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[vezadan gifs]

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“Nay, time does not tarry ever…but change and growth is not in all things and places alike. For the Elves the world moves, and it moves both very swift and very slow. Swift, because they themselves change little, and all else fleets by: it is a grief to them. Slow, because they do not count the running years, not for themselves. The passing seasons are but ripples ever repeated in the long long stream. Yet beneath the Sun all things must wear to an end at last.”

-Legolas, The Fellowship of the Ring (via vezely-a)

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Saint Mesa, "Wolf" I'm a dead man Wide awake With a red hand And blood to pay Burnt out by the weight of tomorrow Cut the cord, man Tell me straight Are you hunter? Or are you bait? Will your knife cut straight as an arrow? Though my feet may rest Anxious eyes stay open I feel it in my chest The nature of wolf inside my head

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Terror-stricken and feverish, sky-blue eyes lift to roam the glinting sharp edge of the spear’s blade. The knot tight in her empty stomach twists once more with the threat of mortality. “My lord, I,” her blood-speckled face contorts and her head shakes side to side in trepidation. 

The lady from Dorwinion is no warrior. Her hands know not the weight of a weapon nor are they steadfast or cruel enough to use one. Indeed, they shake and have been since the attack on the ambassadors started. But a hand reaches to grip the staff, pulling it to her front. “I am not strong, but I will try.” A glance at her young handmaiden is matched and found, discarded on the ground, a long knife is claimed.

And so with ludicrousy, soft-shoed steps follow; the long staff perched in a hand that trembles. “My chambers, my lord. I do not believe they are far?”

@ofrhvn​ / brianne guyot ( cont ).

Aphanarû nods firmly. ❛  Of course. I would never. Not while I still breathe,  ❜  he states. What manner of lord and protector – of countrymen and guests alike – would he be, if he ran in the face of danger? Not one he would be proud to represent! One last squeeze to her shoulder must do to affirm his stance, for his hand withdraws hardly any later. It is needed to peruse the attackers’ belongings. The first thing he takes ( and quickly slides between himself and the sash still around his waist ), is a scimitar that was dropped amid the scuffle. He picks up another, stores it on the other side, and a spear.

❛  I am aware you may want to object, but I would have you arm yourselves. You can keep anyone at bay with this.  ❜  His brow creases imploringly.  ❛  But if you will not, I ask you stay behind me. This spear will reach far.  ❜  Far enough to graze any of the remaining intruders should they be in its path amidst a violent swing of it.  

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“For nothing is evil in the beginning. Even Sauron was not so.”

— Elrond, Fellowship of the Ring (via vezely)

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mindsmade​  ( Prince Aphanarû ) —

    It happens swiftly, as battle so often does. The speed with which Aphanarû had rid himself of the first two might’ve been impressive if not for the turn events suddenly taking. It throws him onto his back with a thud that knocks the air from his lungs, his long hair obscuring his view. He should have tied it up when they left the dining hall. Foolish, but his more immediate concern over self-reprimand is surviving. A huff blows his hair from his eyes, revealing a man that could only be described as a bulwark hovering over him. The other two, the first ones, a pair of mangy rats, no longer squirm and groan behind him. Theirs had been a bloody demise. The cleanly hewn-off arms are a testament to it.

     The Prince realises a similar fate might await him if he does not think fast, however. Just as the behemoth’s booted foot touches down on his chest, likely intent on crushing his rib cage, Aphanarû spots movement from the corner of his eyes. His head tips to the side, finding a pair of feet hardly poking out from under a dress running his way –––- and then it whips upwards, to the source of the sound of breaking ceramics. The weight’s taken off his chest, leaving Aphanarû wide enough a window to act.

     He throws his legs sideways, bracing his weight on his hand before sweeping the ruffian’s feet out from underneath him. Thus far, he’s managed to hold on to his kilij in a white-knuckled grasp around its hilt, and now he makes use of it, its ceremonial nature of it be damned. The Prince jumps to his feet, throws his weight into the other to further knock his unwieldy frame off-balance, and wedges the tip of his sword between his ribs. It takes more brutish force than a well sharpened blade would, but it will suffice. The sword still sits embedded in the strangers chest by the time he falls to his back. Aphanarû leaves it there, swift to rush to Lady Brianne and her maidens. His hands find the former’s shoulders without reservation.  ❛  Thank you — I am indebted to you. –––– Are you all right?  ❜

The lady’s face turns pale white. Eyes blue as the sky sit widen in shock, staring in disbelief at the lifeless body with the prince’s sword skewered in its chest. Blood starts to seep from under him forming a puddle of crimson red. The years pass but she will never forget the blood. Darkened mind is stuck and not cognizant when the warm hands steady on her shoulders. His voice is muffled in the silence of the castle’s surroundings. 

“I’m…” Response is weak, eyelids blinking from the haze to find the prince standing tall at her front, that is, until she recalls decorum. “Apologies my lord, I’m…” At last, breath returns to her lungs, forgotten in her thought. “I’m quite alright,” she nods, “Thank you for not abandoning us.” 

And to those she is responsible her chin turns, sight seeking the handmaidens who stand huddled in fear behind her. And so she steps out of his forwardness towards them. A hand reaching for the one’s forearm; her eyes seeking theirs for reassurance as if to say, it’ll be alright. “We should not tarry, my lord,” she reveals her fear. “What if there are more?”

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peredhellen​ ( Lord Elladan ) —

       Elladan leaves the desk, but not the chamber. Rather, he approaches the nearest window, as if that might help him escape the pressing sensation that something between them has no invariably changed. He must face it if so, yet he cannot bear the thought of it — not now, not when he thought their differences overcome. If he must be so honest with himself, indeed, he wonders if now is not the time to face what he had hoped would come of these overcome differences, and call it by its name …

        But he cannot, and he fails. In doing so, he disappoints himself, eliciting a sigh and a shake of his head. At length, he looks her way again, not even having looked out of the window after all. The harder he tries to run from reality, it seems, the deeper his doubt sinks its claws into him.  ❛  I would argue differently, though I know not the effects of your … allegiance on your memory. For myself and most Eldar, however, memory is infallible, and bleeds well into present day.  ❜  A pause. Lecturing, even now.  ❛  Forgive me.  ❜  Again, he pauses, his critical gaze turning towards his shoes for a moment, before softening upon landing on Vezely again.  ❛  Dare I even ask how you have come to see me?  ❜

The lord departs her side and stoic gaze does not follow. The outlines of his presence are marked in her periphery nonetheless. A strange sense of connection among kin she would not dare call her own — or is it just him? His presence unnerves as it comforts. Disregarded is the open tome at her front. Sight cutting over the aging vellum, the lines of immaculate script, till reaching the black kohl-smudged corners of her eyes as he speaks of the treachery of memory. One she knows well this ability to recall finite details, the outlines of faces, the tones of words in voices that no longer speak. Oh, she remembers everything.

“Memory is a burden when one has much they would rather forget.” On heel she turns, arms crossed as assuredly as the tone of her coarse voice. Memory only fuels her bitterness. That it is a trait of blood only makes sense. “But it would seem you did dare.” In more amused tone, she calls back his question, a brow lifting with it. “I suppose I can attempt an answer though it is heavily marked by changed circumstance.” The war being over. Him hosting her as a guest in his halls. “Despite this unknown history between us, I do not regard you as my enemy, Elladan, if that is what you fear. But forever we will remain challenged by our past. It cannot be changed.”

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WTBS. GN

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mindsmade​ ( Prince Aphanarû ) —

     Aphanarû shakes his head slowly.  ❛  It is not a burden. I will use the opportunity to assess the circumstances there; see if those … degenerates may be hiding in that wing.  ❜  He wipes each side of his scimitar on his trousers. They are no longer presentable as is — and may never truly be again. It’s not just blood that taints the light, off-white fabric. It’s food sent flying by the tipped banquet tables, and undoubtedly guts torn from adversaries’ abdomens. A well-timed strike at the right angle is known to have that undesirable effect. Undesirable, for as exciting as it often is to warriors to see innards flying, they are a menace to pick out of the fibres.

        No excitement has found him tonight, however; not after the start of the assault.  ❛  Come. Keep behind me, all of you,  ❜  he urges, eyes shooting between the handmaid and her Lady. With that said, he sets off through the grand double doors. They were left open since the start of the banquet, to grant an open view into the long hallway beyond its doors ( and to ease the domestic staff’s to and fro between the hall and the kitchens ).

        Towards the western end of the castle they head. The hallways are fairly straightforward, not winding much or introducing many unexpected turns. Occasionally, an alley-like offshoot connects one wing with another, each of which Aphanarû diligently verifies as being empty prior to moving forwards. The first several prove empty, heightening his concern that the intruders have spread throughout the building already, rather than remaining close to the apparent focus of their attack: the grand hall. And his suspicion proves true: the second he pokes his nose around one corner, a throwing knife zips past his cheekbone. Instinctively, he reels, pulling back, but the assailant and two companions jump out after him — swords unsheathed, and a nasty smirk lining their features.

         Their sneer in Black Adûnaic sounds uncomfortable even to his ears. ‘Bârun kallaba,’ they proclaim — and so the lord fell; and so Aphanarû fell, allegedly. He intends to prove them wrong.  ❛  Stay back, ❜  he commands his guests, the welcomed ones, before drawing his ceremonial sword and charging like an angered bull.

Bearings in the Umbarean castle is far from honed. Hallways and turns aside, the scope of the ancient structure is beyond what can be traversed in one day. Any paths recalled by Brianne and her younger handmaiden from not two days of a stay in the harbor city are set aside by heightened awareness that attackers might be lurking. The warning so given hasten footsteps and race heartbeats that have not found rest since the attack in the banquet hall. Stay close they do, the handmaiden linked by arm to the ambassador, at a soft-shoed pace until he charges forward.

Stay back. The order coupled with the snarls of armed men have the lady yank her company’s arm, pulling her away and down the hallway from where they tread, her sight wide in a fright that clenches at her throat. “Hurry!” She barely breathes, small hands not knowing whether to shake or grip or cover her sight. But at the prince a timid gaze lingers, watching his sword make swift haste of two assailants, but the third engages and appears the stronger.

Come, my lady... The handmaiden tugs at her wrist with hopes to hide, but fear holds her and she bears witness to the attacker knocking the prince to his back, his curved sword raised from behind. A will to intervene arises, it pulls her back down the hall and in equal haste, a vase perched on a pedestal marks her grip. She thinks not the consequences, of what could go wrong with such a tactic when she cracks it down on the man’s head, shattering it to pieces that scatter on the floor at her feet. A gasp escapes, her steps tumbling back that she near falls to the ground herself. What a horrid thing to have done! 

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We look up at the same stars, and see such different things.

George R. R. Martin, A Storm of Swords  (via aurelle)

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peredhellen​ ( Elladan ) —​

      The visceral urge to force himself into denial hits him like a hammer would an anvil. Its reverberations shake him inwardly, whilst outwardly he remains perfectly still. His gaze fixes itself on the floor, tracing the lines between the immaculately carved tiles. The tension in his jaw increases as the silence on his end extends itself. He remembers that day well, ever taking such pride in his and Elrohir’s role in the establishment of Rohan as all know it these days. At present, however, little but unease remains. It remains still somewhat shy of shame, but the sentiment comes dangerously close to it.

       At length, he drags his heavy gaze to Vezely. The imagery of an ocean of people dissolves before his eyes, and only she remains.  ❛  Did you see me? Or us, I should say.  ❜  His brother and he — the tallest of the army entire, shattering the Pultai’s flank and forcing their retreat. One misstep could have turned the tables on them, for even with Gondor’s aid, they were few. The seedling his pride has been reduced to remains as such: innocuous.  ❛  I find myself hoping you did not, so as not to … taint whatever image you have constructed of me.  ❜

Taint. What is tainted runs cold through her weakening veins, blackening her insides, and deadening what her heart to what might stand between them. Tiptoeing around, gauging what the other thinks — it has no name and none shall be given. Departure from this tenuous asylum returns to her mind. The snow is melted, the mountain passes are clear, an unset path north calls her name. Why is she still lingering on these unswept stone paths, in these ancient halls of her sworn enemy?

Arms come to fold loosely over her deflated chest. A thin line finds her bow shaped lips and stays unmoved for a second longer. Of what does he desire her to recall? How two half-elves helped reap the destruction of her people? The mere thought reminds her of the bitterness that never left, but words still flow with well-honed detachment, carefully. “It matters not whether memory serves me. Centuries have passed. Many more battles have been fought since though not between us on the same field. It shall change little of how I have come to see you.”

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Yet true is it also that thy folk are cruel, and lawless, and the friends of demons. Thieves are they. For our lands are ours from of old, which they would wrest from us with their bitter blades. White skins and bright eyes are no warrant for such deeds.

Tolkien, J.R.R - Tal Elmar (via easterlingsftw)

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mindsmade​ ( Prince Aphanarû Sakalthôr ) —

      He regrets his outburst — if one could call it that. He is not known as an ill-tempered man, and he would not change it now.  ❛  Forgive me. The tension ––– that was unworthy of me.  ❜  He briefly shakes his head, lifting the hand holding hers to help her up. It momentarily settles on her shoulder once she stands, meekly testing the firmness of her footing. Aphanarû then unthinkingly cards it through his hair.

       He always despised wearing it down during battle, and now he remembers why: it will inevitably get dirty; matted down with coagulated blood, even. Though in battle he is far from the cleanest, never shying away from the blood and the guts, it is the after, once the dust has settled, that bothers him. The question is whether they have truly reached that stage already, however. More may be lurking nearby.

       The Prince looks about the hall once more. What other guards he expects this space can miss, he sends off to escort the guests to their chambers. A solid handful of others will remain here, to guard the hall should the fiends come back. Most others have already fanned out, however. Lady Brianne, Aphanarû will escort personally.  ❛  Right you are. Violence is still of this world, however, so perhaps we must not yet become entirely unaccustomed to blood.  ❜  As he pauses, he twirls his scimitar unthinkingly.  ❛  Come. Let me take you and your handmaids to your chambers.  ❜  He had assigned her the one in the far end of the western wing, overlooking the bay.  ❛  Stay close, and remain vigilant.  ❜

Soft-shoed feet feel the weight left in the wake of an overwhelming rush of fear and grief, that she is grateful for the prince’s hand settled briefly on her shoulder, grounding her. His apology is taken as sincere, though finding themselves in a cycle of spoken regrets is unbecoming. Solemn is the smile she offers, and a demure dip of the chin following, acknowledging his words but no more shall be said.

Likewise, sight tries to neglect the blood matting the dark mane his soiled hand cards through and the crimson sullying the scimitar he yet wields. Blood she knows also speckles the front of her dress and dots down the skin of her décolletage. Return to her chambers will bring its reckoning with a bath during which she will overthink everything. When the prince offers escort, out of good manners, she cannot readily accept.

“My lord, an escort is incredibly gracious of you but if you feel it a burden, please do not hesitate to delegate another to such a task.” It is doubtful he will do so; such leaders are men of their word. As such, the handmaiden who accompanied and did not stray far from her side, is there in step as they depart the dining hall. Chin is kept down, though eyes mark requested vigilance by searching beyond the fallen chairs, broken vases, and bloody bodies.