this world is dying in our arms |
--- it is a wicked night when the call rings out across the lands, and it jolts him from his restless sleep. alaric did not truly settle these days, though he did his best to pretend for those that slumbered with him. for his children he played a part, assuring them that all would be well, that they would have their sister and mother returned him soon. this challenge sent an icy chill straight to his bones, a gnawing fear that he would not dare put to words. morrigan was... not his enemy, and he had no desire to see her wiped from this earth. especially by the likes of him. but he is not stupid, either. much as he wished to hurry and bear witness to the fight he knew the time had come for him to make his move. ensuring his children stayed put (if they woke he would warn them to stay, to not leave the den, to be safe from the storm) he slipped from his home and loosed a soft chuff for those that would come to his aid, barely loud enough to be heard above the storm. @Wither, certainly, and if any others came from the mire he would not refuse them. they would head far from home, leaving within minutes of the call for death, potentially crossing paths with the summit queen. they would not see eachother in this storm but he would wish her strength as he passed the path to illyria. as he headed straight to the oasis, steering far clear of the pit. the storm would work in his favor, he hoped. some distance from the borders he would instruct any that came along to wait, to linger near if he called for aid. alaric would not march with an army in to the heart of the oasis, but would take only one unless pushed. @Tinúviel would know her, and he had hope that wither's presence would comfort his battered and imprisoned wife. together they would slink in to the pridelands, calling softly for her as they moved, keen to have her safe at home. using every advantage they had and hoping that most of the oasis had gone to watch their king fight for his life. for Tinúviel's freedom 0/3 |
No fights in progress
she's been staying nearby - watching the remaining of tinúviel's children and waiting for his word. and it comes in the midst of a mad storm, tearing through the country. it whips her curled fur into a frenzy, slashing snow into her eyes as she slides to @Alaric's side. their march is quick and quiet, the storm battering them as they go - but it does not deter them, does not waver them.
as they come abreast of the borders and he leaves the remainder of his pride, the assassin sidesteps to halt him. a paw lifts, pushing back against his shoulder as she makes quick work.
here,she insists, slathering him in the fabricated pride scent and then dousing herself as well.
we go quietly.she tells him, flashing her gaze up and down his pale form, a frown on her lips. this feels too much like her old work; this feels too much like her old war.
she hates it.
but she's not turning around. she's not failing again. so she ranges out, keeping alaric in sight and sound, her ears turned to him, but searching where she can for any hint of the soft medic or her daughter. 'come on, tin. say something.' she begs internally, her heart in her throat.
alaric & wither vs. ??
for @Tinúviel's freedom
0/3
trade perk: assassin lv2, fabricate pride scents
It were a call she should have anticipated, having gotten Melusina out without a fight. It left nobody else within the clutches of the Saxe than Tinúviel herself, and the life now growing within her. And had she not been pregnant, she might have done things differently, might have found the spark of a fight and free herself finally of his clutches. But Aeistrios had driven his threat into her to the point is was written in her very skin. There were nothing Tinúviel Fairchild would not do for her children; even if it were senseless, even if it were foolish. Even if it killed her.
Tired as she was of being a damsel in distress, it were ever a fate destined for her, and ever a fate she could not fight.
She heard the ushering of hastened steps. Aeistrios' call for Morrigan had echoed from a distance, but she had chosen to remain with her hovel. Long had the swell of her belly hindered her movement, the early pains of labor fettering her to the small comforts of her bed. It felt as if ages passed since the call, and she waited in that night wide awake, the fear of both his death and his return forged as a heavy lump in her throat, a hastening of her heart that echoed in her ears. But even the fervent thrum of her heart did not hide the sound of hurried pawsteps. One—no, two—lions rummaging about the territory nearby. No scents beyond Andal accompanied their intrusion, but there'd been a keen silence in the Oasis after the King's call for death, and Tinuviel was tortured enough by her contemplative and worried silence to be roused from her resting spot and venture outside of the den.
She'd just about run into them.
The frantic form of @Alaric appeared first, and Tinúviel felt a wash of relief in the brief moment her eyes caught his familiar pale pelt. But quickly did it turn into dread, a cold heat rising in her throat that knew if Aeistrios knew Alaric were here, it would be her children that suffered. She quickly began to make her way toward him, but stopped just shy when a dark figure appeared next to him. It took Tinúviel a moment longer to recognize @Wither, but once the familiarity of her fur, her face, her limp began to take hold, Tinúviel once more found herself wide- and wild-eyed, breathless and bating.
Wither?
she gapes, jaws half-parted. The curve of her belly was undeniable, full with cubs. Her fur disheveled and unkempt, less from her status as a prisoner and more from the throes of late pregnancy keeping her ailing deep into the night. She were far from beautiful, far from glorious; half of the Queen she once was. Alaric, you can't be here,
she suddenly said in a frantic, hushed whisper, as if the Andal King could hear them from the far distance of the Pit. She were no fool, however, to think that he'd not told some of his soldiers to stay behind.
He'll kill the children,
she begged, knowing that his arrival would likely rouse the suspicions of others, that challenge for her would invoke the ire of the Saxe. Please—you have to go. With me here, they're safe,
she pleads, knowing already that her cries would likely fall upon deaf ears. Such was the nature of men to fight for what they wanted, and Tinúviel would be no fool to take a chance on he who'd defended his pride for so long, who'd kept his family alive, protected.
But Tinúviel would never forgive herself if she bet on her luck and lost, and one of her cubs had to pay the ultimate price.
I'm sorry—
she breathed, tears welling in the corners of her eyes. Perhaps by doing this, she could drive the wedge deep enough that Alaric would understand, that he would see the desperation thriving within her. This were the only power she'd ever truly held. She trotted forward, at first seeming as if she would come with them; but she stopped just short of her husband, and though her paw lifted tenderly, she attempted to press the brunt of her pawpads against his shoulders (claws markedly sheathed), and shove, as if attempting to herd the Ecrosian King back to the borders. Her gaze fell upon Wither (still half-believing she no more than a ghost), silently pleading: Help me.
for Tinúviel
i of iii
Hits:
Dodges:
Luck:
Please tag me after seven days.
She is open to premade plots as well as unplanned threads.
She is open to any IC consequences.
Septima isn't exactly trying to hide from Alaric and his companion, but she isn't exactly marching straight into the open with flags waving to draw attention either. She knows - she's heard - Aeistrios is fighting to the death somewhere in the valley. She knows who he has called for and she knows it is only time until the truth about her king reveals itself wholly. Or perhaps that time is now. He'll kill the children. What? With me here, they're safe. Septima bristles, taking a tentative step forward towards the trio. "Is.. he Aeistrios?" she whispers softly, glancing between them all. She is a black sheep, a stranger, and the lioness knows she has no place to be among them as she is. It is for purely selfish reasons she stands there to listen, anxiously shifting her weight. "If you're here against your will, you should take whatever cubs and go," she says with a frown. "This is your chance." Septima wants to beg for them to take her with them, but it's not so simple, is it? She steps back towards the shadows hesitantly, timidly. ooc: consider this an exit if no one talks to her, just wanted to kickstart her next chapter~ |
would he have taken her with him? would the bastard have drug her to the pit and forced her to bear witness to the viciousness of a fight to the death?
was she chained somewhere? imprisoned the same as wither had been?
a pained look is directed at the women when the thought crosses his mind, along with a rekindled fear that perhaps luther is here, extracting further vengeance on the starke family. fear gives way to fury and as they continue their search his anger cuts gouges in the ice-cold sand of the oasis.
she appeared like a mirage on the horizon and he nearly falls to his knees with relief. "tin," a strangled cry as he rushed forward, unthinking of the trauma she had endured, acting with the clumsy and naive paws of an idiot male. alaric thinks only of holding her to his chest and whispering a thousand apologies. he thinks of scouring every inch of her, searching for any signs of harm, while laying a million promises at her paws.
so intense is his relief that it takes a minute for him to realize the swell of her sides, the heaviness of her belly. shock morphs to the horror of understanding, followed fast by a hatred unsurpassed by any in his life prior. leonie's words echo through his mind and those twisted images are replaced with ones where she is pregnant and the bile rises in his throat and he coughs, once.
you can't be here
green eyes disappear behind pale lids, a heavy shake of his head immediately denying her words. even as she begs and pleads with him he only shakes his head, again, before finally looking at her. "i will not leave here without you." his heart clenched tight in an iron fist, his voice barely a whisper, "do you not think me capable of protecting them?"
oh alaric, you have already failed her, once. why should she ever trust you again?
"i will tear out his throat before he lays a paw on them." he thinks of their children, safe back in the mire and under close watch; he thinks of the ones yet to be born, the ones he can only believe to be his. no matter what alaric knows of her heart he does not yet understand that these cubs will not be starkes. "with ME you will be safe. all of you."
@Septima is there but he does not dare look at her, does not dare tear his gaze away from his wife. "this is your chance," he repeats, though, agreeing with the stranger he does not know.
and as she advances he thinks she understands, thinks she sees. alaric thinks she has placed her trust in him once more and again he nearly stumbles to his knees. "tin--" a breath, a brightness, before her paw lay against his shoulder and pushed. but she is tiny and he a giant in comparison; he does not move, only tips his head to look at her paw with disbelief replacing the hope that had blossomed so briefly.
maybe he understands and maybe he doesn't, but all he can think to do is lift one massive paw (claws just as carefully sheathed) and attempt to hook it around her foreleg, to tug her closer, to pull her to him. "we need you." i need you.
for Tinúviel's freedom
1/3
Hits:
Dodges:
Luck:
She hoped that, once they reached the Oasis, Tinúviel would hurry the fuck up so she could move to aid the Summit and what she expected to be a very bloody war.
Unfortunately, Alaric’s wife had decided she wanted to be a martyr.
Léonie could’ve yelled at her then. She’d heard enough — including the voice of @Septima. It had caused her to pause in surprise, and by the time she’d closed in on the group, her sister had disappeared. She remained close, of which Léonie was certain, and as much as she wanted to chase her sister down and demand where the FUCK she’d run away to, the dark imp needed to try and help @Tinúviel realize how moronic her plan was.
“Would you PLEASE stop resisting and go be with your kids?” she half-groaned, half-growled from where she stood on a dune. “For FUCK’S sake, think about the ones that’ll be born here. You honestly trust that him and his psycho-wife won’t snuff them out the second they hit the sand so they can pop their own inside of you? You made a bargain for one kid and damned the unborns you carry.” Fuck, why was Tinúviel so infuriatingly submissive. “Are you going to protect them or let them be slaughtered?” she demanded of her. “Run, dammit!”
Assassin
Level 2: Able to fabricate pride scents (Andal Oasis)
Scared and Saxe didn't mix.
Ears folded backwards on his head as he heard the roaring sound, and the boy gulps as his large frame maneuvers over the Oasis. He paces out of anxiety, but he knows he does not wish to go see his father possibly die. He'd rather stay home, and pretend the day was as normal as any other, and that everything would be alright come the next sunrise.
The scents of others swarmed his nose during his pacing though, intruders - the Mire. People from the war they'd just been in. A moment of hesitation before he slinks forward to investigate, seeing the crowd and begging voices rise to the air. He listens to everything said, tucking it all away even though he didn't understand it all, and a frown forms along the lines of his lips.
"They... they aren't here right now." He finally reveals himself, and his words are perhaps traitorous against his own family. Ears fold backwards at the nervousness of being around so many adults, enemies at that. The idea of his father slaughtering cubs scared him though, and he looked to the women in question who was pregnant. "You should go. Father might not live to even notice..." Speaking those words made the realization true, and Reistrios feels fear for more than one thing in that moment. Fear for the enemies in front of him - fear for losing a parent - and fear of those unborn cubs getting hurt.
the look @Alaric passes her is met with a steely determination, her features tightening and going so far as to peel a dark lip from the gleam of pale fang.
don't.she hisses at him, flattening her ears - her voice is hushed but rigid, unyielding. don't doubt her; don't go into the dark thoughts. because suddenly - there she is. they see one another, the lovers, and the relief that passes between them is marred only by @Tinúviel recognizing her. her jaw tightens as the woman gasps out her name, fur crawling up to stand on edge as her green gaze sweeps from tail tip to nose. her brows press tighter of her gaze and she finds herself a ghost in alaric's steps, pressing closer, her lips forming the shape of the fairchild woman's name.
there's pain in her own heart as she paces along the edge of the meeting, one step forward, one step back. agitation leaves her restless, her nerves on fire as she glances up through the storm and into the distant horizon: expecting someone. anyone.
and when @Septima arrives, her ears lay flat. claws unsheathe and she hunkers down even as tinúviel explains her plight. they could protect her wither knows; they will protect her. but the pale woman only asks who he is - and pushes at them to go. her shoulders loosen and she lifts herself minutely, ears raising towards the other.
then come with us.she says, blinking beseechingly. her claws press into the sand of the oasis and she bares her fangs.
you should -
alaric is devestated.
she can see it in the disbelief that flashes across his face at tinuviel's tiny paw, shoving against him - in the way he tries to tug her closer. in the way that tin looks at her, begging. begging. she meets her gaze for a long moment before tearing her gaze away, shame burning in her gut. this is my doing, she tells herself, forcing herself two steps closer.
you can't stay.wither tells her firmly, circling around to press her shoulders against tinúviel's haunches and shove. she doesn't want to hurt her; but she'll drag her, if she has to.
the fucker is distracted - she won't let what happened to her happen to tin.
you came for me.she says softly, curving herself closer, pressing shoulder to shoulder and slinging her muzzle close to her ears.
if you stay, then i will too.even as it churns her stomach, sours her blood to think of chaining herself anywhere again. and though it feels wrong to manipulate her, wither hopes it will be enough to coerce her.
@Léonie is there and wither narrows her gaze, rage flashing in it. this was hardly the way to deal with a woman broken; cornered. she steps 'round the healer, bodily placing herself before her - between the woman on the dunes and the fairchild, as if to shield her from the emotional and verbal damage.
shut the fuck up,she snarls, hackles bristling. she might have been kinder, had things not felt so gods-damn serious, the time limit of the situation pressing in hard around them.
you don't - you've never...she trails off, face contorted in frustration and rage.
the two of them - wither and tinúviel - are uniquely tied in this experience of captivity. she's not aware if léonie is, but from the way she's responding, she writes the woman off as having never experience this flavor of torment before.
just... shut up.she adds, more wearily this time, frustration and exhaustion sapping at her.
@Reistrios manifests from the howling storm, saving her from speaking to the miroslav further, stepping close enough that wither jerks her head and bares her teeth - ready to fight. but the youth encourages them to go, promises they are free of interference. anxiety pulses and she turns her attention down to the tiny healer.
tinúviel - please.and there's desperation in the words, finally. a pleading that she hasn't heard from her own lips in - in years.
since bloom?
there's something like panic rising in her chest as the image of tinúviel pales, morphs, into the image of bloom. waiting for rot, insisting they have to stay for their punishment. insisting that wither should stay.
her teeth grind together and, to her horror, she can feel her eyes burning as tears try to fall. not now, she thinks, tilting her head up and squinting against the storm. she's not bloom - this isn't the same. this can't end the same..
because she'd failed rot, she'd failed bloom and she had failed tinúviel once already. she can't again. she can't keep doing this.
tinúviel.wither murmurs, barely audible, the word strangled as she fights with herself not to just knock the woman out and drag her away.
alaric & wither vs. tinúviel
for @Tinúviel's freedom
1/3
Hits:
Dodges:
Luck:
They would not be left alone for long, for even the hallowed halls of Andal did not remain empty even when its King's life were threatened in the distance. Tinúviel watched out of the corner of her eye the arrival of @Septima, a woman she'd not known, but had seen once or twice when she passed the mouth of her den. But there is a softness within her not shown in the others here (except for perhaps Bordeaux, who she could have sworn she saw at one point), and her words do not reflect those of which would were among Aeistrios' most loyal soldiers, those who would fight alongside to keep her shackled here.
I can't—
she urged, but her protests were quickly drowned out by the voices of the others. There was an understandable fury, and the once-Queen could not find the right way to convey her fear, to justify the pit in her stomach that were desperate to keep the Andal King away from her husband, to keep him from fulfilling the lifelong promise he'd made to her, the threat that now hung over her like a dark cloud. She would not drag anyone down with her—she had already endured it with @Alaric, with Wither. She would subject neither to such a fate ever again.
It were her fault, after all, that Luther was banished, and that he'd come back angrier and crueler than he ever was before.
She feels Alaric's paw hook around her foreleg and attempt to bring her closer, and at first it works, but Tinúviel quickly seeks to pull her paw from his grasp, to slip free of the haven of his touch, the heaven of his warmth. Even she could not stave away the crumbling surrender she would certainly face if she fell into his arms now. Her resolve were far too strong to give in so easily; where once she was all things dismissive and demure, she now held the entirety of her world within her paws, and delicate was the dance to not crush it between her fingers.
It's not just him,
she seethed, though her tone lacked any bark, laden only with grief. It's his wives, his children. Scores of those he promised would come after us.
And Luther were certain to be among them. Time had already proven that Tinúviel could not will away monsters simply by running away. She had to stand, to fight; and this were the only way she knew how. Luther is back. He almost killed your son,
she pleaded, and though Bruno had emerged victorious, she too had seen the rise and fall of ambitious and violent Kings. Whenever they lost once, they would strive to win the next, and it might be far bloodier. This is the one thing I can do for my family,
she continued to weep, her teary gaze falling upon @Wither, as if she may understand, where Alaric was fueled by the rage of a stolen wife, threatened children. Protect them with your life,
she urged, Just as I am doing the same with mine.
We need you.
You have me,
she promises, tilting her head so that she could peer directly into his eyes. You have to let me do this.
The sudden interruption of @Léonie quickly widens her eyes, the abrupt nature with which she chides the healer unfurling a heat across her cheeks, embarrassment seeping into her throat. They will be safe,
she urges the woman, seeing the sense behind her words. Tinúviel had tossed her unborn children in favor of Melusina when she had first arrived, but the deal she had struck after had assured their safety, as well. The only one left in true danger had been herself. They're not...yours,
she continued, her gaze shifting to Alaric; it were a fact she wished to announce to him in the privacy of their own den, where she could bare all her secrets and finally confirm what all she'd hinted at. But here, and now, it felt only fitting; perhaps the Ecrosian King would be far less inclined to sneaking her out if he knew the cubs within her were born from another man. They're Alexander's.
However, just as the words slipped free of her lips, the unexpected presence of @Reistrios quickly causes her fur to stand on end. For a brief moment, the healer thought perhaps the boy might fight for her; but he was young, and scraggly, and uninterested in getting himself involved in the affairs of his father. Your father may no return, but Renfri will,
she urged the boy, peering into his gaze, wishing him too to understand the plight his father had put her in. And she will follow his orders even if he is dead, won't she?
It were more a question for herself; Renfri would certainly stay loyal to him, even if he is no longer here to hand down his orders, wouldn't she?
She'd already felt the betrayal once. Where, for the briefest moment, she thought she could amend things with the Andal Queen—she was suddenly beside her at the challenge, sneaking her out of the Mire and within the claws of the enemy.
You came for me, she hears @Wither say, and her heart flutters in her chest. It felt far more real now, that grief. The memories of those days flooding back, where she too had willed Wither from the Mire, had drug her back to the Lagoon and out of Luther's clutches, even if it signed her own death sentence. Wither was doing the same for her, and Tinúviel were not giving her the same mercy.
It were different with children involved. The role of a mother had changed her, the instinctual drive to protect quelling any sense of logic or reason. The Saxe were a large and unrelenting monster, and no matter how hard Alaric try to stop it, there were no chance of him escaping unscathed.
If you stay, then I will too. The notion is almost too tempting, but the selfishness of such thoughts quickly subsided. However desperate she were to keep even one tether back to the life she'd once known, and grace herself with the presence of who she'd been deprived of for so long, it were no safer for Wither than it was for Tinúviel. Luther is here,
she says, though she isn't wholly sure whether the boy had made it or not. She could have sworn she caught his scent once or twice, but had not seen the man around, had not confirmed he were here. But it made perfect sense; and it were something she'd grown to fear in the days that followed since her arrival. Aeistrios has reason to protect me now. He will let him kill you.
That was, unless Wither was to be made into a Saxe wife, too. A fate cruel and unbefitting of she who'd already endured so much.
This is your chance, Tin.
Run, dammit!
Tinúviel - please.
Tinúviel.
I—I can't,
she stammers, losing her resolve, attempting to step away, as if the physical distance between them might help drive the knife deeper, might make the separation far less bleak. This is the one thing I can do to protect them. You would give your life for theirs—so will I.
And if Aeistrios were to die, and his wives and children were all to die, then, and only then, would she relent.
for Tinúviel
ii of iii
Escape attempt:
Please tag me after seven days.
She is open to premade plots as well as unplanned threads.
She is open to any IC consequences.
ever the actress, she had lulled her father into a false sense of security, the occasional cough giving way into an even rising and falling of her sides as sleep "took" her. then, coughs again which "roused" the girl from her fake-slumber, a whispered set of excuses to go to her herb den, to soothe the illness that seemed to so easily grab her by the throat. she had headed that way indeed before her paws took a sharp detour, following the muddy impressions of her father's steps far enough back that she couldn't even see him anymore. at the borders, a second set of pawprints joined alaric's and magdalena had gone on, assuming they had been headed towards the pit to observe the death summons. their path arced away after some time, in a long path around the arena where all of amaryllis would surely gather. with curiosity nagging too much at the back of her head, she had diverted from their path to watch the battle begin - and then, she returns again, following diligently towards a familiar border with poison coated claws and a blackened heart.
she sees the gathering through the drizzling curtain hanging between them. her father's hulking figure is too distinct, a lighthouse beacon that draws her in, ears perked to catch the conversation being exchanged. "protect them with your life, just as I am doing the same with mine." it is this that makes magdalena's breath catch in her throat, the squeeze of her lungs painful and familiar. that didn't sound like her mother being successfully broken out of the oasis at all and the familiar white-hot anger immediately stabs through her chest. "why?" she hisses, whip-tail lashing behind her. once upon a time, magdalena would have been teary too - sorrow clinging to her lashes like finely ground diamonds. the magpie with clipped wings is no more. her sorrow has been burned, has been charred and twisted and born again - every ounce of her sweetness now spoiled and bitter.
"do you think we would bow under them so easily?" had the war on ecrosia's soil not been proof that they would not? their allies had been steadfast, fighting with the mire and surely, they would do so again. "let them come, we will weather their storm together." she says, half pleading. her claws slip out, digging into the cold, wet sand - an anchor. one of his sons stands witness and magdalena does not care to even glance in his direction. she cannot fathom why her mother is so steadfast in this one-sided decision of hers. why did it have to be her? why her mother? the world that had spent so long robbing her of her breath was greedy - insatiable even - for why else must it rob magdalena of her mother too? and why, why were they having to convince her mother to come home and be with her family?
oh but the yearning, the yearning still remains the same and the bubbling rage sputters, fizzles, and dies out all at once. she visibly sags under the weight of it all. "i-" magdalena swallows, the air thick with her desperation. "we need a mother, not a martyr." she pleads, gaze fixed with pinpoint accuracy on @Tinúviel, as if her mother was the only one here. "mama," her voice cracks, the sound of such obvious weakness making the girl wince. the dimming phoenix lay, wings tattered and broken once again. "we're dying without you - i'm dying." as if to punctuate her point, her chest rattles with the girl's next few breaths, small white puffs leaving her mouth rapid and irregular. magdalena hated how angry she was all the time, the rage in her heart barely lidded, barely contained. the feeling was so all encompassing. it raged when she woke, when she ate, when she slept. it was an ever-present demon that nipped at the girl's heels and was so, so close to consuming her entirely.
there is torture and then there is this. magdalena cannot put together the words that would be the key to unlocking her mother's sense. she doesn't know what to do, doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what to be. in the end, the girl sinks farther and farther and even farther into the yawning void that has become so constant and so familiar over the past weeks. "you can come now or i will return to fight for you," she says it and it is a solemn threat. if it was fear for her children that held tinúviel shackled here, then perhaps it would be fear for her children that set her free. "and i will keep returning until you are free," magdalena continues, each word dripping with acid that the girl has never heard from her own mouth before. "i'll get rohan, arion, and papa -" she must stop, must suck in the precious air for breath that now comes in ragged, uneven gasps. if their heads were already at the chopping block, let them all face their executioner united. "we will keep coming and coming and fighting until you are home." perhaps the only way is to let that beast catch her - to simply allow the last, lingering dregs of care and compassion to be shattered against the rocks of war and grief and loss. so she does - and magdalena stärke despises what she will become.
"is that what you want, mother?" throwing these words laced with poison and anger is not the right way to get her mother to listen. they are not the soft cries and the desperate, longing words of her father or pridemate but they are what surface from her abyss nonetheless. "for you i will break, for you i will bleed." the unsaid words promise a crusade against the saxe that lasts far longer than her mother's imprisonment ever would. the crimson string that tied the two of them together was impossibly taut - in tinúviel's shackles lays her daughter's demise.