[Grief is a serious business for the Eldar, to whom death is an if and not a when. Losing a loved one, whether it be to a mortal wound or to the Grey Havens, is a life-defining moment. When your family is expected to live for thousands of years, to have one member suddenly gone is, of course, quite a shock.
Kíli was a dwarf, and therefore fated to die a mortal death, but that does not mean Tauriel will not mourn him all the same.
Long, healthy hair is something of a status symbol for her people, and hers was her pride and joy. Being low-born, a commoner raised in the court of her king, Tauriel had always had something of a chip on her shoulder regarding her Silvan blood, made so incredibly obvious by the bright copper of her hair. Pale hair, silvery blond like the hair of her king, was considered desirable, but if she could not be blond, she could at least have hair that cascaded down her spine like a red-gold cloak, thick and strong, curled at the ends like an afterthought. Cutting of one's hair is a way to mark mourning, shame, or banishment.
Tauriel suffers from all three afflictions, and so here she is. To cut it so close to her scalp is the harshest self-flagellation she can think to inflict upon herself that doesn't involve actual flagellation. So she sits on her bed and sings quietly, doing her best to avoid getting choked up as she forms the ancient prayers, entreating the Valar — who might not even hear her prayers in this strange world — to watch over Kíli's soul as he travels to rest in the halls of Aulë with his ancestors.
She cannot say she's surprised when her door opens. That the one opening it is the pirate she met on the first day is also unsurprising, and she does not stop with her singing and her cutting until she has finished the prayer she was in the middle of.]
You have a habit of letting yourself into my room, Killian Jones. [It might almost sound like a joke, if she did not sound so tired and sad, if her eyes were not so dark, if her hands did not continue to slowly, methodically, snip her hair with the tiny, curved scissors so that it fell loose about her legs.
She cannot bring herself to acknowledge his condolences, knowing that if she does, she will start to cry, and so she simply inclines her head a little, most likely giving him an excellent view of the mess she's made of her hair. She doesn't care about it anymore.]
no subject
Kíli was a dwarf, and therefore fated to die a mortal death, but that does not mean Tauriel will not mourn him all the same.
Long, healthy hair is something of a status symbol for her people, and hers was her pride and joy. Being low-born, a commoner raised in the court of her king, Tauriel had always had something of a chip on her shoulder regarding her Silvan blood, made so incredibly obvious by the bright copper of her hair. Pale hair, silvery blond like the hair of her king, was considered desirable, but if she could not be blond, she could at least have hair that cascaded down her spine like a red-gold cloak, thick and strong, curled at the ends like an afterthought. Cutting of one's hair is a way to mark mourning, shame, or banishment.
Tauriel suffers from all three afflictions, and so here she is. To cut it so close to her scalp is the harshest self-flagellation she can think to inflict upon herself that doesn't involve actual flagellation. So she sits on her bed and sings quietly, doing her best to avoid getting choked up as she forms the ancient prayers, entreating the Valar — who might not even hear her prayers in this strange world — to watch over Kíli's soul as he travels to rest in the halls of Aulë with his ancestors.
She cannot say she's surprised when her door opens. That the one opening it is the pirate she met on the first day is also unsurprising, and she does not stop with her singing and her cutting until she has finished the prayer she was in the middle of.]
You have a habit of letting yourself into my room, Killian Jones. [It might almost sound like a joke, if she did not sound so tired and sad, if her eyes were not so dark, if her hands did not continue to slowly, methodically, snip her hair with the tiny, curved scissors so that it fell loose about her legs.
She cannot bring herself to acknowledge his condolences, knowing that if she does, she will start to cry, and so she simply inclines her head a little, most likely giving him an excellent view of the mess she's made of her hair. She doesn't care about it anymore.]