miriel-therinde

[miriel-therinde]

Unsure of what lies in Endorë, the land once her home, but sure she wants no part of Aman’s so called perfect peace and forgiveness she boards a boat to return to the East.

She speaks not of her death, leaving the confused and twisting darkness of that time alone on the shore along side any of those that would say that she truly was willing to die. Of course not all can be left behind. She carries a seething anger and mistrust for the Valar, and wretched guilt for her failure as a mother along side the billic sting of betrayal for what was done to her by the ones she loved.

She cares not for the history books, her hand is swift to those that misname her, uncaring any more for the constant mantra of “turn the other cheek” that exists on the shining shores and unwilling to further allow herself to be erased and remade by those who need a victim or a target of blame. 

Her hands are unceasing, even when she sleeps, and her feet even as inclined to restlessness. From one shore to another and beyond she will not allow herself to lay down roots until she has found again satisfaction in life and the living of it.

#//muns first ever graphic #still a goodie #self promo

[miriel-therinde]

Her heart filled with a great deal of love at his words but the trepidation and the dread came with what came before his loyalty. The Noldor at odds with each other? She had heard of the split between half brothers and heard of one side abandoned to go home in shame or face the ice.

And the decision made.

It made her stomach twist in a terrible way but her heart... her heart simply shrugged. The Tatyar had split, becoming the Noldor and whatever Morwe’s people now were. Now in time the Noldor would split and it would be a natural thing following the ways of their ancestors.

“I dont think my feet will carry me much anywhere at the moment,” she confessed. It was true. Her feet were blistered bruised and sore. She needed to rest them. To think about where she needed to go and how long it would take her to get there.

Cuivienen called to her heart but she was unsure if Cuivienen even still awaited her homesick soul.

“You are too kind to me and too good for everything that I have caused you to endure,” she pressed her lips against his forehead, unable to not give him her blessings, “I feel as though I will not be long here in Beleriand but I would like to see the land first before I leave it. There was not much time to stare when we passed through it the first time.”

A means of forgetting.

There were too many things to be told, and though they had time, their immortality did not solve the problem of which piece of news should come first. Was she aware of Fëanaro’s death? Of Nelyafinwë’s capture and rescue? Did she know that the Noldor were close to killing each others at lake Mithrim? He wished he could protect her from the mess that was their people, but then, hiding one’s head in the sand never availed to anything.

He was blunt, crude even, but never a coward in the face of the truth.

“Stable is a big word. You know how I am. I will be quick to leave should Tyelkormo disappoint me.” And he would tell his lord exactly why before he got out of his way. “Furthermore, I do not think the Noldor’s current situation will hold. There is too much strife, and not enough lands for all. A great change is coming. We may move east soon.”

Perhaps he could move east enough to find Cuivienen again. Not that the Sons of Fëanaro would follow him. They were bound to Angband like prisonners, and Cuivienen was far away from their jail.

“You know why I came to Valinor. My allegiance always belonged to you. Say one word, and I will leave with you, and go wherever your feet will carry you.”

#a means of forgetting #naswe-ahyarion

[miriel-therinde]

She held on tightly and tried not to laugh at the thought of him following anyone because he’d never been the sort of follow. Even when they had been lead to Aman, it had been clear Naswë was not following in awe or obeisance to Finwë.

“Really?” she did not let go, not quite ready to break the connection yet. The weight of loneliness of being so alone since she had begun working on the boat had been one she’d not realised she’d been carrying until she had this company.

 “I am glad then that you have a stable situation here brother,” she pulled back enough just enough to look in his face but not enough to let go.

“Tell me about him? About your ... life here? Tell me about it all. I’ve had a great many perspectives from across the ocean but you have always been a opinion that never fails to shine a new type of light.”

She took in his face. Things had changed in it. Minute things, like the lines in his skin and little markings from the light. A thinning here and a widening here. 

A means of forgetting.

Naswë was good at many things, and doing nothing was one of them. That was something that had annoyed him tremenduously about his nephew: Fëanaro’s inability to stay still for two seconds, to stop chatting and first and foremost to stop thinking.

Fëanaro was good at many things, but he was the worst fishing companion ever.

Which is why Naswë didn’t grow bored; he did mark that the sun was moving, but that didn’t really affect him. He was content to just be there and wait; to feel the tree against his back, the soil under his legs, the grass tickling his fingers. Silence was important. Taking time to listen to Arda was important. I was this kind of things that allowed him to speak to animals and walk on snow, when most Noldor were just forcefully marching on everything.

He heard her coming through the grass.

It was the whisper of a body sliding through dry leaves; a sound like that of Fëanaro’s papers (he used to put those everywhere, too, and Naswë couldn’t understand that, because most elves have very good memory and anything forgotten was probably just not worth it). It was the slightest drum of light feet on dry earth. It was the dance of wind with fabric; the almost inaudible brush of hair against skin.

He threw a piece of dried meat to the gull and got up.

“Sister,” he said, simply, as if they had never been parted, as if he had never been exiled from court by her husband, as if said husband hadn’t been crushed by a Vala and half devored by a monstruous spider; as if her son hadn’t self combusted on the slope of a mountain.

#a means of forgetting #//sorry it took so long to reply and its so short #//my brain has not been cooperating #Naswe-ahyarion

[miriel-therinde]

Míriel however had no space for sanguinity or peace in her actions. She did not even slow down, instead crashed into him with the momentum of her bolting run, arms and legs swinging around and wrapping tightly around him.

“Naswë,” she mumbled into his shoulder and squeezed him as tight as possible, holding on for dear life. He was real in her arms; hard muscle, bone beneath that, a beating heard and blood rushing through his veins, bright thoughts in his mind and speech on his tongue.

Even if it was, so far, a simple self assured sister. She wondered if he’d expected this. Expected her to walk out of the halls of Mandos. She had not expected to walk out of the halls of Mandos. No matter what her change of heart might be.

“What are you doing here?” she had asked after him but no one had really known what had become of him. Rúmil had claimed that he had seen him at Alqualondë before injury had taken Rúmil out. 

Now she was here she was not even surprised. Aman simply had not suited  Naswë. Of course he would have returned to their beloved Endorë. Changed even as it was. Why had she even bothered to ask. Why had she assumed he had withdrawn back to the forests of Oromë?

She pulled back and took stock of his face, looking for what had changed and what had stayed the same. She wondered what he saw when he looked in her face. Most obviously gone was the scar on her forehead that had dragged the corner of her left eye up and skewed the appearance of her face. She was not particularly upset about the loss of that scar, it had caused her to loose vision to the upper corner of that eye.

He had more scars. A definite weathering to his features. And his eyes were as clear and fearsomely wild as she remembered.

A means of forgetting.

Naswë was good at many things, and doing nothing was one of them. That was something that had annoyed him tremenduously about his nephew: Fëanaro’s inability to stay still for two seconds, to stop chatting and first and foremost to stop thinking.

Fëanaro was good at many things, but he was the worst fishing companion ever.

Which is why Naswë didn’t grow bored; he did mark that the sun was moving, but that didn’t really affect him. He was content to just be there and wait; to feel the tree against his back, the soil under his legs, the grass tickling his fingers. Silence was important. Taking time to listen to Arda was important. I was this kind of things that allowed him to speak to animals and walk on snow, when most Noldor were just forcefully marching on everything.

He heard her coming through the grass.

It was the whisper of a body sliding through dry leaves; a sound like that of Fëanaro’s papers (he used to put those everywhere, too, and Naswë couldn’t understand that, because most elves have very good memory and anything forgotten was probably just not worth it). It was the slightest drum of light feet on dry earth. It was the dance of wind with fabric; the almost inaudible brush of hair against skin.

He threw a piece of dried meat to the gull and got up.

“Sister,” he said, simply, as if they had never been parted, as if he had never been exiled from court by her husband, as if said husband hadn’t been crushed by a Vala and half devored by a monstruous spider; as if her son hadn’t self combusted on the slope of a mountain.

#//well that sucks #naswe-ahyarion #A Means of Forgetting

[miriel-therinde]

//Everytime I think of changing my URL I get a nasty anon shouting about how I should change my URL and bless your hearts whoever you are you spineless cowards it only strengthens my resolve to never change my URL  8,D

#Miriel-mun speaks #bless your hearts #really

[miriel-therinde]

🚨 (yes for once Naswë is the sick one ha ha Miriel is getting her revenge!)

“well,” Míriel beamed down at the flushed faced and sweaty man lying on a pallet in front of her, feeling like her face might crack open from how hard she was smiling at the sight of her brother laid up and clearly miserably sick, “what do we have here hmmm Naswë? I bet you caught it from that woman you’ve been rolling around with lately. Nothing but a disease vector that one.”

Yes her cheeks were definitely going to split if she smiled any wider or harder because there was nothing like fair payback and this had been building up against Naswë for months.

#calendille

[miriel-therinde]

Send in "🚨" for my muse to care for your sick muse.

Alternatively send in “+🚨” for your muse to take care of my sick muse.

#looks interesting #a meme thing

[miriel-therinde]

Míriel stumbled as her body jolted in surprise at the sudden voice to her side. 

She had not heard the approach of the maiar, when once she had been so attuned to her surroundings that the other would not have been able to get close. It might have been the constant ringing in her ears and her face felt tight and hot from humiliation.

Had the Maiar seen her stumble and fall? Trip over nothing but her own insidious emotions?

“That is-” her voice broke off as her throat tightened and sharp prickling took over and she had to cough. Cough and cough and cough into the cloth that was already pink stained. Cough until there was a darker pink all over the cloth.

She clutched her hand around it, hiding it from sight. She’d argued with Finwe violently over her increasing ill health and she needed no stories to get back to him that he was right, that she was sicker than she appeared. She had put too much time and effort into her dress and daily routine to appear stronger than she was, to fail now.

“That is a suggestion that I have heard before,” she boldly pushed herself onwards until she reached a gently curving bench and sat with all the grace she could muster, refusing to allow a single tremor to touch her limbs, “sier Maia.”

That address was coached in the usual apologetic and inquiring tones that most elves took upon first meeting a maia before they were sure of what presentation that maia thought they were giving and what terms of address they preferred. This one had managed the body of a quendi far better than some attempts she had seen, and his colouring fit within what was considered natural boundaries, which was sometimes something maiar could not quite get right.

They had done a remarkable job on their eyes. She would not mind stitching a portrait of this maiar when she found the time. 

“but I am a mother to a young child and a wife to a husband easily grown lonely, and a queen to an entire people.There is simply not the space in my life. I thank you though for your concern.”

Lingering

She had been wandering the gardens a while.

Her knowledge of her death sure when she had set out, Míriel Þerindë found herself walking aimlessly through foliage instead of taking the long rest she yearned for; so much so her bones were aching thought that might have been whatever had afflicted her for so long.

Her throat suddenly tickled painfully and she scrambled for her pocket, raising her hand in time for the spasm that caused her lungs to pulse with pain. She coughed into a small cloth she kept and had desperately been reaching for, eyed the pinkish stain left behind wearily, and tucked the cloth away.

The only thing she could liken her restlessness too was being so exhausted that one could not sleep. To have pushed past the boundaries of what one body might endure so that said body could not fix the problem as it naturally might.

Her hems dragged on the ground and her head felt so heavy yet rest eluded her. She trod new pathways through soft moss and thick ferns, watching vapour swirl around her feet, and a prickle of hot guilt and nausea suddenly drove her to her knees.

Would her son be asking where she was right now?

She forced herself up again, finding now her skirt was damp right through, and shambled onwards with no destination, only restless exhaustion.

#sounds great! #Lingering #I did mean for this opening to be set already in Lorien but would it make more sense for her to be in Tirion still? that can be done! #morxngott0

[miriel-therinde]

“I do not want to die either,” it would mean defeat. It would mean that He had won. She could not let that happen! Not ever!

“Finwe has claimed at the new Hunter in the Woods is not the same as the rest. And that he will approach him and ask him if he might intercede on our behalf against the dark one. Morwe says he has gone mad.”

There was the angry creak within the woods as trees as old as the earth their roots held broke in half as the writhing of the earth increased. 

Miriel was sweating hard and her hear was beating so fast it seemed to ripple under her breast bone. Surely there was a limit to the fear one could feel at any time.

The world is changing. Something's coming an end

There were footprints in the lake bed where once water had once rested as high as her knees. A mountain had disappeared in the space of an hour. The stars in the sky had changed positions.

And there was fire on the horizon and giant shadows who fought with one another.

“What though? Will we end with it?” she asked him, feeling very small under the newly fractured sky, trying not to shake when the earth shook under their feet. 

#Hey how do you cut posts? #thegreatstrongbow

[miriel-therinde]

Míriel stopped when she reached a river where she could take off her corpse’s boots and strip herself of her already dusty and grimy clothing in the shade of a old lazy tree that was stretching bows out over the water and providing a safe place for her to dare bare her skin. It was off the road. Safe. The grass was tall and she twisted strands between her fingers as she trod carefully to the shore. There she washed the last of Tirion’s despair and lethargy off her skin.

She picked up handfuls of the fine silty gravel and scrubbed her skin with it until it stung.It pinked up and she scrubbed harder though she knew no matter how much she worked at her skin the marks were gone, she could not uncover where the needles had left the precious ink.

She had felt invaded and violated when she had first realised. She still felt a roiling anger and buzzing dismay when she saw her skin without.

Gone. And when she had woken up everything else had been gone. Her scars, her callouses, though those were back a plenty. She smiled at her newly toughened hands and sat in the middle of the stream.

Then she looked at her feet and had to forgive the Valar just an iota, for the burn scarring that Utumno had left was gone and rather than a knotted, almost flat surface her hands found a defined heel and arched as she scrubbed them clean.

She closed her eyes against the thoughts that pressed in. The dark unwanted thoughts that began to unfurl themselves with razor bladed edges. She squeezed her eyes shut against them and kept cleaning, cleaning till there was not a trace of Aman to be found anyway but in her eyes. 

And that was why she heard the wings approaching rapidly but did not see the bird, and thought only of Rúmil found and then lost again and that he might have sent one of his ravens after her. No measure of tree light had ever cured what Utumno had done to Rúmil. And without the light of the trees he had become frail and breakable, relying upon a cane to walk, face lined in constant pain.

But when she opened her eyes it was no corvid she saw, a gull instead was waddling awkwardly over the stones of the stream edge and trying to catch her catch her attention with its wings before with a brave jump it began to paddle towards her with head insistently outstretched till she took what was in its beak.

“What is this?”

And then...

“Who gave you this?”

She cupped the precious, ancient cloth in her hand and rose, legs shaking under her.

“Where is he?”

Not Rúmil but Rúmil was not her only sibling!

The gull took flight and she dove for her clothing and wrestled on her pack, racing out onto the road with her boots in her hands and the gull in the distance, a beacon towards a thought lost loved one.

A means of forgetting.

“If you must insist so that we release you from the Halls,” the Judge had said, “where will you go? The benevolence of Vairë is far beyond what you, the mother of a murderer will receive anywhere else. You are no Queen, you have no other children. Your grandsons are like their father, blood stained and out of reach of you, and your son’s wife has gladly freed herself of him and will not be associated with him.”

“Am I still to linger in Aman?” she asked, “for why no allow me to leave entirely if my blood is so cursed and my hands covered in second hand blood stains? Allow me to leave forever and you shall never hear from Míriel  Þerindë again for I shall travel East, so far East there is no knowledge of Aman. And I shall shed my name and shed my past and I will forget this place eagerly and until time is unmade.”

But they would not give her that and she would not enter the Halls of Weaving as had been ‘suggested.’

The world was miserable, filled with the marring of Arda, but she could think of nothing more wretched then recording that which the Valar now claimed her descendants wrought. Her skill was for the creation of things that people might love and cherish, not recoil from in horror.

She turned her back and walked alone, all the way to shattered Alqualondë with the dust rising and choking her for no horses could be made to limp along in the darkness. 

By the time she reached the broken city the sun had risen for the first time and she was glad for the plain canvas cloak which she drew over her head to protect her skin which tried to pinken and blister under the rays of light. In the destruction is was easy to move around and she blackened her hair with coal, and then with road dust on her skin and exhausted, downcast expression, she joined so many of those toiling to create some sort of ship to send a message across the sea.

And then she found her way upon it, caring for the ropes and as such by the time she reached the East her hands had gained thick callouses and no longer broke under hard work.

She slipped away from the docks of the one she had known as Nowë in her youth in the night. She had thought he might have recognised her, certainly he paused for a moment but in the end no halting hand had fallen upon her shoulder.

It was colder here in the East then in the West but she welcomed it because the muggy heat of Aman had always seemed to her a smothering blanket that she couldn’t kick off. Pulling her battered, ever increasingly dirty cloak around her, a bag of supplies both legitimately and ill-gotten on her back, and sturdy boots she’d stolen from a grave on her feet, she walked away into lands much transformed since she had last beheld them.

#A Means of Forgetting #naswe-ahyarion #how do you cut posts now #I keep trying and deleting everything

[miriel-therinde]

calendille replied to your post “//This blog continues to flatline. All the open threads that have been...”

If you are interested for a starter I'd love to rp with you :)

Of course! I have a few open starters or message me and we can discuss a starter!

#calendille

[miriel-therinde]

cabalisticdissonance replied to your post “//This blog continues to flatline. All the open threads that have been...”

We have a Birdkore thread and that nonsensical one I was debating replying to. Originally I had been waiting to see if Feanare was going to save Miriel's ass though lol

OOhh. Let me look that thread up (and kick Feanare in the arse)

#cabalisticdissonance

[miriel-therinde]

//This blog continues to flatline. All the open threads that have been up for ages are still open if anyone is interested.

#//this blog feels like a truck with only three wheels

[miriel-therinde]

« You have made your decision then? »

“No,” she replied weakly and hating that, hating the weakness that she unable to conceal from him. She drew her blankets further around her body and stared out at the rising cloud of forge smoke that heralded the start of the waking day in Tirion. Soon some wind gust would remove it. The air would be cleansed and who knew where the maiar in the air above them guided all of that dark thick smog. 

“I have not. Both choices do not suit me, ultimately.”

#//long time no see! #curufinwefeanaro

[miriel-therinde]

“Maybe it does not need to go on forever,” Miriel could taste earth and rock on her tongue, and her ears were ringing. She was sure she would find dust in every pore of her skin and it was now settling in her hair as a gritty, heavy layer. 

“Maybe it only needs to go on until we are all gone.”

After all the Hunter had sought to remove them for so many years. It could only be his work. It could only be a new and far more effective way of destroying them. 

She took a step back as a crack began to grow in the earth between her feet. Then another as more fine splits began to grow out from that one, spreading over the ground right down to the shore.

The world is changing. Something's coming an end

There were footprints in the lake bed where once water had once rested as high as her knees. A mountain had disappeared in the space of an hour. The stars in the sky had changed positions.

And there was fire on the horizon and giant shadows who fought with one another.

“What though? Will we end with it?” she asked him, feeling very small under the newly fractured sky, trying not to shake when the earth shook under their feet. 

#thegreatstrongbow

[miriel-therinde]

"You did not answer my question. Although.... you probably did." [Good to see you! ]

“No...uh,” Miriel rubbed her forehead and looked down at the woven metal infront of them both, “let me try again,” she acknowledged, “and I will try to slow down and keep to the one language and also keep to the point in hand.”

Oh no but what had the point been? What had his question been? She’d become so distracted in telling him about the differing weights required for this particular texture that she had gone far off track.

“Silima,” she hesitated. Had that been what they’d been talking about? “.... is a created mineral.”

Was that even the right terminology?

“It doesn’t exist in nature,” she tried to extrapolate.

#HI! Nice to see you too!! :D #sharpglance

[miriel-therinde]

Miriel squeezed her hand around her spear, trying to ride through another shiver of the earth beneath their feet.

“Have you heard about the rider? A different one this time. As much as the first rider was in shadow this one rides with light around him. He had been seen in the upper forests and it was with the first sightings of him that this began. He must be related.”

There was a snapping noise, a whiplash of sound that had them both stumbling back as in the distance another mountain crumbled before their eyes.

The world is changing. Something's coming an end

There were footprints in the lake bed where once water had once rested as high as her knees. A mountain had disappeared in the space of an hour. The stars in the sky had changed positions.

And there was fire on the horizon and giant shadows who fought with one another.

“What though? Will we end with it?” she asked him, feeling very small under the newly fractured sky, trying not to shake when the earth shook under their feet. 

#thegreatstrongbow