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eachdraidh2014-09-30 08:41 pm
silmarils) wrote in eachdraidh2014-09-30 08:41 pm
audio; forward-dated to post-feast
[ his arrival hadn't been graceful by any stretch of the imagination. in fact, mostly it had been a blur. his first conscious memories are of fire, burning alive as the silmaril sears through his hand and the flames take him. smoke lingers in the air around him, and there are voices, and the flames are gone and he is still here--
he doesn't remember, exactly, what had happened after that, but the beautiful rooms he's been given are destroyed, and his throat is raw, the echo of a shriek still caught there, and his only good hand burns and burns. he can't do this, can't do this, can't do this can't do this can't can't can't can'tcan'tcan't--
time. moments or hours or years, who is he to tell? these are not the halls, he knows, he's been denied even death. and there is laughter, soft, sly, purring at his ear. that voice will ever be with him, spreading its rot through his veins, flexing its claws against his heart-- until poison pumps through it, until it's darkness alone sustaining him. that voice, which had spoken to him when he'd lain shattered and barely comprehending.
kinslayer, it murmurs, and a void opens beneath maedhros, and he cannot remember-- kinslayer, what hast thou wrought for thyself? these are the fruits of thy labour. a deathless existence, an oath forever unfulfilled. family slain, people scattered, a legacy of destruction.
he grasps for something, anything, struggling through the mire of his mind: his hand clenches, fresh pain drowning out the whisper. he is in unfamiliar rooms, an unfamiliar place, and there had been creatures, strange creatures, and--
--and?
feverish eyes land on the locket, discarded and opened at his feet. speak, he remembers. speak, and he might be heard. but is there anyone, anyone at all, that he would wish to speak to?
if this is where the cursed sons of feanor are taken when denied death, then-- ]
I-- [ the voice is a harsh croak, as if its owner's throat has been stripped raw by screaming. even so.. even so, there may be something familiar in it. maedhros takes a trembling breath through his nose, curled and shaking, scorched and bleeding hand curled almost white-knuckled around the locket. but even so, there's only his voice to judge. ] --I seek the sons of Feanor, should they be here.
[ with a quiet snap, he shuts the locket and ends the message. ]
he doesn't remember, exactly, what had happened after that, but the beautiful rooms he's been given are destroyed, and his throat is raw, the echo of a shriek still caught there, and his only good hand burns and burns. he can't do this, can't do this, can't do this can't do this can't can't can't can'tcan'tcan't--
time. moments or hours or years, who is he to tell? these are not the halls, he knows, he's been denied even death. and there is laughter, soft, sly, purring at his ear. that voice will ever be with him, spreading its rot through his veins, flexing its claws against his heart-- until poison pumps through it, until it's darkness alone sustaining him. that voice, which had spoken to him when he'd lain shattered and barely comprehending.
kinslayer, it murmurs, and a void opens beneath maedhros, and he cannot remember-- kinslayer, what hast thou wrought for thyself? these are the fruits of thy labour. a deathless existence, an oath forever unfulfilled. family slain, people scattered, a legacy of destruction.
he grasps for something, anything, struggling through the mire of his mind: his hand clenches, fresh pain drowning out the whisper. he is in unfamiliar rooms, an unfamiliar place, and there had been creatures, strange creatures, and--
--and?
feverish eyes land on the locket, discarded and opened at his feet. speak, he remembers. speak, and he might be heard. but is there anyone, anyone at all, that he would wish to speak to?
if this is where the cursed sons of feanor are taken when denied death, then-- ]
I-- [ the voice is a harsh croak, as if its owner's throat has been stripped raw by screaming. even so.. even so, there may be something familiar in it. maedhros takes a trembling breath through his nose, curled and shaking, scorched and bleeding hand curled almost white-knuckled around the locket. but even so, there's only his voice to judge. ] --I seek the sons of Feanor, should they be here.
[ with a quiet snap, he shuts the locket and ends the message. ]
no subject
[He hums thoughtfully.] Hm, the Shire? Ah... It's beautiful there. Peaceful, comfortable, simple beauty with rolling green hills in the spring and summer that go on quite some way. The earth is rich and plentiful, wonderful for farming and gardening of all sorts.
At night when the skies are clear of clouds I liked to sit atop my roof and watch the stars pass over me... I felt very small- well I've always felt small, 'tis natural for a hobbit you know, but looking up at those stars the world feels so much more grand and vast. My mother, she was very odd for a hobbit, but I suppose that's where I got it from - [Small chuckle] she traveled quite a bit before settling down. I always loved to hear her stories as a young fauntling about the world beyond the Shire. Why, I remember running off into the woods in search of elves and fairies, but at the end of the day I found more mud on my shirt and twigs in my hair than anything else.
[He sighs, lost in thought for a moment.] We hobbits are creatures of comfort. It is only sensible that our homes are as comfortable as we can possibly make them to be. It's actually considered quite scandalous to want anything a little more daring or exciting! Certainly anything like an adventure would ruin a hobbit's respectability completely. [And yet he doesn't sound at all perturbed by this, having come to terms with ruining his reputation among his neighbors the moment he ran out his front door.]
no subject
[ he's quiet as bilbo talks about his home, eyes closed, letting the words paint a picture for him. it sounds-- beautiful, and yes, peaceful. these hobbits seem like simple, decent folk.
the silence stretches out as bilbo's voice fades, and at last, maedhros sighs softly. ]
.. And yet, here you are. As sensible as hobbits must be, I feel as if you are an adaptable folk, as well. [ and then, gently: ] Truly, your Shire sounds lovely. I would have liked to see it. I will hope that you make it back there safely, once you are done with adventures.
no subject
As foreign as this world may be there are some areas that are quite nice. Not as nice as my home, in my opinion, but nice enough! The Station is quite interesting too...
no subject
I will take your word for it, then, Master Baggins-- as one with an eye for beauty. .. Though, what is this 'Station', then?
no subject
[He starts to contest an eye for beauty, but stops himself with a quiet 'ah'.] It is a very large building that a few have chosen to reside in since it is neither of the two castles. All sort of magical and stranger items are there, like boxes with moving pictures and sounds or lamps that light without fire or oil. Even the kitchens are amazing- there's an oven that has no need for wood or fire and makes baking much less of a hassle sometimes.