#;;sartecanon

[voronyaro]

𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚢𝚙𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 ?

Life/Death/Life. A person who represents the mysteries and inner workings of the world's forces; a person who has destiny at their back, a person wielding their understanding like a weapon. A person who cycles through rebirths and deaths, growing ever more clever. 

Tagged by: @vezely  thank you my love!!

[voronyaro]

HC - Sarte and the Philosophy of Life and Change

Sarte has had a very long time to craft and refine her view of the world and her place in it. She has quite a lot of unique perspectives and positions of understanding when it comes to such questions, not just for her yawningly long life but even for how that life began. Loss and struggle were very early introductions and, even before Morgoth’s intervention, Sarte lived a life that was in no way magnificent or mighty. She was the oldest daughter of a small community that were learning to exist as they went and had to put effort into simple questions like what to eat, how to eat it and how to stay warm.

But most importantly Sarte’s life gave her questions that elves raised in Valinor could not answer. And whilst other elves were born and raised into a race that felt the pull of the sea and a burden of grief that they had no tools to surmount, Sarte had context for those struggles and a belonging so fierce that she refused to believe Middle Earth could not be her home any longer. 

Initially, she feared the affection she felt growing for many of the mortal creatures she met and grew to know. She had lost much already and was shy to that sting in a bitten and teeth baring way. But after Beleriand’s destruction she spent time in Khazad-Dum during the influx of refugees from Belegost and there she met Svava. And Svava, a merchant head and the adoptive mother of five orphans from the wars, taught Sarte more about life than any wisdom the Valar had ever offered her. Sarte learned about change and community and the memory of earth and the immortality of mortal love and she learned about living. And Svava left her with such a fevered desire to know more that she has spent the rest of her life since trying too. And this learning has allowed her to manage and heal from the griefs and hurts that Arda offered her in a way few other elves can.

For a long time now, Sarte has believed that mortal races know more about life and living than she or any other elf ever will. She believes they were all robbed of vital tools by the Valar’s tempting of the elves across the sea. The Atani lost the help of a people who should have been their fellows and neighbours, but they still managed to struggle and claw their way through survival anyway. Sarte considers the elves far more broken by the loss. The elven race is as morose and somber and lifeless as it is because they did not live amongst the impermanent, nor learn to understand a society of duality. Most elves are now so beholden to an uncomplicated paradise that they can no longer even live in the lands of their birth.

There’s a painful note to this where Sarte eventually realised this was a wound that could not be healed. Not by her, not unless the elves gave up ages of history and found modesty. By the third age, Sarte has decided her greatest possible purpose is to preserve the thoughts and memories of mortals whom have so much to teach them but so little time with them to do so.

[voronyaro]

Sarte often sleeps standing up like a horse. She’s just comfy that way. That is all.

[voronyaro]

HEADCANON AND BLOG CANON; LaCE

Homophobia is a part of Sarte’s backstory and motivations, so some of these concepts should be agreed upon with my rp partners. In essentials, I apply to LaCE as a list of ‘laws and customs’ that are socially acceptable amongst the Eldar. That is, the Calaquendi and other Valar-influence elven societies. So LaCE is not a biological rulebook that all elves unflinchingly follow, but it is a description of how those Elven societies view sex and love and what would and wouldn’t be considered acceptable. 

I call this Valar-influenced due to the fact that, in order to break this code and wed again, Finwe needed to ask for Manwe’s permission, which suggests he was the instigator of these ideas amongst the Calaquendi. And since I’m sure we can all agree that the Valar make many mistakes, it doesn’t seem out of character for them to assume things falsely and then enforce those ideas. 

Of course, with the weakening of the Valar’s influences, and the shift of majority Quendi demographics from Calaquendi to grey elves and Avari, these ideas also faded out and became more complex in their perceptions. So there’s still a lot of wiggle room as to, especially, third age elven ideas. But Sarte at least has had these experiences and they were in no way unique to her at the time. 

[voronyaro]

Requests for Headcanons! - ALWAYS ACCEPTING @vezely sent - meta for sarte, tell us more about where she considers home and her connection to it and that land in general.

In the beginning of the second age Sarte did make a long and arduous and lonely journey east, far past Rhun and on to where she thought she remembered Cuivienen to be. She found salt flats and petrified trees haunted by the remnants of Utumno that stood dead but still malicious over it. It was unrecognisable in sunlight, but when night fell she found parts of it quietly familiar. The salt flats even reflected the stars a little, reminiscent of the lake’s surface.

But it wasn’t a crushing blow that it had changed so dramatically, there was a beauty here even if it wasn’t recognisable and there was also some... relief? Some healing to be found that this place, that had become such a horror to her towards the end, that had been her first battlefield, still had visible scars from that terror. She wasn’t unchanged and neither was it and that felt right to her. But it also allowed her to leave it behind.

She also travelled south a while and came upon cities of dwarves and avari and humans who traded amongst each other in languages that were utterly strange to her. But they invited her in anyway, and one elf had a recollection of the primitive elvish of long ago. They didn’t remember any of her old names but she was able to speak to them of their tales and how they had survived. She did not belong there either and whilst they said she was welcome to return she knew that would not be for some time.

But she still found belonging in the discovering. She found home in the walking, she found comfort in first meetings and she found herself in every introduction she made in a language she barely knew. Sarte considers home to be anywhere she can leave and come back too. So, in truth, she considers everywhere but Valinor her home. There are places she knows better, for the moment, but her great age gives her the perspective that she will not know it soon enough. Soon it will change and she will learn it all over again. So, in a very deeply felt and foundational way, Sarte has made change the place she can rest easy.

[voronyaro]

Úveluie the Exile

Lothlorien, Caras Galadhon, T.A. 3011

The lilt of a gentle voice reciting sweet and chaste poetry filtered through the glade and harmonised with the sigh of wind passing through golden leaves. Istarien delighted to read her own work, even if the confidence to do so often eluded her. Still, Luidhros’ request for a performance was more than enough encouragement for such a kind afternoon.

Broad shoulders, a tall and powerful frame, dark hair, Luidhros was Noldo in all but personality. He had his eyes closed to better appreciate her verse, which allowed her to take a little guilty enjoyment in the sight he presented. Unfortunately, it was not to be for long.

“Good Eve Luidhros, ah! And Istarien! Well met.” Húrien strode over, all high bearing and knowing smiles, slotting seamlessly between them as Luidhros came out of his reverie.

“Well met, Húrien.” He hummed with a rye smile, “I would ask after you, but something tells me you have a tale you are eager to tell.” And by the way the Scholar’s eyes flashed in the starlight, Istarien had to agree. With a sense of finality, she tucked her poetry back into it’s pouch and settled in for what new piece of gossip their old friend had to offer, even though it may have cut her recital short. Húrien could always be relied upon for entertaining topics.

“Ah, bless you Luidhros, you know me so well. For, did you hear? Úveluie has returned to the Golden Wood!” Istarien wrinkled her nose at the cruel name but her head still tilted curiously. She had heard the name mentioned before but had never known whom it referred too. A glance to Luidhros told her he was also at a loss.

Húrien huffed, perhaps silently berating herself, “Oh, of course, our dear Istarien and well-mannered Luidhros would not know her as such. The ah-.” She pondered a moment, trying to recall the title, tutting at herself as it eluded her. “What a dreadful mark upon my scholarly art, but I have not spoken Quenya for a yeni and more… Mm… Arcaumaro! The Arcaumaro. You must know of her Luidhros?”

Her assumption certainly appeared correct, if the shift in the ellon’s expression was any judge. Istarien could not remember seeing the Noldo appear quite so… taken off guard. Curious, yet cautious. “I do. Though I cannot claim her acquaintance.”

“But you know enough, I deem, to understand why she is known as Úveluie best?” Húrien asked with a smirk. Luidhros apparently could not quite stall a small huff of amusement before nodding his head. Istarien was about to ask why, but she found herself interrupted a second time as the powerful voice of Pethbes entered the fray.

“Úveluie? Do my ears deceive me? She cannot be back.” The practical and tidy cook said as she approached them.

“And yet I swear upon my heart she is, dear Pethbes! I first heard it from Lathron yesterday, but this morning I recognised her myself!”

From the tone of her voice one could easily tell that Húrien was deeply enjoying herself. However, she was an excellent storyteller so it was easy to forgive her gossiping habits.

Pethbes, as usual, did not see much fun in the telling. Her expression was highly disapproving as she spoke. “Have the Marchwardens been informed? I cannot imagine Lord Celeborn would allow her to set foot upon even one Golden leaf, let alone roam the city unattended.”

Luidhros spoke up, “I was not made aware of her, but there have been no warnings of trespassing either. She must have been permitted entrance into Caras Galadhon.” His tone was gentle and deep as ever, but he held a curious expression

“Can we be in such need of martial might?” Húrien asked.

“Mirkwood grows darker every day. And Lord Celeborn is by far wise enough to forgive past transgressions for the sake of War.” Luidhros replied.

“How much worth can one Soldier have Luidhros? She cannot be that impressive, I did not even know her as a warrior.” Pethbes griped, waving her hand dismissively.

Luidhros’ reply was grave, “Then the tale has suffered in the telling. i arben na Aran, as you would call her, did not stand at the High-King’s side for nothing.”

Pethbes’ eyes widened a moment, before her scowl deepened once again. “You cannot mean to say Úveluie, with her infamous reputation, was once a member of High King Gil-Galad’s court.”

Luidhros could only nod, and this shocking revelation stunned Pethbes into silence. Finally, Istarien felt she had a moment for her question.

“What did this Úveluie do to garner such infamy?” The youngest there, Istarien was used to the slightly patronising glances that her question earned. But she knew her companions would answer her eventually and so bore them without comment.

“Ah, how rude of us, of course you do not know.” Húrien’s expression was apologetic enough to be sincere but Pethbes immediately took it upon herself to give an answer.

“Though there was a time when she was welcome in Lothlorien, Úveluie has never been kind or pleasant. Always loud, rude, never satisfied to let a disagreement rest and ungrateful for the hospitality she was shown here. She is ill made both inside and out! I do not know how the High-King can have stood for her disrespect.”

Seeing that Pethbes was about to slip off track, (and very eager to continue the tale herself), Húrien took over quickly. “Her banishment came after a dreadful audience with our Lord and Lady. No one knows for certain what was said, only that the Lady Galadriel suffered such a grievous insult that the Lord drew his sword before recovering his temper and ordering her gone!”

Istarien’s eyes were wide as the tale was told. Though she had no true personal experience, all knew the Lord Celeborn to be wise and thoughtful. Calm in the face of every storm. It was difficult to even imagine what mere words could have stirred his ire. “If that is so then how can the March Wardens have allowed her within?”

Luidhros, after being quiet for a moment, finally replied. “Now that I have given it more thought, it is possible- even likely- that many of our younger warriors would not know her face to refuse it. Her exile was not recent, after all. Not even by our reckoning.”

Húrien gasped in what might have been distress but was far more likely to be thrill. “Could that not mean the Lord and Lady are unaware of her presence here?”

With that, Luidhros rose from his seat, reaching his towering height over all of them. “If that is the case, it will not be for long. I fear I must excuse myself and see to this. Thank you again for your indulgence Istarien. I will have to beg you finish it for me another time.” Istarien could only blush and nod before the Noldo was up and gone away, leaving their little gathering quieter in thought.

“… If she can have been so cruel to someone as kind and beloved as the Lady Galadriel, I certainly am discomforted to think this Úveluie walks among us…” Istarien eventually murmured quietly. But Húrien was quick to comfort her. “Foul and loathsome she may be. But if you encountered her you would only be in danger of an unpleasant conversation, nothing more. We are as safe as always Istarien.” Her smile was confidence and brightness itself. But Pethbes was not convinced.

“To that, dear Húrien, I ask simply this. How could you know? When we do not even recall her true name?”

To her credit, Húrien did not pretend to have an answer.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Up upon her toes, fingers straining as high as they could go, the parchment still fluttered just out of Istarien’s reach. A little mischievous breeze plucked at it tauntingly, threatening to pull her poetry from the lamp it had been caught in if she did not act fast. Her brow was furrowed with the deepest concentration and she worried her bottom lip as the very tip of her nail grazed the edge of her quarry.

A sudden gust made her gasp and flail, accidentally batting the poem which broke free without warning. She gave a cry of frustration and spun to give desperate chase, but in blindly spinning she ran herself headfirst into a solid, immovable tree.

Well, she first assumed it to be a tree, the collision so jarring that it quite took her off her feet. She could have sworn a tree had not been there before! Not the most graceful of the Eldar beneath the eaves of Lothlorien, to be sure.

However, after giving a small whine of pain and gingerly searching her head for damage, she opened her eyes to look up at her obstacle.

The elf that looked down at her was possibly the tallest she had ever seen, even taller than Luidhros though Istarien had no notion of that being possible. Her nose would barely reach their chest! Their shoulders were so wide, features so sharp and graceless, that it took her a long moment to recognise them as an elleth at all. Indeed, if any elf could be called ill-made or unbeautiful, it would be this one. Istarien had to stifle an urge to shrink away when her gaze found the twisting scar that pulled gruesomely at their right eye. 

Still, all of that flew from her mind the moment she noticed the parchment this stranger had caught between their fingers.

Istarien flew to her feet with a small noise of delight and relief and her eyes were bright with gratitude as her poetry was handed back to her. “Ah, my sincerest thanks! I had thought to never see it again!” She exclaimed as she ensured none of the ink had run before glancing back to her saviour.

This quendi looked stranger and more unusual by the moment. Up on her feet, Istarien had a better view of the dull, rough-spun cloth and leather shirt she wore, the in-elegant pauldrons upon her corded shoulders. A far cry from the soft and virgin or gold linens and robes of Caras Galadhon. Her hair was a dull and uninspiring flaxen colour, braided resolutely away into a long rope behind her. And, oh, Istarien had not noticed the sheer musculature of her until now. The Stranger’s forearms were so thick it seemed she could have uprooted a mallorn with just her bare hands alone. Not an ounce of femininity to her, she looked utterly foreign.

The Stranger had a quirk to her lips as she silently dipped her head in acknowledgement of Istarien’s thanks, which was when the strangest and most unsettling part of her appearance was shown.

Soft lines spiderwebbed their way about her eyes, creased over her mouth and framed the sharp jut of her nose. Lines of age. That wasn’t right, that shouldn’t be. If not for her shear size, the touch of elegance to her frame and the long ears that tapered to an unmistakable point, Istarien would have easily mistaken her for one of the second born.

And yet, though she unsettled her deeply, there was some… strange pull to her. A heady throb to her presence, just noticeable at the edge of Istarien’s consciousness. It was wholly unlike the Lady Galadriel’s divine and otherworldly aura, this was primal and earthen and quiet. To a poet’s mind, it was like comparing the dreamy and powerful pull of moonlight to the thick yet subtle scent of a thunder storm.

She blushed when she realised she was staring.

The stranger only seemed to find this passingly amusing and was about to leave when Istarien stammered out, “A-ah, please! Allow me to thank you properly! You are a newcomer to Caras Galadhon yes? Let me…” 

And, all at once, the disparate deductions of her mind finally spooled all the pieces of this puzzle together. Her eyes widened, and she felt a second, more fearful thrill run up her spine.

“No need.” Úveluie said, her accent in sindarin so odd it was almost difficult to comprehend. “This is not my first visit to the Golden Wood.”

“Úveluie…” Istarien whispered, the ugly nickname leaving her lips before she could reclaim her composure. And yet the slip still confirmed her suspicion. Úveluie’s natural smile turned to a darker pall and her back straightened to her full, intimidating height. A peerless warrior, Luidhros had said. Cruel and ill-made inside and out, Pethbes had said.

“Rumor spreads even faster than I remember beneath the mallorn’s leaves.” Her words were bitter, though they held a hint of amusement, and the suddenly harsh edge made Istarien flinch.

“The March Wardens will be told!” She blurted out, without truly knowing why. An abrupt sense of vulnerability had stricken her, something about the eerie shift in this elleth’s manner giving Istarien fright.

Úveluie seemed unphased, though her head tilted with a predatory-like curiosity. “I should hope they already have been…” Her pause was small, but her eyes were so piercing it gave an unsettling sense of invasion. “Why do you tremble?” She asked finally. “Has my reputation grown so dreadful?”

Istarien hadn’t noticed the slight tremor in her fingers until this moment, the parchment in her hands gently fluttering in her grasp. Her grip tightened to still it, her pride demanding that she be brave.

“You do not belong here, you break our Lord’s law by crossing the border of Lothlorien.” She was grateful that her voice was stable, some well of strength giving her the courage she needed.

“I cannot be blamed if the sentries have short memories.” Úveluie replied dismissively. “And besides, I am only here for the sake of a friend.”

“Then they will soon miss you!” Istarien countered, “Captain Luidhros already pursues you, he will surely-“

“Who?”

Istarien stalled at the query. Her tone was so… bored. So dismissive. Luidhros was a Noldo, a war hero, an honoured Captain among the Galladhrim. The fact that someone who had spent time in Lothlorien did not possess even a passing memory of him, showed him such disrespect, Istarien was utterly thrown. Anger and insult boiled in her eyes but for once she was voiceless to express it.

Úveluie seemed to recognise her ire, though she did not appear regretful. “No matter. I am thoroughly discovered it seems. Thank you for the warning.”

She had the nerve to dip at the waist before she turned to leave, an insulting play at gratitude and farewell. Istarien found she could not restrain herself any longer. An ugly part of her rose to meet this challenge and she nearly spat her next words.

“I hope you rot in exile!”

There was a pregnant pause. Úveluie ground to a full stop, holding herself eerily still for a moment before slowly turning back. The look in her eyes was truly, deeply discomforting. As was the bitter and vile tone in her voice as she replied. “Verily! Whilst you seem content to rot here.”

“Excuse me?!” Istarien cried, outraged.

Suddenly, and in a motion that almost defied sight, yet also seemed no more than a casual reach, Úveluie plucked the page of poetry from Istarien’s hands. “This?” She scoffed as she glanced over her verses, the Poet still looking from her hand to the page in bewilderment. “Another wistful ballad of chaste love beneath yellow trees? How original.”

The sarcasm dripped from her tongue and Istarien uttered an indignant, “How dare-!” before she was interrupted.

“-Here you compare sweat on your brow to the morning dew, that must have pushed your literary talents.”

Istarien gritted her teeth and made to snatch the page back but Úveluie, in an act of utter pettiness, simply held it out of her reach. She flushed an angry red at being forced to play into such a childish act. Stars above, she could not remember ever being so furious. Úveluie just smirked.

“They were right about you,” Istarien declared, “you are cruel and ill-made, inside and out!”

Úveluie seemed to take wicked satisfaction in her fury. “Were they now?”

“Yes! Perhaps if you listened, you might learn to be less foul! Though I doubt you capable!”

“And perhaps if you set foot outside these borders you could write poetry with even a shred of originality. I know you are capable, but I still doubt you ever will.” And, with that, Úveluie released the page from her grip.

By the time Istarien had caught it out of the air her new and detestable acquaintance had left. As mortifying tears pricked at her eyes, she found she had no wish to follow her.

-----------------------

Translations;

i arben na Aran - (Sindarin) Knight of the King Arcaumaro - (Quenya) Protector of the King Úveluie - (Sindarin) Not amiable, an unloveable person.

[voronyaro]

Sarte during her wandering years in the Second Age! Do not ask where the insane glaive came from, however the outfit was made for her by dwarven tailors in Khazad-Dum. Barring the waist sash, which is a token given to her by one of her lovers. 

[voronyaro]

Upon a trip through Dunland, three days after her companion Coruhuron and Sarte part, he to return to their charges, she to lead the Warg Riders away from the group.

Close to midnight, deep within Dunland, the Gravenwood.

Orcish screaming was aggravating. The creature lurched toward her, flailing it's butcher knife of a sword in nothing less than madness and yelling it's empty curses. Sarte was annoyed. She was too bored to speed her walk and too disinterested to even brace for a fight. She couldn’t even bring herself to fake effort. She hated their voices and their smell and this was the third day of her pursuit. And hunting had never been her favourite pastime but now it might as well be the sound of metal against metal for how tedious she found it.

The orc ran face first into her grip, her powerful fingers gouging into it's blackened cheeks as she finally gagged it's hollering with her palm. It didn't matter that it's flailing cut a line of blood down her thigh and she couldn't even find the inspiration to look into it's gaze and take pleasure from it's abject fear. With a careless lash of her arm and flick of her wrist she simply crushed it's skull against the tree beside her, feeling rather than seeing how the bones shattered against her grip, like glass. Dull.

And the reason for her spiritlessness was so mundane it annoyed her even more. She was just tired. The young were draining. Coruhuron's recklessness and badgering was wearying. Aecthel's sharp questions were tiresome. New acquaintances required so much energy. And now she was alone, wounded, and struggling to find the effort required to give a damn about any of it. It was an expected consequence, a familiar malaise, but one that still put her in a foul mood.

As she shook the ichor from her hand and glanced about the carnage of her own little ambush, she had reason to be grateful that her irritation had a healthy direction. Dead Uruks, dead wargs, dead orcs. No matter how frustratingly simple the task was it was good to see it done, alike to the satisfaction of an organised armoury or clean dishes. At least her anhedonia had not spread so far just yet.

She tossed her head and was halfway through a weary sigh before a sudden sharp bark echoed through the canopy and she snapped her gaze to an orc who, apparently, had been a little late to the event. It was different to the rest, standing at the edge of her massacre, snarling and spitting through it's teeth as it's eyes spun in fear, struck petrified to it's place.

It was a reedy creature, all repulsively lean muscle. Bands of metal and iron-wire stitching seemed all that was holding it together and it's skin was a blotchy grey and polluted brown.

"D-d-d-d-drok-Bujar, Dru-Matum! Dru-Gorgol!" It shrieked, breaking whatever spell held it to turn and flee. Or try too. It took no time or effort for Sarte to bend to the ground and find a weapon. The stone that struck the back of it’s head sent it crashing soundly to the forest floor, doomed to hopelessly try and crawl away before Sarte was upon it, dragging it to it’s back and dropping a heavy knee onto it’s chest. There was little sense to be made of it’s black speech babbling until she had a warning hand around it’s eerily thin neck.

“Gorgol is an old name of mine.” She speaks low, more as a statement than for the sake of curiosity. Still, it draws something from her captive, hissed through frothing teeth. “Raabt survives. Survived it all! Survived Gorgol! Can again, will again!” And it surged to thrash and struggle under her grip, to claw uselessly at her leg and torso before a well controlled squeeze of it’s throat stilled it once more.

“Was this the last of this pack?” She asked, her tone monotonous, her gaze utterly implacable. She had a duty and she would fulfil it no matter how tedious she found it. Raabt’s jaw trembled, its momentary confidence dying by the second though it still held strong for now. And Sarte had no patience, her temper worn to a single thread, begging to snap and toss away this chance in favour of more bloodshed.

She surged in close, her own teeth bared, the light in her eyes a harsh and dreadful glow as her throat grated in a guttural growl.

“Gashn! izg zuub olkurz ob dug grish drûsh jut,” the threat already turned Raabt a vile shade of green but Sarte’ strangle hold tightened and she spat on, “Izg shaplag kraat Raabt agh runk-ul ishi prrall, tram-ub tarthur maath fraut ob koh.”

It’s trembling was pitiful. Reduced to a whimpering mess with but a few words, a disgusting and cowardly thing, as they all were. And she could take no pleasure in it’s terror today, not even sadism could grasp her attention and she couldn’t be bothered to try.

At the very least the orc did not hold it’s silence any longer.

“Raabt is last! Raabt the survivor, always last! Gorgol caught him but Gorgol is too late! Raabt already told the bird, yes! Told that the Gorgol is all alone! No friends to help! Saruman-fool will be the end for Gorgol, burn bite gnash chew, bones into the pits to feast, revenge, reven-!”

She ripped it’s jaw from it’s skull in her haste to silence the babbling, letting it gurgle and bleed out into the forest floor. At the very least, her job was done.

------------------------------------------------------------------

Nearer to Morning, now closer towards the Gap of Rohan.

A little time later and Sarte found herself leaning her back against a rock in the middle of a softly flowing river. The icy cold water slowly soaked away the ichor staining her skin and clothes, but that was the most effort she could put towards her own wellbeing. Her Hroa was strong but her Fea was weary.

She, again, had cause to be grateful for her solitude. She absolutely refused to allow anyone to see her this way, to even for a moment consider this her natural state. She had no time for those Eldar who drowned themselves in the apathy of Age. As if care and passion had ever been anything but a choice, as if they could have seen all the things there were to see, felt everything there was to feel. Sluggards, cowards. So what if it got harder? It was still their responsibility to try, not flee west at every discomfort.

Even animals did not abandon their homes so recklessly.

But that made these moments even more unbearable. To have to look into the sky and tell herself it was beautiful, that she still enjoyed the sound of running water, that the slowly oozing bite to her shoulder hurt, that these things mattered at all. She knew she had move again before she was discovered, but the lack of a clear objective in her mind meant she had nothing to heave her from this paralysis. Stars… what had triggered it? She had been wearied by elven society before, dealt with more than her fair share of reckless soldiers and curious children before. What was it about these ones?

Perhaps… they were too familiar.

Coruhuron hounded after battle like a being possessed, as though he had no mind for anything but vengeance, a fury so potent he had no care for himself and little to spare for others. Just ancient enough for the flames of the fight to be all that can grasp him, not yet wise enough to know how to change. Dark, terrible, burning, sadistic, his loyalty all that binds him… yes, she recognised that all too well. He seemed like both the embodiment of her younger years, and a consequence of them.

She had been him, once. And it was a tiring to remember it.

And Aecthel, eyes so bright and curious, a heart full of valour and with such a vast capacity for compassion. Young enough to rightfully demand the world be better, to still believe that her efforts and the efforts of others could do just that despite all the hardship and ugliness she had already endured. Aecthel was alike to… a silhouette, as though Sarte was seeing the ghost of someone long dead. Recognised, but not remembered. A child she had lost so long ago but whom now looked upon her with betrayal and empathy both and asked ��How could you do this to us?’

She had been her once. And it was painful to not remember it.

The forest about her creaked through her introspection, the mist of the morning gathering in the base of her little valley as birds chirruped their dramatics. Cold water stung at her slowly numbing skin and she sat so still that a shoal of minnows peaked from their hideaways to come and encircle her fingers and pick at the gash down her thigh.

“Shall we mourn here deedless forever,” She murmured to herself, Quenya slipping from her tongue as easily as the water passed its stones, “a shadow-folk, mist-haunting, dropping vain tears in the thankless…” a small and sudden smirk, her fingers playing a moment in the rushing water, “river?”

She gave a small sigh. The revelation of what she had perhaps already known, but never spoken into reality, seemed to have lifted a little weight from her chest. Knowing the ‘why’ always made the ‘what’ a far more manageable burden to bear. She glanced down to her new finned friends, their manner seeming slower suddenly, more focused upon her than a moment before. A dozen silver eyes stared up at her unblinkingly, flitting here and there, but staying in the circle of her palm.

Her mother tongue ever had such an effect upon the good creatures of the world, a small tether that still held the Noldor to this Middle Earth. Small, but important, and enough for her.

“Though the road be long and hard, the end shall be fair, after all.” She hummed, watching the fish dance at the cadence of her speech even as she wondered how they could hear it beneath the water.

And so Sarte took a deep and bolstering breath and set to work. She resolved not to leave her seat until she loved the sound of water, was curious of minnows and yet disliked the pain of biting teeth enough to flee from both.

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Translations:

Drok-Bujar, Dru-Matum! Dru-Gorgol! Bastardized black speech meaning: The demon-knight, dreaded-death, dreaded-butcher!

Gashn! izg zuub olkurz ob dug grish drûsh jut Bastardized black speech meaning: Speak, or I will drain your body of it’s filth blood and fill it with water.

Izg shaplag kraat Raabt agh runk-ul ishi prrall, tram-ub tarthur maath fraut ob koh. Bastardized black speech meaning: I will rinse away Raabt and hang it low in a Holly Tree, it will be defiled/ravaged by sweet roots for the rest of time.

Translations are extended since black speech has no extensions, 'I will rinse away Raabt' would be 'Raabt rinse away' but with a not-english-compatible future tense suffix. Also 'you' has been changed to 'it' here, Hravanis is not verbally acknowledging the Orc as an individual.