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Meet the Eye of the Moirai

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Firiel sees him before he dons his armor and fetches He Carries Consequences from the stables of the Halls of Awaiting. Before Aegnor became what he is now, he would not have known or even supposed that the Halls would have need of stables. Nor would he have imagined any reason to have interactions with Firiel, she that was once Míriel Serinde. For all that they now share a similarity in forsaking a re-embodiment among other elves in favor of employment under their Valar, becoming similar to Maiar of Vairë and Námo serving them respectively as they do - still Aegnor cannot fathom Firiel’s reason to seek him out. She looks like a Maia to his sight, no longer an elven spirit. Ascended. The silver robe helps. “I see your color in the thread of my basket,” Firiel says. “You will be in the tapestries I am about to weave.”

“How worried should I be?” Aegnor says, trying to laugh off her ominous statement.

Firiel shrugs her slight shoulders. “I am not the one with foresight. And I cannot divulge the other threads I have been given in anticipation of the next project. But I shall be weaving you, and I give you that as a warning.”

“A tad illicit of you to share this, is it not?” Aegnor teases, his tone of voice lilting due to worry.

Silver eyes roll with yet more annoyance morphing into nonchalance. “Do what you will, with this knowledge or without. Your attitude shall not affect the production of my weaving. A moment of curiosity, to look upon you to see if there might be a reason for the inclusion of your thread, since it struck me as unusual.”

Aegnor outstretches his palms, holds the pose, then flaps his arms back to his sides. “Not impressed?”

Firiel sneers. “Your sarcasm is unbecoming of a prince.”

“Your tapestries can attest to what is the manner of a prince,” Aegnor sneers in return, and regrets afterwards the pettiness and hatred.

Firiel sighs. “You were less a hassle than others of our family to depict, less scenes of note, or ones cut short. Less horror and…” she trails off. 

“The end was horrible,” Aegnor says, and does not marvel at the jocular lightness that he makes of fire and death and his pain. War and horror lost its impact long ago. “And I hope I accomplished something. So depressing, Firiel. Remind me never to have conversation with you again.”

Firiel’s lips pursed into a sour pout. Before she can make whatever biting comment about him that she so readily intends to say, Aegnor whistles forth his armor and teleports to the stable. He Carries Consequences whinnies from the stall, his soft velvet nose reaching out for a pat. Aegnor rubs the horse’s muzzle. The act comforts him. Firiel’s warning does not trouble him, except for her offhanded remark about actions cut short. He does not want to regret, to second-guess not acting. No more of that. Too much of that. “Duty,” Aegnor whispers, fingers rubbing the soft skin between the horse’s two large nostrils, “we have tasks to accomplish. Focus on that, nothing else. And cryptic bullshit can go to the Void - and don’t you dare tell our boss that I said that! Or cursed! I mean it!”

He Carries Consequences shoves Aegnor with his muzzle, eager to depart.