Do you know the darkness in the hour just before the dawn? When all shadows disappear because there is no light to fall from the sky, no light to show you the right path? In Dor Daedeloth this hour seems to last forever. And if you are one of those who used to live in light. this darkness feels so unnatural, so strange. You can only stare at this grim land and think of how long it is under the Shadow. Will the spring ever return here? Will flowers bloom again? You can walk away from the camp, but there is nothing to admire, nothing to awake happiness, hope, joy. Only ashes. And howling wind, like the voice of Manwë crying over the pitiful fate of this land. You don’t want to go, don’t want to go there alone. The option of being attacked by servants of the Enemy is nothing compared to the endless pain and sorrow of this desolate land. But you must go forth, you must leave the silent safety of the camp, the feeling that there are your friends, who can come to help you or simply talk to you. Now you are not thinking about your duties as the leader of Vanyarin hosts. You don’t remember about the council with High King Arafinwë and Herald Eonwe, Nëlyafinwë, Kanafinwë and others… There is only the need, something that pushes you away from the circle of lights, deep into the shadows, into the darkness. And there are corpses – all over the fields of dust. There was a battle, not so long ago, when the sun was above. The battlefield will be cleaned soon. The Maiar of Aulë, who came with Herald Eonwë will sing tommorow at the morning, and the earth will cover this horrible view. The bodies of all followers of the Light will be moved to rest on the hill, where a new forest will grow. You are walking through the field, empty eyes following you, broken pieces of armour or some parts of bodies are trying to stop you. But you are not stopping. And soon there is light before you, dim and red, like fresh blood. And there are mountains hovering above you – grim, dark, merciless mountains. Three volcanic peeks are bleeding with lava flowing lazily down the mountainside. And you are there, alone, shivering under the cold wind, defenceless; your light hair is shining like a falling star. And you know there are countless eyes looking at you, a lonely Vanya, here, on the treshold of Angband. And when the gate will open you know who will come out.
curufinwefeanaro said: || I love her too, damn. There are a couple that make me think of the Silm really a lot (War Between Brothers, Brother stand beside me, United at war)
But the jewel burned the hand of Maedhros in pain unbearable. […] And being in anguish and despair, he cast himself into a gaping chasm filled with fire, and was so ended; and the Silmaril that he bore was taken into the bosom of the Earth.
Maedhros the Tall: oathbearer, feud-forger, doomed to watch his family die in an age-long war. So many trials, all for nothing.
Sarmatian Loop Handled Dagger, 5th Century BC – 4th Century AD
An iron dagger with lozenge-section triangular two-edged blade, narrow scaphoid bolster, leaf-shaped hilt, ring finial; mounted on a custom-made stand. 47cm including stand (18 ½")
The gold of the Nauglamir still glittered dully beneath the rapidly drying blood of its previous bearer. Beren lifted the necklace carefully by the chain and held it at arm’s length, examining it closely. His scalp prickled as he thought of the last time he had seen the thing, gleaming at the throat of King Finrod Felagund. Now it seemed merely a twisted echo of its former self, and when he looked at it he saw nothing but the image of Finrod lying on the cold stone floor with blood covering his face and his eyes staring up at the darkness.
At last his eyes were drawn reluctantly down to the jewel, which burned clean and bloodless in its setting. It looked grotesquely out-of-place, he thought, wondering what had possessed Thingol to combine what must be the two most ostentatious pieces of jewelry in the world into one horrifying creation. The Silmaril caught the light so effectively even as it generated its own that Beren could hardly bear to look at it, yet he did not glance away. It seemed to be daring him to do so, but he thought he would let himself go blind before he allowed the damned thing to best him.
“The gem is yours, if it is anyone’s,” a voice said close to his ear, and Beren jumped. He had become quite good at detecting the silent approaches of the Lindi, but Almwë could still sneak up on him when he was distracted. The elf appeared unhurt, and his narrow face was devoid of emotion, but his movements had lost some of their grace to weariness. Beren had caught glimpses of him during the battle; Almwë had been everywhere, a deadly whirlwind that swept through Nogrod’s forces and prevented as many as possible from reaching his people, most of whom bore no weapons other than bows and arrows.
Seeing Beren grimace at his suggestion, Almwë said, “Give it to Lúthien, if you wish. It may be of some comfort to her, though I am sure nothing will please her more than your safe return, and the boy’s.”
“What should we do with the rest of it?” Beren asked, indicating the spoils taken from Doriath that now lay in the dirt and blood among the bodies.
Almwë shrugged, disinterested. “It is cursed. Drown it in the river.”
Beren nodded, suddenly feeling very tired. Though he could not match Almwë’s ferocious pace, he had fought as hard as the elf in the heat of battle, never faltering until all of their enemies had fled or fallen. But now that the anger and desperation had faded, it was catching up to him. I’m not as young as I used to be, he thought, then laughed softly to himself when he remembered how many times he’d heard his grandfather or Aunt Andreth or Uncle Bregolas say those exact words.
MisbehavingMaiar: Tumblr Archive 