Muirne paints a spell over Khyus as he prepares for the Night Raid into Rohan. He leaves with something else for which to fight and stay alive.
Muirne sat cross-legged under her skirts across from the Stag-prince. She was still decked in dowry, her hands still painted for betrothal, though now they were smudged with the soot of herbs and dried berries. She worked them into a paste with a glue-like resin or fat, but the petrichor of the dye itself awakened the breath and eased the mind. She hummed as she worked, though the tune sounded more idle than ceremonial, like a woman softly singing away the hours she spent at the hearth and housework.
Khyus sat in an almost meditative silence, eyes closed, with slow, deep breaths through his nose. This was how he prepared for battle; quiet, solitude, peace. He was not accustomed to having company during this time, but the dull, easy sounds of her preparations and the melodic tune of her hum lulled him, if not for the odors which wafted toward him. He felt focused and ready, with the strength of his fathers and forefathers seeming to hover in the very air around him. At length, he opened his eyes a fraction to watch her; the small movements, tiny details of her garments, and the beads woven through her hair distracted him from his meditations.
Muirne |"Shh..." she gently chastised, hushing his mind and wandering eye, but warmth crept under her cheeks like embers stoked under a cauldron. She waited for him to still and close his eyes. When he was ready she dipped her forefinger into the blue clay and pressed the first dot high over his brow. Her humming was replaced with stark words, voiced with intention, muttered throughout trailing the line of paint mid-forehead to brow, then under his eye to his lower cheek.
Khyus looked at her from beneath his brow for a long moment, the very hinting of amusement in his dark eyes before they disappeared behind his lids. She was right to chide him, and he did not fault her for it, though he also did not miss the slight color to her cheeks. He rolled his shoulders, took a deep breath of the heady odors that seemed to surround him, and refocused himself inward, rehearsing scenarios and stories from generations past in his mind's eyes. As her finger touched his brow, it flinched, hardening slightly to furrow in his deep concentration. The words, a blessing to his ears, were unfamiliar to him, but he sensed their intention and weight through her voice.
Muirne took the moment between lifting her finger from his cheek and planting it on his forehead for the second spell and the mark that sealed it. "Listen to the sounds not the words," she whispered, but she could only hover her hand over him so long before she landed her finger on his brow and traced a parallel blue marking, shorter than the other. The words weren't Dunlendish but sounded close—perhaps her language, perhaps a ritual remembered from a time before their tongues were split.
Khyus responded with a sigh, not of frustration or annoyance, but of his concerted efforts to stay focused while she painted what would be his war paint; the three prongs of a Stag's antlers which tapered across his face, just as she had studied and now practiced. Her words brought a slight dip of his head in acknowledgement, and her fingers would trace the scar just below his eye, long since faded and near forgotten. He let the words carry their own meaning to him, of what he made of them based on their sounds, but it was the rich tone of her voice, and the conviction of the words which had the most effect on him. He clenched his jaw slightly and flexed his hands.
Muirne painted the third strand smooth over the scar, her fingers not flinching at finding something with touch she'd missed with her eyes. She finished her chanting as she pressed the last blue mark into his skin and withdrew her hand. She could have wiped it on a cloth, but now was her turn to bow her head and pray over her open hands, cleansed from their innocence with the muck of midnight blue.
Khyus |Hands clenched tight enough that they quaked, and his body followed at tensing up for one great moment and then all at once, he relaxed and blew out a great sigh as he opened his eyes. She had her head bowed and her hands open, and in turn he also bowed his head, but did not utter the words, nor give any signal he understood them. He would wait until she was finished to lift his head again, seeming taller or larger somehow, in presence, if not reality. His gaze rested on her in quiet observation once more, but only her face, the curve of her jaw to her ear, and how her chin seemed defiant and stubborn. It was a face that would be etched to his memory, the last one he would see for some time, perhaps ever, should the night go poorly for them. He allowed himself to memorize the lines, and the eyes that would look back to his before bowing his head slightly in silent thanks.
Muirne opened her eyes. Maybe it was how slowly she raised her head, or how she kept it half-bowed when she met his eyes, but he looked tall—no...more grand. She didn't miss the look in his eyes. She bowed her head to mirror his. Only then she reached for a cloth and bowl of winter-rose water to clean the berry-soot from her fingers.
Khyus watched her as she cleaned up her fingers, studying the small movements, but his eyes soon moved back to her face. He was quiet for a long, almost awkward moment, before he spoke. "What words would you bestow upon a man readying for battle?" he asked quietly, with his eyes narrowed curiously on her.
Muirne dabbed her fingers with a cloth, then she scooped the leftover paste from the small bowl. She held it as she lit a taper with candleflame and held the firelit end against some brush gathered in a larger bowl beside her. When the tinder caught, she lay the cloth and any trace of the spell and its components into the flame. The charm was with him, now. She was surprised when he asked, and she didn't insult him by answering quickly. "I would say..." She thought, imagining the red-sky and black-earth of her homeland, the maw and tongue of Angmar's all-consuming chaos. "No matter how bleak things seem, there is always something on the other side worth reaching. Even when you can only see the death in front of you. There's life waiting, if you fight for it."
Khyus listened to her as she spoke, though his gaze was caught by the flame as it finally caught the cloth. "The enmity between my people and Rohan goes back ages. There is little to be seen but death, and I would say that that feeling is mutual." He looked back to her face as he shrugged. "The life to be found may be my own, or that of my brethren."
Muirne listened, hearing more than just his words, seeing more than just his eyes. "What is worth dying for must also be worth living for."
Khyus |"That is why we fight," he said simply. Her words held his attention as much as the ceremony with which she had painted and blessed him. Whatever magic she had weaved into it would follow him to whatever fate lay ahead, for good or ill. He was quiet long enough for it to seem like he might not respond, but at last, he shifted as if he would stand, but got to a crouch at eye level with her. "You asked before what would make a good wife for my clan." He was closer to her, but his exterior was still built, sturdy, protective, or perhaps that was his preparation for battle; hard, sturdy, impenetrable.
Muirne |The sudden shift in position and tone did not startle her. The flame gently flickered to the side, but between them, lapping at the cloth. The fire cast quick, shifting shadows across his face. "You answered." She matched his gaze. He was more panther than stag in that moment, but the threat of his crouch emboldened her. Her heart quickened.
Khyus could see more of her now, but did not let it distract his gaze from hers. "As did you," he said firmly. He had seen in her the kind of strength he knew would withstand many hardships, and the will and wit to face them. The woad she had painted across his face had nearly dried, not yet cracked into the scowl of his expression. "That is why you are here," he indicated the small space between them."And for that, I would fight," he added, his eyes keenly focused on her own.
Muirne |They could have pretended it was ceremony—those of the Eryr-clan had their own spell-keepers to lay charms of protection on them before they crossed the Isen. They were both outsiders here, though admittedly she came from a further and foreign place. They were not assigned this ritual, though. She had offered, and he had said yes. "For that..." She found his hand with hers, still warm from the petaled water, without needing to look for it. "...you must live."
Khyus bowed his head slightly, though his gaze did not break from her. Her hand felt soft and small in his. He closed it in his fist for the span of a few seconds, then released it and stood, but did not immediately leave. He felt the push to get on with it, to begin so that they would meet the end and return, hopefully with as many as they left with. He allowed himself to look her over, not in lascivious leer of lust, but in the way of a man committing the moment to memory. It lasted only that moment before he stepped around her, parting the curtain they sat behind to make his way toward the exit.
Muirne sat and let him look. She was dressed for display, anyways. Even in the low light her trinkets caught light and the clay, fir, and sulphur colors of her skirts were frozen waves against the shore of a stagnant sea. She only wished for a moment she looked a little more to him like home. She bowed her head when he slipped past the curtain. After some time, when the flame had swallowed everything in the bowl and consumed itself at last, she cupped the bowl and followed his cold trail up the timber stairs and into the air. He was long gone, but she held the bowl aloft and blew in a single breath all the ash after him. His protection belonged to the wind, water, and earth, now. All she could do was await his return.
Chat Log: 11/30
