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tanoraqui · 3 years ago

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Gil-galad Son of OC & 50/50 Odds Celechwes Fixes the Noldor (I, II): Scenes from a Courtship, Part 2: Correspondence

(I know I said I’d start putting this directly on AO3 but it’s been a Busy Few Weeks irl and I finished this chapter other than some OC names at the end, and want to share.)

“…from southern Hithlum, from easter Hithlum…” Celechwes said, digging out the contents of her bag and depositing them on the office table. “A package of birthday sweet rolls for Orodben from her uncle—late, I know, and probably stale, Dorthonion took longer than I expected…a letter from Fingon to Maedhros, long as usual—”

“Oh thank goodness!” Himring had a new lieutenant managing its mail, the former having been killed by a warg raid last week. She nearly knocked the other letters off the table in her haste to grab the thick envelope from Celechwes’s hand. “I’ll take it—oh, no, but I have guard duty in just a few minutes! …Do you know how to get to the northeast tower? Can you bring it to milord?”

“Is it so urgent?” Celechwes asked, struck by her sudden alarm. “I didn’t think anything was amiss—there haven’t been any new assaults, that I know of!”

“No, no,” the lieutenant assured her. “Well…” She scrubbed a hand down her face. “Fileg, the wolf that got her—it was going for Lord Maedhros, when he was busy with two others. She got between them…it wasn’t even his right side, but he still always takes such things hard. He’s been…keeping watch in the northeast tower nearly every moment since.”

The northeastern tower was the one that looked directly toward Thangodrim and Angband.

“I know the way,” Celechwes promised. (She’d never been there particularly, but Himring was laid out very neatly.)

“Thank you,” the lieutenant said fervently. She pressed the envelope back into Celechwes’s hand. “Letters from Prince Fingon can raise him from even the blackest moods—maybe you can get him to come down to the mess hall, even!”

If Celechwes had thought “keeping watch” was some sort of polite euphemism, she was mistaken: Maedhros Fëanorion was very much keeping watch like a common sentry, from the high, open, freezing top of the northeastern tower. His one conceit to lordliness was to be seated on a bench before a gap in the crenellations, rather than standing or pacing - a bench that looked suspiciously like someone had dragged it up from the slightly warmer guardroom below. She wasn't sure he’d noticed: he sat like a marble statue with a naked sword across his knees, frost at the edges of his cloak, gaze locked on the distant, dark peak to the north.

But he turned to her as she approached. The strange light in his eyes was dimmer than she remembered, and colder. He said sharply, “What word?”

“A letter from Prince Fingon,” she said, offering her packet. “News of the harvest festival, and other things.”

For a moment, some expression threatened to break through his stone face. Then he turned back to the teeth of the wind. “You can leave it here.”

There was already a roughly folded blanket and a half-finished breakfast beside him on the bench (it was nearly sunset). She tucked the letter under the wooden plate.

Then, on an impulse she didn’t question, she hugged him. From the side, so as to not block his view if he craned his neck. He tensed at the first touch, then returned to statue-stillness. He felt nearly as cold as stone, too.

He remained straight-backed when she let go. But he looked away from the Enemy again, and there was the faintest hint of humor in his voice. “Did Fingon send that, too?”

“No,” Celechwes admitted. “But he would have, if he’d known you needed it.”

At last the lips twitched on that marble-perfect face; the tall, straight shoulders slumped just a fraction. Maedhros conceded, "He would."

Thalawen, the new mail lieutenant, kept her in Himring for three days. At first, Celechwes suspected that she'd been turned into a temporary talisman for their lord's health. Only when she was ushered into his office on the fourth day did she see the full conspiracy.

"My nursemaids have insisted I write back to Fingon immediately, before the early snows slow all the couriers down." Maedhros said, handing her an envelope nearly as thick as the one he'd received. "Consider this a priority - we'll pass on anything else you were going to carry beyond here."

Behind his back, Thalawen and her captain both gave Celechwes a thumbs-up.

"I'll leave immediately," Celechwes said with a straight face.

But Maedhros didn't dismiss her to it. He stood behind his desk, then hesitated, perfect stern statue no more.

"Is there something more?" Celechwes asked.

“You shouldn’t have– touched me unexpectedly,” he said at last. severe with warning. But there was vulnerability in the clench of his jaw. Shame. Something aching and something blindingly burning. “You’re lucky I didn’t draw my blade on you.”

Then he sighed as though losing a battle with himself. "Yet, I understand that you do sometimes carry...extra words, and gestures of affection?"

"Yes," she said curiously.

"Then I have this, too, for Fingon." Swiftly he rounded the desk and swiftly and fiercely he hugged her - though never so swiftly that she couldn't have moved if she'd wished.

She did not. She reached up and hugged him back. The Noldor weren't a people of casual physical contact, and nor, frankly, were the Falathrim. But Celechwes spent most of her days in happy isolation from anyone but a horse, and she was equally happy to overfill her stores of skin-hunger to last through the voluntary droughts.

And the lord of Himring was warm flesh to touch again, and she felt some pride in that.

"Thank you for the care," he whispered into the top of her head. "To both of you."

A week later, it was her turn to hesitate, as she placed the letter in Fingon's hand.

"...Do you mind coming over to those stairs for the rest of the message?" she said finally, pointing across Barad EIthel's front courtyard. "It's just, you Noldor are all so tall, and I don't want to shortcharge the experience."

She found herself riding between Eithel Sirion and Dor-Lómin and Himring more often after that, with an ever-increasing variety of messages.

“Please embrace him again, truly in my name this time—and I hope you know that once you’ve started this, you’re never escaping the duty again. Unless you want to, of course.”

“My cousin is absurd.” (A fond smile.) “Don’t take his teasing to heart—it’s only meant for me.”

Celechwes smiled impishly back. “I assure you, neither of you has yet risen to the level of my tolerance for teasing.”

“A peck on the cheek.”

“A punch on the arm!”

“Make him tell you the blueberry pie story.”

“Please offer my congratulations again, with clasped hands, and while you have hold of him…see that he truly took no more dire wounds than a scratch on the arm. Of course we must say the orc host was defeated handily, but…”

“I’ll fly back here with the whole, true story,” Celechwes promised, “as well as whatever he writes himself.”

“He held the last pages down with a weight rather than his own arm, I can tell, and he only does that when the stump pains him. Please— see that he uses his salve, if you can, and tell him I’m sorry.” A wry laugh. “He won’t scold you for it.”

Celechwes stood on a low footrest in one of the many parlors at Fingon's palace-fort at the western foot of the Mountains of Mithrim, while Fingon stood on the ground before her. He read aloud, “My Dearest Fingon:

"First off, before any other news, know that you are not only ridiculous, foolish, and far too willing to face all the ills of the world as though you alone can, nay, must fix them—not only are you all these things, but you are so superlatively these things that I’ve had to enlist Celechwes to help me manage them. Is she there, waiting while you read this aloud? I asked her to stay and bully you into reading this aloud.”

“I am,” Celechwes said, as though Maedhros could hear, and because she already knew what was written next. Maedhros had shown her the script-letter before bidding her back to Dor-Lómin with it.

"I expect she said yes just now." Fingon read with a sparkling smile at being teased by two people at once. But it grew softer and sadder as he continued.

“I have enlisted her in the hope that, as you seem to believe of me, hearing these words from another will finally convince you of their truth: For the last time (though I will say it until the end of Arda if I must), I forgive you, you ridiculous elf. If you somehow insist that there is something to forgive, when obviously I should be thanking you until the end of Arda, I forgive it.

“(Celechwes, take his left hand here, and kindly kiss the palm.)

“I forgive the hand that held me still and caught me as I fell.” Fingon’s voice shook as he read Maedhros’s letter, as Celechwes took his hand and gently turned it up, and pressed a kiss to the bow-calloused palm. “Indeed, I love it, as I ever have.

“(Celechwes…'”

He looked up at her, ceasing to read. "Celechwes..."

“Don’t stop, valiant prince,” she murmured, guiding his hand back to the page so she could switch it for his right.

“I forgive the hand that swung the blade and freed me,” Fingon read on obediently, tears in his eyes. Celechwes let her lips linger against his palm. “And I love it as I ever have and ever shall, as fiercely and truly as I love the rest of thee.

“So stop listening to winds from the north. It doesn’t suit you at all—"

Celechwes leaned down (barely) and kissed his forehead. Then, self-indulgently, she bent a little further to chastely catch his lips as well.

Fingon broke off, breathless for an elf who had done nothing but read a letter aloud.

"Is that from Maedhros too?" he asked. Tears dampened his cheeks, but he smiled as though helpless to do otherwise.

"No," Celechwes admitted. "I'm sure he would have, but that was just from me." She squeezed the hand that she still held. "You're very sweet, you know, in addition to foolish, ridiculous, and all the other things."

When next she saw Maedhros, it was in his brothers’ fortress in Himlad. They were feasting with their people when she arrived; she sidled into the edges for a laden plate, as was any hard-riding courier’s right. He found her later, as she slipped back out to the barracks.

“Thank you,” he said without warning, bent and kissed her on the cheek. She’d heard wine made him morose, but he was unusually merry. His smile turned the pale summer pre-dawn brighter.

Her breath caught, because he was well-named, even when tipsy. His fiery hair, half-bound, brushed against her shoulder.

“Who is that for?” she asked lightly. “You should know, I only just arrived, I won’t be carrying anything anywhere until at least tomorrow.”

“For you,” he said seriously. “The sight of you was the best part of this evening so far.” And her breath left her again.

Fingon dashed cheerfully down his tower steps to greet incoming couriers at his fortress in Dor-Lómin. When Celechwes came west over Ard-galen, she more often than not met him leading his cavalry through wheeling exercises on the great green fields. One time, she arrived at Barad Eithel in the sleep-yearning dead of night and crept upstairs to place her message-bag in the box outside Princess Lalwen’s office, for it was Lalwen who administrated the entire high-royal courier service, and Fingon met her walking down the hallway. His clothing was rumpled and his hair tied back with just one gold ribbon, but he was whistling quietly and examining a sheaf of papers in his hand - scout reports, he explained cheerfully, also for his aunt’s review in the morning.

Celechwes complained about it to her fellow couriers in the mess hall the next day, once she’d peeled herself from her overdue bed.

“He works too hard! Does his father put him up to this?” She peeled an orange with the vigor with which she might tell off Fingolfin of the Noldor. “Here, Fingon is his war leader. In Dor-Lómin, he is a vassal lord. When he goes afield, he is a diplomat. And everywhere, he conducts drills, meets the enemy wherever he can, manages meetings, and even collects the mail - and not like paranoid Curufin, or that stick-in-his-ass seneschal in Mount Rerir! Does he never sleep? Has he never learned to delegate?”

[A], an older Noldorin courier snorted and muttered something to her hot tea in Quenyan. But after her time at the early camps around Lake Mithrim and nearly two hundred years delivering messages along the Siege-line after that, Celechwes had a decent grasp of the forbidden tongue.

“What do you mean, ‘not when beautiful flame-haired maidens are the ones bearing it’?” she demanded (translating to Sindarin, of course). “Damn, no, that makes no sense - I still can’t track all those extra syllables. Anyway, he doesn’t just do it when I bring letters from Maedhros, when I could possibly be bringing letters from Maedhros, if that’s what you mean - ”

Their other three tablemates groaned. [B], who rode relay back and forth between Barad Eithel and Tol Sirion, punched [A] in the shoulder.

“You ruined it!” [B] cried. “You ruined the whole betting pool!”

“What?” Celechwes asked, bewildered.

“Shh!” [C] hissed at the others, waving his hands. “She hasn’t figured it out yet! Ix-nay on the etting pool-bay!”

[C], too, was a Falathrin wanderer-at-heart - and, as such, he used the same unsubtle quay-slang Celechwes had grown up with.

“What betting pool?” Celechwes demanded. “Wait, you don’t mean - ” She slapped her orange peel down on the table. “For the last time, my hair is blonde! And even if it wasn’t, sometimes people just have red hair! What is it with you Noldo and this madness for it?”

Chin in his hands, [D] said, “You hair is a little red in the sun, you must admit.”

“You’re a Noldor,” Celechwes said. [D] shrugged.

“Is there even any difference between ‘Fingon receiving a letter from Maedhros’ and ‘Fingon receiving a letter from Maedhros borne by Celechwes’?” [C] asked [B] thoughtfully. “I mean, the long ones that come with tokens and probably poetry, not just official dispatches.”

“Not by my route,” said [B]. “Not for at least a fifty years now. So, wait, are we admitting to the betting pool now?”

All four of them turned to look at her, expressions ranging from excited to apprehensive to once more concealed behind a mug of tea ([A], too, had gotten in late last night).

“Are you saying,” Celechwes said slowly, racing through her memories, “that Fingon only runs out to greet the courier when..it’s me?”

[C] and [D] slammed their hands down on the table simultaneously, startling many other breakfasters.

“This decade! Ten gold!” [C] shouted.

“No victors!” [D] shouted back. “[A] ruined it; no victors! All reimbursed!”

“Actually, I think ‘one of us ruins it’ was [E]’s bet,” [B] mused. “And [F’s] as well.”

“For the love of Varda,” [A] cast her prayer up to the heavens, then met Celechwes’s gaze straight-on. “Yes. That is exactly what he does. He has the sentries in at least five forts in on it.”

Celechwes thought of a bright smile bounding down steps, shining cavalry wheeling and racing towards her over green fields, and haste-rumpled clothes with a single, sleep-tied golden hair-ribbon, and felt a blush rise in her cheeks.

“Oh,” she said faintly. “I didn’t know.”

#the silmarillion #my fic #maedhros #fingon #fanfiction #celechwes over 100 years deep into a mostly long-distance increasingly emotionally kinky couple-turning-threesome: wait what AM i doing?#fingon meanwhile: [conveniently forgetting the several decades of teenagerdom in which he just kind of followed maedhros around #like a puppy with a crush hoping to be noticed and appreciated] this is normal behavior wrt a good friend!#maedhros meanwhile: [has not preformed emotional introspection in 250 except to be sure that nothing he's doing is detrimental to the war or #various alliances; and isn't planning on starting now. whatever's going on here has been deemed 'good for relations with the nolofinweans #probably'; special sub-category 'makes fingon happy'; and thus 10/10 will continue]#fun fact this week i also did reread the chapter about dagor bragollach and then went feral and jumped ahead in this au #to write 1.6k about fingolfin's last ride #bc if you can't go feral about fingolfin's last ride i mean what CAN you go feral about #anyway i've really tricked myself with celechwes here bc istg this still isn't my preferred gil-galad origin #but i'm so emotionally invested in her existence and romance #haven't figured out how to reconcile that for my 'canon' silm take

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manotelier · 5 years ago

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Note : Ces personnages m’appartiennent ainsi que l’univers. Aucune correction n’a été faite après l’écriture de ce petit extrait. Veuillez m’excuser des fautes que vous risquez de trouver.

La cuisine reflète l’âme d’une personne.

C’est ce que son père lui répétait souvent, une cuillère de sauce brûlante dans la bouche. À travers les plats et les saveurs, on pouvait exprimer tellement de choses, de paroles et de pensées. Cela pouvait être un acte d’amour comme un acte de regret ou bien de pardon, on pouvait même utiliser la cuisine pour montrer son pouvoir, sa puissance ou sa bravoure. La cuisine avait plusieurs personnalités, elle pouvait être très épicé et chaude dans le sud comme très douce et légère dans le nord. On pouvait la consommer avec les doigts ou bien la fourchette et on dit même que le peuple de Kasma utilise des baguettes, oui vous avez bien lu des baguettes ! N’est-ce pas incroyable ?

La jeune femme glissa son foulard de couleur orangé dans ses cheveux noirs et bouclés avant de passer ses mains sous l’eau glaçante, se débarrassant de tout microbe qui pouvait être nocif pour l’être humain. Elle jeta un coup d’oeil dehors, le ciel était bien noir et le soleil n’avait toujours pas montré le bout de son nez. Aucun bruit ne se faisait entendre dehors, pas même le chant des insectes ou les petites querelles entre chats, tout le monde était plongé dans un profond et doux sommeil. Mais les cuisiniers ne dormaient pas.

Il fallait commencer à vérifier les ustensiles, nettoyer la salle puis la cuisine, commencer la préparation des légumes et noter ce qu’il manquait. Il fallait aussi faire l’inventaire et vérifier si il n’y aurait pas un manque de viande pour les deux services. On ne pouvait pas faire une grasse matinée quand on était chef du restaurant de la ville. Non, on ne pouvait pas s’offrir ce luxe. Noor attrapa tout doucement une feuille où se dressait de nombreux noms de légumes qu’il fallait avoir pour le service d’aujourd’hui. On trouvait de tout : des poivrons, des choux de bruxelles, des poireaux, des navets.. Le restaurant familial proposait une bonne liste de repas traditionnels que les habitants aimaient consommer. Il arrivait même que le père de Noor s’absente car les villes voisines demandaient de ses services quand on recevait des gens importants. Malheureusement, à part les chefs de tributs, personne de haut nommé venait dans la ville. Mais ça importait peu à Noor qui elle, était plus intéressé, par les marchands étrangers qui venaient une fois dans l’année, pendant un mois. Elle découvrait tellement de choses différentes et surtout elle pouvait s’acquérir des ingrédients qui étaient introuvable dans Aman.

Après avoir nettoyer la salle, Noor se laissa tomber sur une chaise et retira le foulard qui tenait ses boucles qu’elle détestait tant. Souvent, elle se demandait même pourquoi elle était la seule à avoir les cheveux aussi secs quand ses soeurs avaient soit de beaux cheveux bouclés, soit des cheveux lisses. Mais il n’y avait pas de réponse et elle le savait très bien. Noor laissa son regard se balader un peu partout dans la pièce avant de déposer son regard sur la grande fenêtre qui donnait vu sur la grande place où on l’on retrouvait absolument tout ce qui était important à la ville. La seule chose qui n’était pas là était le palais de la Reine, celui-ci était situé plus haut aux pieds des montagnes abandonnées. On y trouvait là-bas un Vizir, quelques conseillers et les quatre chefs des Ksours de la ville. En réalité, le Vizir n’avait pas autant de pouvoir que les quatre chefs. Lui était seulement là pour envoyer des rapports à la cour de la Reine mais tout ce qui se passait dans Ifey venait des chefs, c’est eux qui décidaient des affaires du peuple. Ils n’avaient pas vraiment besoin de ce vizir mais ils étaient forcés d’accepter sa présence. Il représentait l’autorité de la Reine.

La place abritait de nombreux magasins aux stands différents. Épices, légumes, fruits, maquillages, bijoux.. On retrouvait à peu près tout ce dont on avait besoin dans ce seul endroit. Bien sûr il arrivait que d’autres magasins se trouvaient un peu partout dans Ifey mais tout était principalement dans la grande place. Ifey était une grande oasis mais n’avait pas un nombre énorme de citoyens alors tout le monde se connaissait ici, tout le monde pouvait être victime des petites rumeurs. Tout se répandait très vite ici. Il était mieux de rester loin de ces rumeurs et de ne rien faire qui pourrait être le sujet du soir autour d’un verre de thé chaud et de cacahuètes. Le soleil venait seulement de se lever et on entendait déjà le bruit des installations des stands. Aujourd’hui était Vendredi, un jour un peu plus spécial que les autres jours. On ouvrait les magasins plus tôt, le café de la place avait déjà posé ses chaises sur la Terrace et le patron attendait ses clients assis au comptoir, le journal à la main. Les enfants se rendaient à l’école en chantonnant et les adultes se préparaient pour partir prier. C’était un jour que Noor appréciait particulièrement car le restaurant était deux fois plus rempli que d’habitude puisqu’il n’ouvrait qu’à partir de dix sept heures. La ville devenait fantôme après la deuxième prière et ne reprenait vie qu’à la fin de l’après-midi. Noor salua son père qui venait de rentrer dans la salle, le sourire aux lèvres. Il déposa sa main sur sa tête et la tapota tout doucement, la remerciant de son travail. Grâce à elle, son père pouvait dormir toute la matinée. L’âge commençait à se ressentir et il ne trouvait plus la force de se lever très tôt pour préparer tout ce qu’il fallait faire. Noor avait vu ça comme un exercice, un devoir qu’elle devait remplir pour se rendre fière mais aussi rendre son père fier.

— Haj Abdelwafi n’est pas très malin d’ouvrir si tôt.

Noor posa ses yeux sur le café puis haussa les épaules en souriant.

— Tu sais très bien que pour lui ce n’est pas vraiment du travail, juste quelque chose pour passer le temps.

— Alors que pour nous..

Les deux se regardèrent en souriant puis chacun quitta la salle. Noor monta à l’étage du restaurant et se rendit dans une petite pièce qui servait de salle de repos pour toute personne travaillant ici. Il n’y avait encore personne puisque le service ne commençait que tard dans l’après-midi. Elle avait encore le temps de pouvoir faire ce qu’elle voulait. Noor attrapa le coffre caché derrière le miroir et sortit la clef de son tablier. Elle ne rentrait pas souvent chez elle, préférant rester au restaurant ou chez ses grands-parents. La jeune femme avait installé un coffre où elle avait déposé des affaires de rechange, un caftan, des gandouras et un haïk. Elle fronça les sourcils en voyant un track rouge entre les tissus et l’attrapa. Son coeur commença à battre en voyant les inscriptions sur le papier et elle regarda autour d’elle, se demandant comment ce papier avait pu arrivé ici. L’avait-elle oublié dans une de ses manches ? Non ce n’est pas possible.. Quelqu’un avait donc forcé le coffre et déposé ce papier. La jeune femme glissa le papier dans son tablier et attrapa son haïk. Une pièce d’étoffe blanche en grande dimension qui était soit confectionné en l’aine pour l’hiver ou en coton pour l’été. Elle enroula le tissu autour d’elle de sorte à ce qu’on ne voit plus que le début de ses bras. Elle quitta rapidement le restaurant puis se fondit dans les rues. On ne voyait plus son visage, seulement une petite ouverture du drap blanc pour pouvoir voir où elle mettait les pieds. Noor continuait de marcher assez vite, le coeur qui battait toujours autant fort. Elle ne s’arrêta que quand elle arriva dans une petit cour où elle trouva un groupe de plusieurs femmes. L’une d’elles se tourna vers Noor et aborda un très grand sourire en s’approchant d’elle.

— Noor ! Quel plaisir de t’avoir ici.

— Bouchra, c’est quoi ce message ?

La jeune femme attrapa le bras de Noor et lui fit signe de parler moins fort.

— Nous devons agir aujourd’hui. C’est aujourd’hui qu’il se rendra au Fileg.

— Mais on est Vendredi tout le monde sera là..

Boucha fronça les sourcils et serra plus fort le bras de Noor qui lâcha un petit grognement de douleur. Elle comprit qu’elle n’avait pas le choix et qu’elle devait s’exécuter au risque d’avoir des répercussions. Noor regarda les autres femmes, elles étaient au moins dix, portant exactement la même tenue. Il fallait donc se séparer en deux groupes afin que le plan fonctionne. Noor attrapa le paquet d’affiches en pinçant ses lèvres puis elle fait signe au premier groupe de la suivre. Il fallait être rapide et ne pas se faire prendre. Noor regarde de gauche à droite avant de cacher tout son visage avec le tissu blanc qu’elle portait. La jeune femme se tourna vers le groupe de femmes derrière elle qui n’attendaient que le signal de Noor. Quand elle leva sa main en l’air, elles s’avancèrent chacune assez rapidement, dépassant même Noor qui n’avait toujours pas bouger. Les femmes se plaçaient devant des stands, commençaient à discuter avec les marchands en faisant un gros brouhaha afin d’attirer l’attention sur elles. Noor vérifia une dernière fois s’il n’y avait aucune présence militaire et s’engagea dans la rue où elle commença à glisser des prospectus dans la poche des personnes, accompagné d’une autre jeune femme qui lui glissait le prospectus dans la main. Sa main était si rapide qu’il était difficile pour le duo de fonctionner en même temps, Noor était plus rapide que sa cadette et elle devait des fois attendre devant un stand, faisant semblant d’être intéressé par les gros sceaux d’épices diverses.

— C’est pas possible d’être aussi lente. grogna Noor en regardant sa camarade arriver vers elle en trébuchant presque.

Noor soupira une nouvelle fois avant de tendre sa main libre pour attraper les papiers mais c’est une autre main qui rencontra la sienne. Une main bien plus grosse et plus forte que sa camarade. Elle n’avait même pas le temps de relever les yeux qu’elle se fit tirer dans une ruelle sous les yeux impuissants de la jeune cadette. Noor commença à traîner des pieds, tirant violemment sur son poignet afin de se libérer des mains de cet personne qui devait sûrement être un militaire. Son cœur battait très vite, elle savait très bien ce qu’il allait lui arriver si elle se faisait attraper en train de distribuer des tracts à objet politique.. Elle perdrait tout; son statue, l’honneur de sa famille et sa place dans le restaurant.

— Noor ça suffit!

Alors qu’elle était sur le point de jeter la pierre sur l’homme, Noor s’arrêta en pleine action quand elle entendit la voix rauque qu’elle connaissait par coeur. Une voix qui avait murmuré tant de mots doux dans son oreille; une voix qui lui apportait sécurité et amour, une voix qu’elle adorait entendre depuis son petit âge. Noor lâcha brusquement la pierre qui tomba en même temps que le drap qui couvrait son visage. La jeune femme déposa son regard dans les prunelles du jeune homme qui n’avait pas vraiment l’air ravi de voir la jeune femme ici.

— Safwan... disait-elle d’une petite voix, honteuse de s’être fait attrapé en pleine action.

Le jeune homme n’avait même pas le temps de répondre qu’il poussa délicatement la jeune femme contre le mur et posa son doigt sur ses lèvres pour qu’elle ne fasse plus aucun bruit. Il tourna le regard vers la gauche et regarda les hommes armées en train de crier. Noor retenait sa respiration, ses yeux ne quittaient pas le visage du jeune homme qui examinait la situation. Son coeur continuait de battre très vite mais pour une raison complètement différente cette fois-ci. Elle n’avait pas vu Safwan depuis ci- longtemps et même si elle savait qu’elle allait passer un mauvais quart d’heure, elle ne pouvait s’empêcher d’être heureuse. Noor déposa sa main sur le bras droit du jeune homme qui posa enfin son regard sur elle. Sous ses longs cils abordait un regard dur et en colère, ses sourcils étaient froncés et sa mâchoire serré. On pouvait voir une barbe naissante sur ses joues et des cernes qui séjournaient sous ses yeux d’automne. Safran avait un visage mûr, marqué par la difficulté de son poste. Après tout être chef de tribu à seulement vingt sept ans était plutôt difficile. Safwan lança un dernier coup d’oeil sur la rue avant de se reculer et de déposer sa main sur son sabre.

— Tu peux m’expliquer ce que t’étais en train de faire?

— Je peux tout expliquer !

— Tu es une rebelle Noor ?

Elle ouvrait grand les yeux, ne s’attendant pas du tout à cette question. Bien évidemment qu’elle n’était pas une rebelle ! Enfin, c’est ce qu’elle se disait ! La jeune femme secoua ses mains en s’approchant du jeune homme et lui attrapa ses mains. Elle serra celles-ci comme pour le convaincre du contraire. Elle venait de se faire prendre en plein flagrant délit de propagande et pas par n’importe qui. Par un chef de tribu et surtout, par son fiancé.

#original character #original content #roman

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shaktiknowledgeblog · 2 years ago

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GATE 2023: The gate exam answer key will be released today, know how long you can do the observation GATE 2023 Answer key: Indian Institute of Technology ( IIT) Kanpur will release the answer key of the Graduate Aptitude Test in Engineering ( GATE) 2023 today, February 21। After release, candidates can download it by visiting the official website। Image Source: FILEGate 2023 will be released…

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#Answer key #Gate #GATE 2023 #gate 2023 exam date #gate exam 2023 #IIT

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mgcoco · 3 years ago

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Second Age young Elrond and my OC Fileg, by @the-lady-auri , another lovely artist I’ve commissioned LOTR art from, and is getting more active on tumblr now! Please check out their page!

#elrond #fileg #tolkien #lord of the rings #silmarillion #lotr #I love these sm!!!!!

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voikukkasi · 2 years ago

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primordialy, he had to be a swamp elf...

His name is Fileg (it means "sparrow" in Sindarin)

#the silmarillion #the silm #the silm fandom #Silmarillion #LoR #oc original characters #original character #Elf Fileg

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worldofwardcraft · 3 years ago

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Coming distractions.

November 24, 2022

Whenever there's Republican misconduct that the right would like to cram down America's memory hole, the GOP playbook recommends one fail-safe solution: fabricate an equally bad scandal for the Democrats and hype it unceasingly. Think Filegate and Travelgate during the Clinton years. Or the made-up Fast & Furious and Benghazi "scandals" of the Obama administration.

Recently, there's been plenty of Republican malfeasance they would prefer you not think about. Like the violent MAGA mob of thugs that tried to overturn a legitimate election. Or, the wave of right-wing terrorism sweeping the country. Or, the confiscation of abortion and voting rights by GOP legislatures. Or, the Trump family being nothing but a gang of thieves who can't seem to stop committing felonies. But, most important, are the innumerable criminal prosecutions facing Donald Trump himself. Time to bring out the old playbook.

Sadly, however, the Dems don't seem to be providing much in the way of scandal material of late. Not to worry. Now that they have regained the majority in the House, the ever-inventive Republicans assure us they will dream up all sorts of Democratic misdeeds to pique our interest.

Last week, Republican representatives Jim Jordan and James Comer announced they will be getting to the bottom of the "Biden Family Crime Syndicate," starting with an investigation into the president's son, Hunter Biden, and his infamous laptop. Which, they are certain, contains all sorts of juicy info about how Hunter used his connections in business dealings with Ukraine and China. However, as former federal prosecutor Ron Filipkowski observes,

The only thing that makes any of this relevant for a congressional inquiry is whether Joe Biden was directly involved or benefitted financially from what Hunter was up to. On that score, the evidence is sorely lacking.

We also learned that Georgia nutcase Marjorie Taylor Greene intends to investigate the Biden Justice Department's treatment of the January 6 defendants (they're political prisoners, don't you know) and will seek to defund the FBI for its jackbooted lawlessness in executing a legal search of arch-criminal Trump's Mar-a-Lago lair.

In addition, congressional Republicans have vowed to grill Dr. Anthony Fauci, the nation's top infectious disease expert, over his role in the COVID pandemic (apparently, he was responsible for creating the virus). Tweeted House Republican Leader Kevin McCarthy menacingly, "He owes the American people answers."

So, for the next two years, look for the House of Representatives to be a virtual three-ring circus of phony, ginned-up probes, inquiries and investigations. Because the GOP desperately needs to divert our attention. And discredit any revelations about Trump.

#republican lies #house republicans #hunter biden's laptop

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ryan-almighty · 4 years ago

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Awesome weekend tattooing the Fileger s Both very interesting tribute memorial tattoos for a twin brother and dad/step dad... really dig memorial tattoos that are fun and uplifting to love ones .. #RyanAlmighty #almightystudios #tattoo #color #memorialtattoo #greatfuldead #watercolortattoo #eagle #train (at Almighty Studios) https://www.instagram.com/p/CSEluWmrnNJ/?utm_medium=tumblr

#ryanalmighty #almightystudios #tattoo #color #memorialtattoo #greatfuldead #watercolortattoo #eagle #train

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iathrimchronicles · 7 years ago

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Fic: Hope Beyond Reason

Title: Hope Beyond Reason

Series: The Iathrim Chronicles

Author: African Daisy

Canon characters: Thranduil and Oropher

OCs: Vehiron, Rhoven, Linwë, Veassen and Nestorion

Warnings: Mention of discipline

Summary: Hope is what sustains life, but in the middle of war the King of Greenwood doesn’t know how much longer he can hold onto hope.

………………………..

It was difficult to concentrate when one was being watched. The eyes that lingered on Aran Oropher were a single shade of green darker than his, but they were identical in shape. Almond-shaped, like their father’s had been. The King of Greenwood still remembered a tiny version of himself, solemnly telling his father in the days leading up to the birth of his younger brother that he was sorry he didn’t look much like him and he hoped the new baby would. Lord Celepharn had laughed, which even now Oropher remembered clearly because it had startled him so. He recalled feeling offended that his father, of whom he had thought so much, would laugh. As far as he had been concerned, it was only right for an heir to be like his father in all ways.

Little Oropher hadn’t announced that he was upset, for that wouldn’t have been proper, but Celepharn must have known it. He had told his son to follow him in that way he’d had – commanding, firm, not to be disobeyed, yet somehow not at all frightening even for a seven year old boy – and he’d led the elfling to the tall looking-glass in the master bedroom. Oropher had been well acquainted with that mirror, for he had often watched his beautiful mother twirling in front of it in one of her lovely gowns, but that moment had belonged to him and his father. Celepharn had knelt behind him and patiently pointed out all the features they shared; the shape of their eyes, the colour of their eyes when the light touched them just so, the curve of their ears, and fine strands of hair even though Oropher’s was dark like Neldiel’s and Celepharn’s was the silver gold of the royal house.

Three thousand years later, a similar conversation had taken place between Oropher and his own little son. It had never bothered him that Thranduil at first glance looked like Felith with their shared sunshine golden hair and eyes that gleamed like starlight off a still lake. He and Felith had lost four babies before Thranduil had been given to them. Son or daughter, dark or blonde, serious or full of mischief – they hadn’t cared, as long as their child survived. And so he had, but the apparent differences between him and Oropher had upset him enough that one day he had anxiously asked his father if it was quite all right that they didn’t look the same. Oropher had loved the happiness that had bloomed in his little boy’s eyes as he had shown him all the smaller, subtle ways they were alike. He wondered if Celepharn had felt the same way. He hoped so. He had finished that lesson with Thranduil by placing his hand over the elfling’s chest, and telling him that it didn’t matter what they looked like on the outside, for on the inside their hearts were one. Thranduil had smiled at him so brightly, so lovingly, it had made his heart soar. Now it just made his heart clench when he looked back at that moment.

Now, every memory of Thranduil hurt. Saying his name hurt. Holding his pillow close in the dark of night and inhaling his sweet, wild scent of berries and brambles, that hurt too. Just thinking of him hurt, so Oropher made himself stop. Even that hurt, feeling like a betrayal to force his thoughts away from his poor son, but the alternative would bring him to tears. Letting out a breath and tiredly pushing his hand through his hair, the King looked at his brother across the pavilion. The Lord Steward of Greenwood intently returned his gaze from the cushioned bench he was sitting on. “You want to say something,” Oropher acknowledged with a sigh. “You might as well get it over with.”

Lord Vehiron smiled, his warrior braids glittering with pearls, black opals, moonstones, and silver beads. “I thought you might be interested to know how many times you have swept your hand through your hair in the last twelve minutes.”

“Does it make a difference to you if I am not?” Oropher asked.

“Six times,” Vehiron promptly informed him. “That is excessive.”

“You came into my private space uninvited. Do not then complain about the way I behave in here,” Oropher said irritably.

“Not even Cousin Luthavar touches his hair that often,” Vehiron added.

“Good for Cousin Luthavar,” Oropher retorted, raising his hands defensively. He picked up his quill and tried to return his attention to the requisition order the healers had asked him to authorise for none other than Elder Luthavar himself. He had been making good progress on his work before his younger brother had come in, but now the words swam on the page. Anger threatened to overtake mere annoyance, but then he made himself stop and think. For the briefest of moments, Vehiron had made him forget. He hadn’t been a weary warrior or a desperate father or a tired King. He had just been an elf annoyed with his little brother, and right then that was simpler than any other role he had to play. He looked up, and met the younger ellon’s beryl green eyes. “Thank you.”

Vehiron just nodded, smiling slightly. He understood. “Go. See your son.”

“Muindor,” Oropher sighed, feeling exasperated all over again. “I would spend every hour of every day with Thranduil if I thought it would make a difference, but it hasn’t and it won’t. The world hasn’t stopped turning just because he…” The words wouldn’t come. They stuck in Oropher’s throat, paining him. “I will see my son when I have time,” he finished quietly, when he had steadied himself. “At the moment, I do not. I still have to be Aran Oropher.” Even when all I want to be is Ada.

“The world hasn’t stopped turning,” Vehiron agreed quietly. “But yours has.”

Oropher looked down and organised his paperwork into a neat pile, for no reason other than he needed the distraction to hold tears at bay. He had shed enough of those over the last eleven days and fourteen hours, alone or with those few elves he trusted implicitly. Vehiron was one of them, but Oropher was tired of tears. They couldn’t save his son and so they served no purpose. He looked up again only when the papers were perfectly linear and to do anything more to them would just be excessive. “I might delegate this to you,” he said offhandedly.

“You might,” Vehiron agreed.

“Very well,” Oropher said, rising. “But do not work past midnight.”

“I will work until the work is done, muindor,” Vehiron replied.

“No, you will work until midnight and then you will stop and seek your rest, and I will deal with whatever is left in the morning,” Oropher said firmly. “It isn’t up for discussion, muindor-laes. I need you healthy.”

“Then let us compromise, and say that I will stop when I reach a natural break,” Vehiron suggested. “Else you won’t make sense of your work when you return to it.”

Oropher conceded the point with a sigh and a nod as he picked up his forest green cloak, but he made a mental note to have someone check on Vehiron after midnight. His brother was good at promising to take care of himself, but he wasn’t good at following through with it. Much like Oropher himself, and their father from whom they had inherited it, and Thranduil who was just the same. It was a family trait that the Queen of Greenwood had often despaired of along with stubbornness and recklessness. The King gave Vehiron’s shoulder a grateful squeeze on his way out of the royal pavilion, and the Captain of his guard fell into step behind him as he walked away, a steady yet reassuring presence at his back.

The ground crackled lightly beneath their feet as they walked. So close to Mordor it was often sweltering and uncomfortable even for the elves when the sun was at her highest, but at night it wasn’t unusual for the temperatures to plummet so much that layers of frost formed. Most of Oropher’s elves who weren’t committed to patrol or other duties were already sheltering in their tents. Some yet remained around the campfires, and he paused to briefly speak with them. His heart was elsewhere, but he was still their King. He still had a duty to them. None of them kept him for longer than a minute though. That late at night, it was obvious where he was going. None wished to deprive him.

His ears ringing with so many good wishes for his son, Oropher finally reached the healing tents. They were quiet but not truly silent. They never were, not even in the dead of night, and Oropher knew that because he had spent many an early hour there. If it wasn’t the footsteps of a healer making their rounds, it was a feverish warrior tossing and turning or a traumatised soldier waking from a nightmare with a shout of fear. It was impossible to escape the war even for a second. It was always there, an inescapable fact of thousands of lives.

The sight of the two ellyn standing guard outside the private bell tent where Thranduil lay sent both fondness and exasperation rushing through Oropher. Not three days before, a serious conversation had taken place between the three of them in which he had made it abundantly clear to Linwë Carandirion and Veassen Taldurion that he expected at least a few hours of their free time to be spent in bed. He didn’t expect it every day, for sometimes the requirements of war prohibited rest. He also didn’t expect them to sleep every time they sought their beds, for sometimes the nightmares of war made it impossible, and he knew that all too well. He had, however, expected some measure of obedience from them, especially the generally sensible and well-behaved Veassen, but it seemed they had both developed selective hearing. It was almost a relief to Oropher that his wife’s little cousin Fileg Halmirion had fractured his ankle the week before and, confined to bed, was one less young elf for him to worry about.

“I find myself surprised by your presence, my young warriors,” he remarked. Linwë stood a little straighter but steadily met his eyes, while Veassen dropped his chocolate brown gaze to the floor. The King thought that was less to do with him and more to do with Veassen’s grandfather standing just off to the side. He had heard the slight creak of leather armguards as Captain Rhoven folded his arms, and he knew that wasn’t usually a good sign. “I seem to recall discussing this with you both very recently.”

“You did, your Majesty, and we listened,” Linwë said. “But when we left from visiting Thranduil this evening, we offered to relieve his guards so they could get dinner.”

“That offer was well made,” Oropher acknowledged. “When are you expecting them to return from dinner?”

“They…they returned already, your Majesty,” Veassen said nervously, looking up.

“Ah. And where are they now?” Oropher asked calmly. “Having dessert?”

Nearby torches illuminated the rosy blush that coloured Veassen’s cheeks. “Perhaps they are, sir.”

“Enough of that, elfling,” Captain Rhoven snapped from behind Oropher.

“Lieutenant Carthalon and Lieutenant Angtheldir came back from dinner two hours ago, and we told them – or rather, I told them – to leave again,” Linwë said, taking pity on Veassen. “They didn’t want to, but I didn’t give them much of a choice, so you can’t blame them.”

Oropher put one hand on Linwë’s shoulder and the other on Veassen’s, and he drew the young elves in closer to him. “I know,” he said quietly. “You miss him. You want to be near him. Believe me, I know. Your dedication to my son, your heart-brother, is something that I have always treasured but I need you to take care of yourselves as well. The two of you are doing too much, especially now that you are both looking after Fileg as well. If Thranduil wakes and finds you both exhausted…”

If. It was just a turn of phrase, but it stopped Oropher dead as he realised what he had said. Linwë was suddenly as stiff as a statue, his expression stony, and Veassen looked in dismay between the two of them. “With your permission, sire, I’ll escort our young warriors back to their pavilion myself,” Captain Rhoven interjected. He clapped a hand on Veassen’s shoulder, making his grandson squirm unhappily. “I’ll see to it that they get their rest. And that we don’t have any more of this nonsense.”

“Very good, Captain,” Oropher agreed distantly.

He didn’t watch Rhoven leave with the lieutenants, or pay attention to their receding footsteps or the quiet scolding his captain was delivering. His eyes were fixed on the canvas door to the tent. He had lost count of how many times he had stepped through it over the last couple of weeks, but it never got any easier. The fear of what he might find on the other side never changed. Taking a deep breath, the King of Greenwood put his hand out and swept the flap aside. He stepped into the tent only to immediately stop, caught off guard. The raised bed that his son had been in since that fateful day was still there, and Thranduil still occupied it, deathly pale as if Mandos was only just out of reach. A healer was present, as always, but tonight he wasn’t making observations or administering medicine or whatever else he and his fellows did to keep Oropher’s child alive. Tonight, the healer was asleep.

Oropher felt as though he had stepped into a private and intimate scene as he gazed at his son’s fingers entwined with the healer’s, but he didn’t begrudge Nestorion those close and quiet moments alone. Six yéni of standing in for Oropher when he couldn’t be Ada because he had to be King had earned Nestorion the right to them. He had loved Thranduil, taught him, disciplined him, laughed with him and wiped his tears, healed his hurts, and taken as much pride in him and his accomplishments as Oropher and Felith had. He belonged at Thranduil’s side. Feeling like an intruder, Oropher hesitantly took a step back. He wasn’t used to being the one to leave. Still, Thranduil would be there tomorrow. Unless he dies before then, said a nasty little voice somewhere in his head that made him catch his breath.

It made Nestorion wake, and he sat up slowly. “Forgive me, aran-nín,” he murmured, brushing strands of pale chestnut hair out of his eyes. “I did not know you were there.”

“No, I was at fault. It was not my intention to disturb you. I…” Oropher’s eyes went back to his son. He couldn’t deal with niceties and pleasantries when he had to know. “How is he?”

“I wish I could tell you something new,” Nestorion said quietly. He tucked Thranduil in more securely, and gently passed a hand across his patient’s pale brow. “There is no change.”

Oropher hadn’t considered it before, but now he reflected that it seemed cruel to make the Master Healer say out loud every day that there were no signs of Thranduil waking. It must pain Nestorion to say it as much as it pained him to hear it. “But he has still been breathing by himself?” the King asked.

“Yes, and that is more than we had expected,” Nestorion replied.

The poison on the edge of the blade that had sliced through a gap in Thranduil’s armour had succeeded. He had died in his father’s arms on the battlefield. Oropher had felt it. He’d felt that spark go out, the breaking of the bond that had tied them together as father and son for just short of a thousand years. For a minute that had felt like an immortal lifetime, there had been nothing. But Thranduil had come back. By the grace of the Valar, and his father’s love and rage, and the skills of the healers, he had defied the odds and returned to life – if life it could be called, when he lay there as if he had remained dead. It had to be better than nothing. That was what Oropher told himself. If he let Thranduil go, that was it. Over. Finished. But if Thranduil was breathing – and he was, and there hadn’t been any breathing complications for nearly a full week now – then that meant there was hope.

“I will leave the two of you alone,” Nestorion said softly, as he got to his feet.

“Don’t go,” Oropher replied. “Please. Stay with me. With him. You have every right.”

Nestorion paused for just a moment before resuming his seat at Thranduil’s bedside with a quiet nod of gratitude to Oropher. King and healer sat opposite each other, both holding a pale hand in theirs. “I remember the first time I ever met him,” Nestorion murmured, breaking the silence. “It was twelve days before your coronation. You came to the palace with Thranduil and the Queen. Your brother was there, and his son, and Lord Herdir and Ivoniel. Elder Faelind and Elder Aermanis were showing you around and introducing you to your new staff. Elder Serellon and Elder Thavron were there to point out interesting facts about the structure of the palace, and Elder Luthavar…why was he there, again?”

“To this day I don’t know,” Oropher admitted, with a small and reluctant smile. “He took great joy in showing us all the hidden doors and passageways, and planting all sorts of mischievous thoughts into Thranduil’s mind. Poor Faelind was trying his best not to show us how vexed he was, when all he really wanted was to haul Luthavar across his knee.”

“A sentiment felt by all of us to varying degrees of regularity.” Nestorion’s eyes gleamed with amusement, but he stopped short of laughing. It was hard to laugh when Thranduil lay like a marble statue between them. “Anyway…you didn’t make it to the healing wing until the afternoon. Thranduil stood between you and the Queen, with his hand in hers. He was so little. Not even waist-height. And he’d met so many new people and heard so many new names, and he had behaved so well all day, that he was too tired to even look at me. I was afraid that you would scold him for it but you didn’t. You just put your hand on his head. That was all it took. He stood straighter, as if he had drawn strength from you, and he met my eyes and gave me the sweetest smile. I knelt before him, and promised him that he could always come to me for help when he needed it.”

“And you have been keeping him alive for me ever since,” Oropher said quietly.

Nestorion nodded, his gaze going to Thranduil’s snow-white face. “Yes,” he agreed after a pause. “But you know, he took my words quite literally. He didn’t need healing the first few times he came to me for help.”

“He didn’t?” Oropher repeated, his voice heavy with longing to hear more of the son he could never know enough about.

“The first time he came to me it was because he had got lost trying to find his way to your study,” Nestorion recalled. “The second time, he wanted someone to help him finish a jigsaw puzzle. And the third time, he asked me to hide him because he was in trouble with Bereth Felith for inadvertently frightening one of her ladies with a mouse he wasn’t supposed to have. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I was a healer and not an all-round helper in all things. It was only on our fourth meeting, when he came to me with a splinter in his finger, that I had cause to actually heal him.”

“Times were much easier then,” Oropher said, stroking his son’s cheek with the back of his finger. “He was easier to protect. I wish splinters and trouble were all he had to fear, and that I could still strengthen him with the touch of my hand.”

The two ellyn met each other’s eyes across the body of the poisoned prince. Oropher had done everything in his power to bring his son back from the brink, but seeing the gleam of hope in Nestorion’s leaf green gaze and the unspoken plea to try again…it gave him hope, too. Slowly and carefully, just like the earliest days when he had been afraid of damaging his tiny infant son, he moved his hand to Thranduil’s head. Golden strands shifted like silk beneath his fingers. He closed his eyes and poured his strength into his child, willing him to take it, waiting for a sign. It didn’t even have to be a big one. A little one would do. A squeeze of weakened fingers, a deeper breath, the flutter of lashes, a touch of life in white cheeks, something, anything, he didn’t care what. There was nothing. Just a fool’s hope, Oropher thought hollowly, taking Thranduil’s hand again as he sat back for another night-time vigil.

#thranduil #oropher #lord of the rings #tolkien #elves #second age #last alliance #oc's #fanfiction #father-son #brothers #friendship #vehiron #rhoven #linwe #veassen #nestorion #hope #discipline

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