprints in the snow but hers and Celevonaur's.

The Maia didn't have to wait long for her answer. The oddly warm wind had continued to grow until it was swirling about them with the force of a hurricane. She pressed her body closer to the fugitive, both to steady herself and him. Something huge--was it the very peak of the mountain itself?--rose up before them, allowing a momentary beam of moonlight to shimmer off a pile of gems and gold at the bottom of the pit. But then the moon was gone, eclipsed by the form of a thick, serpent-like neck and a face Alcalantë had only ever seen in depictions of the ancient wars.

"Is that a dragon?" the maiden gasped, subconsciously shrinking behind the Úmaia. She had believed such things gone from the world, or at the very least banished to the farthest corners of it. Staring at the beast now, with his scales like armor and teeth like spears, she could see why the poor folk of Tarla lived in such fear, and it was easy to guess who the "Master of the Mountain" was that the wicked priests served. Alcalantë herself half believed the creature must have been some wicked embodiment of Gorthaur, right up until Celevonaur addressed it. Or rather, responded to his own address.

"Who do you bring to my domain…Raugad?"

"Hail, Ghâshbúrz."

The dragon's heat burned hotter than ten thousand sacrificial fires, but all the same Alcalantë's body went cold as she stared at the back of Celevonaur's body. He knew this creature.

Despite the Úmaia's grip, the maiden still managed to break free and move away from him, her wide eyes first fixated on Celevonaur, then Ghâshbúrz. Was it really all some trick after all? Celevonaur had seemed as disgusted as she was at the acts taking place in the temple, but could it just have be a ruse? Why then so many questions about Gorthaur on the way up? Perhaps he'd wanted to get her to lose her focus, distract her so the dragon could get the element of surprise on her. If that had been the case though, Alcalantë should have been dead already, or the dragon should have at least been trying to kill her. And Celevonaur no doubt would have been gloating the entire time.

But he wasn't. He spoke to the dragon like an old friend--or an old comrade, at least--and seemed much more concerned with keeping Ghâshbúrz's temper under control. That couldn't have been for his own sake; Celevonaur was a fire-spirit at heart, and while she supposed the dragon might still try to swallow the Úmaia if the mood took him, Alcalantë doubted the fire she could see kindling in the back of Ghâshbúrz's throat would have done too much damage to the fugitive.

Perhaps it won't do much damage to me either? she wondered. After all, Celevonaur never stopped talking about his odd theory that she was one of his own order. If he was right, she would be relatively safe. Safer than the other poor souls who had presented tribute, at least.

With these thoughts in her mind, Alcalantë slowly, with suspicious eyes, obeyed the Úmaia's request to present the treasure. Moving to the hoard, she began to slowly remove the heavy necklaces from her own body and place them on the pile with all the others. It did not occur to her then to also turn over the bracelets she had stowed away, and within a few moments the transaction was complete.

Ghâshbúrz didn't seem to miss the additional treasures either, although he was watching the Maia in a way that she did not care for. "Hmm, you are not like the others, yet still so supple like maidens and housemothers," he purred in a voice like far-off thunder. His luminous gaze fell upon Celevonaur for a moment, and Alcalantë wondered why he didn't lay down his own jewels along with hers. She also wondered why the dragon didn't demand he do so.

"Is this it then?" the maiden dared to ask, finding some hidden well of courage in her voice. "The Úmaia and I have business elsewhere, and--"

A little burst of flame shot across the sky to interrupt her, and the dragon stretched his legs further as he circled around their bodies, like a cat making ready to pounce. "So both bounty and fare is lacking to my chagrin, where before I would have thrice. And instead I get this, hardly enough to entice," he mused, and Alcalantë felt the hot scales of Ghâshbúrz's tail brushing against her leg.

"What is he talking about?" she whispered to Celevonaur, just as a skull, knocked loose by the dragon's movements, rolled before her feet. Her face paled as the answer dawned on her. Treasure wasn't the only tribute the dragon desired. One could hardly eat gold and rubies, after all.

It was as if Ghâshbúrz had read her mind. He made a noise that might have been laughter, then turned his head until he was facing them dead on again. This time the moon was shining directly on the dragon's face, and there was no mistaking the expression on his face. "Is she even meat of this world? No elf, or man, dwarf, snaga, or animal fur furled," the dragon remarked, stretching himself up to his full height.

Run. The word pierced Alcalantë's thoughts like an arrow as Ghâshbúrz opened his great maw.

"Yet, as old Raugad would say, a little toasting and it'll be suitable as any filet. Bright as starlight maybe, but my guess is all the same that you'll…ignite!"

She didn't think. The Maia simply seized on the fugitive's collar and sharply yanked him backwards. Both bodies tumbled over the edge of the pit and crashed onto the treasure pile. Alcalantë had just enough time to throw her arms around Celevonaur and roll sharply to the side, off the hoard and just below the roaring river of dragonfire that streaked over their heads.

From up above, she could hear the dragon's continued laughter. "Don't look so distressed, my old friend Raugad, for this is how you always taught me," Ghâshbúrz teased as he unfurled his great wings. "But I am a slow learner, I should have began…by biting your heads off first before you flee."

Flee? Flee where? The only place Alcalantë could think of to go was off the nearest cliff. She had her own great speed of course, but she doubted she could drag Celevonaur with her, and even if she could run like the wind she could not fly. Where was there to hide that the dragon could not reach her?

As she scrambled to her feet, pulling the Úmaia up after her, another beam of moonlight fell upon the far side of the pit, where the smooth faces of bare rock had cracked under the dragon's weight. The silvery light seemed to land directly on a small crevasse, just barely wide enough for a man or elf to squeeze through. In all likelihood it was no more than a few feet deep, but something inside her said this was the way to go. This, or into the fire.

"Come on," she snapped, keeping a firm grip on Celevonaur's wrist as she led him to the crack. "In here, he'll never fit." A roar overhead though quickly reminded her that flames can be any size. "Quickly!"

The crack did prove to be more than a few feet deep. The light was quick to die out behind them, although the heat of Ghâshbúrz's fire still chased hungrily after them, and within a few steps the ainur had been enveloped in utter darkness. If she'd had more time to think Alcalantë might have been terrified at this fact, but just when it seemed the dragon was wholly escaped, the floor suddenly disappeared beneath her.

The maiden shrieked and released Celevonaur's hand, and then she was falling into the black.

 

[BennyQ]

“We-“ Celevonaur began to speak to the dragon, the present day culmination of that little hatchling he rescued in the aftermath of the fall of Angband, when he was interrupted by Alcalantë breaking his grip, pulling away from him to carry out his request. It was so…fierce, giving him pause. He at once closed his mouth and shot her a stare, wondering what foolery she was getting up to, if she had such emotion behind the gesture. This isn’t a game and no time for your Valarin hysterics. He had no time to explain they were visiting a dragon for information and was sure that would have caused more hesitancy than any acceptance of the fact. But Celevonaur needed to speak to Ghâshbúrz about something very vital. The Úmaia never did care for the dragon’s scheme with the village. All he wanted to know…was if there were any other involved. Like some other Úmaia…or even the Admirable One.

As Alcalantë laid down the offerings adorned upon her, and himself, Celevonaur could repeat his question without any further interruption, when he was sure Alcalantë was not going to do something sudden and provoking. “We-“ he started again, but his estimate of Alcalantë’s obedience to the scene at hand was mistimed. And horribly misjudged, as she impatiently questioned whether this was the resolution of their errand. No, why would I bring you on a simple milk-run up the mountain side? Ghâshbúrz can help us.

Dragons are very short tempered if one was to rush them, Celevonaur had learned long ago.

And Ghâshbúrz certainly took notice as he puffed out a flare of heat over their heads, briefly illuminating the mountain side. He was displeased, very, with the offerings brought to him but Celevonaur cared not for his long con with the village. And could not fathom how greedy the winged slug had become. Alcalantë questioned the Úmaia but Celevonaur just waved her down. Let their host speak.

That was the second mistake.

For Ghâshbúrz cared more of his fare than he did any old allegiances and favor to his rescuer. Celevonaur was blind to this developed fact. Ghâshbúrz had grown large, fat, and strong, while Celevonaur remained fragile in appearance, still more deadly than any of the Children of the One, and regaining his former prowess more slowly. The dragon did not know, or care, for this. He was done taking orders from these bipedal fools. “Wait. We’ve simply come to talk. Don’t you dare…!” Celevonaur warned, stabbing his finger through the air to point at the dragon. No talking of toasting, or creating false dawns in the night. Remember who I am. Remember what you were. What I’ve done for you…

Ghâshbúrz laughed at him, if laughter it could be construed as. Ghâshbúrz was done. Done with old Raugad and with the old alliances. He was his own master, a winged shadow of flame in the night, and Celevonaur was naught but a fickle shell. He dared to interfere with the dragon’s much desired bounty, so be it.

They shall compensate with their lives. And the pair smelled like something he never tasted before. Oh, what a feast!

Celevonaur was still in disbelief at the dragon’s rudeness to him. After all he had done? Even as the dragon towered and white hot color swarmed up its neck, he stood resolute, shocked and scowling, a flurry of insults and rebukes on his tongue. Fire had never scared him. Yet he failed to grasp that his present form might have argument with that now, not so mighty in stature or spirit to survive such a fiery onslaught. Alcalantë grabbed at him, pulling him to one of the nearby cracks and fissures in the mountain side. Celevonaur didn’t want to see where. He didn’t want to know. His eyes just followed the winged shadow above. He would get that bastard and teach him a lesson, by the promise of Raugad’s teeth to his neck, that little slug…!

The fire spewed, balling over itself, raging like an inferno as it raced along the ground towards him. Celevonaur was ready to defy it. He could. He was hopelessly outmatched and didn’t know it.

Alcalantë cried out and suddenly her presence was gone. She had jumped!

“Yurë!” Celevonaur gasped, all his anger and fury forgotten as he turned and saw just the strands of her head, starlight in her hair, as she vanished down the leap. Nothing else mattered. Not his vengeance. Not his quest for answers. Not the promise of an old colleague or ally. She leapt into the dark. And left him behind.

He turned and leapt as well, just as the inferno washed inches above his back and head. Just enough to allow his innate power to shield him from the worst. For if he had remained, he would have lost his Raiment as well, once again a powerless, dehoused spirit, doomed to flutter and fly at the mercy of the elements. Into the darkness he leapt, after Alcalantë, his night eyes soon catching sight of her.

A hollowed momentum of the Power’s old fashioning of the world. Fire, and then water, over the course of untold millennia had drilled and carved many tunnels and caverns in such mountains, before cooling and solidifying…

They would strike a rocky slope, some twenty feet beneath the lip of the crack, slanting down into greater darkness. She would land first and he beside her. He ignored the loss of breath from his lungs and the pain of a thousand little rock edges biting up into his body. He reached over and grabbed her arm, soon finding her hand, only able to intertwine their fingers…

Before a great, shuddering blow struck the mountainside above. The ground lost its integrity, causing a rush of smaller pebbles and soon the slant itself, breaking into many fragments, all beginning to slide further downwards, both Celevonaur and Alcalantë caught in the tumble. But he managed to hold on to her, even as the landslide carried them down into the dark like the onflow of a river. Down, down they went, into the darkness, sliding uncontrollably, the dragon’s roars high above as it smashed and struck the mountain above, causing more ruin and change below. He sought to bury the two alive, if he could not feast on them. He was going to succeed, as much larger fragments and boulders were rolling above them.

Even if they were killed, their bodies destroyed, their spirits would survive…but trapped forever in this cavern, if there was no way out they could find.

Their own Void, trapped in eternal darkness, yet still of this world.

The pain was unbearable, but Celevonaur’s mind persisted as long as he focused on that grip, the lock of his fingers around hers, and knowing she was near. They slipped through an enclosure at the end of this slanting tunnel, coming to a sudden drop that toppled them…a dozen feet, before they landed on a hard bed of pebble, loose gravel, and dust. A larger boulder that would have crushed them slammed against the opening and…held, impeding and blocking all the larger fragments.

A few more shudders high above, a few more flurries of rock and grit fell about them and then…all was silent. Silent and dark, more dark than the night sky before the creation of any celestial sphere. As dark as the Void. Even Celevonaur was unsettled. But he breathed. He gasped and groaned, but he breathed, and lived. He pushed up, feeling a sheet of loose pebble and rock fall off his form. He reached up to run a hand over his face, removing the dust in his eyes and on his lips. And then he realized he wasn’t holding her hand anymore.

“Alcalantë.” He spoke out, turning left, and then right, seeing little in the dark, his eyes still adjusting. His hand began to wander blindly, seeking her form, her body, anything. Was she dead? Dehoused? That would be a terrible fate, for unlike him, her spirit would be summoned instantly to Mandos, and he would be left alone in this nightmare. Forever.

I should have gone with her to the West when she offered. He might never see her again. He grew more desperate, on his knees now, blindly searching with his hands over the rock and pebble that fell with them in the landslide. He was going to be so alone. He-

He touched her body. First one hand, then a second. “Alcalantë?” He asked again, his hands on her torso, wandering up, over her chest hurriedly, to her shoulders, which he shook. Was she dead? Alive? “Alcalantë! Do you live? Speak!” He demanded in his fear and impatience, never having endured a fright like this before. Never…cared for the well being of another. His hand found her cheek and he cupped it, leaning down very closely over her face. For the kiss of breath, sound, anything?

 

[Shiva the Cat]

The fall reminded Alcalantë of the dreams she always had.

The darkness, the air rushing all around her, the absolute sense of emptiness...but there were other differences. The sheer noise, for one. She could hear the dragon's infuriated roar above and behind her her, and the mountain rumbling and crumbling in echo. Someone was shouting her name; Celevonaur? She could have sworn there were others though, calling for Alcalantë, for Yurë, for Sellig, for a thousand other names that seemed both strange and familiar to the maiden's ears. The only voice she was sure she recognized was Celevonaur's but it seemed so far away, drowned in a firestorm miles above her head.

The dragon's fire soon died out in the gloom, and the heat faded away to a bitter cold. For a moment, Alcalantë thought she might be back in the river again, this time without anyone to save her. The raiment she'd so carefully crafted in Aman would be shattered on the rocky floor of the mountain any moment, and how would her fëa find its way home trapped in such a tomb? A physical death surprisingly didn't frighten the Maia as much as the idea of an eternity alone in the dark, away from the sun, moon, and stars until she was utterly forgotten by the world. Any moment now the break would come, she was sure. The maiden could only pray it wouldn't be too painful.

There must have been some great power beyond the mountain that heard this plea, because when she finally did feel her body come into contact with something it was surprisingly soft. At some time in the mountain's past it must have been a volcano, otherwise there was no way to explain the hill of ashes the Maia's body plunged into, nearly drowning her in the process. Alcalantë's limbs flailed helplessly in the dark, kicking up a cloud of dust indistinguishable in the shadows of the great cavern, and only when she felt herself sliding into a firmer pile of rock and rubble did she allow herself to breathe and relax.

She was exhausted with the efforts of escaping the ash, and whether her eyes were open or closed it made no difference; she could see nothing. Dust clogged her throat and nose, making it difficult to breathe without coughing, a sound that sounded hollow and broken. Celevonaur, where was Celevonaur? She tried to call out his name, but only coughed all the further.

Alcalantë wasn't sure how long she lay in the rubble; perhaps it was minutes, or hours, maybe even days. All around her the darkness was unchanging, and as time went on she felt an irresistible urge to sleep. The lights of the sun and moon had always served to strengthen her in times like these, but they were utterly lost to her now. All light seemed lost...

And yet, as she stared above her, she could have sworn she saw a flame in the darkness.

At first she thought it was dragonfire, Ghâshbúrz's wicked breath come to finish her off entirely. But this wasn't the terrifying wave of fire she had seen on the peak. No, this flame took the vague shape of a man, and a beautiful man at that. His heat was warm and reassuring, filling her body with new strength as he embraced her. Alcalantë heard him whisper something in her ear, words in that strange primordial language she recalled from another dream--or another life? And when he kissed her, the fire seemed to enter her body, making her entire form glow with a soft rosy light that chased away the oppressive shadows surrounding her.

"Alcalantë! Do you live? Speak!"

These words were spoken in the common tongue, in a voice known all too well to the maiden by now. Alcalantë opened her eyes (when had she shut them?) and saw there was no beautiful creature of fire before her, only Celevonaur. But her skin was glowing faintly, a radiating a pale pink color that was fading with every passing moment, allowing her just enough light to see the fugitive's face.

"Celevonaur," she rasped finally, coughing out the last of the ashes. The light finally went out, but not before she had seized a hold of his wrist. "Are you all right? How far did we fall?" As if he would have any idea.

Keeping a firm grip on the Úmaia lest they be separated again, Alcalantë sat up on the pile, surprised at the ease with which she moved, and how little pain it caused her (though she was sure there were some bruises adorning her limbs all the same). The blackness had resumed again, but as long as she could feel the fugitive's body next to hers, it didn't seem quite as frightening. Still, they would need to find some way or another out of the mountain before long, or else both their bodies would likely starve to death.

As far as the maiden could tell, they were in a cavern at least ten times the size of Celevonaur's cave. If there were any tunnels or passageways to the outside, they were beyond her ability to detect them. While she was dimly aware her own body had been radiating light a short time earlier, Alcalantë had no idea how to trigger such a reaction, and as she held up her free hand in front of her face, it remained invisible to her.

Then she recalled something she had seen the fugitive do back in his own lair. "Celevonaur!" she gasped in realization, squeezing his wrist tighter. "You can create fire from nothing, can you not? Can you make a light for us now?" Surely there was still enough of his Maiar essence within him for such a simple task?

 

[BennyQ]

Darkness wreathed about them like a shroud, more deeply than the wall of night, more encompassing than a pool of water. But Celevonaur had brought himself up in the dark, before there was any sun, moon, or stars. He dwelt in caverns beneath the surface of Arda beyond the reckoning of any Upstart mortal or elf. This was nothing to him. It was his shroud, his blanket of armor, and his most common home. But as he was starting to learn about himself, starting to feel something for others, for their consideration, he knew not all were comfortable with its embrace. He knew a Spirit like Alcalantë was not accustomed to it. It was beyond her reckoning.

But he was here. And through his expertise he could…protect her. If he had ever done such a thing in his long, eternal life.

He felt ashamed about such a thing too. Why should he, mightiest of his Order, of all the Orders, stoop to protecting one who could barely do so herself? In fact, she even refused him before! Why should he at all? Then he saw it. The glow. The shine. The light of her very essence. Oh no. Beautiful as it was, Celevonaur feared otherwise. Oh, no. No, no no. She is fading. Her fëa was departing her hröa. She was dying. She might already be…dead. A death rattle that was both beautiful and sorrowful, that such a marvelous glimpse of her true being be only visible upon her passing. Celevonaur stared down in both amazement and utter helplessness. If only she had let him help her! Yet it wasn’t her fault. It could only be his, because once again, he was going to be left alone, without friend or ally, deep in the darkest recesses of this world. Maybe he should stay here. He could hear his old master laughing in his mind. This is what you get for trusting, for befriending, for…loving…

But the way she sputtered to life, and made his heart leap, and grasped at his wrist as he clutched her around her shoulders, all that anger at her rebuttal of his former offerings was forgotten. Just from the way she grabbed at him. With need. No one had ever needed him for anything. Not honestly, at least. But this felt so different. And in the darkness, he was not afraid to let his features soften in rhythm with how it made him feel. How he felt in the moments prior however, he would never share with another living soul for a great length of time.

His tone of voice however was as deep and brisk as always. “I am fine.” He waved off her concerns for his well-being. “We fell a league or so, I would think, though we broke our fall in various places and bounced about. Had it been one long drop, both our bodies would be broken and ruined beyond repair. I fear we might have other damages to our Raiment we do not yet know. Or can see.” He explained to her, as she sat up, and seemed to test her Raiment’s functions. The glow in her flesh had faded. Her spirit was properly rehoused. She was okay.

Crying his name though, Alcalantë tightened her grip, demanding almost that he could create fire out of nothing. To make light, to see, for perhaps her night-eyes were not well developed enough to see without it. It almost sounded like she was afraid, like the many captives of Angband, who would be immersed in darkness for long bouts of time, and then shriek and cower in fear when the littlest noise, that could be nothing, or the approach of tormentors, might signal the approach of some danger. She gripped his wrist so tightly and he glanced at it in the dark.

He did not answer her. Instead, he seemed to pull away, threatening to break her hold, but instead grasped her in a heartbeat after, on her own forearm, and pulled her up onto her feet. His arm quickly jumped around her midsection, a half embrace, to help steady her if she needed it. And, still silent, he stretched out his other hand and tried to concentrate.

Instead, he felt every pinprick of pain and agony from the bumps, the scraps, the ghastly drop and the hard landing. No, he tried to focus past it. He focused on her touch, the memory of her hair, the way her lips moved when she talked. Those put him at ease. Those-

First, a sputter, then softly, a circular glimmer of light, as a small flame crackled to life in his outstretched palm, casting it’s illumination on their dusty countenances, while showing themselves to be in so large a cavern that neither the ceiling or walls were visible. Just darkness, in every direction, except for the floor.

A droplet of sweat formed on the side of his brow. He couldn’t do this forever. And she had not wanted to learn.

“These caverns…they extend all under the world. Some are interconnected, some aren’t.” Celevonaur began by explaining, not touching upon his earlier emotions. He answered her questions with action. “Sometimes great flows of lava when the world was young formed them. Sometimes running water over millennia did, carving out these chthonic halls and corridors. If you hear running water, tell me. That might be our only way out. But until then…” he glanced about them, before glancing at her, half her face covered in shadows, like his own.

There was a distant roar way above their heads and the unseen ceiling shook, with spirals of dust and rocks falling all over. The dragon was not done trying to bury them.

“Pick a direction.” Celevonaur just concluded casually after the last shudder faded away.

He knew not which way might be north, south, east or west. They just had to keep going wherever there was no blockage or wall. So, hand in hand, his fingers intertwining with hers, and his other hand stretched out with the little candle light, they began to go forward in the cavern. When they found a wall or ridge, they could follow alongside it, just going and going and going, sometimes down passage ways where they had to bow their heads, or turn sideways, or back into open caverns. Who knew the count of time that ensured.

The candle light however flickered and grew smaller. He was in too much pain still. He would need to rest. No sound of running water or breeze of air that promised an opening, but they hadn’t run into a dead end yet, so there was still hope.

“How are you?” He would ask after a moment. Did she need to rest, let some bones or injuries heal? He was hoping she did, as he had not the humility yet to request it for himself, requiring it, being in a much weaker state than she was. Again, it was that strange feeling of…caring about another person. For a moment he let go of her hand so he could wipe some sweat from his forehead. Normally it wasn’t this exhausting to maintain a flame, even in this Raiment that he wore.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

From the way Celevonaur spoke, one would have thought the fall had been no more than an accidental trip-up along a walking path. Alcalantë's eyes were wide as she stared in the direction of his voice. He truly is resilient she thought in amazement. Then again the Úmaia would have to be, to have survived this long out of sight of the Valar. The maiden couldn't help but smile in the dark. Perhaps he would survive his inevitable judgement in the end after all. For some reason, that idea gave her a great deal of joy.

Alcalantë allowed him to help her to her feet, though she couldn't help but cry out a little in surprise as she felt his arm circling around her, pulling her body firmly against his. I am here the gesture seemed to say, and fresh heat suffused the Maia's form. Not only that, but for one brief second that gentle glow returned, too faint to be detected in any but this deepest darkness. It was enough to let her see Celevonaur's face again, contorted with pain.

He'd been hurt after all! she realized in alarm, and without thinking the maiden reached up and brushed her hand across the side of his face. "Are you sure you're all right?" she murmured as her other hand brushed along his side, feeling for any broken bones or gashes. "I have some healing herbs in my cloak..." She began to feel through the various pockets, her heart sinking as she realized the little leather pouch must have fallen out at some point. Thankfully she still had Lorien's bottle--unbroken--and Aulë's manacles, as well as the few small treasures she had stolen from the dragon's tribute, and while many of the arrows in her quiver had broken, the vessel itself was still on her back. As for her bow...

A flame suddenly sprung to life in the fugitive's hand, illuminating their would-be prison in all its vastness. "My word!" Alcalantë gasped, releasing Celevonaur's hand and turning in a slow circle as she search for any end to the cavern. There wasn't one as far as she could see, but she could pick out a small glimmer of silver in the pile of rubble they'd just crawled out of. The maiden pounced upon it like a cat upon a mouse, drawing the weapon out of the refuse with a wash of relief on her face. It was wholly undamaged despite the fall, and even seemed to reflect Celevonaur's flames like a torch.

She was about to make some other triumphant remark when a sudden shudder that seemed to radiate from all around them nearly sent the Maia tumbling to the floor. As it was she stumbled forward, colliding against the fugitive's body again but still managing to keep her footing. "Is that him?" she gasped, looking up at the stalactited ceiling. There was no doubt whom she was referring to, and Celevonaur didn't need to speak the dragon's name to confirm her suspicions.

It was all Alcalantë could do to nod at his instructions to pick a direction, but as they began to walk she made sure to keep a firm grip on his hand, even allowing him to lace his fingers with hers in a shockingly intimate fashion. But considering if they were separated it was almost certain they would each die in their own tombs within the mountain, she had no problem overlooking this small liberty. And it was only some time later, when they'd been walking for what felt like hours, that it occurred to the maiden that Celevonaur's walking stick was nowhere to be found.

Perhaps its use was really a ruse all along, a weapon he could carry in plain sight with no one to question him. But when the Maia observed his face, there was no mistaking the continued pain and exhaustion etching at those proud features. And if that wasn't enough to give away his condition, the increased flickering in Celevonaur's flame certainly did.

Yet he still found it necessary to ask her how she was doing, as though she were the one struggling along.

"Well enough," Alcalantë murmured, tightening the grip on her bow. "Sore in places, and I could use some water, but--"

She stopped dead in her tracks. Was it some audible trick of the endless labyrinth, or had merciful Nienna heard her prayer and answer in kind? Alcalantë couldn't be sure for several moments, but then...yes! That was the unmistakable sound of water, or at least some liquid, dripping into a pool.

Her grip on Celevonaur's hand tightened in excitement. "Do you hear that?" she whispered, taking a cautious step forward. It seemed to be coming from a small tunnel to their right, the ceiling low and the floor sloping downward. The air felt cooler down there--an opening to the outside perhaps? "This way, just a little bit farther, my friend," Alcalantë encouraged. The small endearment had slipped by without conscious thought, she was so sure they were close to escape. A few more steps and there would be light, and fresh breeze, and--

A dead end.

She could still hear the dripping, but Celevonaur's light soon revealed the sound as nothing more than a shallow pool in the center of a closed room. A pitiful runoff from a large stalactite overhead occasionally disturbing the otherwise still surface of the water, and Alcalantë realized with disappointment that the change in temperature was likely due to their going even further underground than they had previously.

"I'm...sorry," the maiden finally apologized, looking back at her companion in shame and embarrassment. "I was so sure we'd finally found the way out. But...at least there's water. Why don't we rest here for a while?" It was the least she could do after dragging him down into this damp hole.

There was a large boulder near the edge of the pool, some ancient crumbling bit of ceiling or wall that they could lean against, as well as use for a landmark when Celevonaur's flame inevitably went out. Before it could, Alcalantë leaned over the water, smelling for any sign of foulness or decay. There was none, and she experimentally dipped a hand under the surface. It was cold and clear, and when she finally dared to taste it, she found the water remarkably refreshing.

"Here, you should drink," she suggested, cupping a small handful of the water in case the Úmaia couldn't find the strength to help himself and keep the light going at the same time. Alcalantë with her startling grace had little trouble keeping it balanced as she returned to his side, leaning heavily against the fugitive's body so there would be no chance of losing him.

I am here.

After the water in her hand was gone, the maiden dropped her hand to her lap, a hair's breadth away from resting on Celevonaur's own leg. "Does making the light tire you?" she asked in gentle curiosity. "You can drop it for a while if it does."

A few more beats of silence, with nothing but the sound of the dripping water to pass the time. "Celevonaur...do you remember the other day by the river? After you saved me?" Her voice was so near to his ear now. When had she rested her head on his shoulder? "You said you thought I really was the daughter of Ariens. That I was a creature of Fire and Light. Do you still think so?"

Alcalantë herself didn't believe it any more now than she did then. But if it were true, if she had even a tenth of the Úmaia's abilities to create and manipulate flame, then surely she could find away to create light for them both? If they had to rely on Celevonaur's waning strength, then who could say if they would ever escape this hideous shadow?

Finding his hand, she rested the back of hers against his palm. "Can you tell me how it's done? Making fire from nothing?"

 

[BennyQ]

He brushed off her question about his condition at first. The last thing Celevonaur wanted was anything of the domain of Yavanna touching his Raiment or spirit. He did however like the way Alcalantë touched his body, inspecting for any broken bones. Maybe a few ribs that were offset but those healed naturally, as he learned from long experience. This was not the time for such healing trances or restful states of meditation anyways. They needed to get out. After a brief pause for her to locate her bow, miraculously undamaged in the fall, and a nodding assent to any further shudders and tremors being the work of the dragon, they could continue.

But for how long?

With broken ribs, the very act of breathing became pained, not to mention the few dozen pricks of pain from the hard landing upon stone, dust, and rock. He was not as young or vigorous in spirit or mind as Alcalantë. He was still in recovery from a much more severe, traumatizing defeat at the hands of her compatriots back west. Alcalantë was in a much better state. It was remarkable just how durable her own Raiment was. Not just for a flowery appearance. He recalled the brightness of the flame of her spirit and contrasted it to his own, veiled and darkened by evil deeds and horrific memories. What had he done to himself? In his full stature and strength, he could have survived a fall ten times as much. No, in his full stature and strength, it would be Ghâshbúrz who would be smiting his ruin upon the ground instead of them two. He rued having taught that hatchling of a dragon everything he knew.

Do you hear that? Celevonaur strained his eyes but heard nothing. But he believed that she did. She pulled ahead, their conjoined grip of their hands swinging to have her in the lead now, as she raced towards the source of the sound, which he too heard. Water! Trickling water. But…not in any great depth or roar. This way, just a little bit father, my friend. Friend? Celevonaur was amazed, and thankful too for the darkness, as the expression of shock at such a title washed over his face. Friend? She, a servant of the Valar, and he, a former servant of the dark, of Utumno, were friends? He did not know how to feel about it. The others would have laughed and mocked him if they heard such a statement. But they were gone, thrust beyond the Walls of the World, or equally in hiding. So who cared then what they thought? It should not compel his own thoughts. How did he feel about it? He…liked that.

Friendship also implied not scathingly rebuking a fellow for making a mistake. Which is what Alcalantë did, the water she had heard being nothing more than a trickle of droplets into a shallow pool. No escape route. A glance around the room showed it was a dead end, meaning they would have to backtrack and scout ground they had already covered. A waste of time.

He pursed his lips when she apologized. No one ever apologized in his circles. If one made a mistake, they had to own up for it, to accept their punishment, and to try harder. Apologies were for the weak. But…he didn’t regale that to Alcalantë. She looked genuinely hurt that her brash decision making had led to this failed result. That should be consequence enough for her. But as for resting, even he could not deny he needed it, and was glad she made the decision first before his body gave out. He followed er to a boulder and there sat down, his palms in his lap, cupped together, supporting the little candle flame, that often flickered and danced as if a breeze was tickling it. No, it was just his failing strength. He needed to focus his powers on himself.

She brought him water. Did she already know? Shame began to itch at his face and heart. He didn’t like being so helpless and vulnerable before her, despite his first plan being to recuperate more of his strength to do battle with her if it came to be. Was he so far fallen that she had to prop him up just to keep him on his feet, let alone do battle, if he might give it?

No complaints. His free hand came up to support hers as she brought the cupped water to his lips. And he drank, his lips tasting the side of her palm, registering that taste more than the water itself. His eyes never left her face as he did so, slurping the last bits, and sighing as it refreshed him somewhat.

Now they sat together, side by side, hip to hip, their legs stretched out before them, their shoulders molded together, their hands in their lap. The flame continued to flicker and shift in his palm, though there was no wind or breeze to brush it about. It was his own struggling strength. And she knew it. Does making the light tire you? You can drop it for a while if it does. Still, he didn’t speak, but he took her advice. He closed his eyes, letting an exhaustion wash over him for the first time. The flame flickered…and puffed out. And darkness encased them.

Bereft of one sense, his others picked up. He felt he could feel every touch and every nerve tickled by contact with Alcalantë, from their feet, to their hips, up to their shoulders. As long as he felt that, no darkness would ever disturb him. And the voice of his former master, always mocking him for his weakness and fragility, was kept silent. “Hmm?” He mused aloud in acknowledgement to her next question. Of course he recalled saving her. He still hadn’t made up his mind whether that had been wise or not. He certainly wouldn’t be trapped in a cavern beneath the lair of a dragon if he hadn’t saved her. But…

“I thought that then. And I still think it now.” He reaffirmed to her. He opened his eyes after having them shut for a long moment, turning his head to gaze in her direction in the dark, even if they could not see one another. She wanted to learn now. Her hand came and brushed over his, with his own hand suddenly gripping at her palm. Not to throw her touch away, as if it might be poison. They had been holding hands quite fluidly these prior moments so it wasn’t because he loathed her touch. Taking her hand in his, he overturned it so the palm was face up, her right hand in his lap, and he wrapped his left arm around her elbow, so that his hand was in her lap. And he pressed it to the side of her hand so that it formed a half-bowl shape.

“It’s not made from nothing. You bring a piece of yourself out…and manifest it. I…don’t know how to explain it. I’ve never had it taught to me. I just…could do it.” He said, his voice sounding sleepy. Before, his method of teaching would have been to just cast her into fire and let her learn the same way. But that was impossible now. He had to show her, demonstrate it, explain it. And he did not know how.

He began to take long, steady breaths, focusing his mind, and thus his power. It took a full half minute of breathing exercises in this fashion to reproduce the flame in his palm, the faint heat radiating from it unto her body. “If you…are afraid…it will burn you.” He warned her at first. With his free hand, he pushed her palm that was conjoined to his with the fire closer together. The heat, if she was afraid, would indeed become searing and painful, as it would to any flesh. But if she believed….

Well, they would soon have enough light to illuminate the entire chamber. To glitter upon the veins of ores, shimmering with the light, to dance upon the surface of the water, to reveal to their naked eyes the dirtiness of their garb…and the exhaustion and sweat upon Celevonaur’s face.

“Well, if you’re not afraid…” he murmured and let the results speak for themselves, for if she was not born of a spirit of fire, she would simply be not able to do this. And yet…she did. And it brought a true, genuine smile to his face, recalling vividly the first time he did it himself, so many aeons ago. By the maker, he felt so young in that moment, and yet so old and weathered at the same time.

“Well done, my maiden valaruka. You’ve taken your first steps…to enlightenment.” He whispered so faintly, for the flame in their palms would decrease as Celevonaur’s power was withdrawn, needed by his own body, leaving her to maintain the fire. It would be like a little beating heart. Too much power and it would roar to a size untenable and destructive. But not enough attention and that beat would slow, until it puffed into nothingness. It was her job to find the balance, something that might require constant attention at first, until she became more learned and trained, that it could be done without half a thought.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

The light flickered out without a word from Celevonaur, and for a moment the maiden tensed beside him. But she could still feel the warmth of his body against hers, could still hear the whisper of his breath in the still air of the cave. All the same Alcalantë pressed closer to the fugitive, reassuring herself that he was still there, even if his strength was beginning to fail.

Would he die down here? The thought was appalling. Not only would it would certainly spell her own doom, but it would be an escape of the worst kind for the Úmaia. No judgment, no chance of redemption, just a bodiless blackness, dark as the Void itself. And who among the Ainur would ever find him, or Alcalantë for that fact?

But he still breathed, and still spoke even. When his arm encircled the maiden's body, the chill of the dark seemed to fade away, replaced with the comforting warmth of his embrace. How was it possible that one who had done suck wickedness and wrought such sorrow in others could make her feel so safe? When she felt his hands moving over hers, Alcalantë tried to imagine them dripping in blood, but it was getting harder and harder all the time. All she could feel in him now was heat, and a light that had been artificially dimmed, like a shuttered lantern. And both sprang to life within moments as he spoke.

Alcalantë stared at the flame in Celevonaur's palm like one hypnotized, never realizing the beauty of it's shape and color before. Bringing her hand experimentally close, she could feel warmth in it as well, and felt a sudden urge to let her fingers drift through the very heart of the fire. "If you…are afraid…it will burn you," Celevonaur had warned, but the maiden wasn't sure if that applied to his flame, or her own. Considering she still had no idea how to summon such fire, she had to assume it applied to his own at least.

Her head turned slightly, until her face was dangerously close to his. Did she still fear him? For the earliest months of her journey, Alcalantë was sure she did. He was still a balrog in her mind, a giant of flame and shadow with nothing inside but violence and hate. But the creature beside her was so much smaller now, older and weaker. She could see even making this small example was draining his strength, and pity suddenly overwhelmed her. No, not just pity. Sympathy. Alcalantë wanted to ease his burdens, even if he didn't deserve to have them eased. He was an exile, masterless, purposeless now that he had nothing to conquer in the world. Hadn't she herself felt similar things in Aman? Never truly belonging anywhere, cut off from other Ainur by some invisible wall she didn't understand...

For the first time, the maiden suddenly found herself believing in Celevonaur's theory, if only just a little. Alcalantë began to slow her breaths until they matched his, staring at her palm and willing the fire to appear. She wasn't afraid, not of him, not of fire, not even of the darkness as long as he was at her side. She just needed to bring a piece of herself out.

But what piece? Staring and wishing was doing absolutely nothing. Was there some well of power deep inside her that she had missed? Was it something to do with her Raiment? Frustrated, the Maia jerked her hand through Celevonaur's flame. He was right, it didn't burn her. In fact, there was something almost pleasurable in the sensation. Turning her hand downward until her palm was above his, Alcalantë shuddered a little as a thrill ran through her body.

It reminded her of that time she'd caught him bathing. The forbidden thrill of watching his body through the steam, feeling her own respond in desire...it was enough to make her feel as though she could burst into flames at the sheer memory. Then there was the embrace in his cave when she'd fallen, and how they'd been pressed together while hiding in the temple. And beyond that, the ghost of a memory--or was it a dream?--of someone kissing her after she'd been pulled from the river. Whether it was real or not didn't seem to matter, it was still enough to make her face glow faintly in the dark.

The light was scarcely noticeable however, when compared to the flames between their hands. Alcalantë had grown aware that the pleasurable tingle suffusing her body seemed strongest in her palm. Did she dare to hope? Was it...? Yes! She turned her hand until it was facing upward again, and dancing there above her fingers was her own flame. It was a whiter light than Celevonaur's had been, and flickered a little more chaotically as she struggled to control it, but it was there, and it was bright and warm as sunlight.

"I did it!" the maiden cried, excited as any child who has just learned a new skill. "It doesn't burn at all, it feels lovely. Am I doing it right though?" She frowned a little, noticing how the Úmaia's fire was redder and more natural-looking than her own.

It didn't seem to trouble him too much though. "Well done, my maiden valaruka. You've taken your first steps…to enlightenment."

Alcalantë blushed, and the flame in her hand suddenly took on a pinkish edge to it. His praise shouldn't have mattered as much to her as it did, but it made her heart race nonetheless. It's because we're the same she realized, looking at the fugitive with new eyes. If their powers were the same, that meant they must have been of an Order. And that must have been why she had felt so drawn to him, ever since the moment she had first seen him. It was the most the information the Maia had ever gleaned about herself in a single setting.

And he said my maiden valaruka...

That wasn't something she ought to think about at the moment, however. She found if she let her mind wander the flame began to shrink and lose its brightness, and the flickering got worse. It was best just to focus on those feelings Celevonaur evoked in her, to bask in them and let them fuel the fire in her hand. While they were sitting by the boulder and resting she found the task relatively easy, but after a while she thought they ought to be moving again.

"I don't know if I can hold the light and my bow and you all at once," Alcalantë remarked as they rose back to their feet. "You'd better keep a hold of me instead. I'll make the light for a while if you like." It was trickier to keep the flame constant while walking, and several times along the way the Maia got distracted and let it flicker out. Still, she always managed to bring it back a few ties later (usually while touching some part of Celevonaur's body).

After the fifth or sixth time the light went out, the maiden paused before relighting it again. Was it her imagination, or was there already a grayish light coming from farther up the tunnel ahead? It was hard to tell once she had relit her flame, but when they came to a bend a fresh gust of air confirmed the suspicion. It was a long stretch and a rocky one leading upward, but sure enough about a hundred feet before them, a hole in the mountain was open to daylight. Alcalantë let out a cry of rapture and urged Celeovnaur forward, only releasing him when it was clear they were going to have to scramble on all fours over the rocky slope to the exit.

A silver head popped out of the mountainside a short time later, followed by a dusty body in clothes had had grown ragged and torn with the efforts of underground travel. The maiden could have cried at her first breaths of free air, but first she turned back to make sure Celevonaur made it out of the passage safely. That done, she threw herself upon the snowy ground, staring up at the clouds overhead and thanking each of the Valar by name for their help and guidance. She couldn't be sure, but she guessed it to be morning yet, not long after dawn, though the sun was so obscured she coudn't be sure. Others might have found the wind cold, but fire was still rushing through Alcalantë's veins, and she felt only a pleasant breeze. Snowflakes were falling gently on her face, though after a few moments she noticed with some curiosity that they didn't melt.

It was only when she caught the smell of smoke on the air that she realized the flakes standing stark and white against her dark skin weren't snow at all. They were ashes.

 

[BennyQ]

A short burst of an exhale and a weary smile was all Celevonaur could offer to Alcalantë’s excitement. She had done it indeed. Perhaps there was more he should have did and lectured but in that moment, resting his head back against the rock wall behind, a great exhaustion was setting into his mind and body. This is what the mortals and Upstarts called…sleep. Usually not required for Ainur like them but he was still in a weakened, dehoused state. He didn’t know how long he had drifted off into subconscious memory, thinking about his first time igniting his flame. Or marveling in how Ilmarë had created fire and lights in many hues, not just red and orange and yellow, but blue and green and purple and…

He felt so young again for a time. The memory rejuvenated him.

Alcalantë shifted to rise and Celevonaur jerked awake with an alertness and panic of a kind most unsettling. Where am I? Who is that? Am I beleaguered? No. They were still in the cave, and the memories of the previous hours flooded back into him, of snow and dragonfire and the fall and…almost losing Alcalantë. When she rose, his hand shot out again, and caught her elbow with an alarming intensity, though it lasted only a heartbeat as he relaxed. He still had her. Good. Rising to his feet was as swift as her own movements. He just nodded to her words and put his hand around her elbow for now. He sure wasn’t going to offer to hold her bow. It burned him the last time. The memory of it alone was enough to make him scowl for a moment.

Still, it was good practice for her to practice maintaining a flame, and often she failed to maintain it, causing him to grow with impatience. He believed in her, she was supposed to be perfect. Never mind his own similar struggles when he was a young Ainu. Exhales and exasperated clicks of his tongue chided her lightly, but he didn’t offer to step up to lead or illuminate. He felt a strange…bask of energy in his Raiment. And the last vestiges of slumber, something most strange to him, still lingered on his eyes. He yawned a few times in their journey. He felt he could huddle up and continue to rest, like a steady tree, bothered not by the change of seasons or anything else, forever rooted comfortably. It was a pleasant thought. He was having lots of pleasant thoughts, grasping this maiden valaruka by her slender arm. She felt so fragile and precious in a strange way. Like she would be so easy to…hurt, and yet so needy of protection, at the same time.

Light. There was light ahead. As Celevonaur expected, the cavern system opened to the world through a series of tunnels and openings, some small, some large. And the one they found was fortunately wide enough to accommodate them. He was half expecting they were going to have to swim or crawl their way out.

They emerged however looking absolutely ghastly. Celevonaur still wore a few of the trinkets given by the Temple, but neither the hue nor brightness of the gemstones were visible. Neither was the original paleness of Alcalantë’s garb. They were both covered in dark soot, stained with mud, ravished by dust and dirt and clumps of dry earth. Their faces, their hands, in various states of coverage. And now, it was snowing. Snowing ash. Celevonaur followed Alcalantë’s curiosity, before shifting further from beneath the shadow of the mountain to gaze upwards at its slopes.

Where once thickets of pine trees had lain, was now great swaths of burnt, ruined trees. Or what remained of them. Cracked logs and timbers, smoking black, the greenery and brown bark all having burned away. They could see the darkened swaths cutting across the entire mountain where dragonfire had hit and the lesser, ashen covered sections where the fire had spread and burned all night. The stench was heavy in the air. The entire mountain must have been ignited, evidence of Ghâshbúrz’s thoroughness, as taught to him…by Raugad. To burn the entire mountainside, to ensure the pair could not have escaped, to warn the great warriors of the world that some great evil dwelt there, and should be challenged. The dragon clearly did not care anymore. He had grown fat and proud upon his hoard and peak. Celevonaur began to rue the lessons he had imparted, but he had been alone. Still, he had not taught the winged slug everything.

The winged slug also had help.

They had come out westward of the mountain, whereas Tarla and Celevonaur’s own haunts were more on the southeastern side. Here on the valley floor beneath the mountain range that would be called the Grey Mountains, over ridgelines and treetops, plumes of smoke also rose from that direction. The sky was overcast with clouds, hanging low and grey, and perhaps might offer rain to mend these scars. Tarla. The temple. The Brothers. Celevonaur had been set up. He and Alcalantë had been set up. Fooled, by these Upstart mortals. The weathered, hunched figure of yester week was gone. The Úmaia now stood tall, erect, and was clenching his fists as he peered eastwards. These outrages they suffered would not be borne without revenge.

Without a word to Alcalantë he began to head that way. And by the Maker he moved much faster than he was known for. No walking stick. The dwarven metal boots on his feet lifted and stomped like they were trodden in by a well disciplined soldier. With a determination akin to how he and his kind had responded to the cries of their Dark Master, when he had been ensnared by that black shadow Ungoliant.

Hah, what a fool.

It should be no trouble though for his companion to keep up, disciple of Nessa that she was. Without sight of the sun it was not known how many hours it took to reach the outskirts of Tarla, but they reached it nonetheless. And even Celevonaur had to give pause, for he had not expected this sight. Ghâshbúrz had truly become evil. Ruinous, even to himself, for his rage was now boundless.

The village, which had served and gave tribute and fealty to him so readily in their fear…had been burned to the ground. The timber palisade lay in ruins. Every thatched house was a smoking rubble. Ash. Ash everywhere, inches high in some places that they walked through. And corpses. Corpses strewn in the street, or in great congregations by the gatehouse or in other open places where they sought to escape the flames in enclosed areas. Only to become ripe targets for a fiery blast from the winged fire above them. The corpses were prone, some huddled or hunched over, some looking as if they had desperately tried to crawl away. They were all of ash, burned clean through, for the bones were even disintegrated.

This was soon discovered, when Celevonaur’s boot struck a rock, which bounced into one such corpse, and the ashen structure of it gave away and fluttered away in the wind, gone forever.

There, a larger figure, trying to protect two smaller ones. A dog, in the arms of a loving master.

The ball, that those children played with, who had smiled at Celevonaur.

The Temple, untouched by the flames, still sat on its promontory above. Were…were the Brothers still there, perhaps untouched and spared from the flames due to their dark service to the dragon? Celevonaur’s wrath was kindled. He cared little for the village. He had seen worse in his own service. He saw Gondolin and other fortresses reduced to rubble. He had seen many villages such as this sacked by orcs, it’s inhabitants massacred or enslaved. His revenge was all that mattered. His revenge, and his…

“Alcalantë.” He said to her, turning to face her, about to finally regale her with his quest and desire for retribution. He had forgotten her. Forgotten what she might be seeing, or feeling, for the first time. She did not know war the way he knew it. This was…nothing but wanton destruction and death, for no reason, save a dragon’s appetite. Ruinous. And when he saw the look on her face, Celevonaur knew there were some things more important than his own fury.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Joy was such a fleeting thing. Alcalantë had been elated to escape the crushing darkness beneath the mountain, and the light and fresh air of the world beyond had given her an almost delirious sense of renewal. But the smoke and ash had quickly brought her back down, along with the realization that she had no idea where they were. She could see two spurs of the mountain's feet outstretching on either side of them, but the village and the temple were nowhere in sight. For miles all she could see were the broken skeletons of trees, smoldering beneath the thin blanket of kindly snow that must have fallen sometime in the night. Not enough to spare the forest its destruction, but enough to end the inferno some hours earlier.

And yet, something was still burning. The maiden was aware of the nature of wildfires, roaring and consuming all in their path for days at a time, often unceasing until the Ainur themselves intervened with heavy rain or snow. But she was beginning to believe this far corner of the world was beyond the sight, if not the care, of the Valar and their servants. No doubt the fire had burned through unchecked by any but the most natural of forces, and still continued to burn on the far side of the mountain.

Was that where Tarla was?

She turned helplessly towards Celevonaur. His strength seemed to have returned to him--was it her imagination, or was he standing taller now than he had before they had ascended the peak?--although his body and clothes were caked with dirt and ash, rendering him almost unrecognizable. Glancing at her own gray hands, the Maia suspected she probably looked the same, and might have even found their appearances amusing if not for the fear on the wind and the dark look on the Ùmaia's face. It told her what she had suspected in the pit of her heart, that his was no natural wildfire started by lightning or an errant spark.

It was dragonfire.

The fugitive knew this as well as he knew the location of doomed village, and although he didn't say a word to the maiden as he turned southward, she knew where he would lead her. Still gripping tight to her bow, Alcalantë's light steps quickly followed Celevonaur's heavy ones in the direction of the smoke. Despite the growing horror at their increasingly ruined surroundings and the terror at what still might lay ahead of them, there was a thread of awe through it all at her charge's refreshed vigor and movements. Had she ever seen him move so quickly at such a long stretch before, and unaided by his stick? What had become of that bent figure that had leaned so heavily on her in the dark? And as the wind blew the ashes from his hair, was it her imagination, or did the shaggy locks look darker than before?

Alcalantë gave voice to none of these questions as they circled the base of the mountain, and the closer they came to the village the less they seemed to matter. And when they crested a ridge overlooking the small valley where Tarla had been nestled, they were utterly forgotten. Here was the worst of the smoke, rising from burned out houses that poked like grave markers above the blackened spot that had once been a town.

No...by all the Powers of Light...how...?

The maiden didn't consciously walk down the slope to the pile of charred logs that had once been the village's wall. She didn't consciously do anything. It felt as though some other spirit had possessed her form, forcing her to walk among the corpses bent in horror, ducking into the corners of roofless houses that couldn't protect them any more than the wooden palisades had. The dragon had been thorough in his massacre...but why? Why punish these innocent people in this most ruthless of manners?

Up on the mountainside, the temple still stood, though it looked as though it too had faced a healthy blow of fire along its edges. The windows had gone dark, and even at this great distance Alcalantë's sharp eyes could pick out several sets of tracks leading away from the building. Much as she might have wanted to believe the survivors were like the poor girl she'd seen in Brother Kham's chamber, judging by the depth of the footprints they weren't made by light bodies. The priests had undoubtedly escaped.

"I don't understand," she breathed. How could such wanton destruction exist in this world? For what purpose? How could the priests walk away, unharmed and unpunished? Why didn't Tulkas, or Oromë, or even the Great King Manwë himself intervene on the village's behalf? The people hadn't seemed wicked to her eyes. Indeed, from what she had seen in the market yesterday (Yesterday? Had this place truly been alive such a short time ago?) the suffering had been in play for a long time. After all, had not the wicked priests been preying upon the people for years? "I don't understand," Alcalantë repeated as though in a dream. She took a step forward, and her foot nudged something: a skull. A very small skull.

All the fire that had reinvigorated her beneath the mountain was utterly gone. Although it was only midafternoon by now, and the Sun was high above her impenetrable veil of cloud and smoke, to Alcalantë it felt as though she were in the blackest, most moonless and starless of nights. She might as well have been back in the cavern, utterly alone and lost, unable even to move anymore.

"Alcalantë." Celevonaur's voice was like a ghostly whisper behind her. The maiden couldn't find the strength to speak, or even to look at him, although she managed to recognize his presence before her. His dirty face blocked the view of the scene before her, but as it did she suddenly recalled their conversation as they had ascended the peak.

"How kind of you to carry out their desired quest of us," the fugitive sneered as they stepped forward through the snow.

Alcalantë rolled her eyes. "As opposed to what? Refusing them? Going room to room and hoping they would wait patiently so we might slay them one by one? They would have cut us both down after five minutes," she retorted.

Oh if only they had. If they had just tried. Perhaps it wouldn't have stopped the dragon's wrath, but it would have bought them time to warn the village at least. Or if nothing else, they could have died victoriously cutting down a few of the parties responsible for such death and misery. But she'd been too cautious, too fearful. Even of Ghâshbúrz himself. She'd had arrows and her bow, had she not? Couldn't she have made a few carefully-timed shots? Celevonaur had said fire was no danger to them, and he'd proved it with his lesson down in the cave. Alcalantë hadn't listened though. She hadn't believed. And now an entire village was gone, and a dragon and his minions off to wreak their havoc on some other unfortunate settlement far beyond the maiden's reach.

This Is Your Fault.

Silent tears suddenly filled the Maia's ash-gray eyes. She couldn't even summon the strength to wipe them away. All she could think of were the hundred of deaths on her shoulders. If she could have saved even one...

She didn't noticed that Celevonaur had put his arms about her and was leading her away from the village of horror. She didn't even notice the hours and miles of walking, and if the Úmaia said a word to her she didn't hear it. It wasn't until the Ainur found themselves beside a cloudy, steaming spring that the visions of death finally began to fade from Alcalantë's mind, although the crushing sense of guilt still rendered her nearly paralyzed.

Wash. Had Celevonaur made the suggestion, or was it some dim part of her mind trying to wash away the filth that was caking her body and her spirit? Either way, it was all she could do to lean forward and dip her fingertips alone in the hot spring, the dirt immediately falling away and leaving her skin warm and bronzed underneath.

 

[BennyQ]

Alcalantë.

No cave or graveyard could have more of an echo than his voice did in that moment. Over ash and bone, over crisped lumber and scorched stone, Celevonaur’s mention of her name carried throughout the dead, empty village. Nothing more needed to be said. He didn’t know what to say, or even feel, when he beheld the look of anguish and defeat on her fair features. Crystalline tears swelled in her once-wide and curious eyes. Her posture was weak, burdened by emotional regret that he could not even begin to fathom. The scene and sights before them, the emptiness and bleakness, it was breaking her, in a process Celevonaur had beheld a thousand times over in the pits of Angband.

She didn’t see him. She didn’t even hear him. Celevonaur approached her, crunching ash beneath his boots as if it might have been snow. Such was the fate of mortals. But even at the hands of a wicked beast like the dragon, did they deserve such a horrible, terrifying end? They had done nothing. They did not oppose or rebel. They tried not to act outside the established order of things for them. Even Celevonaur found it wasteful. But to a steward such as Alcalantë, it was worse. And if she stayed, if she lingered, worse could yet befall. And Ghâshbúrz might return.

He came to her and put his hand around her elbow. He did not drag her. He did not pull her. Together, step by step, side by side, neither leading the other this time, he walked her away from that place. He walked until the stench was left behind. He walked them until the rain of ash ceased and the wind blew whatever crusted flakes lingered upon their forms. The burnt blackness receded and greenery and healthy brown of the earth returned. Still, on he walked. He didn’t speak. He never comforted a soul before. And yet, it plucked at the strings of his heart in a way he never felt before.

All Celevonaur knew was that he didn’t want her to feel that way anymore. Not if he could help it. But it felt like he couldn’t.

Blue. Not of the sky, but of running water, clear and swift, beneath the cloudy sky. The mountains receded behind them. Celevonaur had never journeyed this far from beneath their shadows, where the great forest of Greenwood lay to the south further on. He removed his hand from her elbow, seeing the stain and filth of his grip had left marks upon her garb. They were both filthy. “Come. Let us…wash.” He just suggested to her, something simple and distracting to put her thoughts to something else. But they were immortal, and practically lived in memory. Nothing would ever take that away from her. All she could do was learn to cope. And even he lacked that ability as of yet.

The water was warm. It must set above a fissure that went deep into the earth, where the heat of the fire set at the very midst of the world could flow rather freely to the surface. She seemed drawn to it, which was good, and Celevonaur behind slipped his feet from his boots and grabbed at the darkened, filth stained garment that covered his body down to his toes, drawing it over his head. Utterly nude, wrought with lean muscle, and some color back in his flesh, along with many fresh bruises and dried cuts, Celevonaur strode by her and sank into the midst of the heated pool, leaving ripples of grit and dust behind him. Hot, encompassing, refreshing, he felt at once all aches and sores in his body diminish.

There was no shame in doing it before her. He had done it once prior and knew she had seen him. He was far more impressive now. And…bigger.

“Alcalantë.” He said her name again, briefly gazing over her head towards the mountain, as if he might get a glimpse of the winged slug. But even with his own enhanced eyesight, there was no sight of the beast. “Alcalantë, you should bathe. Cleanse, wash yourself, you’ll feel better. The water is comforting and welcoming.” He splashed a cupful of water over his face, unveiling more of his features, even more clearer than the day they had first met. His eyes were strangely bright and the hue of tangerine was visible.

He sank completely beneath the surface of the water, before bursting out again, soaking his hair now, and shaking himself to free it from his eyes as it dripped down. The darkened layer of mud upon his grey hair gave away…to reveal it was no longer greyed, but indeed sable in color. It clung to his face in wet clumps. And when he shook himself, several of the droplets would splatter against her.

He tried to get her mind to the topic at hand. “This has definitely become a favored luxury of mine. There is power in water, despite it being…the opposite of who we are. But all things in the world, all elements, work in tandem in some way. Wouldn’t you agree?” He voiced to her. Fire and water together made…steam. And some was starting to simmer off the surface of the pool, just from his presence alone. And how he stood, the water up to his pelvis, the very top of his manhood briefly appearing. And its shape, distorted by the shifting ripples in the water…

She would have to adopt a similar state of disrobe to join him.

But he wouldn’t force or press her. He gathered up his long black hair in one hand, pulling it over a shoulder in one great strand, holding it by the end, while his other hand would scoop up water to splash over, before using both hands to wring and squeeze the ingrained filth from it. The droplets trickled down his broad chest and chiselled abdomen, creating long streaks of cleanliness against the more crusted dirt and dust upon his frame. He needed a scrubbing all over. And who was going to help with those hard to reach areas on his back? The biceps of his arm were large, impeding his own movements from reaching too far over a shoulder or around his back. For a moment he paused in the act of washing his hair, gazing into the trees around.

The music of the birds was back. That too was something he hadn’t realized he had become accustomed to, and enjoyed, like the art of bathing. “If they are back, it’s not going to rain anytime soon, I reckon.” He voiced aloud.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

"Alcalantë, you should bathe." Celevonaur's voice seemed to come from a thousand miles away, not a few mere feet. "Cleanse, wash yourself, you'll feel better. The water is comforting and welcoming."

He was right about that. Ever since the village the maiden's body had felt cold, a sensation she was utterly unfamiliar with either in Aman or Endor. It made her limbs feel heavy and her chest ache in a dull, hopeless manner. But as her fingers traced through the water, she could feel little streams of heat creeping back into her. Without looking away from her own reflected silhouette in the surface of the spring, Alcalantë stepped out of her boots and stood in the first few inches of water. The heat was rising up through her legs now. Very slowly her hands moved to the fastening of her cloak, tossing it aside to where she'd let her bow drop earlier.

Then she fell face first into the water.

​

Now the warmth was all around her, suffusing every inch of her skin and penetrating all the way to her core. This wasn't like being underwater in the icy river a few days earlier. This...this was paradise. The Maia's silvery hair floated around her like a cloud, and as her eyes shut her face finally wore an expression of peace.

She could go this way, cast off her Raiment as easily as she'd cast aside her cloak. She wanted to go Home, away from this land where there was so much suffering and sorrow. Let Celevonaur have his escape, what did he matter to her now? Would bringing him to justice bring back the lives of Tarla, or any of the lives the Úmaia had taken? Why did the Valar even care to mete out such petty justice on a creature who just wanted to live his miserable life in peace, when they were happy to let creatures like the dragon and the wicked priests go on uninterrupted? Alcalantë had already failed in the worst way imaginable, with blood permanently stained on her hands no matter how much she might wash them. Let her fail the Valar as well, they had already failed countless Men.

It would be like going to sleep. Warm and restful, no more pain, no more anguish. The maiden would be home soon, chided no doubt by the Lords and Ladies who had sent her to the east, but she could chide them right back. And afterwards, there was a warm beach waiting for her somewhere, and a breeze rustling through trees that were ever green, and the sun and moon and stars above her.

But still, her heart fought against her. Alcalantë became aware of the pain in her chest as the muscle raced rebelliously against chest, joined in its efforts by lungs craving fresh breath. Her Raiment had a will of its own, it seemed, and it was not so quick to give up. Body fought Will for what must have been minutes...

And Body won.

Alcalantë's silver head burst through the surface of the spring, gasping for air as her eyes flew open. The water wasn't deep, and after several sputtering breaths she easily found footing in the sandy bottom. Her dress was heavy and uncomfortable though, and threatened to drag her down again. Without thinking about Celevonaur's eyes on her the maiden soon pulled it over her head, leaving her utterly naked in the water. The Úmaia wouldn't see much, with her back to him and her sopping hair falling to just above the swell of her wide hips. The water rose more than halfway up her toned, rounded backside, and concealed everything underneath.

The Maia still seemed wholly unconcerned, or perhaps unconscious, or Celevonaur's presence. Her mind was spinning with too many questions, too many uncertain feelings regarding all she had seen in the last two days. It was enough to make her want to slip between the surface of the water again, but before she could the Úmaia's voice broke through the chaos.

He sounded so much nearer this time, and the sheer mundanity of his comments about the spring were enough to finally draw Alcalantë's attention. Her face was aghast as she turned to face him; an accusing question of how he could speak about luxuries with so many people dead was ready on her lips. But the remark never came.

What had become of the old man she had seen in the road? He was utterly gone now, replaced by a stranger in the spring who spoke Celevonaur's voice and manners. He even still had the eyes of flame that drew the maiden almost hypnotically in, but the hair that had been grizzled and gray was now black as night as it dripped on his shoulders. The lean, wiry form had filled out with muscle, though the black lettering she'd seen on him before was still present. But the lines in his face were gone, replaced instead with firmly chiseled features that were shockingly beautiful to Alcalantë's eyes. And as her eyes drifted down over the smooth planes of chest and abdominals, she could see something primal, something that made the maiden even warmer than before and brought a pale glow to her face...

"You're...different," were the only words that made it past her lips. Alcalantë faced him full on now, giving him sight of her full, pert breasts with their dusky nipples hardened in the chill of the air. Her bulky traveling dress had hidden the surprisingly small waist that only emphasized their size, as well as the breadth of her hips. The water might have concealed the sight of her sex, but oh the maiden was more conscious of it now than she had ever been.

She had felt a wild heat within her chest back in the cave when Celevonaur was trying to show her how to make fire. The sensation now was similar, but much lower now, and so much stronger as she felt her inner walls blossoming with need. Alcalantë moved slowly through the water, one hand outstretched towards the Úmaia. Yes something inside her rejoiced as she brushed her fingers over the fugitive's bare chest. He felt hot to her touch, like the flame she had passed her hand through, but it sent an invigorating thrill from her fingertips all the way to her toes.

And when she slid her hand upward, bringing it to rest over his shoulder while her other hand reached for his waist, pulling their bodies flush together with nothing between them, Alcalantë could have cried for joy. It felt as some part of her that had been lost was finally within her grasp, and she was desperate to become whole again.

"Celevonaur..."

 

[BennyQ]

Finally, a response from his companion, that wasn’t so monotone or lacking in spirit.

Celevonaur feared for a moment that Alcalantë had fallen into some deep state of despair, burrowing her mind away, becoming an empty shell out of distress and sorrow, as he had seen countless captives in Angband due. Just overwhelmed by the fear and anguish of their situation, trying to lock away their minds, losing their personalities. He was not at all impressed by her wading into the water, fully garbed, before crashing herself down upon it. Well, he could perhaps assume she was washing her garment at the same time, while too enjoying the encompassing embrace of water, as he had sometimes done, just flinging his body into the water as quickly as possible.

The seconds ticked by. Minutes, it seemed like. More than any Upstart or Raiment-clad Maia was supposed to stay beneath water, before irreparable effects began to harm their body. For a moment he feared she had collapsed and turned from his bathing, almost preparing to spring upon her and rescue her from the depths. But it was needless. Slowly, in awe-inspiring fashion, her head and star-lit hair broke free of the water, rising like a star out of the horizon. She seized at the collar of her soaked robe and pulled it clear over her head, shameless and fearless in having an audience. And that audience watched. He had seen many forms, some beautiful, some terrible, but none like hers. The color of cinnamon, the hair of distant silver stars, and hips, of a figure of lust and beauty mingled.

A true maiden valaruka. His…

Celevonaur looked, his eyes sweeping in every feature, every inch and curve. He too was shameless in that regard. It hardened him, beneath the water. It had been long since he last coupled. Three, four, maybe even five centuries ago? Those had been wild, deviant sessions. But looking upon Alcalantë here and now, in her full glory, that experience seemed to shame him. She was a figure of majesty and respect. He was bawdy and indecent. He could never have her like that…could he? And yet, he would make any sacrifice, just to know, just to try, and taste, if he might. His comments about bathing drew her attention and her eyes swept to him, and his eyes locked onto hers. He smiled at her, trying to distract, and not disregard the destruction they had just witnessed. It would be dealt with. But first…they must be in a position where they were able to, in body, and in mind, and heart.

But something else was in her eyes. A curiosity. A hint of surprise. Celevonaur did not know why at first, as a strong hand splashed the water across his broad chest, letting it trickle down between the lines of his muscular abdomen, that he never had so clearly defined before, since he had met Alcalantë. Had she never beheld the male form before? He assumed, given his own vast experience, that it must be the same for her and her ilk. You’re…different… she finally managed to gasp, her first words since they left Tarla. Celevonaur just returned her comment with an eyebrow. He opened his mouth to say something, but now she turned to face him, and he immediately clamped his lips, as he found himself looking…at her breasts.

They were the most wonderful, enticing mounds he had ever beheld. Despite being encompassed by water, he felt the need to wet his dry lips. He had never seen a figure like that, in the dusky hue that Alcalantë possessed. A figure hewn from heat and fire, of a pureness touched by flame, and darkened, but to greater beauty, rather than marred and disfigured.

And now that figure was coming towards her, through the water, sending ripples either side of her. Celevonaur brought his eyes up to her, offering an apologetic smile, raising his chin either, both sorry and yet shameless in having looked.

She came before him, slender, and short in comparison to his new height. He could look clear over her head, but his eyes were downwards upon her. She reached out…and she touched his chest.

The mere sensation of her palm to his naked chest nearly had him leaping out of his Raiment. It was so…electrifying.

Closer she drew, her hand drifting upon the hard ball of his shoulder muscle, her other hand finding his hip. His other moved from a subconcious effort, drifting over her naked sides, finger tips grazing first, but when it seemed there would be no bite or snap, his palms came flat over her flesh. Warm, and soft, and so supple and fragile. A great magnetism pulled their bodies together, his hands around her hips, at the small of her back, above her rear. Her chest molded to his, squishing those pert mounds against his broader, hardened surface, two buds prodding unrelenting into his flesh. Their abdomen’s grated. Their thighs and knees brushed. His manhood was upright against her pelvis, pointed upwards, grown in stature and might.

Celenvonaur she whispered his name, his true name.

“Alcalantë.” He murmured back, unable to stop smiling, even if he wanted to. He leaned forward to put his wet forehead against hers, eyes flickering between her own orbs and her lips. Then back again. “My maiden valaruka…” he murmured back hotly. He looked down at her lips again, his own somewhat ajar, and what he saw the expression mimicked…he couldn’t stop himself. His crashed to hers, first a firm imprint, lip to lip, before his head tilted and he began to consume, dancing his lips upon hers, eagerly, hotly, almost without form, and yet with a passionate need, always within limits, almost always with the need to repeat, over and over. Kissing. His hands at first circled down over her rear, caressing upon her cheeks, before one remained there, grasping a cheek tightly, while his other roamed up the cleft of her spine upon her back, coming behind her neck, grasping lightly at wet hair and around the slenderness of her neck.

On and on he kissed her. All else in the world seemed to far removed, at the very edge of his hearing and senses, despite surrounding them so very near. He kissed her over and when the need for breath came, he paused only to inhale, before tilting his head the opposite way, resuming the day, with no loss of heat or vigor. His tongue and lips continued to dance with hers. His mind however had so much to say, to express, to declare, even to warn. I will protect you. I will savour you. I will ravish you. I will dominant you.

I will hurt you.

But there seemed no time for anything but this raw expression of need and want. His body pushed and pulled with hers as he kissed her, his hips pressing itself to hers, something very hard and erect resting against her lower abdomen, having no other desire than to enter into her. He was indeed big, virile, and enduring, and very, very dangerous in a way. But was that a concern, when his hands dropped back to her rear, to beneath it, upon the back of her thighs, where he momentarily lurched forward to scoop her up, and uplift her out of the water, legs around his waist, their torso’s together, one hand easily able to hold her up beneath her rear as his other cupped her cheek, brushing wet strands of her hair aside.

He looked in her face and he smiled. “How am I different?” He then demanded in answer, resting his brow to hers again.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

When Alcalantë had first incarnated into her mortal Raiment, the lady Nessa had overseen the process and looked upon her handmaid's naked form with approval. "You've done beautifully, Yurë," the Vala had remarked as the shades of starlight and moonlight rippled through the maiden's hair, observing not a single flaw on the sun-bronzed skin. "Still, you must take cautions not to become so ingrained in this shape that it becomes your prison. Be cautious of eating and drinking to excess, or partaking in other pleasures that may leave you dependent upon it. Do not forget what happened to Melian." That tragic figure had been trapped in her own material form after marrying an elf king and giving him a daughter, unable to free her fëa and return to Aman until both husband and child had departed the mortal world.

At the time of her own "birth", Alcalantë had though such a fate almost ridiculous for one as insignificant as herself. She was no more taken with the Elves of Aman than she had been with a particularly lovely tree or striking beast; fair and occasionally impressive to look at, but otherwise unappealing to her baser desires. The Elves of Endor were even less impressive, lacking the light of the Valar in their eyes and in some cases living as savages in their woods. And even these were far above the fragile shapes of mortal men, many of which were downright ugly in her eyes. No, there was no risk of entrapment from any of these Children as far as she was concerned.

And the idea that she could have been seduced by the very creature she'd been sent to hunt...impossible. Yet here she was, naked before Celevonaur just as she was before Nessa on the day of her incarnation. On that day she had marveled at the sensation of flesh and nerves, feeling a pleasantly cool breeze and the warmth of the sun overhead, the tickling of her own hair over her shoulders, a peculiar dryness on her lips that was easily solved with a quick swipe of her nimble pink tongue. Now, added to all those novel sensations that she had only recently gotten used to, there was an imperative arousal, demanding as any desperate hunger or thirst.

It was unlike anything she had ever experienced in her incorporeal form. Those early, experimental desires had been a flickering candle when compared to the inferno threatening to overwhelm Alcalantë's senses now. Her body moved without thought, her mind only comprehending her actions once they were well underway. Perhaps there ought to have been shame in them, but what was shame compared to need? Never mind that the one who had inspired such longings was an Úmaia. Never mind that he had once been a terrifying monster of flame and shadow, or a pitiful old man even as recent as this morning. He was young and strong and beautiful now, and Alcalantë could feel his own desire brushing against her stomach, making her shiver and inhale sharply through her parted lips.

"Alcalantë." He smiled at her, a smile that shattered her resistance as the rising sun shatters night, and the maiden was utterly lost.

No wonder Lady Varda loved him so Alcalantë thought as he brought his lips to hers. His smile alone would have been enough to disarm the great queen, and the lowly Maia was powerless before it. She eagerly returned the kiss, perhaps even a bit too enthusiastic as her need sank its claws deeper into her body and mind. Her teeth nipped experimentally at the fugitive's lower lip while her fingers twined in the rich black tangles of his hair, teasing across his scalp. Beneath the water, one of her thighs began to slide upward along Celevonaur's, and the maiden seemed to grow taller as she rose up on the ball of her other foot, just barely aligning their hips.

But whether for her sake or his own, the Úmaia was holding himself back from the plunge, contenting himself with kisses and caresses that stoked the fire at Alcalantë's core without sating it. She moaned with frustration against his mouth, tightening her fingers in his hair and jerking her hips sharply. Did he always have to tease and torment her, even now? Oh, he truly was wicked...and yet, while she couldn't feel the words exactly as they ran through his mind, this close proximity, or perhaps their similar natures, did give her a sense of Celevonaur's feelings.

He desired her every bit as much as she did him; maybe even more, and without a doubt more violently. Yet there was a affection in him, that light in his smile and the gentleness in his hands, that was holding back for her sake. Where such affection came from Alcalantë couldn't begin to guess, unless her Raiment really was as awe-inspiring as Nessa had seemed to think it, but the maiden doubted Celevonaur was one to be moved by beauty alone.

Whatever his motive was, it seemed to be losing out by the time his grip on her tightened and he lifted her clear out of the water, as though the Maia's physical form was weightless as her fëa. She squealed in delight as his strong hands kneaded at the toned muscle of her rear, and her ankles automatically locked together at the small of his back, letting her cling to him like a wisteria to an oak. Now, surely now that blessed union would come; he would be inside her, stretching and filling her sex until she was pushed helplessly past the edge and left shivering around him--

"How am I different?" he said instead, smiling and content to leave Alcalantë's sex dripping hungrily against his abdomen, as though they had all the time in the world.

You aren't! the maiden wanted to scream in her frustration. You are as wicked and vexing as ever! But instead she merely shut her eyes, as though removing the sight of that handsome face could strengthen her resolve, and took a deep breath, trying to ignore the heady, musky scent of him that tempted her to answer his impertinent question with another kiss.

"Your hair is darker," she answered after a moment, daring to open her eyes again. Her hand drifted from the shadowy locks to the sharp features of his face, letting one finger trace first his cheekbone then the shape of his lips. "And your face is younger." She couldn't resist; Alcalantë's head dipped forward and kissed him again, albeit only briefly. "And your body..."

Her legs tightened their grip around his waist as her hand dropped lower, fingers running along the tendons in his neck before splaying over his heart. "Your body seems stronger," the maiden finished, teasing her thumb over a nipple as she leaned forward to kiss him again. She was gentler now, parting her lips in invitation for his tongue while both arms draped almost lazily around his shoulders. But the light in her eyes was all the brighter when she finally pulled away from him.

"Please, my dearest one." Without thinking, Alcalantë's tongue had switched into that most elder of languages, spoken by none but the Valar and Maiar themselves. It was the tongue all Ainur were born knowing, and even through long disuse it could never be forgotten. "I need you, please. Please take me, now...!"

 

[BennyQ]

After so many untold aeons on Arda, Celevonaur felt he must have endured and borne witness to all the earthly joys and pleasures that could have existed within this paradise. Yet nothing ever felt so enticing and rapturing as the way Alcalantë gripped herself to his torso. The tightness of her legs around his waist and back, so strong and capturing, felt like she could remain locked to his form even without his uplifting hands beneath her. The eagerness of her lips to explore and sate their curiosities, tasting, and retasting, as if the memory of touch and feel and texture was forgotten in the next instant, and needed to be rediscovered, there was no feeling like that.

Celevonaur had enjoyed many Raiments of fellow Ainur before, but never like this. This union, there was something between them, within them, that all those lustful, ravenous moments before had lacked.

Your hair is darker…and your face is younger…and your body…your body seems stronger.

After a mountainous climb and tumble and stumbling trek through a mountain, to covered in mud and ash of a burned down village, he had changed. The spirit within reflects in the appearance without. Something had changed within him. Something had brought that change to him. But he was still too proud to think it had been brought to him. He expected this, hadn’t he? He knew his power would return. Not as speedily or cleanly as he appeared now, but he didn’t stop to consider why and how. He had changed, for the better, and the path towards did not matter. He was stronger, mightier, and close once more to his original goal…

And who said he couldn’t stop and enjoy some pleasures along the way. Alcalantë held him in praise and desire. He was not going to ponder how and why she came to such an emotion. They were here. They were doing it. In a steamy pool, under a cloudy sky, there was nobody in their bubble of reality except them, and what was between them.

She begged him for it now, in the ancient tongue, a tongue he hadn’t heard in so long. His own use of it had become corrupted, as the dialects of Utumno and Angband shifted from the original tongue once used at the beginning of Eä. But he understood it. He understood the passion behind it. He smiled devilishly and leaned forward to give her a kiss. You are mine!

“You’re different.” Celevonaur just repeated her statement back to her, grinning with his foolery. And then he put his forehead to hers. No kiss. He looked into her eyes, seeing, but not seeing, as his thoughts went to his hands. One spread across her bent rear, lifting, and balancing, her to his abdomen. His other…took hold of his erect member, guiding it to where it needed to be, upright, beneath her awaiting sheath. Never breaking his eye contact, always peering at her face, lips slightly ajar as he concentrated, he lowered her form until her outer folds kissed the bulbous head of his member, and found its mark. It spread her, openly, widely, to accommodate his girth, and both hands went to her cheeks once more to control her descendant.

A slow impalement. There was a sadistic pleasure gleaming in his eye. She was inexperienced. And he was big. And more and more upon his shaft he made her consume, and hold, spearing with the most agonizing slowness into her core. A third he forced her to consume, before he stopped, and raised her again. But the wetness left behind would help, making the next descendant and thrust easier, more fluid, allowing her to consume more, and more, while he watched the expression play out on her features. He grinned, stopping at another third, and raising her up again, before this time, bringing her down fast, suddenly, to consume the entire length into her being. Now they touched, pelvis to pelvis, his hands squeezing fiercely with possessive desire at her backside to pull her as tightly as possible to his flesh. He grimaced, baring his teeth, all his muscles clenched, as he thundered their union together.

He was entirely inside of her. And he just held her like that, letting her adjust, letting her insides milk and hug him. He kissed her softly again. He would feel hot to the touch, not that it could harm her now. But the heat would rise. Steam would rise alongside his legs, from where the water lapped at his upper thighs. All the droplets between their body would evaporate, rising in a cloud and mist above them, but who would see that? He had eyes only for her, for her face, and the motions of her lips. He was inside of her. In this Raiment, it felt even better.

“You still have need of me?” He taunted her in a whisper in the old language, somewhat...coarse, but intelligible, using his hands to lift her hips up off his manhood, before letting the slow tug of gravity bring her down again, his rear clenching as he would push in tandem with her drop. Again, and again, inch, by hard inch, slow, and steady, he took her. The physical love language would soon play out on his features as well, before her eyes. His nostrils flared with his controlled breathing as the exertion picked up, deep inhales through the mouth, rapid exhales through the nose. Sometimes the intake was sharp, raspy. Sometimes he even forgot, so focused on the union of hips, and the diluting waves of pleasure that spiked throughout him as he felt himself consumed, over and over, by her sheath.

He was inside of her, molding her, and the thought that no other came before, and would come after, pleased his vanity in ways never before possible. Alcalantë was his. His maiden valarauco, maiden no longer. But he would keep teasing her with that nickname.