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AelKennyr Rhiano
Olwe rolled off his cabin bed and onto his feet in a gracious movement that brought him into a stand position perfectly balanced to handle the gentle rocking, to and fro, of the swanship. He dabbed at the sweat on his top lip and ran a shaky hand through his silver hair. Automatically he crossed the room to the table, upon which rested a delicately etched decanter of wine and two glasses. He poured a glass, made it halfwary to his lips before his face contorted in disgust, and he flung the class from him, to smash again a wall and shatter.
It began with a cup of wine. Will it end with a pool of his own blood?
Shaking with rage, with frustration, he leaned forward and placed both hands on the table, bowing his head, the long silver hair a curtain of silk hiding his features. Waking or sleeping, there is never a moment when the voice is not speaking, sliding around inside his head, relentless, cruel, cunning. He shook his head, a dog would, coming out of a lake of water, after a swim. Taking a deep breath, his hands gripping the table so hard his knuckles turn white, he gathered his strength and pushed the voice to the edges of his awareness. There its whispers sounded like the buzzing of angry bees.
Slowly he pushed himself away from the table and crossed over to where the shards of the glass scattered across the floor. Bending down, he began to collect them, placing each piece in the palm of one hand. The melodious voice of Nole floated down to Olwe. The faithful merchant was on deck, attending to the duties a crew would once had shared. Now he must do alone. A small smile flitted across Olwe's features. He remembered first holding the infant Nole in his arms as his proud mother extolled the vitues of her little paragon to the Teleri lord. He recalled one night as he was strolling past the home of Nole's parents, the effervescent young elf, all of nine years, came bounding up, fearless, to Olwe. "Look, look, my king, my king," he said proudly, producing a scale model of a swanship. And Olwe remembered bending down and taking the boat in his hands, inspecting the sleek design, the innovative construction. "You did this?" he asked Nole, who nodded with a boastful, undaunted pride only the very young have.
"Tomorrow, take you to the harbor, young Nole. Tell Master shipwright, I wish him to look at your model...then build a full scale version." He tossled the young elf's hair. "You shall be his apprentice, and we will see what comes of your design."
The young Nole screamed with pleasure and ran back to his home, babbling excitedly to his mother.
Now he was coming home in a swanship of Nole's design.. to die...after that...he felt a prick on his finger and looked down to see blood welling up on a spot on the tip of his left forefinger. "Blood, " hissed the voice..."Your blood...a little now, a lot later..."
"Be quiet, "hissed Olwe aloud, but softly,
"Be quiet, be quiet...awhh, the elf said to be quiet. Can he not stop me? Can he not excise me like a bad tooth?" Olwe felt a sharp pain on his wrist and looked down to see his own hand slicing a gash across one of his own wrist. He hissed and stood up hurriedly, dropping the shard of glass to fall to the ground. He clamped his hand over the bleeding wrist. Not enough to bleed him out, but deep enough to hurt, he noted.
"I did that," cooed the voice, purring with pleasure, thick with pride. "I did that, I did, I did. You are mine, Olwe of Alqualonde, body and soul and soul and body. Give into it."
Ghost fingers sroked the inner workings of his soul, and Olwe gave a short shout of surprise. "Never," Olwe growled. Then the...thing inside his head raked metaphysical claws across Olwe's mind. Olwe clasped his hands to his ears and lurches accross his cabin and collapses onto the bed. "Never will I be yours, never, never, " Olwe repeated, over and over.
Then the voice purred contentedly. "Fool, you are already mine."
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It began with a cup of wine. Will it end with a pool of his own blood?
Shaking with rage, with frustration, he leaned forward and placed both hands on the table, bowing his head, the long silver hair a curtain of silk hiding his features. Waking or sleeping, there is never a moment when the voice is not speaking, sliding around inside his head, relentless, cruel, cunning. He shook his head, a dog would, coming out of a lake of water, after a swim. Taking a deep breath, his hands gripping the table so hard his knuckles turn white, he gathered his strength and pushed the voice to the edges of his awareness. There its whispers sounded like the buzzing of angry bees.
Slowly he pushed himself away from the table and crossed over to where the shards of the glass scattered across the floor. Bending down, he began to collect them, placing each piece in the palm of one hand. The melodious voice of Nole floated down to Olwe. The faithful merchant was on deck, attending to the duties a crew would once had shared. Now he must do alone. A small smile flitted across Olwe's features. He remembered first holding the infant Nole in his arms as his proud mother extolled the vitues of her little paragon to the Teleri lord. He recalled one night as he was strolling past the home of Nole's parents, the effervescent young elf, all of nine years, came bounding up, fearless, to Olwe. "Look, look, my king, my king," he said proudly, producing a scale model of a swanship. And Olwe remembered bending down and taking the boat in his hands, inspecting the sleek design, the innovative construction. "You did this?" he asked Nole, who nodded with a boastful, undaunted pride only the very young have.
"Tomorrow, take you to the harbor, young Nole. Tell Master shipwright, I wish him to look at your model...then build a full scale version." He tossled the young elf's hair. "You shall be his apprentice, and we will see what comes of your design."
The young Nole screamed with pleasure and ran back to his home, babbling excitedly to his mother.
Now he was coming home in a swanship of Nole's design.. to die...after that...he felt a prick on his finger and looked down to see blood welling up on a spot on the tip of his left forefinger. "Blood, " hissed the voice..."Your blood...a little now, a lot later..."
"Be quiet, "hissed Olwe aloud, but softly,
"Be quiet, be quiet...awhh, the elf said to be quiet. Can he not stop me? Can he not excise me like a bad tooth?" Olwe felt a sharp pain on his wrist and looked down to see his own hand slicing a gash across one of his own wrist. He hissed and stood up hurriedly, dropping the shard of glass to fall to the ground. He clamped his hand over the bleeding wrist. Not enough to bleed him out, but deep enough to hurt, he noted.
"I did that," cooed the voice, purring with pleasure, thick with pride. "I did that, I did, I did. You are mine, Olwe of Alqualonde, body and soul and soul and body. Give into it."
Ghost fingers sroked the inner workings of his soul, and Olwe gave a short shout of surprise. "Never," Olwe growled. Then the...thing inside his head raked metaphysical claws across Olwe's mind. Olwe clasped his hands to his ears and lurches accross his cabin and collapses onto the bed. "Never will I be yours, never, never, " Olwe repeated, over and over.
Then the voice purred contentedly. "Fool, you are already mine."
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