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[disfavour]

[ Throughout the month, Nuada has hardly left the smithy. If you've glanced him during the rare occasions he had to dip into semi-social situations to make a meal, he very likely ignored any attempt at conversation, and this is why; on the screen now, he appears just as sombre as usual, though there's a certain dullness behind those golden eyes. He's still in Fili's domain, technically, although backed into a corner on a low cot, grey linen sleeves rolled up his forearms. He's out of the ceremonial gold-and-red robes that he arrived in, clad in simple black otherwise. Less Prince, more Nuada.

There are streaks of grime across a cheekbone, lengthening the shadows under his eyes. Altogether, he looks worn out as he slouches against the wall, but more at home than he has anywhere else since his arrival. ]

The mortal men who worshiped my father, Great King Balor of the Elves, had a story of two treibh, warring clans, the sons of Cainte and Tuirenn. No one knew why they fought, but they had sworn to shed blood each time they locked eyes. The eldest son of Cainte, Cian, "the Enduring One", was late to a battle into which his two younger brothers had already ridden and he was frightened for them, so he cut a shorter path across a forbidden plain. Breen, "the Exalted One", eldest son of Tuirenn, was also crossing with his brothers, and Cian in his haste took a wand fashioned by the aes sídhe, my people, and turned himself into a pig, of which there were many in the fields at that time of year. Breen realised the pigs belonged to me, and he used the sister-wand of that which Cian held to change his brothers into hounds to punish the figure who had vanished so abruptly on the plain. They found him and Cian begged to be returned to his true form before they killed him, which they allowed. "Even the weapons with which you kill me shall cry out with horror at this deed," he said. Breen ordered him stoned to death instead, so that no black mark would pass.

The corpse was unrecognisable and six times did the earth refuse to bear the body of Cian, who longed even in death to return to his brothers in battle.

An eric fine was called for when Cian's death came to light, and his devoted son Lugh, who was no favourite, easily tricked Breen and his kin into accepting it. To pay with a pigskin, a spear, three shouts ... more and ever simpler requests, but the sons of Tuirenn laughed and paid no mind. The payment was not as it seemed; the pigskin was magical and could heal any wound from a thousand-thousand kingdoms away, the spear needed to be kept in a pool of blood for nothing else would calm its blade, and three shouts were demanded from a sacred hill which was defended night and day by a family honour-bound to keep its silence forevermore.

The sons of Tuirenn died, of course, in their travels. The eric fine was too great. They begged Lugh for the pigskin to heal their wounds, but he decreed their death was the only payment he had ever cared for. [ Nuada looks up from where his gaze has fallen during the story, pensive and quiet. ] It was three hundred years before I was informed of what had passed on the plain, but I never cared for the tale or those who had squabbled over what I held important. Yet, I always wondered why Lugh did not heal his father's wounds though he demanded so much recompense in his grief.

Perhaps he imagined his father would have found the price wanting, even after everything.

[ It's then, jarred by a wry smile that quickly falls, that he looks directly into the video feed. Story-time is over, children. ]

Ard Rí, I have a gift for you of such a tale. Fili, too, though you may already know of what I speak, my friend. 

Comments

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[elvenking]

Ever it seemed to me that revenge prolonged that which it was meant to punish. But it is a tale worth the hearing.

[He's pleased to see Nuada opening up a bit. On the network, no less.]

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[disfavour]

[ Even anti-social jerks need to have their voice heard sometimes, case in point with Prince Reclusive. Thranduil is right, though; revenge is something that never lessens, only lengthens and thins as time goes on. One can still care, but they never forget. ]

May I attend on you, presently?

[ He'll grab a shower and clean up, but otherwise everything here is finally good to go. ]

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[elvenking]

You may. I will be in the gardens.

[As always.

Friggin' ship.]

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[disfavour]

[ He feels you, bro. A curt nod, and the video cuts out.

For the first time in a handful of days, Nuada showers and changes his clothes into a tunic that ranges high around a neck and touches the backs of his knees, easy to slip into the shadows with. The only striking band of colour remains that of the red sash tied around his waist as usual, bearing the Bethmoora seal of the Fathertree. Damp hair, hastily combed, sits in a half-hearted braid over a shoulder and strands fall into his eyes, but he projects a downright demure air compared to the hissing froth of his first audience with the Elvenking. He hasn't had servants to ease out all the knots and tangles in years and, frankly, he isn't inclined to do so himself when he has more important business waiting to be dealt with.

His lance and sword are latched onto his back, never left behind. In a hand, he carries a roll of plain white fabric curled around his gift, hiding it from prying eyes during the walk over. The gardens themselves are beautiful as always when he steps inside and begins tracking Thranduil to the best of his ability. ]

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[allfatherissues]

[Loki listens, of course -- it isn't a story he's heard before, and lore in general has always interested him, even if it is not of his own. When he speaks his tone is thoughtful enough, though the question itself only pertains to Nuada and not the actual tale.]

Are you often prone to telling stories? Or does it simply suit your mood presently?

[It's not condescension, just mere curiosity.]

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[disfavour]

[ He arches a brow, giving a shrug. ]

I find myself given over to reflection when working a smithy. My mind wanders when my hands cannot. [ Hedging on liking Loki rather than not, after their first encounter, Nuada holds a marked interest when he rejoins the inquiry — he's not asking solely to be nice, nor would he, but he wasn't raised in a barn where everything in a conversation revolved around one party. ] How have you been these past few weeks?

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[allfatherissues]

[And Loki almost shrugs at that himself.] Well enough. I can speak similarly concerning 'reflection' -- though my own hands keep busy with spellcraft.

You appear better... adjusted. Made home somewhere, have you?

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[disfavour]

Spellcraft is what I've been tailoring into the weapons here, I had forgotten how arduous the task could be. [ To answer Loki's question, he gives a brief view of the forge. ] As you can see, I have been adopted by dwarves.

[ It's a pretty sweet set-up, compared to how he's been living for the past decade. The company has improved a great deal. ]

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[longestnose]

And yet it is not a story I mind hearing again.

[Even if it isn't a happy one.]

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[disfavour]

Ah, but I have something for you a great deal more interesting than just stories.

[ When Nuada smiles, the world is either ending (again) or he's entirely satisfied with himself. ]

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[longestnose]

Oh and what might that be?

[Fili looks amused, but curious.]

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[disfavour]

Well, it's of little use to you if you won't come and wield it. [ !! Mysteries. ] Shall I toss it back in the fire?

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[tumbleweeds]

That's the shittiest way of shapeshifting I've ever heard.

[ and then there's this one ]

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[disfavour]

Cian's wand reputedly changed him, his carriage and all his belongings into pigs, so I would hardly call it anything other than very effective.

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[tumbleweeds]

Yeah, but he needed the wand in the first place. I mean, that totally makes sense for changing your things into a pig -- though I would not turn my carriage into a pig, what if it ran away? But if you've got a wand, and you need hands to use it, maybe don't turn yourself into something with hooves.

Not having to use a wand is way better.

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[disfavour]

So would any changeling think, perhaps. [ Wryly — ] We who are not, however, must make do.

[wolfinthesnow]

We have such family tales from where I come, as well. But I am no tale teller. You would need to speak to my brother Bran, he listened better, cared more.

[disfavour]

You're the Wolf's Boy, the one who came to me before. [ Which ought to put Nuada's perspective out there from the off. He shakes his head slightly. ] Does your brother know of aes sídhe? If he cared about fae, he ranks better than most men.

[wolfinthesnow]

Aye, Jon Snow.

[although Wolf's Boy would probably be the nicest nickname he's gotten, ever.]

You would have to speak to him. He knows more tales than I have ever heard. He ranks better than most men because he is a Stark.

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[thebreakingwave]

[Long, long ago, Harry has a vague memory of having learned that story and others at school. His memories of life before Hogwarts are blurry around the edges and hard to recall, but he doesn't like to dwell on that. Not when he can remember the pictures that were in the book of Irish myths and legends.

He'd coveted that book more than anything he can remember wanting and now, he's listened to the story again and can think of nothing to say. It would be wrong or rude to just thank him, and so Harry remains at a loss for words.]

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[disfavour]

You are very quiet, boy. What is it about the story that holds weight with your sensibilities?

[ He'd rather know than not. ]

[thebreakingwave]

Sorry. I didn't mean to bother you. I just hadn't heard that story in a long while.

[There's a moment where Harry's not exactly frowning, but he's uncomfortable about something. He shakes it off and quickly hides the feeling away. It's no one's business but his own.]

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[inafadingcrown]

[The tale is interesting and, another time, that might have been what she commented on. But something else has her attention right now.]

You look at home in the smithy. [Galadriel is one of the Noldor, after all, and was once a student of Aulë himself. She's always going to take an interest in these things.] Certainly more at ease than when I saw you last.

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[disfavour]

[ Ah, he remembers Galadriel. As fair and considerate as the she-elf is, how could he not? ]

True enough, mo Baintighearna. It suits me better to keep my hands busy with what I know. [ Tilting his head inquiringly. ] If there is anything I may do for you, on that score, you need only ask.

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[inafadingcrown]

A kind offer and one I will remember.

For the moment, I speak only out of curiosity. There are few crafts more highly valued by the Noldor than metalwork and many of my kin spent no small amount of time in the forge. I had not realized this was an inclination we shared.