#- Gror

[mrkida-art]

Day 4: Crown

Thrór became the King of Ered Mithrin after his father King Dáin and his younger brother Frór were lost to the cold drakes

Prompt list below:

[ironfoot-mothafocka]

Blood-bond For @mrkida-art, and their inspired love of the Grey Mountains Crew.

Young Grór considers what it is to have a friend. Prince used as a gender-neutral term for dwarven royalty.

—

“There! Over there!” Grór, whose eyes had been slowly drifting shut, staggered to her feet and loped over to Ixil. The Stiffbeard had piss-poor eyesight; though a swing from their hammer could crush an auroch in twain, Grór still didn’t understand the point of putting him on watch duty. “No,” the dwarf prince intoned slowly, “that looks to be some kind of avalanche on a distant peak.” Ixil puffed out his chest and arched his eyebrow at the dwarrowdam. “Well — looked like it could have been a drake!” Grór shot him a withering stare. “Everything looks like a drake to you. Like that time you called out the guards from their dinner time because you spotted a very large eagle?” Ixil bumped Grór with his hip and the prince crashed into the side of the guard-tower wall. She gave as good as she got, though, and kneed her companion in the shin with the steel toe of her boot. “It was a very large eagle,” Ixil grumbled, wiping mud from his leg and staring at the ground.

At least Grór was awake now. The chill wind blew down her collar and tousled her long, auburn hair, tossing the thick waves beyond her shoulders. She picked up her axe and leaned heavily against it, eyes streaming with the cold as she stared outwards. Nothing ever happened here. Character building, King Dáin said it was. There was no nobler cause than to watch the endless stretch of grey, snow-capped mountains. Remember Scatha, the worm? Remember how the foul beast almost took the dwarves unawares? They’re breeding like rabbits, faster than our worm-hunters can flush them out. Two of them sacked Ugzarak less than a year afore now, and the rest and coming for us. Are you marking my words, Grór? She could hear her father’s words to her now, rattling around inside her head. They had all been on high alert since one of the Stiffbeard’s holds, the northernmost hall in the lonely outcrop of Ugzarak, on the edge of the Red Mountains, had been waylaid by two particularly nasty worms. More than a thousand had managed to flee, some of them picked off by cold and hunger, but a good many refugees came to settle in Ered Mithrin.

She remembered it as though it had only happened a month ago. Battered and weary dwarves, huddling around large fires which had been constructed deep in the mustering halls of the Grey Mountains, tended to their sick and vulnerable. It was the only respite they’d had for weeks, and the king had gone to each family in turn to ask of their welfare. Grór had hung back in the shadows, watching him silently. Prince Head-in-the-clouds Frór and Thrór called her. Bundushathûr, but less majestic and more scatterbrained than the lofty sacred peak. But Grór was one to watch, and study, and notice the subtleties of a dwarf’s interaction. It wasn’t that her head was in the clouds, but it was often elsewhere. She had noticed as her father lay a caring hand on a stranger’s yak-pelt covered back, to comfort shaking shoulders as they wept for their destroyed homeland. How he lifted an elderly dwarf, who was covered in blackened frostbite, from a makeshift bier and carried them to a soft bed. He had spent a long time tending to the dwarf, whose family had died along the way. Tender, calloused hands bandaged wounds, and the king shook his head when his aides called for him to leave. No — the doors of Thikil-gundu are always open for those in need. What am I, if not the host of this great house? Grór had watched her father until uncle Borin had scolded her for slacking. “Prince Head-in-the-clouds, at least be of use and fetch more bandages!”

Grór studied Ixil. He was squinting into the sunlight again, his raven-dark heavily braided hair wrapped around his head into elaborate patterns, decorated with an assortment of multi-coloured sparkling beads. His face was proud and calm, and he seemed to not have a care in the world, a strange tune rumbling from between his lips as he hummed in vague, broken notes. He had been one of those bruised, cold, tired dwarves who had fled on the back of sledges into the bitter winter. He’d lost family, watched friends die. And how had she helped? Mocked his eyesight and kicked him in the leg? Is that what her father would have done? Suddenly, she felt guilty.

“Hey — you,” she said awkwardly, sidling up next to him. Ixil smiled and covered his forehead with a hand almost as broad as hers, peering over against the sharp sunlight. “What?” What did she want to say? What could she possibly say? Anything that came into her head sounded too contrite. Too insincere. “I like you. I mean I… I’ve never really… except my brothers. But they’re not like you. It’s good to have a friend to talk to. Being on watch can get boring, I mean—” That definitely wasn’t what she’d wanted to say. Horrifically, she felt blood creeping into her cheeks and her eyes widen in embarrassment. She’d meant to tell Ixil that it was good to have him here, as a friend, and that she was pleased he made it to the stronghold after such a disaster. That she would be there for him and his people when he needed her. That she was a proud daughter of Durin’s Folk, and that she kept her oaths. Ixil smiled widely and shuffled a little closer. The wind was screaming at both of them, forcing them to take a step back under the tower roof and press in tighter. He laid his hand against her shoulder and squeezed it. “It is good to have you to watch with, as well. I may mistake everything I see for a dragon, but know that I’ll be ready to fight one, if one comes. You Longbeards took me in. I vow to defend your home until I lose my legs or my breath doing so.”

It took Grór a while to find her tongue after that. In the short time they had known one another, she’d discovered that Ixil was an uncompromising sparring partner and appreciated rude jokes at the mess-table as much as she did. But she was taken aback by the gravity of his words, as though her friend had suddenly grown a new face that she was noticing for the first time. She thrust her arm forwards and found his hand with hers. Their fingers were numb, but they interlocked them clumsily. “Grór, daughter of King Dáin, first of his Name, at your service.” “Ixil, son of Izbar, at yours and your family’s.” He didn’t look away. A fiery intensity, a resoluteness, smoldered deep in his eyes as Grór held his fingers so tightly she thought his hand would snap. Then they parted. Something between them had changed, or maybe something inside her had shifted forever. “I will still turn you into mulch when we next wrestle,” Ixil said lightly. Grór’s eyes narrowed at the wicked grin spreading across his face. “How much do you want to bet on that, Skinny-Arm of the Stiffbeard Clan?”

Perhaps some things would stay the same between them, after all.

[weheartstims]

Grór (LOTR) with dwarf-themed stims for @jazz-fr0g!

💎|🪨|💎 🪨|💎|🪨 💎|🪨|💎

[paulbernardmusic]

jeghetermagne - Gror (prod.Paul Bernard)

jeghetermagne har sluppet låten “Gror”. Jeg har laget musikken og mikset, Subphotic har mastret. Magne er rapper og poet. Han har vært en av mine favoritter i mange år, og vi går way back. Jeg kaller dette hiophop/rap, men andre ville kanskje sagt at det er nærmere visesang og filmmusikk. Sjekk ut låten selv – og del gjerne den gjerne med andre hvis den faller i smak! (Låten finnes selvsagt på…

[sashiki-p]

art dump 04/2024 - 04/2022

[motionpicturelover]

"Av måneskinn gror det ingenting" (1987) - Arild Brinchmann

Films I've watched in 2023 (94/119)

[sotwk]

One Forgotten Alliance Between Elves and Dwarves

SotWK AU Headcanon: The Death of Prince Arvellas Thranduilion (Third Age 2589)

Arvellas, following the example of his mother the Elvenqueen Maereth, had always maintained strong alliances and even warm personal friendships with the kings of the Line of Durin. Cemamath, the Woodland province he governed in the northeast, was in closest proximity to the Grey Mountains and Erebor, and the Durins welcomed the prince to their halls as the one Elven ambassador they respected most and even considered a friend. The dwarves appreciated Arvellas's kindness and genuine appreciation for their culture, and his willingness to share his own Elven traditions and practices without being overbearing. The Dwarf Kings were impressed by his wisdom and sometimes sought his counsel in matters of governance. (see linked post)

When the cold-drakes of the North descended and began their war on Durin's Folk, Arvellas requested permission from King Thranduil to send some of their soldiers to aid the Dwarves against the dragons. The King agreed, and for over a decade a full company of 100 Mirkwood elves were commissioned to fight in the war alongside the Dwarves, commanded in turns by Princes Turhir, Gelir, and Arvellas themselves.

However, as the war waged on with no conclusion in sight, Thranduil ordered the Mirkwood company to return home. Dol Guldur had once again begun to flood the forests with pestilence and dangers, and Mirkwood's resources could no longer be spared for outside conflicts. Thranduil ordered Arvellas to counsel King Dain I to take what was left of his people and leave the Grey Mountains, to start over in Erebor or new lands. Arvellas obeyed his father's commands, but his advice to the newly-crowned Dain was met with scorn and offense. The Dwarves took the retreat of the Elves from the war as a betrayal of their alliance; this weighed heavily on Arvellas's heart and conscience as he went home. 

Shortly before that final, fatal siege on Dain's halls, Arvellas had a vision of the cold-drakes' impending assault that would end the Line of Durin. He set out for the Grey Mountains on his own to entreat King Dain and his family once more to escape, but they stubbornly chose to hold their ground. Arvellas stayed to fight alongside them. Despite fighting valiantly, the elf-prince was slain by the same "great cold-drake" that killed Dain and his son Fror ("Durin's Folk", LOTR Appendix A). Arvellas managed to land a fatal strike on the dragon's breast, but was seized by the beast's jaws in its dying throes. 

Prince Turhir had ridden out in haste as soon as he discovered what Arvellas had done in defiance of their father's decrees. Alas, he arrived just in time to hold his little brother while he passed in agony. With his last thoughts, Arvellas asked Turhir to beg their parents' forgiveness, and to bury him before the rest of their family could see, wanting to spare them the sight of his mangled body. 

In his immeasurable rage and grief, Turhir took up his sword and proceeded to single-handedly attack the dragons that remained in the halls. After he slayed his first one, the rest of the cold-drakes recognized the savage madness that powered the elf-prince, and fled before him, allowing the surviving dwarves to safely escape--including Dain's sons Gror (Dain Ironfoot's grandfather) and Thror (Thorin's grandfather). Thus the Line of Durin was saved as Arvellas had hoped.

To add to the tragedy, in the confusion and misunderstandings, the surviving Longbeards failed to pass on an accurate account of the events of that ill-fated war. Neither Arvellas's sacrifice nor Turhir's valor went acknowledged or commemorated by the Dwarves, which Thranduil perceived as an unforgivable insult to his family. Thorin was raised to believe that the Elves of Mirkwood were faithless and feckless, and was initially unaware that the Elvenking even had children. (see fic: "The Broken Shield")

This old grievance factored largely in the Elvenking's refusal to engage with the dragon Smaug when the beast attacked Erebor years later. The once-enduring alliance between the Mirkwood Elves and Durin's Folk remained fractured until the reconciliation of Kings Thranduil and Thorin at the conclusion of the Battle of the Five Armies.

The trauma of Arvellas's death caused irreparable damage to Turhir's mind and spirit. In the following years, he descended into madness, which would ultimately lead to his own departure from his father's realm and the loss of another Thranduilion Prince.

Want to learn more about Arvellas? Arvellas Headcanon Masterlist

OTHER USEFUL LINKS:

Introduction to SotWK

Main Headcanon Masterlist

[porphyriosao3]

Day 21 - Mahal

(Author's note: this is set in the fic Dripping Water, which is part of @tamloid's Mirrorverse series. Highly recommend reading it!)

Looking around, the environment was utterly unfamiliar. Hm, Gror thought. Not a good sign. A sigh like an earthquake filled the room, and he looked over at a giant figure that resembled a dwarf, but was far too big and far too... everything... to be real. Whoops. Definitely not a good sign. Behind the figure, the shape of an anvil meant the room must be a forge, but it looked odd, wisps of vision of other furniture, columns, and the like all coming and going with each glance around. The sights before him didn't match the things he saw out of the corners of his eyes. Bugger. He must be dead.

"Mahal," he said, bowing his head as much as he ever did.

"Gror son of Fror," came the rumbling reply, like a spoilheap falling down a cliff. "Do you know where you are?"

"I... yes," Gror admitted. "I was hoping that pain in my head was nothing to worry about. Seems like that must have been a bad guess." He snorted and Mahal snorted back, an interaction that he could have had with any of his mining team and very, very odd to have with his Creator. "Assumin' these are the Halls, then. How can I be useful?"

"Ah, there's the mark of my children," the giant form smiled. "Well asked. You'll find the Halls are run like most dwarven cities, just... bigger. Miners are always welcome. You'll find the mineral deposits a lot more common here and the ores richer than usual, but that's my gift to you all." Mahal paused here, slight smile fading to a look of puzzlement. "I see you are bonded. I don't see your One. I'm assuming you married a non-dwarf." The eyebrows indicated this was an unpopular choice, though there wasn't any disgust in the massive face.

"Aaaaye," Gror admitted, not sure how to begin to explain the situation. "My One wasn't a dwarf, for sure." He really hoped that Klûk could be admitted to the Halls, so he didn't rely on sarcasm as he normally would.

"Well." Mahal grumbled, eyes flicking to the anvil as if in thought. "What are we talking about? Elf? Man? I can't do anything with men, I'll tell you now - even if I wanted to let one in, Námo wouldn't let me, and such an action would cause a fuss with my Father." Heavy brows drew down fiercely. "You can be sure, that's not an acceptable situation." Gror winced; not only did Mahal look fearsome, but he might be looking at an eternity of separation from his One which was... not on. As much as it rankled his character, he felt compelled to speak from the heart.

"No Lord, neither of those. His name is Klûk. He's a... well, I don't know what he is, but we're bonded, see? He's my heart. I'd suffer to face the time ahead without him." Mahal nodded distractedly, still puzzling over the 'neither of those'.

"I don't like riddles, child," the Vala said. "There's an easy way to see, I suppose." A mirror appeared, enormous, somehow both towering over them and tiny compared to Mahal and the anvil at the same time. Mahal's eyebrows went up. Slightly, but they went up, Gror saw it. He seemed startled, and this was now the best day in his entire life... assuming he could get Klûk in here somehow. The mirror fogged and cleared to reveal a mass of writhing black tendrils racing through tunnels, flowing faster than a horse could gallop over obstructions and pouring through tiny holes like oily black water. "That can't be..." he grumbled, only for Gror's voice to interrupt.

"That's him," Gror said proudly. "Prob'ly on his way here, if he can find it. Always said he could find me anywhere." Mahal stared - stared! - at Gror before turning back to the mirror. "If you could let him in when he gets here, I'll vouch for his behavior. I just want to be with him again."

"You... took as your mate one of the Void children." Mahal sounded floored. This was officially almost the best day of Gror's... well, not life exactly, considering the circumstances, but ever. It got even better when Mahal said "I will consider this request. It... he?... will have to speak with me directly, though."

"Aye, Lord, aye, no worries at all," Gror said, unable to keep from beaming like a pebble. "He's no trouble, I promise. Can't hardly imagine mining without him, and he..." Mahal's eyes were on him and some power of the Vala seemed to compel Gror to say things he wouldn't. "He completes me," he heard himself say. "He saved my life, not once, but over and over, and whatever his kind feel for love, he feels for me. I miss him like a drowning man misses breath." The compulsion left him. Gror worked his mouth and tongue for a moment, looking up at Mahal's poleaxed expression. "Bit unfair, that, Lord. Didn't expect it."

[stroeriodi]

Jeg føler bare at jeg gror fast, imens alle andre spirer og blomstrer op.

[astrmastr]

ITS THE WHOLE SQUAD YAAAAAYYYYYY!!!!!!

they all have their weapons pointed at each other (except Thra she is. respons i b l e with weapons)

these r all the pcs from my pathfinder bird game im runnin!! from tha left to tha right we got:

- Thra, Changeling Dwarf & warpriest cleric. shes got an Evil Hag Mom shes huntin down with her uncle Gror! her element is Electric an her bird is the Raven B)

- ROB-1N (Robin), Automaton Magus whos arms can merge to become a rea l l y b i g g u n B] her Core is made of Ancient Featherfolk Tech - found an restored via new age machinery! Her bird is,,, well. a robin (an she also has phoenix vibes too)

- Felise (Fell), Seer Elf Cosmos Oracle w/ static-y glitchy magic. She was a student researcher of Featherfolk history at the Aton College of Magic! Her bird is a Magpie mixed w/ a scissortail flycatcher

- Aspen, Tiefling Ranger who dual wields his trusty blades. Hes got a heart of gold an a panther named Shadow! His older bro got kidnapped by monsterbirds & now Aspen is lookin for em! His bird is a Cedar Waxwing!

- Theo, Half Elf & Half Orc Barbarian & employee of Aton Loaf Co.! he is overworked and hates his job! he is tormented by Crusty, the mascot of the company. Theo's bird is a woodpecker!

all these silly goobers done waked up on the Winged Isles! The Featherfolks live on this island! The players are slowly becoming Featherfolks themselves! There's a Scary Vulture Man! Pirates! Hags! Drama! Bread!

[mrkida-art]

Grór is flirty

[ironfoot-mothafocka]

And a time for planting (that which was uprooted)

Trigger warnings for mentions of death and descriptions of grief and depression.

An ending comes to Ixil and Grór’s story (or the start of a new one). My headcanon, inspired by the fantastic @mrkida-art

4/4

2.6k words

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 3.5

—

Ixil,

The pen stalls, then falls.

Grór sighs, screwing up her face in concentration, against a headache that cleaves her skull.

I did not receive a reply to my last letter. I hope all is well in the East? Let me know.

Ulri died—

She can’t go on, and she places the pen down harshly. It clatters against the metal ink well. She picks it up.

The stone-setting will be soon.

She cannot bring herself to write any more details. That would be enough — if he even bothered to respond this time. She passes the parchment into the hands of a servant without sealing it and folds back down over her writing table. Somewhere behind her, a child cries.

Far away, another dwarf sits in a writing chamber. The winter in Ugzharak has been particularly harsh this year, and blizzards rip across the tundra outside of the Stiffbeard hold.

The rebuilding — seven years hence the remnants of the dragon was found — grinds on stalwartly. Ice had spread into much of the interior, cracking and weathering millenia of stone halls and supporting structures; for dragons are not well known to close the door behind them once they entered a dwarf’s lodging. Other foul creatures followed. Tribes of Men, followers of the Zigûr and goblin-friends, had sneaked in and set up camp unnoticed. Hall upon hall, home upon home were ransacked, the metalwork stripped and plundered. Filth, decay and rot littered once habitable dwellings, mouldering on top of a thick covering of ash and dust.

Ixil’s first task, once he had arrived in Ugzharak, had been to lead a party of warriors inside the lower levels and secure them of hibernating beasts. Some were killed quietly by a well timed crossbow bolt; others were wide-awake in ambush, and a fully grown adult whitebear could kill three dwarves in one swipe of its torso-sized paw.

It was tiring, gruesome work as they relentlessly scoured the forgotten streets of their ancient home. Dwarves who were now grown and under Ixil’s command had not even been born in Ugzharak, knowing only Thikil-gundu, and a few greybeards had to lead the way down mazes of corridors and backalleys, as Ixil’s own memory had grown hazy with the passing of years. His heart had ached as he encountered unfamiliar stone, tracing it questioningly with soot-blackened fingers, but his stonesense received only pain and anger in return. You abandoned us, said the stone. You left us to die.

The bodies of the dead dwarves were the worst to come across, and it has taken a full sun-cycle for Ixil’s beard to recover from the amount of times he has shorn it. Now, he is more used to having stubble on his cheeks than a proud braid falling from his chin. Some parts of Ugzharak he still cannot enter, for fear of the memories it stirs up inside him. Bodies upon bodies. Some cowering, some small — of children. He can’t go into those parts, even after they were cleansed by khandrel and the sacred dances of death had been danced by the zhanim. They couldn’t cleanse his own mind of what he had endured.

Life is constant in the North-East of Middle-Earth, though the dwarves of Erebor think it grinds to a halt, furling up like a green leaf in the snow. The dwarven nomads return to the Old Ways; some who moved to the greener pastures around Ghomal in the wake of the dragon now drive their shaggy auroch and mumak upland, and join with those families who stayed on the plains out of sheer grit. Stiffbeards sink into industry: ghaspar and coal mining, iron-working, shipping vast quantities of goods across to the cities of Men in the far-reaches of the frozen plains for whale-fat oil. And for Ixil, it seems that he has been barely able to catch his breath. With the election of a new Queen, divined by the omen-speakers of all the Clans, he has risen through the ranks like a fish being hauled up from the deeps. Most of the time, he feels like a fish — hooked and speared, pulled this way and that, gasping for air.  

Ixil looks up at Zurkuh, who has a crumpled letter in one hand. “My Lord…” He is a Lord now — Scoutmaster for the Queen. Titles don’t suit him well, and neither, he feels, do this many responsibilities. He looks down at the map that he is outlining. A pack of snow-orcs were sighted in the middle of one of these foul blizzards, driving a large herd of whitebears along one of their traderoutes. He is beginning to suspect, as the omen-speakers have been telling him, that these weather patterns aren’t natural formations of Middle-Earth, but some abominations of the enemy. Ixil rubs his face and blinks hard. “What is it, Zurkuh?” His assistant approaches cautiously and then drops the letter in his hand. He only has to say a few words to snap the dwarf from his thoughts. “It is from the Iron Hills, my Lord.”

—

Ixil’s eyes scan the words in front of him, horror slowly welling inside him. He slams it down on the table, and then, with shaking hands, rips the drawer from underneath him open. “Where is it? Where is it?” he mutters frantically, and then turns to Zurkuh who is standing by silently. “Did I write?” “My—” “Did I write?” he forces himself up from his chair and crosses to the slender dwarf, taking his shoulders in his hands. He forces his breath to come slower, but the panic doesn’t abate and his speech makes little sense to him. “Do you remember? This year — this Durin’s Day? If I wrote? Tell me, Zurkuh, tell me that I did. Tell me I did not forget. I write, I always write—   Zurkuh shakes his head sadly. “The last time you wrote to the Iron Hills was five years ago.” Ixil blinks. “No— no it cannot—” He returns to the desk and throws piles of parchment onto the floor around him, and they scatter like leaves at his feet. His hands pause somewhere near the bottom of the drawer and he picks up a precious piece of paper as though it is edged in gold leaf. Near the top of it, in Grór’s spidery handwriting, is the date he received it, and his finger traces the runes around and around.

Five years before. Five years. He had forgotten to write for five whole years.

Slumped in his chair once again, he feels numb. Zurkuh moves behind him and picks up the fallen letter that had fluttered from his desk, placing it on top of the map once more. “Friends grow apart,” he says softly.

—

No words were spoken at their parting. Formalities only. Avoiding glances, and then catching one another’s eye only to look away again. There was so much to do that it was easy for them to ignore one another — until they couldn’t.

Ixil looked down at Grór’s hands over his. His blood thundered loud in his ears — what was it… embarrassment, sadness, guilt? — and his throat constricted, trying to force something out, but there wasn’t any more time to speak to her.

“Write,” she said.

“I will visit — I will come back,” he said, his chin rising in defiance. But even then, he knew that was a lie. Grór grimaced. The ugly truth lay naked before them. No — this was it. The end, and the beginning of something new — this time, without the other.

—

“It is good to have you to watch with, as well. I might mistake everything for a dragon, but know that I’ll be ready to fight it, if one comes. You Longbeards took me in. I vow to defend your home until I lose my legs or my breath doing so.”

—

“I took an oath,” the Stiffbeard says to himself. Disgusted, he looks down at the last letter, the one Grór sent five years ago. He remembers now, saying that he would put pen to paper, and then that he would go himself on occasion of her marriage, and how he would choose a wedding gift that would eclipse all others: a crown fashioned out of pearls and white gold, with the three-headed mumak on it, the same one that she wore in iron at her breast.

If she still wore it.

And then… he struggles to remember, memories of even last week fogging up like steam in front of his eyes. And then— that had been the year that the hold had almost starved, with trading from the south blockaded by war.

So he hadn’t written, after all.

“It doesn’t matter,” his own voice replies.

An oath of seventy years past doesn’t matter? What would his mother say to him if she could see him now? If she had survived the journey back?

Don’t start something and not finish it.

Zurkuh has procured him a fresh sheet of paper from somewhere and a pen. The other one has rolled away underneath the desk, and the ink bottle tipped over. He presses them both into the Scoutmaster’s hands and sets them on the paper. “Even so, it is best you write back. I can arrange a funeral gift to be sent. You have enough to do, Lord.”

Was he even a Lord anymore? There was nothing lordly, nothing noble about a dwarf abandoning his kin. But still, he could write back. He could do this one thing.

He wrote one rune, and then another. The first two rune-letters of the date. His hand stilled.

“Bring me my cloak,” he said. When Zurkuh didn’t move, he stood up himself and brushed past him to his bedroom, fearful that if he stopped for a moment to reconsider his actions, the sensible part of his heart would take over. “Where are you—” “And pack a sled for me,” he said, turning to face his assistant, “for a journey to the Iron Hills. I am going there myself.”

—

The fog of depression settles deeper into Grór’s bones. With each passing day, she feels it gnawing its way in like ants on a log, hollowing her out from the inside.

Yesterday, Frór and Thrór arrived, but there had been no welcoming party to greet them. It was all that she could do to stand when they entered her chambers. Frór went straight to Nain’s room and emerged with him in his arms. “I’ll bathe the wee one,” he said quietly, as he went to fill a kettle of hot water. Nain blearily blinked up at his uncle before falling asleep again, his small fingers wrapped in his straw-coloured hair. Thrór had simply sat in silence. Then, when it was evident that Grór would not speak, he had returned with a cup of something hot and set more coal to the fire, prodding it until the room grew warmer. “You need to eat,” he said, bending down to peer into Grór’s face. She hardly saw him.

—

The morning dawns. It could be morning or it could be evening for all the Lord of the Iron Hills cares. It is the same to her, and sleep comes in fitful bouts when she passes out in her room from exhaustion. At least this morning she manages to sit on her throne and her breakfast doesn’t make her nauseous. She eats half of the porridge before it grows thick and cold, and eventually someone takes it away.

The door to the kitchen swings shut behind the dwarf at the same time that another one opens across the Great Hall. The raises her eyes to the messenger that strides quickly towards her. Something about his confused expression makes her sit up a little straighter. “Yes?” she asks, before he has time to reach her. He bows, and then, as if at a loss for words, gestures behind him. “My Lord Grór, there is a visitor…” There have only been visitors this past week, the week before the stone-setting. She icily reminds the messenger such. He stammers an apology. “The dwarf is from the East — from Ugzharak, Lord. He’s pulled his sled right outside and says he knows you, but we had no word of his coming at the watchtower, so—”

The doors smash open with enough force to shake the floor. A dwarf in tattered, weather-stained clothes and boots marches in, barely restrained by two guards. “Grór!” he shouts, before the guards seize him by the wrists. He’s too deft for them and escapes their clutches with the dexterity of a weasel. Before they have time to draw axes, he’s running towards her, his eyes wild and his face flushed from the cold. Grór sees a flash of it before he throws himself onto one knee before her, a brown, scarred hand reaching forwards for the tip of her boot. “I came back.”

The guards drag him up and away, pulling at his cloak which rips from his shoulders. And finally, Grór finds her voice. “Stop—” she rasps.

They stand, facing one another in silence. A letter falls to the floor — the one she had written just a few weeks ago. “I told you — Grór, I said I would visit,” he says, his eyes pleading with her.

It has been seven years.

She wants to hit him, to push him away, to scream at the guards to take him from the Hall at once. But, she soon realises, she doesn’t have the energy. The anger that she might have held seeped from her weeks ago, along with her joy. All she can do is stare. And then Ixil is close to her, and his hands are over hers. His fingers have more callouses now, and they feel harder and stronger, while hers are tattooed in dark ink and stripped of all her customary rings and ornamentation. Between her breasts, she feels something, as though another heartbeat had stirred next to her own. Something she hadn’t thought of for years, but had worn, unnoticed, next to her skin. A small, iron trinket. “Idu’bar,” he whispers, so quietly that it feels as if her own soul is muttering the deep name which few in her life have ever known. “I have come back.”

Epilogue

“We’ve had our troubles,” she says.

Ixil nods and licks the foam from his top lip. Grór sinks back in her chair, and for the first time in countless weeks, feels full. Ixil, on the other hand, is still eating chicken leg after chicken leg, until Grór supposes that he’s eaten a whole flock.

“The East is a… troubled place of late,” he replies delicately. He looks at her enquiringly. “I would still like you to see it.”

“Perhaps I will,” she says.

Before now, she would have thought that impossible. But today she has discovered many things. That in the eye of grief’s storm she can smile, and smoke a pipe in peace, and eat a full meal. That a dwarf she thought long gone could spring up out of nowhere like new grass and pull a sled halfway across Middle-Earth to be with her. Why could she not venture out and see new sights, and explore new things again?

There was a place and a time for everything. For death and for life renewed.  

End.

Kh. Idu’bar (id-u’bar): Grór’s deep name of my own invention (grower); apparently Grór could be derived from the Old Norse gróa, meaning ‘to grow’. It also means ‘to heal’.

[soelvfisk]

Nogen gange om natten er det lettere at tænke klart. Føler natten er en lomme af tryghed der indhyller mig i ro, på en måde hvor jeg ikke længere er bange for at lave fejl. Som om natten ikke ægte findes. Er sikker på at jeg havde været stjernekigger og himmel-heks før i tiden.

Tænker sommetider på at ændre retning i livet og lave alt om. Studere biologi eller arkæologi eller geologi. Vil både have en kandidat i neuroscience og en kandidat i forhistorisk arkæologi og en kandidat i geoscience. Har købt flere grundbøger fra pensum til de forskellige uddannelser. Så jeg kan sidde med overstregningstush og highlighte de ting jeg gerne vil vide i ro og mag. For jeg kan ikke studere på uni. Har prøvet flere gange. Er meget meget dårlig til gruppearbejde. Får angst over at skulle være parat til at løse konflikter og præstere på én gang. Synes ikke en uddannelse behøver at føles som et socialt eksperiment, når det man allerhelst vil, er at sidde fordybet i et jordhul eller på et laboratorie.

Jeg føler mig “social” når jeg kigger på min families stamtræ. Alle dem der hedder Ane og Peder. Alle dem der hedder navne jeg ikke kan udtale. De har skulle overleve en masse for at jeg kunne eksistere. Så føles mit liv meget værdifuldt. Gid jeg kendte dem nok til at kunne mærke hvad de ellers har givet videre. Om vi ligner hinanden sjæleligt. Føler jeg leder efter en retning i livet og føler at de kender svaret. Som et gigantisk bagland. De sidder et sted og sukker over hvor rodløs jeg er i en kælder. “Du er en bi” ville de sige. Og mene at jeg har et tydeligt formål. Jeg kan bare ikke selv se det.

Men lidt bedre om natten. Tænker fx på nu, at jeg skal læse mine bøger noget mere. Elsker faglitteratur. Elsker at kigge på et vildfarent blad i vinden og blive mindet om nervebaner. Elsker at kunne mærke min hjerne knitre fordi den kan sætte mine omgivelser i allemulige kontekster. Så føler jeg mig ikke så forvirret. Ikke så urtyg. Det kræver bare ro at vide ting. Jeg ved ikke noget, når jeg har det kaotisk - det er faktisk utroligt. Jeg bliver så blank, at jeg knap kender til de mest basale ting om mig selv. Alt bliver et mysterie.

Vil hellere have at mysteriet er til at undersøge… og ikke noget der forhindrer mig i at gribe livet. Ved at jeg har en tipoldefar der var skrædder. To tipoldefædre der var gartnere og havde store planteskoler og gartnerier. En oldefar der var taxachauffør. En oldemor der var pianistinde. Det må have været svært så definitivt at vælge hvad man vil være. Eller bare ende med at være noget… Selv nu - så mange år efter - er de stadig dét. Sikke et pres. Ville ønske jeg kendte dem for andet end deres profession, agtigt. De er jo mere end bare dét. Det handler måske ikke om at være en bi, men om at huske at man er det. Der vigtige er at man finder noget meningsfuldt at lave honning på. Af? På? Af. Et sted hvor ens indsats bliver anerkendt og værdsat. Honning er mere end hårdt arbejde. Honning er mere end et resultat af en slags funktion.

Det minder mig om at bier er magnetiske. Det er sejt. De kan orientere sig efter jordens magnetfelt, fordi de i deres pubertet gror magnetisk materiale i deres mave. Så de kan finde vej. OVERVEJ hvis vi også bare lærte at finde vej så definitivt i vores teens.

[henrike-does-writing-sometimes]

RoM - Cinematic Sequence Ramble

I tend to approach my works as if they're films, which often makes it harder for me. But this time I had a stroke of genius !

To keep the backstory short, and as free of spoilers as I can; During the Aperature (an event where the Mirror Realm and Earth overlap) a lot of things went wrong. One of which being Emil becoming infected with the poison of the Mirror Realm that risks spreading to Earth, which would effectively destroy it. The last scene (ish) of Realm of Mirrors is thus of Emil's death.

Before getting into the sequence I have in mind, here's a snippet of it. Enjoy :>

Emil saw their hesitation. Felt their unbearable fear and sorrow. Turning back to the sky he breathed deep, and sang; “Den blomstertid nu kommer, med lust och fägring stor. Du nalkas, ljuva sommar, då gräs och gröda gror.” his voice was trembling, but his song was as beautiful as can be. Perfectly flawed in a way that made it haunting. Carrying through the forest and over the oceans, a solemn tribute to the rising sun. Providing comfort and courage where none existed. “Med blid och livlig värma, till allt som varit dött, sig solens strålar närma,” Emil stumbled on his words as his breath shuddered. Tears once more trailed his face, but he carried on; bracing himself for what was to come, “Och allt blir återfött.” Comfort and courage flickered like a dying fire. So before it went out, Tess, Ida, Jake, and Astrid held each other’s hands tighter— and squeezed their eyes shut as magic flashed through them like a gunshot. Only it didn’t hit them, and there was no bang. Only dreadful silence. Jake was the first to open his eyes, to glance at the body lying between them. Emil’s muscles had relaxed, and his head had lolled to the side. Still and peaceful. One after another, they looked at him. And when the sun rose over the treetops, its warmth melted their frozen state of shocked numbness. Let it seep into the cracks, and reality was understood.  Tess’ breath hitched, and then she screamed.

The song Emil sings is the first verse to 'Den Blomstertid Nu Kommer' (ENG: The Time of Blossom Now Approaches) and the version I'll be using for this is the one from Bramble: The Mountain King. Because the vibes are spectacular and just what I'm after. (Listen to it because it makes what I'm about to describe a lot better)

Now for the sequence !

Emil sings the first verse solo. No instrumentals, no back-ups, just him (0:00 - 0:47). It's then quiet, with only the wind through the forest, then once we're shown Emil's body, the ambiance (0:48 - 0:53) fades in. It continues to swell as the scene progresses, reaching its peak once Tess screams.

And as they all begin crying, the song continues, carrying through a "montage" where the remaining characters return to Grimmvik, passing the castle and other important places as they do. This is all slowed down, not much but enough to portray a sense of emptiness, and the only sound is the song. Meaning we can't hear the crying, only see as they cry.

We end the scene through a fade, most likely through the sky, as the song comes to an end, transitioning us to the epilogue.

//

Haven't used this in a while, so let's dust it off

: Taglist - @waysofink​​ @metanoiamorii @fiercely-raging-writer @zonnemaagd @writing-is-a-martial-art @writing-with-l @chazzawrites @vacantgodling  :

Let me know if you want to be added/removed !

[minvaerrehalvdel]

Jeg forstår ikke hvordan andre folks hjerner kan fortrænge og gemme på traumer. Jeg møder tit folk som jeg kan se, har en masse de ikke har bearbejdet, og samtidigt kan de glemme det, selvom det viser sig frem på andre måder. Men jeg kan slet ikke fortrænge eller glemme noget af det negative. Jeg føler at det rammer mig alt sammen på én gang og at jeg på automatik SKAL tænke over det og bearbejde det, hvilket jeg er glad for på det ene punkt, men på det andet punkt dræner det mig og fylder alt for meget. Jeg har ingen stopklods, selvom jeg for det meste kan separere mit ego fra min selv-analyse, er det stadig sygt hårdt hele tiden af skulle tænke. Selvom jeg ser at jeg gror, vokser der hele tiden nyt ukrudt op, som jeg skal deal med ved første tanke. Ville ønske, at jeg kunne stoppe med at tænke når jeg skal sove, for det smadre min søvn og det smadre min dag og mit drive.

[beyourselfchulanmaria]

♡ღ 永遠 I evighet by Elisabeth Andreassen ღ♡ 

═════════  ✾  ═════════

Pan flute player: Roar Engelberg

Lyrics: Torhild Nigar

Music: Torhild Nigar

Arrangement: Rolf Graf

Conductor: Frode Thingnæs

═════════  ✾  ═════════

3 pieces poetic works of nature by 恐龍 🙏 Thanks~*

Lyrics: Torhild Nigar

Dagen går mot kveld Er borte blir snart glemt Men alt vi gav den står igjen Et frø som gror og vokser frem

Slik er kjærlighetens vei Når den møter deg og meg Først når vi lærer og forstår Vil den modnes og bli vår

Selv om dagene går De svinner hen og blir til år Alltid vil kjærlighet bestå I tid og evighet I evighet

Elven renner stille hen Over sletter skog og eng Men på sin vei for å nå frem Gikk den over stryk og stein

Selv om dagene går De svinner hen og blir til år Alltid vil kjærlighet bestå I tid og evighet I evighet

Selv om dagene går De svinner hen og blir til år Alltid vil kjærlighet bestå I tid og evighet I evighet

Alltid vil kjærlighet bestå I tid og evighet I evighet