There was something between a cold rage and a heavy ball of nausea that tangled inside of Nessavendë's stomach moments after Carnistir had tramped his way through her garden and then clambered over her wall. It had stayed with her for the remainder of the day and into the night, and even lingered the next day when she went about her duties with her mother. The cold rage spawned from the fact that he had purposefully trampled over the lemonbalm she had transplanted the day prior in his attempts to flee, successfully destroying the plant before it could properly take root and thrive. She had the longest struggle finding something that would grow well in that precise area: it received shade more than sunshine and many plants refused to survive in that plot of soil. The lemonbalm held promise...until a certain ill-tempered Noldo trampled through it all and ruined that. The cold rage was being quelled by another feeling, though, one that was harder to combat.
The nausea that settled in the pit of her stomach spawned from fear that Fëanáro would come barging into their home, demanding recompense from her parents because of her momentary loss of willpower. While Carnistir's temper had been tame the moment she had broken his nose and in his departure (even if he had so rudely shoved her down in the process), she knew his father's would not be so tamed. Manissë could not quite pinpoint what troubled her daughter, but she saw a quick change that came over in her--she worked more readily on her lessons in healing, applying every moment of time possible into perfecting and learning her art. When the young Noldo was not working on her healing, she was always in her garden, pittering about and tending to the plants.
Most days she was rarely seen by either of her parents, and at night she was too weary to speak over-long with them. For a time, it worried both Carnion and Manissë. What bothered there child so much that she would withdraw even more?
She could not confess, nor would she. But the nausea and worry slowly dissipated with each passing day and absence of Fëanáro's thundering presence. The fear still lingered, to be sure, but it did not grip her as tightly when each day passed and there was no arrival of the Prince to demand punishment. She wondered if Carnistir had told anyone of their incident, or if he merely played off his injury as part of his earlier scuffle. Whichever the case, she thanked the Valar for the ner's stubborn pride (which she had no doubt grievously injured when she broke his nose) and soon found herself settling into her old routines, although she continued to work endlessly on her lessons for healing, determined to complete each stage and perfect the art. After all, that was the major flaw in the prior scuffle: she had been unable to detain him and rectify the situation she had put both of them in. Perhaps, if she had been able, she could have soothed the anger and fixed his broken nose. If the shock of being shoved and yelled at had worn off quick enough.
With the passing of each month, and her artful avoidance of Carnistir and every member of his immediate family--which was a task to do since there were so many in Fëanáro's brood--she became that much more complacent that no one knew. It was not until she had come face-to-face with Maitimo that her complacency had been shattered. No matter how happy she was to blissfully believe none of his family knew, that was not the case. The eldest prince had brought up the debacle the night of the feast, and while she was certain he was the only one who knew, it still worried her. While she had no siblings, she knew that brotherly bonds kept some things secret, and so her fear that their Atar knew steadily abated.
The time spent in Maitimo's presence had been pleasant. Much more so than her time with Carnistir.
After bumping into the eldest at the festival, she had once more successfully avoided any other member of his family, including the errant prince. Because of her hectic schedule, she was seen even less in social settings, and refused outright numerous invitations to join her mother's friends for tea. She had to finish her lessons, she had explained politely, and putting them off would do her no good.
And so the young healer was in her garden now, looking at the new lemonbalm she had taken from her grandmother's garden. She also eyed the spikes near at hand, wondering if it would be wise to put them into the ground alongside the plant. It would keep trespassers away, that was for certain. Shaking her head, knowing that would be considered malicious, she picked them up and decided to return them to her father in his forges. Considering she was currently dressed in a dress deemed suitable to be seen outside the walls of their home, she figure it would be wise to go now. Slipping on her shoes and bundling the metal into the cloth that had stored them away with her other gardening tools, she moved out of the garden through one of the openings in the garden's wall. Nessavendë tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the fiery locks loose, and moved off to where the forge her father worked in was. She hoped--and prayed--that she ran into no one. All she wanted was a quick, easy journey and then to return to the peace of her gardens.
Life was never quick and easy though, was it?
Of all the terrible things Iaser had talked him into, apologizing to that red-haired witch must be the most appalling. It had taken quite some time, months even, but finally, Carnistir gave in to his far more level-headed friend’s pleadings to ‘make things right.’ What was right? Apologizing to the nis who broke his nose was certainly not right, but here he was…heading towards her home to make some very belated show of shame for his actions. Moryo initially denied knowing where she lived – unfortunately that trick hadn’t worked – because he did indeed know exactly where she lived, at times even purposefully passing by it for reasons he could not quite understand. Iaser knew him too well, spent too much time with the young prince, and was by far too observant.
It was also Iaser’s advice that Moryo actually dress the part of prince, rather than brawling hooligan. That part wasn’t so miserable as Moryo did care about his appearance. With his hair intricately braided, crafted by his own careful hand, and clad in a tunic of deep red, trimmed with golden embroidery, he cut a striking figure for only being just short of fifty. There was still an air of youth to his features, but there was a shadow of the ner he’d grow into in the next few decades. Freckles stretched across his face, across the nose that had healed straight no thanks to Ness. Who breaks someone’s nose over a nickname? Someone with rage issues, that’s who. And they called him hot tempered.
While lost in thought over the ridiculousness of this venture, Moryo nearly walked into someone purposefully striding ahead of him as if in a hurry. His own stride was an unnaturally long gait due to chasing after impossibly tall brothers. Fortunately, a quick side step and half sashay kept him from out right running into the…red head. He knew that red hair and those freckles – revealed as he spun around to face her fully. Moryo frowned at the sudden discovery. Just excellent. His plan to make a formal apology utterly ruined by her unexpected appearance.
“You.” He grumbled unhappily, glancing between her and the newly sprouted potted herb in his hands. A peace offering, some sort of healing herb that was apparently hard to come by and special for some reason or another. Also Iaser’s idea and from his garden (or rather the garden he shared with his healer parent’s of some notable position among the upper society). “This is for you. Even though you broke my nose over being called a nickname.” Moryo held out the plant to her, keeping a safe distance lest she take offense to the gift and break something else.