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Author Topic: tell me why  (Read 1826 times)

Tintaldé

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tell me why
« on: July 03, 2017, 08:04:43 AM »
She still felt ill.

Tintalde wasn't sure how much time had passed. It was a difficult thing to pin on any given day, when you'd finally grown old enough to mark time passing by events rather than the days themselves, but rarely even then had she come to the point where she couldn't remember how much time, exactly, had gone by. She knew the sun had risen and the moon had set, and if she thought about it hard enough, the moon was now no longer present in the sky...

...which meant that a couple of weeks, perhaps, had passed since she'd abandoned Tinuvagor in that little athelas filled glade.

Don't you have anything to say for yourself except for...yes?

He hadn't. And she hadn't listened to what she'd heard, at first, because whispers were whispers and Tintalde wasn't quite stupid enough to believe an Elf his age had somehow remained free of all that had happened in the history of their kind since journeying to Middle Earth.

She was, however, apparently stupid enough to willingly blind herself to the possibility of him being anything but an innocent.

Or even half-guilty.

He was all guilty.

And maybe that was the problem, really. Not just the fact that what had happened in the past, that he'd been part of, had been so...horrible. That she knew, for a fact, that even though the chance was slim, he might very well have been the one who'd slain her mother's brother, or even those Faenuriel, a teacher of long ago to her now, had lost. Not even the fact that this was a physical manifest of the suffering the Lord and Lady had encountered-- particularly the Lady, for Tintalde felt curiously more pity for her (perhaps because nobody spoke of the hurts of the Lady's past quite so much, the tragedies and all the in between). No. It was...that she'd been stupid enough to do that. Perhaps half the shock, the hurt, the...all of it, was in the fact that, ultimately, Tintalde's common sense-- the one thing she could rely on when even her emotions failed her-- had flaked on her in a massive way. And she had no idea why.

Oh, she'd had a good look at it, much as it crippled her pride to do so. It had been a discomfiting thought, but immortal as they were, it wasn't entirely unheard of for a much younger elf to become attached to, and then fall in love, with a far older elf. A little strange, definitely odd-- it was common knowledge that elves who lived to be as old as the Lady of the Galadhrim who did not find a mate in their first thousand years often met...odd or tragic fates (Vanar help Tintalde herself in that case), and even then, one had to wonder what there was to talk about amid such a huge age gap considering the time it took for Elves to reach full mental maturity, once the...er, physical aspect had died away...but well.

She'd examined that side.

She wasn't in love with Tinuvagor. Thank the Valar for that one. Maybe, if she'd been of the Eldar days, she might have considered him as such, the risk of it as such-- fickle creature though he'd apparently been.

But she'd grown attached enough to have been more hurt than she felt she had the right to be, when he'd answered in the affirmative. Had done it with her saying little at all, which had somehow hurt more even as it had bewildered her-- was it loneliness, then, that had driven her attachment to him? She had nobody, really, and she knew even if she'd never admit it that she'd sought in others (and often failed) the figure she'd lost in her father especially.

Apparently though, she'd grown attached enough to be doing what she was doing now. Miserable, troubled, rather bereft of sleep-- but if she was going to sleep ever again on the other hand, Tintalde knew she needed to seek her erstwhile 'definitely not 'in' love with' companion out...for however it went in doing so.

That troubled her the most at present. That she was going in without a plan.

She was usually full of those, whether it was for forgiveness or more censure. Purely because half the time, she had no idea how to properly cope with spontaneity when it came to interacting with other sentient beings. Rather the reason she'd become a Healer, really, over warrior, sage, bard or even weaver; you could control most of a situation then, and nobody called you rude for being abrupt when you were trying to fix someone.

The sun had still been up when she'd decided to go looking. Rather high in the sky at that. Tintalde had only vaguely noticed its descent, and only then by the colour of the hands she kept examining when they tremored a little-- the daylight fading, but the skin of fae magic slowly beginning its faint, silver and fog-blue glow.

It was full dark, and perhaps then some, when her senses finally let her know that she'd found him. Practically stumbled on him, rather, which was rather a sign of how preoccupied she'd been that she'd been solely reliant on her keen nose and abandoned most else, and Tintalde took a fair share of steps back to the safety of a mallorn tree with a particularly gnarled trunk. There, her troubled, trembling hands were folded under her arms-- the illusion of warmth, even as it was hardly needed, and preceded by an attempt to place them primly in long sleeves that weren't there.

She watched him, then. Not feeling the need to say anything, considering their previous conversation, but not quite sure what to do, how he'd react, to the deliberate movements that had, despite her stumble, marked her as clearly hunting for him. Not sure herself along with what to say exactly what to place on her features, though considering the headache her brow was giving her, there was something or other there to be read.

It was the only thing she could do, really. And he'd lived long enough-- through enough, it seemed, to hardly need a few moments more rushed.


'what you do in the present is what defines you now'

Tinuvagor

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Re: tell me why
« Reply #1 on: July 04, 2017, 04:58:03 AM »
It was not unusual, what had occurred with young Tintalde, yet the hurt was no lesser for it.  The wound was old and raw, never fully able to heal before the next injury, but each fresh hurt was duller as time moved on.  Perhaps one day, he hoped, he would be so numb to it that’d he’d fail even to notice the next elf to look at him with those eyes…  Sometimes they were angry, accusing, the eyes of the victims for whom his sins quickened their old wounds as easily as their eyes quickened his.  Sometimes it was fear, those foolish enough to think it was something he made a habit of.  But most often it was disgust.  Revulsion.  The pure and simple inability to breathe the same air as someone like him without feeling ill from it. 
 
No, it was not right that he grow numb to that.  It would only mean he had become a man he no longer wished to be.
 
Still, time healed some of those wounds, and those that chose to return to his side might have counted him as friend, but they were few and all the more treasured for it.  Most learned to treat him with detached courtesy, and that was a comfort in itself, for Tinuvagor had become quite an expert at being polite and inoffensive, despite those urges to be otherwise.
 
These things took time,  he had reminded himself. She will come back when she is ready. He only needed to wait.  And yet the waiting pained him, more so than it often did.  He had liked the younger elleth quite a bit, had hoped that she might not shun him if she had known him well enough to weigh his sins against his character.  But as weeks passed, even Tinuvagor had begun to doubt if he would see her again.
 
He was out that evening, as he often was, walking beneath the trees like some silent apparition, lost somewhere in his own thoughts.  But beneath that, he still retained those instincts born a lifetime ago, standing guard in the frigid north, and so the presence drawing near was no secret.  He had taken note of her long before she had taken note of him, and he had begun to hope that perhaps now there would be some resolution.  One way or another.  Hopefully she had come with the intention of finding him and this was not some unfortunate happenstance.
 
In truth, she had stumbled upon him so suddenly because Tinuvagor had stopped his own measured stroll and placed himself quite fully in  her path.  He was more certain now that she meant to seek him out, though he hesitated to alert her just yet.  Instead, he waited there, purposefully placed where he could be seen, avoiding the shadows of the trees so that he might be illuminated fully, though it managed to cast him in an almost perilous light, as if he were some lost spirit, a shadow of the elder days that did not fully belong in this world.
 
“You don’t have to if you’re not ready,” he acknowledged her presence with a peace offering.  He would not pressure her to speak now, for she was quite clearly uncomfortable with the thought of it, even now.   Perhaps for a long while now.  And as much as the thought pained him, he found himself more than certain that this was not a friendship he would eagerly set aside simply to hurry things along. 

Played by Whitney

Tintaldé

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Re: tell me why
« Reply #2 on: July 06, 2017, 02:24:02 AM »
Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do.

It was a petulant, childish thought that first came to mind, communicated by a rebellious glint in cat-shaped eyes, and for once, Tintalde was glad for her struggle with eloquence when it came to expressing herself verbally outside of the factual (and the occasionally philosophical). She didn’t need to wound her own pride – what little of her self-esteem there was that wasn’t straw-thin or a line of defence – on top of everything else already present and painful in this moment; it was already difficult enough.

Part of her wished for fighting words, even defensive ones, if only because it seemed easier to deal with than…this. This response that was almost peaceful, that threatened to dispel into the wind the stare that was hard and yet not quite a glower, as pained in its inability to comprehend as it was…well, for the sake of pain. For what had happened. For a past, ancestors, Tintalde had never tried overly hard to connect herself with until now. Defensive wasn’t necessarily remorseful, but it was far easier to retaliate with fire than it was with…air. Even water was preferable, because it was something tangible and physically, visibly there to grasp. Taunts about a preference for a quiet life or not, Tintalde was not quite a pacifist, and the desire for some kind of fight had never been stronger than it had been now.

Because, no matter how flexible in their beliefs a man or a woman was, nobody liked them challenged.

And having them challenged in the flesh was far harder than to have them challenged in the tales a child was told.

And the idea of needless, reprehensible bloodshed, especially among her own kind, went against every fibre of the code Tintalde herself had sworn to what seemed an age ago now. She was no warrior-healer, to fight and shed blood through some invisible loophole like those such as Lord Elrond followed. She was all, and entirely in her soul, a healer.

“Why?” Finally, her voice forced its way past her throat without a tremor. “I defended you, you know. To one of the others. I looked like an idiot, defending you when I barely knew what I was doing. So I deserve to know. Why did you do it? I never thought you to follow anyone so blindly.”


'what you do in the present is what defines you now'

Tinuvagor

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Re: tell me why
« Reply #3 on: July 06, 2017, 05:14:06 AM »
He was far too skilled in his old age at containing his emotion, and faced with the sharpness of her gaze, he remained silent, weary eyes simply observing as they were so used to doing.  It was her words, and moreso the manner in which she spoke, that broke him, and he looked away.  Emotion surged and for a moment, threatened to force its way to the surface, only held back by closed eyes and a deep intake of breath.

Why, she asked.  As if it were a question he could answer with a single thought.  As if it were even remotely a simple matter.  And just like every time he was ever asked why, he was half tempted to simply blurt out the easiest answer, the answer that painted him in the exact light which they all wanted to see him.  Because I wanted to.  Because I enjoyed it.  A reply so absurd that no one in their right mind should believe it, so absurd that perhaps it would paint those wordless accusations in her eyes as exactly what they were.  Ridiculous.

But he was not that man any longer.  In his youth he would have lashed out eagerly, but age and sorrow had tempered his boldness.  Instead, he met her gaze again and smiled, a smile that had no joy in it, but only weary acknowledgement and acceptance.   “That is a question that has no single answer,” he prefaced, hoping that at least Tintalde would be kind enough to indulge him in a lengthy explanation. 

“I did not follow blindly,” he began, feeling almost defensive on that front, though it seemed an odd thing to be defensive about.  To acknowledge that you knowingly indulged in murder.  And yet it seemed more an insult to Maedhros than to him, and as such, he could not let it remain.  “My eyes were open.  I made a choice, and I would not choose differently if given the chance.”

Knowing the difficulty that was to come, Tinuvagor sunk slowly into the grass.  Best he be seated than give away the trembling in his knees.  There was only one place to begin, and that was with Feanor.

“He was fire incarnate.  Perilous and fearsome and utterly brilliant beyond all capacity for thought.   Never have there been, nor will there ever be, words up to the task of describing Feanor that night we were all plunged into darkness.  And I was young, barely old enough to be called an adult, and he stoked the flame of my passion, turned my fear into rage, and set my heart on vengeance.  And I followed him.  And when my king told me that the Valar had set Alqualonde against us to bar our flight, I fought.  I stole their ships, killed their marriners, and all the while without question.”

It might have seemed as if he had no shame in admitting to such, and perhaps he no longer did.  Who now would claim they had acted with wisdom in those desperate hours?  And really, Alqualonde was the easiest to speak of, for it had been, even then, a mistake.  A fatal, misguided, cruel mistake, unintentional to all but the man they had all followed.  Of that he was as guilty as all the others who shared in it.  It was the later two that were always far more difficult to explain.

“When Feanor died and Maedhros became High King, I was desperate to march north with him, but he refused me.  Told me I was too young and should stay behind.”  Lips twitched, as if they wanted to smile, but were held down by some heavy weight.  Such was the melancholy that came in remembering Maedhros.  “I learned later that he knew he marched into a trap, that he had saved me from a certain and empty death at the hands of the Enemy, and so when, beyond all hope, he was brought out of Thangorodrim thirty years later, I pledged him my sword.  Not out of fear, but out of hope.  Out of respect, out of admiration.”  He paused, taking in a shaky breath, coming to realize only then that he trembled, unshed tears threatening to escape, and with them all the heavy weight of unshared emotion that he’d held in for centuries. 

“He was the best of us.  And I would have walked through the very pits of Angband if he had asked it of me.  Because he would not have left me to walk that path alone.”  It happened then.  His voice broke, and though he still did not cry, he released a single, shaking sob.  Then a breath.

“I could tell you more.  I have already told you more than I have told most.”

Played by Whitney

Tintaldé

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Re: tell me why
« Reply #4 on: August 20, 2017, 05:37:35 AM »
"Ereinion Gil-galad was the best of you."

She was tart as always and honest with it in a way only Tintalde could be with such ease. But it was said with a rasp to touch the end of her voice, a noise that stripped away the blunt maliciousness the comment risked when paired against the emotional speech it was parrying. A noise that dared him to contradict the world that was behind the apparently innocent simplicity of her retort, dared him to question the aged soreness to her then and told him in no uncertain terms that she did not take to the platitude that was offered in the form of knowing that he told never this much to any other.

Tintalde was part of the younger generation, a generation that had grown up and was growing up, and so saw the sins of their elders in a light even the wisest of those elders could not see, for the history they spoke of was a history for them that was fettered by emotion. And thus, she reacted to it as such.

"I will give you Maedhros, for I had kin who spoke of him too. But Feanor...I have seen the haunted look that comes over the Lady of the Galadhrim when his name is mentioned, have been parley to the nights when she does not sleep and comes to us when the Mirror has sucked her dry. Feanor was fire, but there was no warmth to him; he destroyed everything precious around him, there was no regard for others. One does not have to be a savant to know his lust for battle straight up was proof of that."

She wanted to sit herself, but even as she trembled down to her toes did Tintalde stubbornly stay upright. She would not deny her liking for being the taller one in a group for once, even if her fellow elf was required to sit down for it to be so. Even so, she was more careful than many gave her, the emotionally awkward one, the 'oh Tintalde, it doesn't matter' when she didn't get it' credit for, for she did not look down her nose at Tinuvagor so much as dip her chin so that, no matter how livid her anger and defiance and the scorn in between bubbled, it never strayed into the path of patronising.

The aforementioned Valar only knew that no matter the sins of the other, Tintalde herself only knew too well the livid frustration condescension engendered, the disgusted defiance that came with it and the complete lack of desire to be cooperative and agreeable whether the situation was already a tense tableau or not. Wiser and older beings forgot that often themselves, if they ever understood it at all.

"You were-- you're an idiot, Tinuvagor. Not a fool, but an idiot. Has anyone ever told you that before?"
« Last Edit: August 20, 2017, 05:40:50 AM by Tintaldé »


'what you do in the present is what defines you now'

Tinuvagor

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Re: tell me why
« Reply #5 on: August 27, 2017, 04:08:59 PM »
That tart reply caught him off guard, and he bristled at the contradiction.  Unjustly so, he knew, for he had nothing but respect in his heart for Ereinion Gil-Galad whom he had served for far many more years than he had served Maedhros. And still he bristled. Gil-Galad had been just a child, fostered in comfort in the Falas and far removed from the steady dismantling of what remained of the northern strongholds.  High King or no, he had not suffered as so many others had, and perhaps it was his own bias that made it so, but Tinuvagor had always held in highest esteem those Princes of the Noldor who held the northern passes despite the hardship inherent in those duties.

At her question, he merely sighed, offering an exaggerated shrug that seemed to encompass the full weight of his current frustration, so much of which was not even due to Tintalde’s questioning so much as it was baggage gathered over a too-long life of attempting to bear condemnation with grace. “I’m sure someone has,” he answered, as honest a reply as he could provide, for he’d stopped keeping track a long time ago what others called him.  “But thank you, it’s a refreshing change from the usual.”  The tone was heavy, not so much sarcastic as disheartened, though the full weight of his feelings on the matter were impossible to define. 

There were fleeting thoughts of defeat, as there always were. That dejected part of himself insisting he might as well add Tintalde to that ever larger group of former friends who had rejected him for his crimes. And it was not so much that he failed to see such thoughts were unfair and perhaps even a bit overly dramatic, but rather that it would have been almost easier to let her go than it would have been to work at it.  But better sense prevailed, for it would have been a great disservice to the young elleth to even think she might be so easily dismissed. She deserved far better than to receive the brunt of his petulance.

Keep trying.  This is worth it.

Having fought through that moment of doubt seemed to have settled the turbulence of his emotion.  When he finally spoke again, his voice was level, painfully controlled, even.

“If you think for a moment that I mean to defend Feanor, then I am afraid you are mistaken.” His tone had gone cold, leaving behind all the quiet distance that had come with his initial recollection.  “He was mad, and if some of us had not known it when first we set out, we came to know it well before our journey ended. I know better than you what it was he destroyed and I have borne the scars for almost seven-thousand years.  We all bore those scars… and better men than me broke beneath the weight of them.”

Or perhaps he, too, had broken and simply did not realize it.  But perhaps it explained why, in seven-thousand years, he still could neither reconcile nor explain his feelings when it came to the years he had spent in Maedhros’ service. Perhaps he had gone mad to feel such admiration for the man who had led them spiraling into destruction, whether it was his intent or not. But, he reminded himself, intent counted for something… or at least it should.

“Perhaps Maedhros was not the best of us,” he admitted almost reluctantly, “but he was for me.”  He risked a glance towards her, but it lasted only the barest of moments before his gaze returned to the worn leather of his boots. “There was no one more worthy of loyalty than he was.  But as you have already pointed out, I am an idiot, so kindly allow me such idiotic notions.” 

Played by Whitney

Tintaldé

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Re: tell me why
« Reply #6 on: August 28, 2017, 06:09:15 AM »
She was not immune to the vagaries of pride. If anything, she was more susceptible than most, and Tintalde's jaw clicked shut so hard that pain shot its way to her temples, adding already to the maelstrom of feeling and thought and more, the inability still, even after two thousand years of living, to figure out how it was exactly others thought. Her first and immediate response (no doubt stirred by the very same, cure-less headache brewing) was to throw his words into the wind, overrule the petulance on the edge of his words with the full breadth of the same feeling, regardless of how very childish and hypocritical it would be.

But he'd said rather the wrong thing, or more, said something that to her, was plain as the nose on her face. And Tintalde, more than anything, hated it when people dithered about with the obvious. No, she hated that second, more. What she hated first almost blindingly was being thought of as a child, no matter how she desired to retort, snarl, snap back as such, and so whether he'd lived what she'd only heard or not, to have it rubbed in her face as though it made what she thought of less consequence was beyond insulting.

Then, Tinuvagor's miens changed entirely. And though it didn't still her, though her lip, invisible to him with his refusal yet again to meet her eye for long, still curled with disgust, the chill down her spine at the cold and implacable tones stalled the words in her throat, all too real and all too sharply contrasted against what she'd come to know from him (to her, anyway) before now. It was unsettling, oddly hurtful and hurting, even as her soul and the pride often battered but never broken within it continued to rail against the indignity of being patronised to.

Tintalde felt...rather tired all of a sudden. More than she'd ever felt in her life.

Like a contagion, almost. As if the weary, beaten creature across from her now, demeaned by the very way in which he cowed, shoulders hunched and gaze fixed on his boots, radiated his tiredness as if it were an illness to be transferred through the air, to rest and burrow into skin and lips and wherever breath passed into the body.

It didn't bring a sudden understanding; that would be too easy and too...foolhardy, somehow. It certainly didn't absolve him in her mind of what she now knew first hand, and yet somehow, in the present moment, it was the injury he was doing to her now, and not just her stubborn, accursed pride either, that wounded and sought recompense more.

"I'll do no such thing, you patronising old fool," she said coolly, and her disdain now was clearly for what was before her, rather than what had been in the past. "I don't and likely never will understand, as you so kindly put it, the things I never lived. I hardly understand how others come to the decisions they do in the present day. But I do think now that, regardless of who -- Gil-galad or Maedhros or Elu Thingol or Galadriel herself -- it is you pledge your adoration and worship to, you're...what's the wording? Looking for an excuse to continue as you are, because you're afraid of...something. Change, maybe? I don't know. I won't pretend to know."

Her lips pursed, and she turned away, eyes focusing on and yet unfocused as they mapped out as if by daylight the trails of the forest in the dark. "Galadriel took you in, and anybody who has spent time here with the Galadhrim will know she defied knowingly those closest to her...and those who are close to those closest to her, whether they are puffed up poppin-jays or actually of some import."

"...and I'm not as ignorant as your spiel just now intimated." She was quieter now, so very quiet in fact, eyes still scanning and yet seeming to fail to find with ease the correct path that would take her from this clearing. She didn't fear it-- no Elf could fear the forest, and never a Sylvan, but for an odd, aching moment, Tintalde wished for the ease that was Rivendell, and the sanctuary being far from here and there instead would bring her.



'what you do in the present is what defines you now'

Tinuvagor

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Re: tell me why
« Reply #7 on: August 28, 2017, 09:14:14 PM »
“I don’t know what else to be,” he nearly growled out the words, having put not an ounce of thought into them before lashing out, the fires of his old temper at last stoked to life by her words.  But only because she had been right about him.  Perhaps he did fear change, or perhaps he simply did not know how to change. It was so simple now to think he knew what others thought of him; it was often so very similar that he was rarely wrong.  Celeborn himself had even said it, had told him to expect it.  And even now, his pride raged at having to grovel to the remnants of Doriath.

“I am grateful for what the Lady has done for me, all the more because she has less reason than most to offer me kindness.”  There were few enough places he felt truly welcome, and whatever might be said to him by some who dwelled in Lothlorien, he had felt more welcome here than he had in several other places.  “And I hold her in the highest esteem, by whatever name you choose to call it.”  He had, indeed, bristled once more at the suggestion that came with such words as ‘adoration’ and ‘worship.’   As if he were irrational in his admiration for those who had, by all rights, earned his loyalty.  As if he were merely some mindless devotee who did not know himself, even after all of these years.

Well, he’d had plenty of time to learn to know himself.

He took a moment to release his indignation in a slow, measured breath.  Despite all intentions to be honest, he would do well to put away his temper before it cost him far more dearly than it had already.  “But I can tell you what it is I am afraid of.” At last, he lifted his gaze, seeking hers again, though he struggled within himself for the courage to hold it.  It was far easier to be defensive, to insist, as he always did, that he was not simply some delusional follower who had no grasp of what he had truly done. It was more difficult, though, to speak of all the things that were hidden beneath that righteous indignation that he’d spent a lifetime trying to tame. 

“I fear drawing too near to the sea lest I be unable to resist any longer the longing I feel for Valinor.  I fear that should I return, I would find myself unworthy of such grace.  I fear that my mother will no longer know me, or that I will no longer know her.  That she will call me by a name I no longer deserve and I’ll not even realize she is speaking to me.”  He was not sure if he should have felt any better for sharing these things, but in truth, he only felt more weary.  Gaze shifted away from hers once more, focusing down again where it had always been safer. 

“I came here to find some form of atonement,” he added, his tone softer. “Though I know not what would be enough, and after six-thousand years, the Valar still refuse to answer.”

“And I don’t think you’re ignorant,” he finally added, the toe of his boot working its way into the soil at his feet.  He had no desire to patronize her, hadn’t even meant to do it, but it was simply something else to add to the long list of things he should ask her forgiveness for. Yet he was afraid to ask for it for all the same reasons he was ever afraid.  A ‘no’ was so final an answer, but in ambiguity there was hope.

Played by Whitney

Tintaldé

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Re: tell me why
« Reply #8 on: August 15, 2018, 06:44:25 AM »
She'd flinched some at the growl, and yet despite that, it might have made her decision to stay or go if he'd yelled at her. Her own mellow, sometimes flat surface was just that, really, a surface; it was part of her and yet it wasn't all of her, though it was as honest as the rest of her even as the reticence of others was often affected. It was a means of coping that came easily because the rest of her didn't always know how to express itself, not in a way that was appropriate or comfortable for others to witness.

Unfortunately, it did not exclude her from feeling, despite how it sometimes seemed.

If anything, she felt too much far too often, and with no real explanation to assuage the reality of that. It was more than simple empathy, though it served her well in every diagnosis she had ever made in her millennia of life, almost a lack of filter to stimuli if not carefully maintained, and so it was now that it led her to feel not only her own pain now, but that which laced Tinuvagor's weary tones-- all six thousand years of it. It silenced Tintalde in doing so, her arms wrapping about her unconsciously as her mind went blank of every conceivable retort to everything he had just said, even at the affirmation of her ignorance, or lack thereof, that usually would have been complimentary even as she might have recoiled instinctively against the potential for mockery that they engendered.

She did recoil at them, in a way. Not ignorant, indeed. And yet she had nothing to say now, nothing to offer that was accusatory or platitude, logical or emotional. In the end, she could only lower herself with the grace of their kind to the forest floor, landing with a gentle rustle in the damp patch of clover beneath her.

She didn't cry, for him or for herself or the weight that was his pain, the bravery and the cowardice within it, the sense of loss and the mention of a lost and loved mother. She was beyond that -- centuries beyond it, in fact. But she did continue hugging herself where she sat, shoulders hunched both against and to process even a little of what was now heavy in the air.

How long they, or Tintalde at least, remained in silence, was both irrelevant and difficult to ascertain. It didn't matter to an Elf anyway, in the end-- it might have been an hour, it might have been a moment, it might have been a phase of the moon or several moments gone by.

"I wouldn't rely upon the Valar," she murmured haltingly in the end. Still looking at the clovers at her feet, though she hugged herself a little less tightly. "They don't save a man bleeding out from under my fingers. I do."

And that was it, really. It had taken her nigh on two millennia, but Tintalde had worked it out-- how one lived, or tried to live, a life with some contentment to it. Even happiness. They did it by, if not completely discarding how they felt about what others thought of them, than at least by not letting it dictate what they did.

She wondered, if in offering that ambiguous bit of insight, if she'd forgiven him herself. She wasn't sure.

On the other hand, was refusing to do so going against her mantra to not let others dictate for her? She hadn't even been born when all that ailed him now had begun. So she wasn't sure about that, either.

Finally, the elleth craned her head back, meeting her ancient counterpart's eyes without a whit of concern for what reflected in her own. Her pain, his pain, both, or just plain tiredness.

"At least you will know that even if she cannot recognise you in the beginning, your mother at least did not turn from you. I must ask mine should I see her again why she could not do as Thranduil does-- or at least have done so until I knew maturity, and I with no great crime or tragedy to my name. The understanding that comes with adulthood and the bonds of our kind do not make the...feelings, lesser."

Tintalde smiled grimly. "So I suppose I cannot spurn you entirely after all, for there are those who would consider me as selfish as you for holding such feelings."


'what you do in the present is what defines you now'

Tinuvagor

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Re: tell me why
« Reply #9 on: September 24, 2018, 07:43:42 AM »
Silence.  It was not an unwelcome response, for the effort of baring his soul, even before someone so trusted, had wearied him. Wearied him, but done nothing to ease the dread that pooled in his gut, dread that he blanketed in a numbness expertly cultivated through years of practice.  He spoke no words, hardly dared even to breath too loudly, lest he disturb her, but all the while aware that with every breath, they drew closer to at last coming to an answer. The inevitable doom of finality.

The answer, however, was not what he’d expected. 

His gaze lifted, brows creased, as she finally spoke, and he nearly smiled.  Such an interesting choice, to break her silence in such a way, for he had learned long ago what it was to be spurned by the Valar.  He who had marched in open rebellion and suffered the Doom, as they all had, but had perhaps seen its workings far more plainly than any other left who walked upon these shores. “You would do well not to say such things where the Valar might mark your words,” he answered, a grin emerging from his face, which had until that moment been far too grim.  And yet, this grin held more than simple mirth.  It mixed with the bitterness of ancient memory.  “They make their will known well enough if they have a mind to do so.”

That said, he had no desire to discuss the Valar, for those resentments had never fully healed in all his years, and he knew not how to heal those wounds.

But the words that had followed…  he knew something of that, at least. 

“We do not always make such choices as would serve best those we love,” he finally replied, though he meant it as no defense for the hurts dealt her by her mother.  If anything, they were an indictment of his own wrongs, the hurts he dealt his own mother and father by marching away to war when they had begged him to stay behind.

“It is not selfish to long for our parents to give to us that which is necessary to our very being…”
  His gaze held hers, his eyes dark as gathering storm clouds, the thoughts behind them tumultuous as waves upon a roiling sea.  “It is only selfish to expect forgiveness from those whom we have wronged, even if our reasons are understood.  There is no fault in feeling as you do, and should anyone try to tell you otherwise, I’d be more than happy to educate them on your behalf.”  A light shone in his eyes for a moment, yet another glimpse of some part of himself that lay deeply buried.  Or perhaps it was only another side of that loyalty she had called adoration and worship.  For Tintalde had earned a portion of that loyalty now, and whether she asked for it or not, he had already named it his own task to look after her as best he may.

“Those feelings which lay deep in our hearts are ours alone. It is not for any other to tell us those feelings are wrong.” He paused, looking away and down once more as he breathed in deeply.  There was life in this wood unlike any place else in Middle Earth, and it did him some good to take in what solace he could from the age and wisdom that lived within those trees.

Lips quirked in a faint, sad smile, and his gaze lifted to find hers again.  “It is not even for us to say so to ourselves.”

Played by Whitney

 


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