dunadaneth

[dunadaneth]

Her words hang between them, searching his face as the moment wears on. It is a request she did not wish to impose on him--- but some part of her reminds her that she would be but one of many rangers the sons of Elrond have buried.

One last time, and one last favor; and to her amazement, his hands squeezed hers, and he granted her this last wish.

And like the first blossom of spring from the snow, she smiled, truly smiled, for what felt like the first time in a long time. She had expected a protest, to have to convince him, and yet as ever Elladan was as gracious as he was kind. She could not help but embrace him fiercely, face buried against his neck. The relief was palpable, and for a long moment they stood there, beneath that fiery sky.

"Thank you," she whispered when she pulled back; that smile softened, but her eyes glittered-- did he know the enormity of this gift, this peace he brought her?

"I think I just might forgive you your punishment, for that." The quiet laughter that followed was sincere. It was hard to believe that mirth could be found, when all was at the edge of a knife.

But like all things, it too could not last, and she turned towards the Anduin, watching the black water ripple in what little light still shone above them, lost in thought. Elladan had never shied away from conversations most others would. And yet, with him she could speak openly, honestly. After all these years, she hid little from his keen eyes.

"I have lived a long life," she said after some time, "I have seen many sights, meet many people---and I have fought in war, and seen many deaths." Both at her own hand and not. Tomorrow would bring only more. "But I have lived a good life, and have no regrets."

Grey eyes search his, steely and determined, before that ghost of a smile returns. "Should it be that tomorrow, Death comes for me on that field, I will meet it." They had not come this far only to falter before the end. She does not fear it for herself- but for others, moreso.

She shook herself from her thoughts. If this night were to be their last, she would not steep herself in misery. Not with her dearest friend at her side. "You remind me that there is much good to look forward to, as well as much change. That not all is bad, so long as you have those you love." Her hand found his again, expression softening as she searched his face, ever inscrutable.

"And what of you, mellon?" He, too, was no stranger to war, nor to death, even among his kind. Of all of them, Elladan and Elrohir held more experience than all of the Grey Company combined. Yet they had a choice, before them- one few of their kind did. If there were ever a time to make such a decision, such moments as these might be one of them.

"Do you fear Death, too?" Her head she tilted upwards, to meet his gaze. The night air is quiet, restless, between them. "Or do you fear that choice you may have to make?"

Créa disappears into herself, he sees, and he does nothing to stop it. He only looks upon her and wonders precisely what far reach of her mind she retreats to — and suspects it is not a particularly bright one, at that. A grey cloud hangs over her ( and likely all others here ), likely dousing even the flame of warm memories she might seek out for comfort.

Or she does the opposite, tracing her thoughts down a darker path alone. He understands its magnetic pull, for such is the burden of a long life: for every joyous occasion worth celebrating, at least one loss balances it out — or throws it off-balance entirely, if unfortunate.

Just as Elladan feels himself likewise sinking into quiet contemplation, the sound of his name anchors him in the present; here, at the bow of the steadily rocking ship. Less steady feels he, himself, when faced with the promise of one last favour to be asked. Those words hardly bode well, consequently contorting his features into a skeptical frown. He fully expects being asked something he does not even want to entertain now.

And his suspicion proves correct, although his face does not darken any further. If anything, his expression takes on more melancholy a note than a cynical one.

Despite his reluctance to look into whatever future might lie beyond the upcoming day, he understands her request. It is just the prospect of a new age without her that overshadows the sweetness of any victory the survivors might otherwise enjoy — and the solace otherwise found in a life to be had afterwards.

That is, assuming he will still be around, himself. That, however, is a burden of thought he will not impose on her.

❛  Very well, my friend.  ❜ He squeezes her hands in his. ❛  I shall see to it that you are returned home, if it comes to that.  ❜ A pause settles in here, the silence between them as heavy as the night is still. Even the water lapping at the hull is quiet. But it, too, must be broken again. If this is to be one of their last conversations, he would hate to waste it. ❛  Do you fear it? Death?  ❜

[dunadaneth]

Honestly I love Tolkien's works so much but I think my favorite part about it is playing in the sandbox- more specifically I love developing lore and headcanons that compliment and flesh out things that were there, and add in things that are missing. I love thinking about pre-fall Arnor- what did Evendim export in terms of economy? What crops did they grow, what things did they make, how the geography would inform these things, etc- a lot of these things possibly only be hinted at in old relics and records not destroyed at Fornost or the passage of time. How would reconstruction happen in the Fourth Age? What do you focus on first? How do you preserve ruins of the past and yet build upon their bones in their memory? What alliances in Eriador could you make to help bolster the economy and make trade agreements? (I am not a "hur dur what's Aragorn's tax policy type of person bc this is fantasty first and foremost and there's a balance to be had.) I love thinking about post-fall of Arnor and the Dúnedain- they're mostly nomadic with at least one canon settlement and what that would entail. The horror of your people living through what seems like multiple end of all days. The hardships endured, the harsh lifestyle that would be followed-what does their diet look like? What would they carry in their bags? How often do they go out on patrol before coming back? Is there a system put in place so no one Ranger is too fatigued, and gets time to rest and recuperate? Older generations teaching the younger- and even Dúnadain who choose not to become Rangers, and still support their community in other ways; the weavers, the growers, the metalsmiths, etc... how tight knit everyone would be! My mind just bounces around with so many ideas with little chance to really put them down anywhere! That's just a small taste of what it's like to write with me lol.

[dunadaneth]

continued from here

"I hope so," she said of returning to the North, wanting nothing more than to be on those fair lake shores. She almost wanted to smile at Elladan’s assuring words. Ever was he one to soothe troubles and unrest, and it had always endeared him to her. But she had been vague, and her words hid half truths long buried, and so despite his kindly meant words, they did not quite bring her the peace he sought to give, though he tried. This fate had been of her own making, despite how impossible it had seemed that it would pass; she would not regret the choices she had made that lead down this road. There was a ghost of a smile at her potential title, however. "Those days had formed us and given us life,” her words were nearly a whisper, spoken as they had been by her lover long ago, “but we will live that life, for all the good and ill it brings with it.”

       But with the thought of a potential future, one of hope and yet hidden fear, so too did her mind turn to another- one that she very well might not see at all. So much had weighed on her mind these many months. and even before their company had left Rivendell, there had been little time to think, let alone process the thoughts and worries that warred within her. There was only the singular focus of traveling south with her kin, to fulfill a destiny long in the making, from the lips of a seer long ago- a standard borne aloft, and a message given and received. But there were no words now, no prophecies foretold to give her comfort or assurances.

        It was the words of Halbarad, instead, that lingered heavily in her mind.

        She had accepted her duty held the likelihood of death, long ago. And now at the end of all days, where so many had been lost, and hope seemed such a fragile thing, a part of her almost welcomed it: twined with fear and shame and grief all at once. ‘This is an evil door, and my death lies beyond it. I will dare to pass it nonetheless.’

       Death, in the face of ones duties. Death, that had taken the lives of her kinsmen on this journey, those who would never live to see their sacrifices made. Death, that hung above them like the thick, acrid smoke of Mordor, threatening to choke out the stars that hung in the sky, one by one. Death, that had spared her, yet not her friends; their bodies left where they had been slain so cruelly, far from home, the blood on the walls and the floors glistening as the torches went out, and the war chants and cries of the dying filled her ears--

        She swallowed thickly, forcing herself out of the memories she had tried so hard to shove down, a tightness in her chest that squeezed the breath from her. In that moment, it was as though in one night many years had fallen on her head. Grim was her face, grey-hued and weary.

“Elladan, I...” He had tried so hard to bring levity to her, and she almost did not have the heart to voice her question. He had spoken of the North, of home, and she turned to face him fully, gripping both her hands in his. “I have one last favor to ask of you.”

She saw it so clearly now: the swaying of the blossoming willow trees, their tendrils and leaves perfumed with the sweetest of scents. The sunlight dappled on the blue waters, glittering like a thousand gems as the waves lapped at the shore. The city she so dearly loved, in ruins yet no less beautiful; home, as it always would be. Where she belonged.

“If I should die tomorrow, or in this war--I want to be buried in Evendim.”

@mindsmade

[dunadaneth]

Thank you to @mariaeldin for the beautiful paintings of Créa! They came out so beautifully and look like they belong in a medieval book somewhere, and I can’t wait to get these in the mail to have in my room :’)

[dunadaneth]

“She just wants the garden to work. She just wants to build a garden and water it and have everything grow and everything stay alive and she does not want to feel besieged.”

— Gabriel Tallent, from My Absolute Darling

[dunadaneth]

The berry pickers creed

I will leave unripened berries untouched

A ripe berry need only be negotiated with, not fought

I will reasses my surroundings after every step, for my new perspective could reveal a berry patch previously hidden to me

The plant gets excited and happy when a barry is picked

The bug is not to be feared or killed, but gently celebrated, for it facilitated in the creation of the beloved berrys

I will not allow myself to be bullied by sharp thicket and I will retrieve even the most protected barry

[dunadaneth]

In my research for my studies I’ve actually stumbled across a flower that I think would fit very very well, the Trientalis borealis, or the star flower! Starflowers have bright yellow anthers, smooth lance-shaped leaves, and tall stalks.

Not only is it a seven petaled flower (which, in my mind, the seven pointed star is the symbol of Arnor), it also grows without help- meaning that it would still be growing long after Arnor fell, but the symbol of the land still can be found all around it. It’s endangered in my state (where it grows natively), but I think this would be a very fitting plant native for Evendim.

It’s said that there’s a flower native only to Evendim, and grows amongst the ruins of Annúminas. I have an idea of what the flower is but it’s never specifically listed or mentioned with a description, which means I can really choose any flower I please.

My only issue is that with any flower I choose, means that it doesn’t grow anywhere else, which would be a shame bc flowers are so pretty and the choice is so daunting!! 😭

[dunadaneth]

Unknown, Comets from the Augsburg Book of Miraculous Signs, 1552

Later published as The Book of Miracles

Wikimedia

[dunadaneth]

Wood Anemones - Anemone Nemorosa

[dunadaneth]

Hayley Willaims, Roses/Lotus/Violet/Iris

Pablo Picasso. Fleur: Étude pour Le Chant des Fleuves XVI

[dunadaneth]

If one day you see me sitting on the ground in my little vegetable patch, looking very focused on pulling weeds, you should know that this is the tireless internal monologue that accompanies this activity:

Turnip is so good. Definitely superior to navet. Just an excellent word. English names for vegetables often fit much better. Leek! I mean it doesn’t look like a real word, all tiny English words (poke wig work jug dig blurb quirk leek) sound like Klingon to Romance language speakers who enjoy syllables, but leek is the sound of delighted surprise you make the first time you pull one of these out of the ground. Pickle is adorable. Pumpkin has the exact same dorky-cute energy as our citrouille. Spinach is a word that holds me in contempt. Even in my head I can’t pronounce it. I have tried every possible combination of sounds and never chanced upon the right one. Maybe spine and a sad German ach. If I look it up I will just forget again. I also dislike that other word for courgette. It’s a little courge so it’s a courgette! Zucchini is a clown name. Ginger, though! Such a cool, spunky word. I don’t know why we have a suffix that makes it sound like a month. As a kid I really thought gingembre should be a month—Novembre, Décembre, Gingembre. I don’t like asparagus but only because I think anglos should love themselves and shake off Latin suffixes like the rest of us did, since even native speakers seem nervous and apologetic when they have to use their plural form. They sound like they need to triple-google-check it every time, that’s no way to live. We cut our Latin cord and call it an asperge and the plural is pronounced identically so we have time to worry about real problems, like how caper berry is feminine but the word sounds deceptively masculine. Câpre. Or aromatic plants! Aromate—no one wants to hazard a gender for these words so we use the plural form at all times out of cowardice, it disgusts me.

[dunadaneth]

i love you green. i love you forests. i love you smell of damp earth. i love you feeling before the storm breaks. i love you moss. i love you rivers. i love you streams. i love you thunderstorms. i love you sunlight shining through leaves.

[dunadaneth]

LADYHAWKE 1985 | dir. Richard Donner

[dunadaneth]

She loved the rebirth of spring; her beautiful garden; the wild flowers of the fields; butterflies, toads and bees; (…)

Emily Fragos, from Foreword in “Letters Of Emily Dickinson” (via adrasteiax)

[dunadaneth]

       Oh! However long they had traveled together, the elven princeling never failed to make her exasperated, even in such moments as these. Though at first it had been irritating, she had grown used to his humor and wit, though it did not stop the occasional groan or sigh at his rebuttals. Now was one of those times.

      Despite the concerning issue of the corpses, he had managed to take her words and twist them to be all too literal, and she could not help the roll of her eyes as she approached, kneeling down beside him.

       “If you want to be that way, I’ll bring you a nice bouquet of corpses, and you can tell me which is more delightful to see and smell.” No, he wasn’t wrong, but always he danced around the point. Flowers were far more pleasant. “My point still stands, though. Flowers given out of love and affection, however ‘dead’ they might be, is better than being given bodies, like a prize that a cat dragged in.” Alas for the life of a ranger-bodies simply would be far more likely than any gift.

sentence and symbol starters

@dunadaneth​ said: “Once, just once, I’d like for someone to bring me flowers instead of corpses.”

HAUNCHES WERE FOUND AND SETTLED UPON, the grass scarce bowing neath the ellon’s sparse weight as with FLUID gesture he crouched beside the fallen. Cowl pulled asunder to allow a less SULLIED view, void of cast shadow. An Orc attack mayhap? Nay, these wounds spoke of a different beast….though alas, it seemed this poor soul had fallen prey to one no less foul!

The ranger’s words coax LEGOLAS, offering escape from morbid postulation. CERULEAN hues address the woman stood beyond them, their sharp, astute gaze so very akin to a parents. Contemplation expunged from fair features to be replace with a rare glimmer of  m i r t h  in the angles of the PRINCELING’S expression. An impish grace in the listing of an elegant jaw. ‘Aye.. yet are bouquets not simply the gathering of unfortunate corpses of plucked flora, mellon nîn? Their end is simply prolonged so that they may be admired for the pleasure their BEAUTY brings to the eye. ’

[dunadaneth]

[𝐄𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐧]​:

     Elladan needs only the name to remember, but he does not interrupt her. Créa’s detailing of the man tells him much about her bond with him — or what remains of it. It is a description that fits many of the Dúnedain: bearded, light-eyed, tall and blessed with a head full of curls. The description of how she sees him beyond her memory of his appearance is more telling, in that sense: she cherishes his laughter and his hope. Elladan, too, remembers the boisterousness of Barandir’s laugh. They did not spend much time together, he and this dúnadan, but he remembers enough for the sound to bounce between the walls of his mind as he summons a particular memory.

       He recalls Arathorn with Aragorn as a babe, resting in his father’s arms. With his big eyes squeeze shut in a grimace and his taut, Barandir recognised well what was happening –––– and roared that contagious laugh of his whilst looking over his friend’s shoulder. The babe’s concentration broke and he wept for it, and Elladan chuckled to himself. He does so again even now, decades later. This is not a tale he will share with anyone for fear of shaming him, yet he will not spare himself this sliver of amusement. The apparent gravity of the topic notwithstanding, he can only silence himself after huffing that subdued laugh of his.  ❛  I apologise,  ❜  Elladan is quick to insert,  ❛  I remember him — your father, and his laughter.  ❜

       He looks down, letting his gaze slide along the joint between two tiles. There, he finds his calm again, and the necessary measure of sensitivity.  ❛  I admittedly did not spend much time with him. I saw him mostly when we were both with Arathorn, the Chieftain at the time — or when Arathorn visited us here, indeed. They seemed thick as thieves.  ❜  A thoughtful pause later, he drops whatever he was doing before and steps closer to Créa. A hand finds her shoulder as he settles beside her.  ❛  What would you like to know of him?  ❜

           It is a strange thing, that despite admitting that not much time was spent together, he still held those memories of him, and could recall him clearly--even moreso than herself, his own daughter. It was not how she expected this visit to Rivendell to go. But an opportunity she had never thought of before now lie in front of her, the search for knowledge of gardening forgotten, and turns to her father instead.

        Though her hopes at first soar at the confirmation, then fall a bit at the admission that they were not often together in the same company, it was better than nothing. For most those who had spent time with him were no longer living, or she had simply not met them yet, scattered as the Rangers are. She did not let the lack of time spent together dampen her spirits, instead glancing upon Elladan with a newfound hope. Why had she never thought to ask sooner?

       “Anything!” She breathed, her eagerness clear for how quickly she had answered. But she reined herself in, apologizing quietly. “It’s just--” How could she put into words, what sorrow she carried so heavily? Would he even understand the grief that came with forgetting one so dear? “It’s been so long. I was a child when he passed. The memories...they become harder to recall, as the years go by.” She pauses, composing herself in the following silence. What she would give to remember his voice, his face clearly. But it was not to be so.

     Where to start? There were so many things she wanted to know, and she pondered over the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm her. But one came to mind, and with a curious glint in her eye, she turned to him. “Did he ever speak to you of me? When I was a child?” She was only a few years younger than Aragorn, and her father had lived longer than his--surely he might’ve mentioned her? “Or do you have any stories of him, that you can remember?”

[dunadaneth]

I wish the Ring had never come to me. I wish none of this had happened.

THE LORD OF THE RINGS: The Fellowship of the Ring (2001) dir. Peter Jackson.