#( I wasn't going to write this today but honestly I saw mythal & elgar'nan and my two brain cells went zOOM )

[mercysought]

@theharellan​ .  "Something worse is coming. Something much worse than anything before." (priestess, or if u wanted to try out elgarnan or mythal!) .  ursula le guin & the prince of egypt . accepting

The sun is eternal outside of the thin glass walls that separate the gleaming halls of Elgar’nan. Dull in colour, distant. Blood orange and always setting. In itself a statement of victory wherever his feet and steps took him. The stones beneath his feet gleaming, even now as the undying golden hour washes over them. Over him with dark and long hair of auburn hair; bright eyes of gold and molten honey, as Mythal would often describe them. Soft and sweet to the touc, and yet strong enough to hold the whole world into place. The softness is not present in the straightened shoulders. It washes over his form that holds itself without armour, relaxed as the wine is poured into a simple, unassuming goblet.

It washes over Mythal’s dark skin, seated to his left, one bare hand holding the untouched cup. The carefully and masterfully crafted foot rests against the wide arm of the chair. The dark liquid stuck in half darkness, half light. Much like her eyes, half lided but awake. Narrow and focused, distant in the same unreadable way that she had come to be known. A judge seated upon her bench, the soft silk blind not in sight.

It would be so, unradable, if any one other than Elgar’nan stood there. Anyone other than the figure that holds the weight of her gaze. The figure seated opposite to them.

To call him a person would be a gift, a blessing that left Elgar’nan’s lips. Even in this golden hour, the sun seems to not touch him. He is a shadow. He is a dying man and as he holds onto to life the more the shadows seem to gnaw at his being. He is a ghost. A ghost that haunts them the more his refusal to accept reality as it is, a ghost that seeks strife in any place that his eyes touch.

Elgar’nan’s eyes move to Mythal’s, who remains seated with her back resting against her chair. Seated in her chair in a comfortable, familiar manner. Thin fingers covering her mouth. She does not look up to her husband. The wine jug is placed down upon the white fabric that covers the table between them.

The air tastes of a deep forest and while there is no food atop the table, the scent of a half-hearted and desperate hearty meal hangs over them like a heavy blanket. A brief touch upon all of their tongues, the glimpse of laughter. Elgar’nan seems Mythal’s eyes close, one second, two; her fingers remaining unmoving.

The All Father rounds the table slowly; Mythal sighs but briefly, a light and barely existent thing and yet with her magnitude even that gentle could rock the foundations of this place that they found themselves in. A note of grief enough to wash away all shores. The stare is the same as it had been before and yet its weight hangs above them. Once Elgar’nan turns his back to the visitor, the scent is gone, as is the weight. Mythal’s eyes are once again open.

There is a snarl upon his lips, one hidden only by the goblet. Open to either of them if they so chose to see it when he sits beside his wife.

This is a threat. He would bring shadow and cover it all they refused to abide by his whims, his wild ideas and ramblings. Even as his eyes finally landed on the figure, Elgar’nan knows that it is only a matter of time before this man, who his wife still called by his name, this man that had been close to family, to raise a hand against them.

He grieved the death and life that stood before him in the shape of that shadow: his wife with denial, depression, bargening. And his with anger.

And acceptance. Pure, hardened, unwavering acceptance.

   “Such is the way of things.” he speaks plainly. There is no taste of wine upon his tongue, no scent of the grapes. Not even the warmth of the sun touches the sharp edges of his figures. Nothing warms the embers within his eyes and so they remain sharp; calculating, distant just as the dark red circle in the sky above a still ocean. 

His wife remains silent, unwavering in her gaze. Mythal who still called him by his many names, the hope on her tongue warm as her embrace. To call him by any of those names, to Elgar’nan, was akin to disrupting the memory of an old friend, a family member. A recent departure. Mythal who held her judgement in wait, and him that watched someone that neither of them recognised parade in the shape of a man that she had admired so much.

Worse than the veiled threat, this felt like a sickly joke. To wear the skin of a friend to present weak threats with a pretence of civility when there was nothing behind their eyes.

     “Fear not,” 

His voice is falls, taken by the silence. Outside the wind brushes softly against the walls, against the glass but there is no sound that penetrates into the chamber. It reflects the All-Father’s tone: soft, and uninterested. With enough time I would wear you down into nothing, reshape it to my own desire. Or tear you completely. There is no stone that is left unturned, no place that is left untouched by Them. You are only allowed to stand because of my will.

The cup is placed down on the table. Elgar’nan’s voice echos in the large chamber as his smile grows to a sharpened edge. Reassurance thick within his strong, firm voice “Nothing can threaten us.”

#theharellan #mythal ( muses ) #elgar'nan ( muses ) #raven received ( meme replies ) #( I wasn't going to write this today but honestly I saw mythal & elgar'nan and my two brain cells went zOOM ) #( I really like how this turned out ) #( the ending could be stronger but honestly over all?? pretty good! ) #( do I find it a bit eery at how similar feel wise elgar'nan is to the priestess?? yes. but also I think it makes so much sense it hurts ) #( anyway elgar'nan was the one that started treating the imagery of wolves as untrustworthy and you can @ me )