"Back! Get back!"
"Our orders were–"
The unmistakable sound of a stumbling man in armor, and a shoving hand keeping him back. Metal melted against skin and flesh and bone, who could only withstand the bite of the beast's breath a few moments longer.
"Idiot boy. Look at them. Look at them!"
"The Mages could–"
"They're melting, you fool. The same as the Captain. We will /not/ join them."
Any protest on the younger man's part was cut short by the gust of wings, and the roar of bile. A far-away call on the wind for shields to be raised, as if a plank of wood would hold fast against the torrent that was to follow.
The unmistakable sound of screaming men. For him, it was too late to scream.
╔══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╗
╚══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╝
A faded fire and hoarse attempts at song were mainstay guests in Felmennor's waking moments. In different times, the voice would have been richer, and the fire well-kept and hearty.
She could not be sure of how long he had been singing, or trying to sing. The voice faded into the cold air almost as soon as she had become conscious of it, replaced with scratching on wood and telltale sounds of frustration. Ever was the Aelrrigan's rhythm, in the fifteen days since they had set out from the farthest reaches of western Kintyr, and into Clannadh Alba. Every bit as rugged and beautiful as Gwilym had promised, and yet it brought no avail to the Aelrrigan's increasingly souring mood. Forest and field had become fjord and mountain, and uncharacteristic coldness had swept over both of them.
It was never her way to question such a ritual. In the fourteen days prior, she had taken no note of it. Today, she would dare to. The Solvaan turned over in her bedroll, the neglect of the fire now clear. Dew and ice ran and crunched from the bedroll's exterior as she sat up to face toward him, straightening her Alaanh.
The Aelrrigan was hunched over a charred log, figure dark and cloak crusted in snow. Violet eyes cast its light over the log in the early morning as she drove to a measured stand once more, adjusting the Alaanh for a second time. It was only on approach that she could observe his 'ritual' properly. Silvery flakes were crushed and scraped into powder by the pestle in the Aelrrigan's trembling right hand, while the left steadied itself against the log. The mortar lay upside down and discarded in the snow.
Each bash of Gwilym's pestle seemed just as likely to bring success as it was failure, and it took all of a few moments of Felmennor's attention to hear the litany of curses and mumblings that left the Aelrrigan. She was hesitant to approach.
"One measure of alcott, one–. No. Six. Six. Six of asphodel. Three of-." he began and halted almost immediately after, the pestle soon to join its companion in the snow. Dawn had begun to creep through the trees now, and Felmennor saw at last the trembling hands as the Aelrrigan held them up to eye level. Drunkard.
The mumbling and expletives had halted with the dropping of the pestle. Violet eyes simply cast their light over the hands, in a look of equal frustration and despair. It was a look the Solvaan had never seen worn by him, even in the worst of weather and the most dangerous of contracts. Hesitance gave way as she approached the log, and spoke for the first time in three days.
"Is this a hangover cure, Arnyn?" she began. Light-heartedness was a skill she struggled with, admittedly.
"No, it-. It is for the spell. Once a day. One measure of alcott, two of–. One of alcott. Six of asphodel."
"..And three of that silver powder?" she continued, eyes narrowing upon the log, then upon him, then upon the utensils half-buried in the slush.
"Yes. Three of the powder. Now if you will excuse me, I–. Where is the pestle?"
"In the snow beside the mortar. No, not there-. At your feet, Arnyn."
Another long stare, this time at the discarded tools. Shaking hands set them back onto the log, and his ritual began once more. Then again. Then again. By the fourth attempt, the point had been made, if unintentionally on his part. The Solvaan stepped closer once more, and scooped up the fallen mortar and pestle.
"Enough, Arnyn. Let me–. Stop it. You are in no state."
"I need it."
"Allow me."
"No. I must-. It must be me."
"Why must it be you?"
"Every morning as the sun rises. One measure of alcott, and–"
"Yes, yes. Alcott, asphodel, powder. It needn't be-"
"It need be because the spell requires it, Felmennor. Eys'ella gave clear instructions, and the sun is rising."
Pretty name. "Would such a spell lighten the tempest mood you have found yourself in these past weeks? Who is this Eys'ella?"
"You said it yourself. I am in no state. She is a friend. Her magic helps with treatment."
Another Elven heart for him to break, no doubt. I ought to say as much, when it is the right time. "Is this Eys'ella a healer at Llynburh?" she continued, setting the mortar and pestle before him on the log. Enchanted mist carried what remained of the powder and the crystalline substance back into the mortar. This time, it was he who was hesitant.
"No, and I refuse to go. They'll question and question and write a report and I will be interviewed by the Paladins and questioned and questioned and Felmennor I can't-." he spluttered, feverishly. His barrage of words could be stopped only by his biting down on a gloved knuckle.
"..I just want one win today, Fel. Would you grant me that? If I can make this elixir, I can-. I can make it through the day. I am sure. "
And so he began his ritual once more, at lack of complaint from her. One failure, then another, then another. By the fifth attempt she had taken up her book to read, peering out only occasionally from the top of the page to eye his progress. The morning call of birds had long faded by the time he finished his craft, the sound of larger animals fair and foul replacing them.
Even as the orange sun soared ever-higher overhead, and the Aelrrigan hummed his song, there was unease all about them. The calls of beasts were becoming less and less familiar to her as they traveled ever-further north, and the flowers and trees less vibrant. Darkness was encroaching, she was beginning to conclude. I hope we are ready for what we find.
((A shorter story than what I'm usually used to writing, and I'm experimenting with showcasing Gwilym through the eyes of another person. I'll write pt 2 when I get suitably inspired to)
