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 And So The Sun Sets, FA 1, shortly after the Ice | Open
NessavendŽ
Posted: Jul 29 2014, 09:16 PM



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The journey over the HelcaraxŽ had been harrowing, and that was putting it lightly. Shortly after the host that conquered the Grinding Ice had crossed into Aman and the moon had disappeared, the sun had risen, shining brightly in the sky. For a moment, the entirety of the group had been frightened: was this some dark power of Morgoth's come to destroy them when they had finally come through the most dangerous experience of their lives to date? Had this journey all been for naught? When they had realized that it was the last fruit from Laurelin shining upon them, a moment of happiness overcame them. They forgot their fears and their woes, their souls cleansed by the light that shone from VŠsa. Darkness was a thing of the past at that time, something they did not have to dwell upon. Light filled their lives, and the cold of the Ice was now behind them.

Having feet on solid ground was one of the most comforting things for the healer. NessavendŽ had hated the cold, but she hated the shifting ice even more. Every time an ominous cracking began, reverberating through the slopes and dips in the ice, she felt her fŽa tremble in fear inside of her. They had lost too many to the shifting ice...seeing bodies disappear, hearing bones crack and break as they fell victim to the cruel cold, it was almost too much to bear. The largest loss the group had suffered had been when ElenwŽ died along with part of the host. Her child had been saved...but Turgon had suffered the loss of his wife and others had suffered grievous losses as well.

With the shifting and cracking ice, wounds were common place, and it was hard for the healer to properly tend to every injury. Focus was lost to the haze of cold that sunk into the core of her being. Standing on solid land, with grass beneath their feet and resources at hand, had allowed for her to begin foraging for the needed herbs to begin aiding those who still suffered wounds that refused to properly heal and to aid their healing process.

Whereas many enjoyed the days that had passed, she had not once stopped to consider what this meant for them...for her. They had arrived at Lake Mithrim near to where FŽanŠro and his company were shortly after leaving the ice, as soon as the sun had risen. Whether the sun heralded their arrival or something else, none knew, but they were thankful for the comforts of a camp, of hot food and less bulky clothing. And while there was talk among the group, of what was to come and where they would go from there, she kept herself busy. Little time was spent talking among others; instead, she foraged, made pastes, tended to wounds, and situated the white tent she would stay in for the time being near the lake. A source of fresh water was of utmost importance in her work, after all, and so many now could fully heal without the fŽa-crushing cold of the ice to hinder her.

The day was coming to an end, as was her work, and it was for the first time since their arrival that NessavendŽ had actually stopped to watch the sun set, to take in everything around her without constantly worrying about wounded or herb pastes. With everyone tended to, or so she thought, the healer felt she could take this one moment for herself. She had had very little time in the interim to actually consider the sun and the sprays of orange, pink, purple, and even yellow that cast across the sky as it sunk into the horizon. This sunset reminded her of the first: the beauty of it, the way it washed the sky in colors that at one time seemed to be lost, and how it soothed a soul that had been torn haggard by the cold that seeped into bones. It set the water to burning brightly as well, mirroring the dance of color above, and in the sinking light her own hair shone as brightly as the sun did. Her heart ached to take in such beauty, but it was an ache she found pleasant, welcoming. It was an ache she wished would last for a lifetime.
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Glorfindel
Posted: Sep 2 2014, 05:41 PM



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Laurefindil shifted uncomfortably as he watched Arien's descent below the horizon, her fiery path blazened for the day and now to vanish below Arda as Tilion followed. He knew who they were, what their new purpose was; he'd had the dreams, as many of his kind had, those among them that claimed foresight at least. Arien and Tilion, chosen to guide the last fruits of Laurelin and Telperion until the end of days. It was beautiful, but even now that he was confident she would return come morning, he could not enjoy the colors painted across the evening sky. It should have filled him with hope, should have calmed and brought him comfort, as the beginning of a new era, not that their journey across the HelcaraxŽ was complete.

Instead all he felt was pain. The pain of loss, grief, exhaustion, weariness, fear of the unknown, and physical pain. Laurefindil shifted again, twisting the fur lined coat he'd worn on the ice a little tighter around his hands where they lay in his lap, half immobile and oscillating between a dull ache and sharp, shooting agony. Frostbite, he supposed, had finally taken its toll after the long hours spent exposed to the below freezing temperatures, tending to others' injuries or making use of the dexterity only glove-less fingers provided to fix arrows, or tie a fishing line when the ice was secure enough to try.

No amount of warmth had helped thus far. For a time, the cold burns he would get could be healed by his own Fёa, but as the years wore on it had become harder and harder to keep up a continuous stream of healing energy, especially as supplies had grown thin, and at times, vanished altogether. He'd given up, and only bothered with the most pressing of his own troubles in favor of expending his strength taking care of his people. His father had not given him a healer's training so he could hoard it for himself and his cousins. Broken arms and legs were more important than a patch of raw skin here, a blister there, chapped lips or cracked knuckles.

He'd grown used to the constant pain in his extremities, and almost forgotten it entirely as another side effect of their conditions. Now though, with the sun shining brightly and warming his face, with the snow receded, with grass and trees and precipitation that wasn't frozen solid in the warmer (not warm by definition, but anything was warmer than the Helcaraxё) air, the pain in his hands was excruciating. Unfortunately it had been so long that he couldn't seem to find the proper channels, where blood vessels were supposed to flow and skin was supposed to mesh. Perhaps it was the pain making it difficult to concentrate, or the exhaustion of his own FŽa. However he looked at it and whatever excuse he used, the fact was this: He needed help.

Laurefindil would have gone to his father, but he had vanished on the ice, sometime in the middle of a blizzard, just a few months ago. Maybe he was still wandering, maybe he was dead. He didn't know, but it was nice to believe that he was alive, that he'd found his way out before them, or perhaps he was just lost among the Noldor, there were so many of them. Maybe. Maybe.

He would have loved the sunsets.

The Vanya slid from his perch on a lichen matted boulder and headed back toward the camp in a circuitous route that would take him past the most tents, trying to look inconspicuous while also keeping an eye out for tents with a healing symbol or other such hints as to their occupants' line of work. Nearing the lake, he caught the faintest whiff of herbs on the air as he passed by a simple white tent, and he paused, glancing toward it in an unobtrusive way. It was plain, but after a moment he noticed an elleth standing on the other side of it, and he glanced down at the bundle of fur that hid his aching fingers, wondering if it was really worth the risk of getting turned down, and decided that yes, he did want to be able to sleep tonight, and hold a cup of hot tea in the morning if at all possible, even if it was made from bark or scavenged wild mint. He could gather up a bit of hope in that the variety of plants he smelled typically weren't found in common use for cooking so he dredged up a bit of humility and padded over.

Laurefindil picked his way around the tent's perimeter and cleared his throat. "You wouldn't happen to be a healer would you?" he asked quietly, "I apologize for disturbing you but IÖ well, I could use some help." He offered a small, sheepish smile, though it didn't reach very far to his eyes, and gestured slightly with his haphazardly wrapped muff. "I'd do it myself but I've run out of fuel I think."
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NessavendŽ
Posted: Sep 14 2014, 11:12 AM



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For a moment, NessavendŽ had peace: there was no worry about wounds sustained from the Ice, no worry of food or drink for those who had taken the arduous journey, no worry to weigh down her cold, weary soul...and then someone broke her reverie. Silence and comfort were shattered as a voice evaded her thoughts, mind clouded with memories that refused to leave, even when she slept, and she was drug from that darkness that offere comfort she had not had in quite some time to the burning sky before her and someone speaking behind her. Turning her head, face a blank canvas portraying no emotion or thought (although internally she was groaning and praying to Yavanna and EstŽ for just one more moment of peace and quiet), her eyes flicked over Laurefindil quickly, assessing the Vanya before her.

She could not recall his face from the Ice, but if she were honest with herself, very few actually branded a lasting impression upon her memory from those cold, dark times. There were too many to keep count of on the ice and too many lost, their survivors unable to be properly mourn for their lives being taken so quickly from them. Every face she looked at since they had stepped off of the ice held no real importance, no matter what rank they came from. They were merely another patient, another wound to tend to once her fŽa had the strength to do it.

Moving forward without a word spoken, she unwrapped the hand he had motioned with and looked it over, fingers lightly tracing along the injured appendage. "You are lucky they do not need removed," came her first words in a flat voice. At some point on the ice, her attempts at becoming a more nurturing healer had cracked; the cold hardened words and expressions, tender natures died, and healers had to learn to be quick and succinct in their work or risk losing their patient's and themselves in the process. The time spent on the HelcaraxŽ was not a distant memory for NessavendŽ, or anyone else for that matter--it was still a cold wound festering below the surface, and healing would take time. As her fingers traced along the frostbitten hand, she tsked to herself softly and motioned for him to join her.

"I have done a lot of work today, so I can only heal it to an extent, internally that is." That was the most worrisome part to her, anyway: the external damage could heal on its own, or he could return later and have it tended to if he wished. Fixing the internal damage was the most important part of healing currently. There were various dried roots laid out before her, and she plucked one up, putting it into a small stone bowl with a little bit of boiling water from her fire. "This calendula paste will help with the rest of the healing externally." She motioned for him to sit on a log near the fire as she worked on the paste, a stalling effort so her fŽa could prepare for its next task of healing his hand. As she worked on the paste, she gave him the directions needed to make the most of it. "Apply it generously tonight on your entire hand, and anywhere else on your skin that was exposed to the cold for too long. Wrap your hand in bandages after you apply it tonight. Do it once more in the morning if your hand no longer aches."

With the paste sufficently ground up, she moved forward to take hold of his hand again and feel out where the damage was, mapping out her healing path in her mind. Without a word, as her fingers drifted over his wounds, she extended forth her fŽa to work on repairing the damage the ice had caused him, wondering how he had survived this long without losing his hand. It took a bit of careful work--partly because the ice caused damage that was hard to heal and partly because her fŽa was so weak--on her part, but when she withdrew her hand, she was satisfied the internal damage had been properly dealt with...as properly as she could in her current state. "If you still have pain in the morning like you have had, come back to me first thing. Do you need banages as well?" She found a small, empty pot amidst the others on the ground with their varied contents and scooped out the paste into it, then moved back to Laurefindil. Through the whole process of healing and discussing what he needed to her, her face was blank and voice was soft and tone flat. "Remember, apply it generously and wrap your hand after," she said, extending the clay pot to him.
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Glorfindel
Posted: Sep 16 2014, 11:45 AM



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Ah yes, this is why he had waited so long to seek assistance. He wasn't the only one exhausted from their journey and the vast amounts of healing that had to be done on the way. The look on her face was easily translated despite her silence. He knew that feeling well but he'd always done his best to ignore the irritation and do what he could. He had hoped however, that even if it were just a minute effort, the unfamiliarity with the fruits of his neglect might be more effective than his own efforts had been.

Laurefindil smiled apologetically, half a wince and half a plea that she would humor him for a few moments despite his interrupting her obviously first chance at rest. He was relieved to see her get to her feet and approach, and he let her pull away the furs to reveal the cracked skin of his hands, patchy with pale, translucent flesh where the cold had eaten away at them, a hint of blue at the fingertips. The Vanya knew very well how lucky he was he still had fingers at all; the flame of his own Fёa had kept them just warm enough to survive. The unamused bite in her tone made him grimace and look down to watch her healthy fingers move over his - he felt nothing at the touch.

They had lost more than appearances told on the ice: healers were by nature nurturing and empathic - very few of them had retained that patience so far. He didn't blame her. As a healer himself he'd known what he was doing at the time, but he hadn't cared. It was his own stupidity that had brought him to this point that he had to waste someone else's energy to fix his mistakes, he was lucky she would humor him at all and not tell him to go lie in the bed he'd made for himself, but he could tell she had a good heart underneath the cold that had frozen it.

He sat where she indicated, reveling momentarily in the warmth of the fire nearby. Fire was something they'd had very little of on the ice, despite their great need, and he doubted he would ever tire of its comforting glow and the warmth it provided. Laurefindil's eyes slid from the fire to watch her work, listening to the instructions given. He knew what she was making, but he couldn't have done it himself, the dexterity in his fingers had died along with the nerves. In the final weeks before reaching Beleriand it had gotten difficult to even grip his own sword hilt with any confidence.

There was ample opportunity to thank her for her work, but the touch of her Fёa when it came stole the words from his lips. He closed his eyes and sucked in a shallow breath, following the path her unfamiliar Fёa took along his damaged limb in an effort to memorize the steps he would need to take later. The pain didn't retreat completely, but it soothed enough of it that he let out a quiet hiss of relief. He'd nearly forgotten the feel of his own fingers, but feeling them awaken now, it would be easier for him to heal the rest of the damage himself later. "No," he answered softly, "I have enough of my own, there's no need to take from your stores." He did accept the small pot when it was offered to him, curling his still tingling fingers around it carefully. Yes, much better. At the very least they were mobile again.

"I thank you," he added, suddenly feeling a very poignant need to offer her something in return for her services, though he doubted she wanted anything but a good night's rest. "IÖ Well, my name Laurefindil, son of Irime Õrien, daughter of FinwŽ —oldůran, I know coin and jewels are of little value here and now, when just surviving is more important than whatever wealth or status you have, but if you should need anything, you have only to ask. It is not difficult to find me." He got to his feet and swayed slightly, letting out a self-deprecating half-chuckle. "Once again I apologize for interrupting your rest. I can tell you need it as much as I."
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NessavendŽ
Posted: Sep 28 2014, 10:49 AM



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Patience had been something she was not in possession of prior to the crossing of the Ice. It was something her Amil always scolded her about, her inability to offer the needed patience to those seeking aid. She was a curt healer in Aman, tending to wounds with an efficiency that few could rival. Tenderness was harder to come by in her efforts as a healer; though on occasion she could be tender...it was just rare that she ever was. Perhaps it was partly due to her tending of a wild garden, where patience was often not needed in pursuits of cultivation. Gardeners who tended to perfectly manicured flowers and herbs were the most patient lot, but with the wildness of freedom sown into her gardening, NessavendŽ required no patience to allow her garden to grow and flourish. Perhaps it was that same wildness that was sown into her spirit as well. The lack of patience translated into every facet of her life, it seemed, but she never truly dwelt on such thoughts to make the connection. Not now, now that they were so far from such peaceful and easy times.

Now, the only thing she dwelt on was survival. It was all that mattered.

Healing his hand was not as troublesome as she thought it would be, but her spirit was completely expended from the effort. Rest. She needed more rest than she was willing to admit to, at least currently. NessavendŽ wondered if there would ever be enough rest to fully heal the hurts they had faced, both physically and spiritually. "When you run out of paste, come back for more. Focus more on healing the internal damage. Your hand can heal on its own accord externally." Whether or not he listened or knew that, she did not care. She merely felt the urge to tell him.

With thanks given, she shrugged her shoulders and took water, rinsing out the bowl where she had crushed the calendula. As he offered a name, she stopped what she was doing, looking back at him then. Laurefindil. Now she knew why he seemed so familiar. He was Carnistir's cousin. "I know who you are." Even with the familiarization, she kept the same, even, soft tone of voice and blank features as she looked back to him. "I am NessavendŽ, daughter of Carnion and ManissŽ." Her parents had not made the journey, though, and she wondered then if it would even matter who she was in this new land. The one thing she would always cling to, though, was her identity as a healer. That much she would never abandon.

"I need nothing, but thank you for the offer." When he swayed upon rising, she motioned back to the log he was previously sitting on. "Sit. Rest a moment." She moved to a small pot boiling on the edge of the fire and plucked up an empty bowl. "I have a little hare stew. Take some before you go. It will give you some strength." Even though they were back on land, finding a plenty supply of food was still difficult, but some had scavenged enough to find hare and small stags. She had killed the hare she was cooking earlier that morning, and she was thankful for meat, something that had been in short supply on the ice. Ladling out a small bowlful, she moved to give it to Laurefindil.
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Glorfindel
Posted: Oct 4 2014, 10:47 AM



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Laurefindil had never been particularly careful with his own self preservation, which was how he had ended up in this situation in the first place, but he had been cowed enough by the mere necessity of assistance to heed her instructions with more diligence than he normally would have. The shallow desire to maintain outward appearances had been smothered on the ice, and the pain that lingered in his fingers, now stinging with the awakening of his nerves, was enough to instill the importance of inward healing rather than external. He felt better than he had in weeks just being able to make a fist again. Function over form would prevail in him for once.

The Vanya could not remember ever speaking with her directly, but the name rang a very faint bell in his mind. The names of her parents sounded familiar as well, though admittedly, Laurefindil had been more concerned with his own foolish business back in Aman. They might have been immensely important to his grandfather's court and he mightn't have known. Still, he peered at her curiously, wracking his brain for where he had heard the name. Thirty years together on the ice and he was still acquainted with less than a quarter of Fingolfin's host.

He sat at her command with little resistance. He was still weak and needed rest, and the long walk back to his own tent where his mother waited alone, bereft, made any excuse to stay even for a few moments longer preferable. A red face and bitter scowl, calloused fingertips from needlepricks, came to mind as she was ladling stew into a bowl. "You knew-" but the soft words stuck in his throat before he could finish, a lump settling there as he thought of his cousin. One of many whom he had loved and been abandoned by. Countless nights had gone by, cold and dark, that he had sat up with the wind biting his skin, asking himself what he had done wrong. If his forgework had been just a little better, perhaps Feanaro would have been able to overlook the yellow of his hair.

Sucking in a deep breath, he accepted the offered bowl, tucking the jar of salve into the inner pocket of his tunic as he curled his fingers gladly around the warmth radiating from the wooden sides. "Thank you," he said, glad for something to focus on instead of the dark thoughts he'd headed toward. "AreÖ" Was there a delicate way to ask if one had been orphaned on the ice? He doubted it. "Did you come here alone?" Laurefindil stared down at the swirl of broth and meat in the bowl, watching the steam rise up. There was very little fat from what he could tell, it was still cold and any game found nearby was lean, as it had been for long years, but it was hot, and Laurefindil appreciated that almost more than the protein within. Food had stopped being a social past time for him the moment Finwe was murdered, now it was only necessity pushed on him by others when he didn't think of it himself. For a moment he wondered how different he looked now to what he had then, but he was too much of a coward to look into the still water of the lake and find out.
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NessavendŽ
Posted: Oct 6 2014, 07:14 PM



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Laurefindil's relationship with Carnistir was not unknown to her. She knew most family members tended to be close--she was close with her own family, even though it was dwarfed in size compared to the Vanya's. She did not know whether others knew of her acquaintance with the ill-tempered Noldo or not. Well...at least one of his family members did, and she hated the fact that at least one other person knew of her incident with Carnistir. The Vanya's words, cut off in his throat, was all she needed to hear to come to the realization that he also knew about her acquaintance. If he knew of the incident...oh Yavanna, she hoped he would not bring it up. For a moment she was tense, the cold that had seeped into her soul darkening her countenance.

Taking in a deep breath, attempting to cleanse the bitter anger from her before she faced him, NessavendŽ wondered if he had the same question she did--why had they been abandoned?

With her demeanor less chilly than before, and glad to see he had taken the offered food, she moved back to ladle her own bowl of the soup, hoping to find something on the morrow that would thicken it up some. Potatoes or something a little more hearty than a skinny hare and simple herbs. She was thankful for what she had, though, and glad to have a full stomach. Settling down on a log opposite Laurefindil, she looked at him as he questioned her about who she had come with. Families had been torn asunder on the Ice; he had lost his own father, if she could recall correctly, and many others had lost their own members. A shake of her head was the first response she gave him before she took a sip of the broth. "I came alone. My Atar and Amil stayed in Aman. As did the rest of my family." She had dwelt for some time in the beginning of their journey on her loneliness but realized it would do her no good to dwell. Her spirit weakened for a time, bereft of home and all things that had made her happy.

It was then she let the cold seep into her, deep into her soul, and harden her heart. It was the only way to survive.

Looking down into her bowl, she took another sip of the broth, savoring the warmth of the liquid as it spread through her body. The sun was almost hidden by the horizon, and darkness was slowly creeping upon them. "Eat, you need your strength." She had seen effects of the ice on everyone, seen the thinness that all of the Eldar seemed to possess now and the haggard edges to their fŽa. In time they would heal...but it felt like healing would never come.
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Glorfindel
Posted: Oct 22 2014, 09:45 AM



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Moryo had always been one of those who kept the more embarrassing aspects of his daily life to himself, so Laurefindil wasn't especially knowledgeable on previous events, but being one of the more mellow and respectful of his cousins, he'd heard a little, in a very vague sort of way, and could guess quite a lot of the rest. Knowing that she had some connecting with his absent cousin didn't help in the effort to stop thinking about them though, and he found the broth in his hands cooling untouched.

Laurefindil had had thirty years to ponder his feelings on the whole matter, but he'd never gotten much farther than guilt for being part of the family that had caused all this, and a sense of inadequacy and betrayal for being left behind without explanation. It went in circles in his head, with no conclusion. Sometimes he tried to imagine what he would say if he ever saw any of them again, but it only left him feeling worse than beforehand. He lifted the bowl to his lips and sipped carefully, relieved to find that his hands were steady enough not to spill it all over himself and give this nis another humiliating memory of his family tree.

He felt the heat coat his tongue and slide down his throat. The pleasure the simple feeling brought with it made him feel even more guilty for taking what little she had from her. It felt wrong, selfish. He should have let her be. He had more than enough. He could have gone to someone else. Findekano maybe. But in truth he'd been unwilling to let anyone he cared for see the damage.

His brow furrowed as he looked back at her. It seemed she didn't have the same convictions as he did to keep those he loved from worrying. All the sameÖ the idea of coming on a journey like this alone, and leaving everything one loved behindÖ for what? Laurefindil had gone because it seemed everyone he loved was, and he hadn't wanted to be left behind. Perhaps if Nessavende had known what it would be like she might have reconsidered. The urge to demand 'why' he shoved down forcibly. It was none of his business.

He was however, curious enough to ask a different question. "Do you regret it?" softly spoken as he looked back down at the bowl in his hands. It was one that continued to burn in his own heart and hadn't yet found an answer to.
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NessavendŽ
Posted: Oct 23 2014, 04:41 PM



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MannisŽ had told NessavendŽ that going on the journey would be a fool's errand--she would be alone, with no family to comfort her or aid her in her new life, but the young healer did not care. Those she cared about were going: Artanis, whom she had a budding friendship with thanks to their shared love of gardening, being one, and even Carnistir was another...although their friendship was a bit more volatile than most. That was mostly due to this ill temper and how quickly it could be sparked. Sometimes on the ice NessavendŽ would recall her mother's words, and she knew during those times her mother was right: it had been a fool's errand, and she was a fool for going. There was no turning back, though. The Doom was upon them. They could only go forward.

The silence that had settled between the two had been pleasant, a feeling she had no had in some time, and thus an unexpected one. He shattered that silence with a question she had refused to allow to surface to the forefront of her mind...until now.

Do you regret it?

Blinking, looking over at Laurefindil, she had to consider it for only a moment. "Every bitter step," she answered truthfully, her voice less hoarse than before. The soup was doing her some good, it seemed. The cold's strain on her vocal chords was loosening, and soon she would have her voice back. She had decided some time before to not heal it on her own: let it heal as it would, naturally. Her fŽa's power had to be saved for healing, for helping those who needed it more than her voice did. "If I knew then what I do now, I would have turned back and never given it a second thought." If only she had foresight enough to see it all: the pain, the suffering, the death...even what was also to come in the years that stretched before them in this strange place.
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Glorfindel
Posted: Oct 27 2014, 08:28 AM



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Laurefindil nodded slightly, having expected the answer but been half hoping for a different one. He knew it was pointless to feel guilt for something he hadn't started, but somehow he still felt responsible. It had been his family that they had all followed. He may have only been a reluctant follower himself, but the same blood flowed in his veins: if the people ever got fed up with following AracŠno or Feanaro, he would be one of those whom they turned away from as well.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. It was all he could think of to say. She had left her family on a fool's errand and suffered terribly for it, and now she was banished with the lot of them, separated from them forever. None of them could have known, he supposed, that they would be left behind, that the ships would not return. Even those with the gift of foresight knew nothing, for if the Valar had sent them visions, they would not have believed or heeded them. Mandos had warned them, but they had ignored his words. Now they paid the price. Ingoldo had been the only sensible one among them.

He let out a sigh and lifted the bowl, swallowing down the slowly cooling broth. So many had died. So many had never seen the rise of the sun. Laurefindil thought about his own family, now broken and lost. If he had known, would he have stayed behind as well? He wanted to say yes, wanted more than anything to never have experienced the past twenty-seven years, but he knew deep down the answer was no. He would have forced his father to stay behind somehow- at least then he would have known he was safe and alive, albeit sundered from he and his mother forever. No matter what though, he knew that his cousins would not have been swayed whatever he said to change their thoughts. And Laurefindil, too afraid to be left alone, would have followed them despite knowing what hell he would face.
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NessavendŽ
Posted: Oct 27 2014, 09:25 PM



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I'm sorry.

NessavendŽ had heard that far too much for the past few years she had been on the Ice from those who had spoken to her and found out she ventured alone. She knew she was not the only one who had ventured alone, there had to be others, and she had no doubt that they were tired of hearing the pitying words as well. She also heard the words spoken when the Ice shifted and a life was loss, tearing a family further apart. It did the family no good as well, and early on in the journey she had removed them from her vocabulary. She had no need for the phrase. The words were empty, meaningless, and useless when the cold had taken so much from them. She had learned long ago to not pity any: pity would do them no good, not on the Ice and not for survival. They had to stay strong...and she found her strength in her bitter anger like many others no doubt had.

"Do not feel sorry for me," she said to him then, looking into his face. "You were not the one who abandoned us to certain death. You did not burn the ships in spite. Do not pity me...or anyone else. Pity does no good. There is little strength found in pity now." She was too young to think and feel this way, but she did.

She wondered then how different things would be if the ships had not been burned, if they had returned to carry the rest of the host across to this new world. Laurefindil would have his father, and so many others would have the family members they had lost upon the Ice. Would she be as bitter if the boats had returned? Probably not. Would things be any easier on them? Probably not...and while one could hope and wish, the hopes and wishes did nothing. They had to survive. It was live or die now, and while survival from the elements was a threat, a larger threat lay out in the unknown: Morgoth and his evil...and no doubt it was spreading daily.

She decided to shift the conversation. It was oppressive, this conversation, and the thoughts that it conjured were also oppressive. "Do you want more soup?" she asked then, moving to put a small log in the low-burning fire. While it was not the most scintillating of conversations, it was all she could offer then aside from the usual spiel about tending to his healing wounds properly.
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