[A smile almost unfurls across her face; gentle amusement certainly warms her gaze, a sight not visible to the elf in front of her as Kendis’ focus was still on her hands.] That’s ‘cause I’ve made up my mind. An’ I’m more stubborn than you. [It’s almost a taunt, it’s certainly pressed out in a sing-song manner. A sharp contrast to steady fingers curled around bleeding palms. Carefully Kendis presses at the pooling blood. She turns the gauze into a smaller square and dabs the remaining clean, white sections against the indents.
She couldn’t help being a bit fascinated – her curiosity bubbling at her thoughts as she wondered about the strength of this elf, and of elves, in general. She had seen things but she hadn’t been able to quantify, to compare all she’d had observed. The priority had been on keeping things moving. But it probably would benefit her to jot down her past and future observations. Having it all spread out in front of her might help her better understand this world and its inhabitants, especially should she ever run into trouble.]
Well, I’ll take that as leeway to say what I want anyway, since you didn’t like exactly give me parameters. [She curls the person’s hand around the gauze and raises their dark eyes to take them, just for a moment. For a moment, they don’t say anything and it is as if they’re studying them. Or measuring them.] You can call me Cel. How ‘bout you?
I doubt that. [There is no challenge back, her tone is completely flat and she doesn't even look over or try to argue her point further. Mithiel was stubborn in ways that made even the Noldor cross-eyed sometimes. She had so often believed that will could get her through the shadow, that it could break a curse, that she could be enough to defy the Valar and perhaps even change Ilúvatar's mind because it was the right thing.
Not that it mattered.
But what did, as time wore on, dragging down the elves with it?
Some part of her still thinks that they could have changed all of their fates if only they had been more willing to rally against the inevitable.
Perhaps that part of her is sinking now to the bottom of the sea, inch by inch and drowning as it goes.
Mithiel is compliant now only because she is in shock, still, the grief is so near that it overwhelms her every sense. She would not know the difference between being sat on this shore, or in a palace, or tossed carelessly into the void with the other great defier of the Song.]
Mithiel. [She answers, softy.] Once of Doriath, no of nowhere.
Mithiel. [She murmurs, the name pausing in her mouth like a fresh bout of water after a long day of none. Mithiel. Mithiel. They won't be in each other's acquiantanceship for long but that's no excuse not to remember this person's name. Their tongue does a fair show of not butchering the strange tones and flow: Mithiel.] I'm sure you've heard this before, but it's pretty.
I'm sorry that you lost your home. [There is an unusual impulse that overtakes her but luckily she catches before her hand makes it too far upward. The tendrils of hair shadowing Mithiel's face beckons Kendis' attention and she feels almost compelled to tuck the loose pieces behind the other person's ears. Because something about them begs to have their face held -- Kendis dislodges the thought with a shake of her head and instead returns her focus to the other person's no-longer-bleeding hands. She cradles one in her grip, inspecting it until that she's satisified before looking over the other. When she is finished, she gives Mithiel's left hand a warm yet quick squeeze.] And I am even more sorry that my feeling sorry for you can't bring it back for you. [ She huffs, then murmurs more to herself: ] I hate useless apologies. [ Or maybe, more, she hates apologies that can't be supported by action -- because she feels that Mithian needs sympathy, though they may reject. And that, in of itsef, gives the words some depth.]
It's plain. It means daughter of the grey. [She says, thinking now that somehow this person who is speaking to her doesn't know her tongue as well as it sounds because otherwise, they would know. It wasn't some sweet epessë that extolled her beauty or virtue, nor did she possess the Noldorin habit of having many names from which to choose, she had not had a lover who might call her something sweeter or a good friend who did, nor even did she do any great deeds that might earn her a title or something more than what it was.
Daughter of the grey. Her parent's perpetual argument. Was it because of the thick fog into which she was born, or her father's silver hair? Was she named after the twilight of the world where anything lit by nature was desaturated and dim?
She would never know now, not until her parents walked the earth again. With how they had died, that might be centuries or millennia, if they ever came again at all.]
I lost my continent. My home. My friends. My family. My King, twice. My people who are not rotting in the sea are scattered to the winds, some fled east to the old Greenwood, [That is where Oropher and Thranduil said they were going, anyway,] others seeking the havens which may no longer exist.
[Kendis shakes her head.] It’s pretty. Mushrooms are gray. Clouds. Kittens can be gray, and everyone knows cats are the most wonderful creatures ever created, so. Pretty. [The ‘so there’ is almost as bright as a neon sign; the challenge is stated if not worded.]
[She pauses. Even she’s not so much of an ass to pop in with something positive after the litany, the prayer of loss, of pain. It actually renders Kendis silent. It makes their tongue feel heavy and stuck, like peanut butter gluing it to the roof of her mouth.
Her breathing comes out hitched and her nose wrinkles, as she swallows roughly. She’s not crying. Kendis isn’t one to cry – but in this moment they wish they were. They had never wanted to scrape open their heart to someone they barely knew in the past as much as they do now in this moment. Maybe it’s because she’s never known such loss in this life. And maybe it’s because there is an ancient part of her that understands it.
Their breath hitches.
And she doesn’t say anything for a moment –] You can’t die with them. Mithiel. [She swallows roughly.] You can scream, destroy, like – like you can waste away. But – [her breath hitches again] You can’t do that with them. You shouldn’t.
[The kittens are dead too, she thinks bleakly but doesn't say. If they were wild and without a home, no one would have thought to grab them and hundreds of miles is a long way for such small creatures to run even given multiple days to do so. She was lucky she got out with her horse given how late she had stayed, anything smaller that hadn't fled had no hope.
Mithiel's gaze comes back into focus as she looks at Cel and her totally-not-crying. It is a sad thing, there is little that could be sadder. It had all of the horrors. There had been war, torture, homes destroyed, families ripped apart and people killed. No one and nothing escaped it and this land that had been theirs almost since the beginning of time now sat underwater, slowly creeping further and further down.
She doesn't know what to do, entirely, she has nothing left in her to offer to comfort anyone. She cannot even comfort herself and as an only child she had always been good at that.]
I do not think I could scream. I feel defeated, deflated like a waterskin that has a hole in it. Námo would welcome me if I let go. [She adds the last sentence quietly, as if genuinely thinking about it.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
She couldn’t help being a bit fascinated – her curiosity bubbling at her thoughts as she wondered about the strength of this elf, and of elves, in general. She had seen things but she hadn’t been able to quantify, to compare all she’d had observed. The priority had been on keeping things moving. But it probably would benefit her to jot down her past and future observations. Having it all spread out in front of her might help her better understand this world and its inhabitants, especially should she ever run into trouble.]
Well, I’ll take that as leeway to say what I want anyway, since you didn’t like exactly give me parameters. [She curls the person’s hand around the gauze and raises their dark eyes to take them, just for a moment. For a moment, they don’t say anything and it is as if they’re studying them. Or measuring them.] You can call me Cel. How ‘bout you?
no subject
Not that it mattered.
But what did, as time wore on, dragging down the elves with it?
Some part of her still thinks that they could have changed all of their fates if only they had been more willing to rally against the inevitable.
Perhaps that part of her is sinking now to the bottom of the sea, inch by inch and drowning as it goes.
Mithiel is compliant now only because she is in shock, still, the grief is so near that it overwhelms her every sense. She would not know the difference between being sat on this shore, or in a palace, or tossed carelessly into the void with the other great defier of the Song.]
Mithiel. [She answers, softy.] Once of Doriath, no of nowhere.
no subject
I'm sorry that you lost your home. [There is an unusual impulse that overtakes her but luckily she catches before her hand makes it too far upward. The tendrils of hair shadowing Mithiel's face beckons Kendis' attention and she feels almost compelled to tuck the loose pieces behind the other person's ears. Because something about them begs to have their face held -- Kendis dislodges the thought with a shake of her head and instead returns her focus to the other person's no-longer-bleeding hands. She cradles one in her grip, inspecting it until that she's satisified before looking over the other. When she is finished, she gives Mithiel's left hand a warm yet quick squeeze.] And I am even more sorry that my feeling sorry for you can't bring it back for you. [ She huffs, then murmurs more to herself: ] I hate useless apologies. [ Or maybe, more, she hates apologies that can't be supported by action -- because she feels that Mithian needs sympathy, though they may reject. And that, in of itsef, gives the words some depth.]
I think you're wrong though.
no subject
Daughter of the grey. Her parent's perpetual argument. Was it because of the thick fog into which she was born, or her father's silver hair? Was she named after the twilight of the world where anything lit by nature was desaturated and dim?
She would never know now, not until her parents walked the earth again. With how they had died, that might be centuries or millennia, if they ever came again at all.]
I lost my continent. My home. My friends. My family. My King, twice. My people who are not rotting in the sea are scattered to the winds, some fled east to the old Greenwood, [That is where Oropher and Thranduil said they were going, anyway,] others seeking the havens which may no longer exist.
What could I possibly be wrong about?
no subject
[She pauses. Even she’s not so much of an ass to pop in with something positive after the litany, the prayer of loss, of pain. It actually renders Kendis silent. It makes their tongue feel heavy and stuck, like peanut butter gluing it to the roof of her mouth.
Her breathing comes out hitched and her nose wrinkles, as she swallows roughly. She’s not crying. Kendis isn’t one to cry – but in this moment they wish they were. They had never wanted to scrape open their heart to someone they barely knew in the past as much as they do now in this moment. Maybe it’s because she’s never known such loss in this life. And maybe it’s because there is an ancient part of her that understands it.
Their breath hitches.
And she doesn’t say anything for a moment –] You can’t die with them. Mithiel. [She swallows roughly.] You can scream, destroy, like – like you can waste away. But – [her breath hitches again] You can’t do that with them. You shouldn’t.
no subject
Mithiel's gaze comes back into focus as she looks at Cel and her totally-not-crying. It is a sad thing, there is little that could be sadder. It had all of the horrors. There had been war, torture, homes destroyed, families ripped apart and people killed. No one and nothing escaped it and this land that had been theirs almost since the beginning of time now sat underwater, slowly creeping further and further down.
She doesn't know what to do, entirely, she has nothing left in her to offer to comfort anyone. She cannot even comfort herself and as an only child she had always been good at that.]
I do not think I could scream. I feel defeated, deflated like a waterskin that has a hole in it. Námo would welcome me if I let go. [She adds the last sentence quietly, as if genuinely thinking about it.]