driftfleet | Tl;dr: Screw accurate calendars, let's celebrate anyway

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Tl;dr: Screw accurate calendars, let's celebrate anyway

Who: Finrod Felagund
Broadcast: fleetwide
Action: Bishop
When: backdated a few days, let's say the 26th.

[Congratulations, Drift Fleet. You are being treated to a little tune of Finrod's own composition. Because some days, you just feel like announcing things in verse, apparently.]

When the night is at its longest, we gather ‘round the fire
Drink is shared and tales are told as the flames grow ev’r higher.

The custom comes to naught without a sun to mark the days,
But merry voices hold shadows of many kinds at bay.

Our journey is no garden path; we do not walk with ease.
Any reason for song and drink is one that must be seized.

[Okay, okay. He'll put down the harp and address the camera a bit more serious. Only a bit, though- there's nothing truly serious about any of this.]

In other words, my friends, Turuhalmë, an annual celebration of my people is, I think, here. It’s impossible to truly know, since I have no notion of how my calendar lines up with any other used here. Regardless, I think the occasion worth marking. According to tradition, we should gather around a fire, tell tales, and make merry long into the night.

However, as I am not precisely enthused about the idea of making a return to the planet and our ships are not equipped with hearths, I will settle for the making merry and telling of tales. You are all welcome to join me; I am on the Bishop for the moment, though if the group should grow large, we may have to relocate.

[ooc: With apologies to Tolkien and poets everywhere. It's been a long time since I've done anything that's not freeverse]

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Oh, but what a delightful sidetrack you took us upon. And now I know that we would have been fast friends as children as well.

You would be surprised the trouble you can get into in a palace

Would I? Challenge accepted. Surprise me.

[He looks thoughtful for a moment and then grins.] Well, the Noldor are extremely proud of their metalwork. It is, perhaps, not surprising that there were many displays of armor throughout the palace.

Well, as you can imagine, for four young boys, these were just far too tempting. One day, my brothers and I decided that they would make a fine addition to our mock battles- and we managed to strip several displays clean and don the armor before we were caught.

Picture, if you will, four boys thrusting wooden swords at one another, oversized helms slipping down over their heads. It is a miracle we did not break anything valuable whilst we were at it.

Eventually, some hapless guard happened upon us. I don't think he even attempted to deal with it himself- went straight to my Mother, as I recall.

[It's a terribly cute image in her head. But not surprised!]

You can't have gotten into too much trouble for that. You did have the foresight to use wooden swords instead of taking the real ones along with the armor.

[A laugh] Well, we didn't actually want to kill one another! But you are right, there were times we got in far more trouble. My cousin Celegorm, for instance, was fond of nursing injured animals back to health- even when his mother told him there was no more room in the house. My sister and my other cousin, Írissë, seemed to be in a constant contest to see who could ruin the most gowns at the worst possible moments. And if we were all in one place at once...

That is shockingly self-aware for children though. I was once accosted by a troop of young boys who begged me to bring them not only swords, but ale! And they did intend to use both at the same time.

[This is why she wasn't surprised by the story.]

Your family does seem rather gently chaotic. It must have been a wonderful thing to grow up with.

[She's both charmed and envious.]

If only it was always 'gently' so. But, yes, I have many fond memories of those days. And what of you? Do you have siblings? I do not think you have spoken of any.

[And her face goes serious nearly immediately, as she considers how to answer that. But in the end, she doesn't lie to her friend. So the truth it is.]

I have several. More than several. All half sibling. I've never met most of them, but I was raised with one of my sisters, though I only learned of our relation this past year. Her name is Imoen. And...

I had a brother, Sarevok Anchev. He tried to kill me. It didn't work out for him.

[And Finrod's face immediately becomes more somber in response.]

I am truly sorry. I did not realize.

[He's silent for a moment and then adds-] I have seen one uncle threaten the other at swordpoint. Later... my uncle and his sons led their forces against my mother's kin. My sister was forced to bear arms against them; I was spared the choice only by my late arrival.

I do not mean to compare our pain, only to say that I know something of what it is to find yourself in opposition to a kinsman. It is not a position to be envied.

No, it isn't. And I'm sorry that happened to your family. Real family shouldn't fight like that.

[She is nothing but sympathetic, but there's also an underlying statement, that she's excluding her own situation.]

[Softly:] And you would not describe your own family as 'real?'

[Yes, he picked up on that statement.]

Imoen is family, but not because of our shared father. He had many children, but not for love or care. For a very specific purpose. The fact that we are people is a side effect.

[He glances down.] Forgive me. I have strayed onto a topic that clearly pains you- and it is truly not my place to ask.

Oh, Finrod, no.

[She leans down, catching his gaze with her own.]

There's nothing to forgive. We're getting to know each other, and it's only normal to ask about families. It's not that it pains me, more it tends to make other people uncomfortable.

You are concerned with my comfort? [He shakes his head with a light smile] You are my friend, Syeira, and I think a great deal of you. And if your father does not, whoever else he may be, he is a fool.

It simply seems to me that you bear more burdens than you allow the world to see. [It takes one to know one, after all.] It would be an honor and a privilege to help you shoulder that weight, not a discomfort.

[She opens her mouth to argue or deny perhaps but nothing comes out, except an exchange of breath. A small, wry smile cruises her face, as she realizes she's quite pinned in a corner here.]

Well, it seems you have me pegged. I can't exactly argue, when that could easily have been something I would have said. Thank you, Finrod. It means a lot.

[She runs a hand through her curls, the smile a little more solid.]

So what are the odds of us actually taking advantage of this mutual agreement without the other pushing, do you think?

[He gives a little chuckle] Probably not very good. We shall have to hold one another to it, I suppose.

I think we can manage that. We're the type.

So. Should I wait for you to ask, or do you just want me to tell you the story of my family?

[It could easily be a loaded question, merely a prompt for her to begin, but in fact, she's genuinely asking if he wants to wait to hear it, or if he wants to hear it now.]

[His instinct is to tell her to do whatever she's most comfortable with, but that just ends up with them going 'round and 'round in the same circle, doesn't it? And besides, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little bit curious.]

Tell me, if you would. You have my complete attention.

[How to begin, is really the question. It's strange telling people who don't already know at least something of the tale, the prophecy. So perhaps she should just tell the story as she would if it wasn't about her at all.]

The gods of Toril are many. If you can think something to rule over, there is a god for it. But gods are not perfect. They cannot be, for they are often in conflict with one another. And so the Overgod, Ao, became frustrated with their pettiness and cast them down to walk as mortals. And as mortals are, they became vulnerable to death.

One of these gods was Bhaal, Lord of Murder. His portfolio was that of unnatural death, and his realm was within the Nine Hells, where he ruled from a throne of bones and blood. Bhaal foresaw his own death, and so walked the lands of Faerun before being made mortal. Forcing himself upon females of all races and breeds, he begat a score of children, within whom held pieces of his essence.

These children would be the fuel to resurrect him. They would grow strong, sowing chaos where ere they walked, and perish, sending his essence back to him. And when the last of the Bhaalspawn die, the Lord of Murder will live again.

[She draws a slow, shallow breath, holds it. Lets it out. Wets her lips with the tip of her tongue, and meets his eyes. Her own guarded enough to show she's preparing to take the blow of his reaction.]

That is the story of my family.

[He doesn't shy away from her gaze, but he doesn't answer right away either. He takes his time, thinking and trying to find the right words.]

Destiny is a queer thing. In Arda we also have one who you might call an "Overgod," Eru Ilúvatar. It is said that not even the Valar- the great Powers of the world- know the full extent of His plan.

If the same holds true for your Ao, it well may be that Bhaal himself acted as part of some larger plan, that you already walk the steps of a path you cannot yet see.

[It's kind, what he is trying to do. And she longs to be comforted by such ideas. But she cannot accept it. She shakes her head.]

Ao cast down all the gods for not caring for their worshipers, but he did not protect the mortal world. It was called the Year of Shadows, The Time of Troubles, for all the war and devastation caused by mortal gods, for they were still gods.

Divine magic ceased to work, unless a priest or paladin was within a mile of their patron. Healers could not heal. The sick and wounded suffered and died, when it was not necessary. Arcane magic no longer had any protective structure. Magic was wildly and dangerously unpredictable and volatile.

[Her tone grows heated, but she doesn't shout. Her anger is one of a person who knows they cannot change certain injustices. It doesn't mean she has to forgive them.]

Ao is a hypocrite. He had the power to discipline the gods in any way, but he chose the way that lead mostly to the destruction of mortal lives. If he has a plan, then it is to do as he pleases, like so many of the gods he punished.

Because I have seen my path, Finrod. I know where my life ends, regardless of anything I do in it. In a hideous game of tug of war over my ravaged soul, I was dragged alive into the Nine Hells. I walked that dark, hopeless realm of fire, blood, and shadows. I spoke with the spirit of the brother I had sent there myself. And the only reason I was able to escape the hungry clutches of that realm was because I left the bastard who stole my soul there in my place.

[Her fists have clenched, hard, while she talks, and her eyes are not on his face, but on the floor between them, seeing it all again in her mind's eye. There are no tears to express the hurt, the fear, the rage. She keeps it all in, save for the honesty of her tone. She is a girl who has no faith in higher powers, for they abandoned her long before she was born.]

[He has to pause again, to think of a response- to think of some response beyond a childish protestation of how profoundly unfair it all is.]

Then I can only say that I am sorry- sorry that I have no wisdom to offer and sorry that I lack the power to right the terrible wrong of which you are a victim.

It is not adequate, not in the least, but I lack the proper words... [He hesitates for a moment, watching her body language, and then, very gently and very carefully, he places his hands over hers.]

[Oh but it is so very unfair. She never asked for any of this. And it was hers to bear. Two years of shattered dreams and stolen innocence, of surviving instead of living, have lodged a deep resentment inside her. One she hides and buries, but she's shown him a taste of it. Beneath the kind heart and the determined smiles is a seed of bitterness. If she lives long enough, it might even take root.

But there are small things that ease that sourness. His hand covering hers is one, a balm on a wound that hasn't had even a chance to start healing.

The touch, as much as his sympathy, makes the tension ease, her hand unclenched from its tight fist, turning to clasp his between both of her own. She gives him her eyes, and they are so weary, but grateful. She even summons up a little smile for him.]

This is more than adequate, Finrod. It's good to have people I can trust here. Thank you.

Edited (Found an autocorrect) 2016-04-21 04:50 (UTC)

[And he offers a smile in return- soft and a little sad.]

Of course. I only wish that I could do more. [But then the smile warms and he adds:] I think I did not fully realize how strong you are until this very moment, mellon.

Tl;dr: Screw accurate calendars, let's celebrate anyway

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