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Author Topic: Broken  (Read 990 times)


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« on: June 07, 2015, 02:20:00 AM »
S.A. 3329 Spring

It had been quick, one moment the warg had her in his jaws, the next Darcassan was slaying the beast. The orc had hidden well on the back of the great beast, and out of no where a flash of blade, and a drop of blood landed on her cheek. Darcassan lay on the ground his hand on his throat as the blood seeped between his fingers. She had stood quickly, her fathers dagger slashed through the air as he slew the orc, it and the warg fell to her feet, but her eyes were not on them. The battle around her was coming to a close and she fell to her knees beside the person she trusted above all others. Darcassan had been there for her since her parents departure to the Grey Havens, she respected him and loved him more than anyone else, and he was dying.

She stood up quickly, dragging him away from the dead beast and its rider. She found a spot under one of the mellyrn trees, the yellow leaves falling around them, as if the very earth was mourning. She held Darcassan in her arms, his blue eyes found hers and looked into them, his golden hair spread across her lap as her tears, real tears that had never fallen down her cheeks even when her parents took to the sea, fell onto his face. He died there, lying in her arms as the last of the wargs and orcs were dispatched or ran away. She watched as his eyes closed, and she leaned over to kiss his forehead, and whispered her farewell. Three elves fell in battle, and those three would be buried, but she would not attend, she could not handle it anymore.

Some of her fellow warriors came and took his body from her and she still sat under the tree. Her hands were stained with his blood, a few drops on her left cheek. Her dark hair fell around her shoulders as she finally left the comfort of the tree, finding her way through the paths to the person who's council she seeked. The Lady Galadriel had always been a welcome  voice of reason to the young elf, and she did not even realize that that was who she was truly seeking. She found herself in the garden, the one with the ladies mirror. She knew that the Lady could be in her head right now, and she probably saw too much. The pain that was there, the loss. The Last Alliance would form soon, and the evil that was Sauron would have to be destroyed.

Ilyranna would join in that battle, she would have to help to end the darkness in the world if she would ever feel any peace again. Right now though, she needed comfort, kind words and wisdom to help her through this. Darcassan had been the world to her, and without him she felt lost. He was her fathers best friend, though he was younger, and he had been the one that her parents had trusted most to keep her safe and train her. He had done that, and because of his oath to keep her safe he was now dead. The bite from the warg stung, and she pulled her bracer off to study it. She could ask the Lady to help her heal it, but she would not. She wanted to bear the scar as a rememberance. She found herself sitting near where Lady Galadriel would look into her mirror, the pool that would show whatever you were meant to see. She could feel her in her mind, but she said nothing to her that way. She knew that she was near. " I am sorry for my intrusion my lady." she spoke softly, her dark eyes far away.


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« Reply #1 on: June 08, 2015, 12:22:00 AM »

"A scar is a small sketch upon the larger canvas that is one's story...but it will be of no good to you at all if it festers."

She'd been quite indignant at first, when she'd realised her gardens were being sullied. The scent of blood reaching elven senses, stinging the nose with it's metallic taste. Enough to rouse her from her state of repose, half arisen from her couch with burning reprimand on her lips even as she reached out instinctively with her mind -- mostly, to keep Celeborn soothed and in slumber, having no desire as Galadriel did to wake him when she knew he'd come to bed late. This also meant opening her mind and her senses period, though, and when she did...a moment's long pause, brief confusion, and then immeasurable sorrow to change the touch of her thoughts entirely as she made her way, barefoot, through the alcoves that led her past the secrets of Lothlorien, from place of slumber to place of reflection.

She didn't rush, though it was all too tempting. Too much a reminder of another time when she'd known such a taste to both miens and mind, and the slower pace was a forcible reminder to Galadriel that this was not Celebrian come to haunt her from dreams to flesh once more. And rushing, she'd been told endless times over milennia, accomplished nothing bar panic, and panic did not do the wounded any favors. It was the same painful, all too frequent these days scenario at any rate -- blood staining leaves and grass, fear and pain rank in the air, the need for some means of peace even if t'was in vain, and one knew the wounded would not last the night. It had aged even her beyond years immeasurable, aged her soul, she who had once been fiery, glowing Artanis and was now diminished Galadriel, balm to those who sought it. More coals burning in the night now, than the flash of fire she'd once been.

But it meant, if nothing else, that her thoughts were centered when she entered the gardens, and the words she spoke to the shivering, huddled elleth were, though brisk and sensible, as calm and as gentle as the long-fingered hands which cupped the wounded arm between them. And it was there that Galadriel knelt in the grass, as if she was naught more than a simple healer, the Lady's eyes intent as her gaze traveled over thoroughly Ilyranna's body. Even as her mind touched -- stroked, tickled like waves upon the shore, but was careful yet not to smother, with a soothing kind of briskness made to bring the panic of the wounded to heel.

"Hush, the land will recover from the blood spilt upon it. Tell me where else it hurts." Warg. The scent of it was foul, the bite obvious to any eye with half a wit of sense attached. Festering thing, and it was this that led Galadriel to rise, so that she might take the jug that sat upon the pool ledge, and fill it with the clean, cold water that ran as a waterfall to the river far beyond.

played by Dory


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« Reply #2 on: June 09, 2015, 04:12:00 AM »

It was not entirely unpleasent to have someone else in your head if you trusted the person. Ilyranna had been in Lothlorien her whole life, for the most part, and she always came back. The Lady Galadriel had always been a mother figure to her, and she trusted her and her advice over any other. She knew that horrible things had happened in the past for the Lord and Lady, and she never wanted to ask. She knew of the stories, and that in itself was more than enough for her. She knew too that she was coming, she would not abide violence of any kind in the garden, and though she was not doing anything wrong, the spilled blood of Darcassan was spilling onto the leaves of the garden floor, along with her own blood.

Her dark eyes raised to look into the brilliant blue ones of the Lady as she took her arm in her hands. In her eyes were fear, shame, and remorse. Feelings that were digging into the heart of the young elf, who was experiencing what she believed to be some of the worst pain she had ever experienced. When her parents had left for the Undying she felt some loss, but she knew that some day she had the chance to see them again. In the case of Darcassan, she would never have that chance again. It broke her heart into tiny pieces.

She was surprised when the Lady knelt upon the grass beside her. She was the Lady of Lorien, not some common healer, but there she was all the same. Motherly, loving, caring. It was all she could do not to cry out as her heart shattered. " Tis but a scratch my lady..." she mumbled for a moment,  knowing that was far from true. " Nothing truly hurts more than my heart." she felt the tears roll down her cheeks then and she swallowed the knot in her throat. This was not something she ever chose to feel again, this pain, the feeling of loss. It was too much.

She watched, her eyes following the white gown of the lady as she went to the waterfall, her eyes then fell back to her arm as she started to feel the sting of the wound on her skin. The warg could have killed her, she realized this, as the orc had slew the elf who had saved her. Darcassan would have survived had he not saved her life, and that was something that would follow the elf for the rest of her days. Someone had given their life, for hers.


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« Reply #3 on: June 11, 2015, 03:58:00 AM »

Just as age did not necessarily bring wisdom did wisdom not necessarily bring always the right words to say. What it did for one though was this; it taught them that sometimes, there were no words. No words relevant, no words effective, no words able to be spoken, and more often than not, no need for words to be exchanged. And sometimes, it was simply better not to speak at all, though that lesson indeed had been a hard one for Artanis to learn, harder still for her to heed. Artanis had always liked to be right, had never been satisfied if an argument was not ended in which she would have the last word. But Pain and Grief were effective in reminding one of this wisdom, and there were few in the world who still dwelt among the living who had witnessed and experienced the full spectrum of grief quite like Galadriel had.

So she said nothing, just for the moment. Her actions would have to speak for her, and so they did, in the way she knelt again, the cold, clear water sparkling all too beautiful with the starlight that filtered through the trees, and the long fingers gently taking the arm into their embrace so that they could bathe wound clear of blood and impurity. The elleth before her would need to see a Healer ultimately, though, for physical wounds were something Galadriel knew only as the field medic knows the initial injury first hand, and not with the depth of the surgeon.

As for the heart...there was nothing to be done for that. This, she knew. Nothing physical. The wounding of the heart was a difficult, complicated thing, and this was what made the anguish almost too great to bear for all living creatures who experienced it [and they all did, one way or another, in the end]. But the heart...the heart, the fresh, bleeding wound, could only heal with time. Time. Tenderness. Patience. Understanding. Love. And it was this one could always give no matter how jaded they're own, this which wrapped itself into the river of music that was the mind of the Lady of the Golden Wood, that balm to lick at the shores of and surround without one even realising until it pressed in the manner of a dressing providing balm to a bloody wound to the lost, shell-shocked mind that was Ilyranna at the present. Let the child feel as she wished, the elder female cared little to judge it so, so long as she did not surrender to her panic or succumb to the shock. Let her breathe, and breathe with the rhythm that was the ministrations she herself administered, and not give in to the cloud of fog Galadriel knew all too well to be pressing at the corner of one's eyes. If there was to be much talk, let it be Ilyranna who asked the questions. It would bear easier, in the end.

"If this is but a scratch, then this tree of ours is but a sapling."

The words when they finally did come were tart, a little wry, yet oddly comforting in how they were so. It was similar to how oddly comforting for Galadriel it that neither the heart nor Grief nor Pain really changed their pattern, and it was for this reason that Galadriel could identify with what was before her even as her own soul sighed heavily. Always heavily, and there was no real means of turning away the constant, wearying barrage that was knowing the evils of the world. And yet perhaps this was not a bad thing, either -- to harden entirely against the evils of the world was to lose one's sense of living at best, and was to become pure evil at worst.

Darcassan, she whispered softly in her mind, her only response to the glimmer of knowledge as to what had passed this night. It was with that touch of weary, long experience with grief that she did so, though so too was it as close to reverence as the Lady of the Wood willingly gave.

"Let him be grieved for, Ilyranna," she said softly, even as she rose once more to fetch more water, her own white gown soaked at the hem -- the pink of water and blood meshed together. "There is no greater comfort than to know one is loved."

played by Dory


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