don't touch me

[lintamande]

Confirmation reaches them in the spring that Elwing of Sirion has the Silmaril.

It takes as long as the spring only because they weren't looking. They can stretch the oath that far, they can be disinterested in knowing - but now they know, and so there it is. Elwing of Sirion is twenty-three. Half-man, so fully grown. Sirion is a city of refugees. Elves and Men and, since there are Men, children. Elwing herself has infant children.

They debate whether to send messengers. Debating is allowed, even protracted debating. The Oath, these days, is loud in their minds, and louder when they're pushing it like this, but they drag out the debate for a few months. Messengers will probably be shot on sight. The last time Elwing of Sirion received news of the House of Fëanor it would have been the news that her brothers, twins, aged seven, had not survived the sack of Menegroth.

They send messengers anyway. The messengers are shot on sight. They have good armor, Fëanorian armor, and return home injured but not lethally. Maglor's songs no longer stitch them together. War makes you worse at healing. Maglor's songs are more powerful than ever - he can knock back a wave of approaching enemies, he can make a blade's next touch deadly, he can make them faster and more impervious to danger, but he can no longer do healing.

Maedhros, when he thinks about this, thinks that perhaps there needs to be part of you that is not broken for healing spells to draw on. Or perhaps the Enemy is amused to strip that away first. Perhaps the Enemy finds it suited to the theme as the Oath tugs and yanks and twists them into violence against the lands they once defended and the peoples they once sheltered.

They send messengers to Sirion again. The messengers deliver a plea for the Silmaril, an offer of anything at all in exchange. The messengers do not return at all.

The Enemy is many many hundreds of miles from here but at night Maedhros can hear him in his head. Is it so implausible that I really let you go? the Enemy likes saying. You serve me better free than you ever would have willingly.

The Oath allows them to work slowly. They begin planning the sack of the refugee camp even more slowly than the Oath allows, so slowly that its currents are constantly tugging at them. Any slower and the currents would erode all the things they care about which are not the Oath, and it would be a disaster to go to Sirion once they've been stripped of their capacity to care about anything that is not the Silmaril. So they do not hold out forever. But they work as slowly as they can.

Comments

[lintamande]

"I believe that you sincerely prefer to prevent a massacre. I am not clear on whether you'd let one happen in order to get free of me but I don't think you'll have the chance to do that. Even if there were a fight at Sirion it would almost certainly not kill me."

[imeanforever]

"Then the order set I've got is probably right, barring something too obvious for you to mention or me to ask about obtaining at Sirion which will derail everything."

[lintamande]

He nods. "Nothing comes to mind, but I suppose the point is that it wouldn't. I have dealt with peoples of three different species and many different nations, I don't think much strikes me as too obvious to mention."

[imeanforever]

"Okay. Then - off I go, I guess." She frowns at her knee, tries to bend it, sighs. "Does the window open?"

[lintamande]

He opens it.

[imeanforever]

And she flies out of it and heads for Sirion.

[lintamande]

She is there before the sun reaches its height in the sky. It is easy to recognize. Lots of people in too little space at the mouth of a river, indeed.

[imeanforever]

She lands near its edge and looks around, favoring her bad knee.

[lintamande]

And people come running over to meet her. Some of them have bows drawn. All of them look very anxious and very wary. "Who are you?" someone says.

[imeanforever]

"I'm called Promise."

[lintamande]

More wariness. "Egnor," he says. It clicks. "What are you?"

[imeanforever]

"Injured and not thrilled that people are waving weapons at me. I'm not here to hurt anyone."

[lintamande]

"The servants of the Enemy would say that also," he says. "How were you injured? Where are you from?"

[imeanforever]

"I swear before Manwë and Varda that I have never been in the Enemy's service," she says firmly, "but I don't want to talk about how I was injured or where I'm from."

[lintamande]

And they relax. "All right. We have healers, if you want we can carry you in, or get them to come take a look at you out here..."

[imeanforever]

"I can fly to them," she says. "I'd rather nobody try to carry me. Where are they?"

[lintamande]

"If you can just fly along with us I can take you there."

[imeanforever]

She flutters into the air again.

[lintamande]

And he leads her into the city. The healer looks surprised, but not particularly alarmed. "Hello. I'm Linaewen, can I help you? I mostly heal Men and Elves..."

[imeanforever]

"I don't know if you can help me or not but it seemed worth a try."

[lintamande]

"By all means! Sit down, have something to drink or to eat if you'd like, and I'll take a look at it. What's your name, dear?"

[imeanforever]

"I'm Promise." She doesn't have anything to drink or eat. She sits. She wonders if she can find out where the Silmaril is by acting like she landed here with the power of speech in the first place and listening; she has some time. Seems worth a try. Maybe she won't have to alarm anyone until the point where she's flying away.

[lintamande]

The healer starts singing. It does help. Not nearly as much as sorcery, and it takes a lot longer, but it does help.

[imeanforever]

Oh that's better. And what a pretty song.

[lintamande]

She's delighted to see that it has an effect. "I should take a break, dear, but someone else can come in and do that for you again this afternoon. Do you have people to stay with? Do you need to talk with anyone? Lots of people here have been through scary things, we are happy to talk about them..."