ext_119011 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
kayleelupin.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
b2mem2013-03-02 09:26 am
kayleelupin.livejournal.com) wrote in b2mem2013-03-02 09:26 am
Entry tags:
Mar Vanwa Tyaliéva (for Day 2) by Kaylee Arafinwiel
B2MeM Challenge: Beauty for day 2
Format: short story
Genre: general?
Rating: PG
Warnings:
Characters: Nienna, Tilion, Balrog of Moria (Rushirithir)
Pairings: Tilion/Rushirithir (brothers/friends)
Summary: Rushirithir has been healed in the Timeless Halls and returned to Tol Eressea, where he finds the former Cottage of Lost Play, now the All-But-Forsaken Inn under Tilion's command. Here, his healing and reintegration into the society of the Maiar continues...
Rushirithir learned, in time, that the Maiar were not the only ones who frequented the All-But-Forsaken Inn. He wandered outside, for the first time getting a truly good look at it, and marveled at the sparkle of golden sand in the twilight. Pearls and shells littered the beaches, and though Rushirithir stayed well away from the water, every so often he would stoop to pick up a particularly beautiful shell or pearl to examine it…pick up? He looked down at himself and realised he had incarnated without thinking about it. He hadn’t been incarnated in any kind of fana or hroa since his…since his death. Frozen in place, Rushirithir screamed internally, and barely registered the arms that wrapped around him from behind, or the kiss on the top of his head, though his trembling slowed and his heart ceased racing. Slowly, he was turned in his rescuer’s embrace.
He had chestnut-brown hair that hung past his waist, intermingled with strands of silver that cast a glow about him. Forest-green eyes shone down on Rushirithir from a face pale as ivory, lips curved in a smile. He wore a forest-green tunic embroidered with the sigil of an oak tree, Lord Orome’s symbol; but behind the tree, nearly caught in its branches, glowed the silver full Moon; and as Rushirithir stared at Isil’s form, he knew who had found him. “Tilion?”
“I am here, Brother,” Tilion said gently. “Come and see yourself, Rushirithir. You have not been Incarnate in a long time, have you?” Numbly, the older Maia shook his head, and followed Tilion to a rock pool, gazing into the still water. Reflected there he saw his face; brown eyes, almost amber in colour, a pale face framed by red hair. His was nowhere near as long as Tilion’s. Rushirithir looked at himself again and realised he wore no tunic. It was not a thing of shame for him to stand in naked fana, he supposed. Before the Children came, the Ainur clothed themselves in flesh as the Children clothed themselves in garments. But still, to see Tilion so beautifully garbed and himself…
“What do you want to wear, Brother?” Tilion asked gently, and Rushirithir closed his eyes. He had never interacted with the Children before, never in a good way, he realised. All he had known after…after they came was fire, and dark glory, and death. Tears coursed down his cheeks and Tilion wiped them away.
Considering it carefully, Rushirithir looked up at Tilion – for all he was older, Tilion was taller – and with a thought, garbed himself in grey. Grey for sorrow, grey for penitence, the colours of Lady Nienna. She it was who appeared to them a moment later, cupping Rushirithir’s face in her hands.
“Wouldst thou take service to me, my Child, until thou’rt ready to return to thy true Lord?” she asked, and Rushirithir nodded.
“Yea, my Lady,” he said, and she gave him an approving nod in return.
“If you will do this, then kneel.” When he had, she took his hands in hers and waited expectantly.
“Here do I swear service to my Lady Nienna, to speak and be silent, to do and let be, to come and to go, in need or in plenty, in peace or in war, in living or…or dying,” he stammered, and Nienna thought wryly to herself that if it happened again her brother would not be best pleased. She nodded for him to continue. “From this hour henceforth, until my lady releaseth me, or the world end,” Rushirithir whispered. “So say I, Rushirithir of the Maiar.”
“And this do I hear, Nienna of the Valier, Lady of Sorrows, Sister of the Feanturi; and I shall not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given; fealty with love, valour with honour, and faltering with patience, for you are Atar’s best beloved, even as I, and I know your resolve will waver at times. A vala Manwe.”
She stooped and kissed Rushirithir on the brow. “Now, my son,” she said, rising and tracing the fountain sigil that had appeared on Rushirithir’s tunic. “Suppose we take a walk on the beach, and speak of the days to come. Tilion has guests to serve, after all.”
Rushirithir and Tilion hugged each other fiercely, and then Rushirithir took Nienna’s hand, and let the Lady lead him away. Behind them, Tilion rushed to draw ale for the souls of the Forgotten Houseless of Numenor, their bodies sleeping forever under the fallen stones…
Format: short story
Genre: general?
Rating: PG
Warnings:
Characters: Nienna, Tilion, Balrog of Moria (Rushirithir)
Pairings: Tilion/Rushirithir (brothers/friends)
Summary: Rushirithir has been healed in the Timeless Halls and returned to Tol Eressea, where he finds the former Cottage of Lost Play, now the All-But-Forsaken Inn under Tilion's command. Here, his healing and reintegration into the society of the Maiar continues...
Rushirithir learned, in time, that the Maiar were not the only ones who frequented the All-But-Forsaken Inn. He wandered outside, for the first time getting a truly good look at it, and marveled at the sparkle of golden sand in the twilight. Pearls and shells littered the beaches, and though Rushirithir stayed well away from the water, every so often he would stoop to pick up a particularly beautiful shell or pearl to examine it…pick up? He looked down at himself and realised he had incarnated without thinking about it. He hadn’t been incarnated in any kind of fana or hroa since his…since his death. Frozen in place, Rushirithir screamed internally, and barely registered the arms that wrapped around him from behind, or the kiss on the top of his head, though his trembling slowed and his heart ceased racing. Slowly, he was turned in his rescuer’s embrace.
He had chestnut-brown hair that hung past his waist, intermingled with strands of silver that cast a glow about him. Forest-green eyes shone down on Rushirithir from a face pale as ivory, lips curved in a smile. He wore a forest-green tunic embroidered with the sigil of an oak tree, Lord Orome’s symbol; but behind the tree, nearly caught in its branches, glowed the silver full Moon; and as Rushirithir stared at Isil’s form, he knew who had found him. “Tilion?”
“I am here, Brother,” Tilion said gently. “Come and see yourself, Rushirithir. You have not been Incarnate in a long time, have you?” Numbly, the older Maia shook his head, and followed Tilion to a rock pool, gazing into the still water. Reflected there he saw his face; brown eyes, almost amber in colour, a pale face framed by red hair. His was nowhere near as long as Tilion’s. Rushirithir looked at himself again and realised he wore no tunic. It was not a thing of shame for him to stand in naked fana, he supposed. Before the Children came, the Ainur clothed themselves in flesh as the Children clothed themselves in garments. But still, to see Tilion so beautifully garbed and himself…
“What do you want to wear, Brother?” Tilion asked gently, and Rushirithir closed his eyes. He had never interacted with the Children before, never in a good way, he realised. All he had known after…after they came was fire, and dark glory, and death. Tears coursed down his cheeks and Tilion wiped them away.
Considering it carefully, Rushirithir looked up at Tilion – for all he was older, Tilion was taller – and with a thought, garbed himself in grey. Grey for sorrow, grey for penitence, the colours of Lady Nienna. She it was who appeared to them a moment later, cupping Rushirithir’s face in her hands.
“Wouldst thou take service to me, my Child, until thou’rt ready to return to thy true Lord?” she asked, and Rushirithir nodded.
“Yea, my Lady,” he said, and she gave him an approving nod in return.
“If you will do this, then kneel.” When he had, she took his hands in hers and waited expectantly.
“Here do I swear service to my Lady Nienna, to speak and be silent, to do and let be, to come and to go, in need or in plenty, in peace or in war, in living or…or dying,” he stammered, and Nienna thought wryly to herself that if it happened again her brother would not be best pleased. She nodded for him to continue. “From this hour henceforth, until my lady releaseth me, or the world end,” Rushirithir whispered. “So say I, Rushirithir of the Maiar.”
“And this do I hear, Nienna of the Valier, Lady of Sorrows, Sister of the Feanturi; and I shall not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given; fealty with love, valour with honour, and faltering with patience, for you are Atar’s best beloved, even as I, and I know your resolve will waver at times. A vala Manwe.”
She stooped and kissed Rushirithir on the brow. “Now, my son,” she said, rising and tracing the fountain sigil that had appeared on Rushirithir’s tunic. “Suppose we take a walk on the beach, and speak of the days to come. Tilion has guests to serve, after all.”
Rushirithir and Tilion hugged each other fiercely, and then Rushirithir took Nienna’s hand, and let the Lady lead him away. Behind them, Tilion rushed to draw ale for the souls of the Forgotten Houseless of Numenor, their bodies sleeping forever under the fallen stones…