Title: Impressionable

Author: Eärillë

Rating: G

Warnings: First Draft

Summary:
Everyone is prone to biases, including Elves. (Or perhaps, in this age and place, especially Elves…) But who says that the habit cannot be broken? Especially for someone yet impressionable…

Genres: Character Study, Ficlet Series, Stream-of-Consciousness

Place and Timeline: Nargothrond, First Age

Characters: Beren Barahirion, OMC Elf-child

Words (in MS Word): 972

Challenge: Day 5: Menegroth:
Write a story or poem or create artwork that will illustrate the consequences of isolation.

Author’s Notes:
(Some sort of warning, perhaps…) The ending is hanging by purpose. I found out that the irony was better concluded by one’s own…
Also, there might be a “Part 3” of this, but I am not certain as of now.
Anxiously,
Rey

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Part 1

I hate this place.

This is only the very recent occasion, of many, of my being lost in this dratted underground city. I feel like a puny Secondborn! Atar and Amil will be so disappointed with me. They rebuked me severely and accused me of being a puny Secondborn last time I got lost in the myriad tunnels and rooms. I hate disappointing them, and their reprimand stings badly.

Thus, I hate this place, with passion too. But it does not help that I am now lost, again. And this time I got landed in a dreary place, which, judging from the air around here, is seldom visited. I do not know how to call for help, since I was always found – accidentally – by my parents or their friends, and I do not dare try to trace my way back to the upper levels for fear of getting even more lost.

I so, so hate this place. I can feel my hröa getting weaker and colder, and my fëa longs to just get free of its confines. I wish I were a grown-up, so I would not feel this wretched.

… But then I would not get so many toys, and so many attention – whatever I want. That part of the prospect is really not appealing.

Well, still, I hope someone comes down here and helps me return to my family’s flat. Preferably not my parents or friends.

But that would leave only the Refusers, the Turned, the Traitors, and the Half-breed… Atar and Amil always say they are below us; and they told me yesterday of the rumor that a male Secondborn is currently lodging in this city too, and they always say that the Secondborn are the lowest creatures, right along with the Unnamed’s other creatures. It would not do, then, to be caught by any of them. My parents’ and their friends’ reprimands are better compareably.

I want to cry for a Vala or Valië, to plead for aid. If only they were good… I do not wish to be taken away from my family and caged in their land forever. Amil always threatens sicking them on me whenever I displease her. But worst is Atar’s promise to surrender me to Ossë, the violent, scary Maia that drowned the ships when we were fleeing Valinor, whenever my works does not meet his standards. He says that I am not worthy to be his son if I am not as good as he is. I do not know which of them all I am most afraid of.

And thinking about scary things and threats and people just makes me even more unsettled down here, and I can practically feel my hands and feet chilling. – I may not cry. Crying is just for babies. I may not cry. Someone will come down here and see me and return me back up. I may not cry. Atar and Amil will be very angry with me, and I cannot afford them being angrier on top of my shoddy job of finding my way.

But I cannot help it. Coiling myself, I let out a whimper. Just one. No more, no more. I may not cry…

*

Part 2

Those eyes, dark greyish-blue, framed by shaggy wheet-coloured locks, mesmerise me; so calm, so compassionate, so gentle. The grown-up was surprised with my being down here, firstly, but he overcame it just in a moment, and now he is crouching before me, gazing at me with quiet dignity. I like him, although he looks rougher than the average Firstborn that I know. (Perhaps he is just used to the wilderness, sleeping and prowling in a rough terrain, like some Turned Ones and Refusers that I got a glimpse of during my stay here.) He seems to know that I do not wish to be touched or spoken to now, also, unlike most other grown-ups. I am thankful for the understanding, as I am feeling jittery at the moment, being confronted by a total stranger, despite the kind, gentle air he exudes.

He gives me a choice, too: He puts out a hand – callous and somehow less graceful-looking than the average Firstborn – and lets it hover near my own. I can take it and let myself be comforted by him, or stay here and calm myself in his distant company.

I choose the former. Tentatively, I untangle my closest hand from the coil of my body and reach out towards the much-larger one of his own. He neither smiles nor frowns, just watches stoically. He does nothing when I put my hand on the tips of his fingers, although I spy a flash of concern in his eyes. (I indeed feel as if my limbs are chunks of ice.) He only touches the back of my hand, with his thumb, when I curl my fingers around his middle finger. (There is a pretty ring there, bearing the coat of arms I often see in this underground city.) The soft caresses he applies on my hand feel just as soothing as his gaze; I revel in it, and lean forward towards him before I realise what I am doing.

He picks me up, gently, and I am startled at the tears that finally run down my numb cheeks. I have taken my parents’ near-indifference for granted, since they told me cuddles are only for little babies; but the stranger is cradling me now, wiping my cheeks with his roughened hand and humming a soft melody. He walks away from the spot I have been sitting at, and I cannot be happier for the moment. The warmth of his body and the closeness of his fëa to mine lul me into the paths of dreams soon, as I rest my head snugly on the juncture between his head and shoulder.