#and in that light it’s a little disquieting how quickly he caved

[inksandpensblog]

I’ve gotta say…

…was anyone else expecting that if he did eat grass he’d, like, pick up one of the grass plants and eat it?

I was not expecting him to…graze.

[justhereforxreaders]

The Prince and the Dragon Rider - Part Three: The Dawn

Jacaerys Velaryon x dragon rider!reader

Summary: introductions are made between you and the rest of Jace’s family and a challenge is put forth in regard to your dragon riding.

Warnings: none

soundtrack

part one: the oath

part two: tempest

part four: the test

part five: precipice

part six: pieces and players

part seven: the rift

After bidding a tearful farewell to Tempest at the dragonmont, you were escorted to your new chambers with the hopes of finding some rest before being sworn into the service of House Targaryen. However, the soft bed beneath your aching body provided little comfort with the disquieting absence of your dragon. The stillness of this small stone chamber only accentuates your desolation. Realizing how much you had grown accustomed to being lulled to sleep by Tempest’s steady breaths through the night, you are left with no other option than to lie awake, restless, waiting for the sun to rise. It is in this quietness just before the dawn, that you begin to hear the stirrings of the servants’ quarters around you.

For a moment you consider opening your door and introducing yourself but elect to remain reposed, hoping that the morning activity might be enough to fill the silence and allow you some sleep. Just as your eyelids start to become heavy however, there is a knock at your door.

You quickly sit upright and a girl no older than yourself opens the door and steps forward, holding aloft a candle in one hand and a bundle of fabric in the other.

“May I enter?” She inquires politely.

“Oh, yes, of course,” you mumble.

She steps forward and lights the candle mounted to the wall and then toward you, presenting the bundle in your direction.

“From the Princess,” she says before placing it at the foot of the bed.

Her eyes wide with curiosity as she studies you closely. When her eyes meet yours she quickly averts them and shuffles back out the door.

“Food shall be served in the servants’ hall shortly,” she murmurs before exiting, “it’s always better hot.” She turns to offer a small curtsy before closing the door behind her.

You unravel the fabric to reveal a black tunic with ornately embroidered red hems and simple but elegant dark grey trousers.

“How did I manage to end up here?” You ask yourself with a bitter chuckle as you run your fingertips over the decorative needlework. The disbelief at the events of the last 24 hours hitting you all at once.

You stand to dress yourself, wincing at the ache in your scabbed knees, and notice that your belongings from the cave have been sitting in a satchel on the floor beside your bed. The draw of resting your tired feet had been too appealing when you arrived here a mere 4 hours ago for you to bother exploring your surroundings, as such, this little kindness had gone unnoticed until now.

A warmth grows in your chest as you realize Jace must have collected your things after you left the cave through the water.

Jacaerys had become such a dear friend in quite a short amount of time. He was the first person to offer you true kindness in all your years of traveling and it had begun to chip away at the bitter distrust that had taken hold in your heart. The idea of binding yourself and your dragon to a life of servitude was made bearable, in part, due to the knowledge that you’d be allowed access to his company without cause for secrecy. There would no longer be a need to train during storms or the small hours of the morning. You’d be able to fly freely once again, now alongside your friend.

But the thought of having to put Tempest in danger should the call to war be made, nearly causes you to be sick. Jace had revealed some of the intricacies of his inheritance and that of his mother’s during your time together and the manner in which he discussed it with you made it evident that he believed war was inevitable. Would a life of freedom be worth living if Tempest was no longer beside you? Was the price of your freedom worth the risk of her sacrifice?

You are pulled from your thoughts by the distant clanking of dishes and your stomach gurgles. You make quick work of changing into your new clothes and dart out the door it the direction of the commotion.

As you enter the hallway however, a gruff voice calls from behind you.

“Dragon rider!”

You turn to see the same kingsguard who escorted you from the dragonmont earlier, looking just as weary as you.

“Come with me please.” He grumbles and begins to walk away.

You let out a disheartened sigh and run up behind the kingsguard. As he leads you through winding corridors and stairways, you try to remember which ones you have been down already. Much to your disappointment however, it all looks too similar for you to distinguish between what is new and what is familiar. But idea of exploring such a grand fortress and learning all its secrets excites you. Something you imagine you’ll occupy a great deal of time doing.

The kingsguard comes to a halt and throws open a large door which leads to a small dining hall. As you enter, you notice through the windows in this room that the faint light of the dawn is beginning to creep up through the morning mist. At the head of the long table sits Princess Rhaenyra. Surrounded by handmaidens and bouncing a silver haired babe on her knee, she looks up to greet you.

“Good morrow, y/n.” She says softly.

“Good morrow, Princess.” You reply politely and offer a small bow.

“Come,” she gestures to the empty seats, “break fast with us.”

You nod and step forward, taking a seat on the Princess’s left side, leaving a few empty seats between the two of you.

“Did you sleep well?” She asks in a motherly tone which disarms you.

“I did not,” you tell her honestly, “this is all so strange to me, it was difficult for me to find rest.”

“Yes, I suppose it would,” her tone becomes thoughtful. “You said you journeyed from Asshai? Is that where you were born?”

“No, my mother and I traveled all across Essos until we found the Lord of Light. She felt the only place we would be safe was within the service of a pleasure house or a temple.”

“Do you still follow the Red God?”

“I’ve never had need to believe in a god,” you state dryly, “first I had my mother, now I have Tempest.”

A smirk forms on one side of her mouth and before she can continue the conversation, the door swings open and Prince Daemon steps through followed by a silver haired girl who mirrors his disdainful expression. You stand from your seat and bow your head at the two newcomers. Daemon makes his way past you and plants a small kiss atop the babe’s head before silently taking a seat at Rhaenyra’s right hand. Servants begin bringing platters of food through the door and filling up the table before the girl is seated, she scowls at you unabashedly while she slowly makes her way to sit near Daemon.

“Good morrow to the both of you,” Rhaenyra says as she passes off the babe to one of her handmaidens. “Rhaena, I’d like to introduce you to y/n.”

Rhaena rolls her eyes and offers a halfhearted curtsy before sitting at the table without a word. The Princess glances between you and Rhaena before calling gently to you.

“Please,” she gestures to the food, “sit and eat.”

There is an uneasy silence as the four of you serve yourselves from the banquet before you. Your discomfort however, melts away the moment you hear Jace’s muffled voice from outside the hall, playfully arguing with an unknown voice. When the door opens, Jacaerys and the unknown boy enter, filling the room with their laughter. You once again rise from your seat and bow politely. With smiles on their faces, the boys greet the room in unison and step towards the seats between you and Rhaenyra.

The smaller of the two sits next to you and turns to face you with wonder in his eyes.

“You must be y/n, I’m Lucerys, Jace has told me all about you! What’s it like riding a dragon in water? How did you teach her to swim?”

You stare dumbfounded at the speed the words tumble out of the boy’s mouth, peering over his head to see Jacaerys stifling laughter.

“I, uh-“ you attempt to begin answering but are cut off by Rhaena standing up abruptly.

“May I be excused?” She mutters through gritted teeth.

Rhaenyra opens her mouth to answer but Daemon nods casually and he takes another bite of his breakfast before she can speak. The Princess shoots him a disapproving look while Rhaena gathers her plate and makes a hasty exit. The room is silent for a moment before Lucerys calls out loudly.

“Don’t mind her,” he says as he shovels a large bite of food into his mouth, “she’s just angry because-“

He is silenced by a jab to the ribs from Jace’s good arm and both boys glance at Daemon before turning their attention back to their plates.

Daemon clears his throat and adjusts his posture before locking eyes with you.

“After the ceremony this morning, I should like to see you on dragonback.” He states, breaking eye contact to briefly glance over the faces around the table. “My own daughter has been denied a dragon for many years and I would like to see for myself what makes you worthy enough to lay claim to what she has been deprived of.”

He then follows his daughter’s lead and pushes away from the table.

“They will not disappoint.” Jace calls across the room as Daemon makes for the door.

“We shall see.” Daemon retorts over his shoulder.

The rest of your time at the table passes slowly. Lucerys continues to ask questions about your adventures across Essos that you do your best to answer while absentmindedly picking at your plate of food. You can feel both Jace and Rhaenyra glance your direction but refuse to meet them. Your mind flooding with worry about what Daemon expects to see from you. Jace had offhandedly mentioned how skilled you were at dragon riding during your training sessions, but, in truth, you never understood what he had meant. Flying with Tempest wasn’t something you considered a skill, it was a necessity for survival.

Once everyone has had their fill, Rhaenyra dismisses her sons and handmaidens, asking for a quiet word with you. After the dining hall has emptied, she stands and approaches you.

“Regardless of the outcome of Daemon’s trial, it is still my wish to have you serve this house and my family.” She speaks with a sternness not directed at you. Placing a hand in your shoulder she continues “How old are you, child?” She asks gently.

“Ten and four.” You answer, slightly confused.

“You are younger than any of the sworn swords before you, which is cause enough for others to doubt your abilities.” She pauses and pulls you to your feet. “It is a heavy burden for someone so young to bear and I am sorry that I must ask you to carry it. But my husband will not be the last to call into question your worth. Although it may seem a daunting task, many of those voices could be silenced by your performance today.”

“I will try my best.” You assure her, and yourself.

She smiles and nods in approval before releasing your shoulder.

“Return to your chambers, I will send for you once my court has been gathered.”

You force a smile in return and make your exit, once again following the same kingsguard back to your room.

“I’ll be back to fetch you shortly, don’t get too comfortable.” He mutters when you reach the door before turning away to leave.

“Thank you,” you mumble in response but he has already departed beyond earshot.

As you step through the door, you look up to see a shape sitting at the foot of your bed. You jump backwards in fear before you make out Jace’s face in the dim morning light, holding a finger up to his lips. You cover your mouth to stifle the involuntary gasp that escapes your lips at his sudden presence and peer around to see if anyone was alerted by your sound before closing the door.

“What are you doing here?” You ask in a hushed tone.

“I wanted to meet you here last night but the guards were much more attentive after I snuck to the dragonmont,” he smiles wryly but it fades when he sees your expression, “I’m sorry it happened this way.”

You shrug and move across the room to sit beside him on the bed.

“It had to happen one way or another, we couldn’t hide me away in that cave forever.” You reply drearily.

“Thank you,” he mumbles and you quickly turn to look at him with confusion.

He turns to face and weakly raises his injured arm.

“Oh, yes,” you chuckle lightly, “I had no interest in…” you trail off. Being parted from you, you wish to say. “Letting you drown on my watch, Jacaerys.” You quickly correct yourself and feign offense. “It would tarnish my reputation for future students.”

He laughs heartily, “I don’t think that would stop your newest admirer.”

You nudge his shoulder with your own and cover his mouth with your hand, shushing him quietly while trying to quiet your own laugher.

“I don’t know what you said to give him such a glowing impression of me but I appreciate it.” You scold playfully before removing your hand.

“Only the truth,” he chides back.

Your laughter dies down and wring your hands in your lap.

“Why do you think I’m a great dragon rider?” You ask anxiously.

He sighs knowingly, pulling your hands apart by your forearm.

“You’re faster than anyone I’ve ever seen and twice as stealthy, you can dive into the water, and the way you and Tempest move together is mesmerizing, like a dance.” He blurts out earnestly. “You’re better than any of us.” His eyes dart to the floor and you think you see a subtle blush grows across his face, though your own eyes grow heavy.

You throw your back into the bed behind you with a heavy sigh.

“What do you think Daemon will expect from me?” You groan, covering your eyes with your arm.

Jace chuckles at your theatrics and folds his legs up on the bed to turn and face you.

“I don’t know,” he pokes at your arm while speaking and you roll away from him, tucking your legs up as you do, “but you have no need to worry yourself.” He murmurs.

“I wish I shared your confidence,” you say through a yawn as your eyes begin closing.

“You will.” He states quietly as you drift to sleep.

You are abruptly awoken by a banging on your door.

“Dragon rider!” A familiar voice growls through the wood. “The Princess awaits your presence!”

You leap up from the bed in a haze, unsure how long you have been asleep, and rush to the door in a panic. Pulling it open to reveal the same tired kingsguard.

“Let’s go,” he barks and turns away from you in his usual fashion. You take a moment to peek out the window and see that the sun is still on the rise, though the cloudiness in your mind says otherwise. Before dashing out the door after him you quickly gather your worn clothes from the floor, unsure if you’ll be allowed to return to change into them before Daemon’s trial.

Most of the walk back to the throne room is spent trying to shake the fogginess from your head but it still lingers as you enter the now crowded grand hall. All eyes turn towards you and you freeze. You try to hide the bundle of raggedy clothes under your arm and continue following towards the throne, but as you fumble with them, you catch the eyes of the servant girl who presented you with your current attire huddled in the corner among the other servants. Without thinking, you run in her direction, causing the kingsguard to stop in his tracks.

“Would you hold these for me, please?” You ask frantically.

Her brows knit together at your request but she nods regardless, taking the clothes from your hands.

“Thank you!” You say in a hurried whisper before turning to meet your escort back where you left him. He scoffs and begins trudging towards Rhaenyra upon the throne, surrounded by her family and the lords from the night before.

Another kingsguard steps forward and instructs you to take a knee. As he begins to speak you find Jace among the crowd and he discreetly offers you a sympathetic smile. His last words before sleep overtook you, repeating in your mind. You nod in acknowledgment and turn your focus back to the kingsguard, ready to take your oath.

You follow the kingsguard’s prompts as he guides you through the ceremony, making sure to find Rhaenyra’s eyes as you officially swear fealty to her. At which point, she moves forward, presenting a deep red cloak from her lap to the kingsguard who moves behind you to drape it over your shoulders.

“Arise, y/n, sworn Dragon Rider of House Targaryen.”

[sister-dear]

2021 Writing Wrapup!

This year I wrote 147,712 words and 20 stories.

My total Ao3 wordcount more than doubled this year! With chapter stories accounted for, that's 39 posts, an average of a story update every 9 - 10 days. Which means I exceeded my goal of posting every two weeks!

Thank you to everyone who read, left kudos, reblogged, commented, beta’d, rec’d, acted as a sounding board, chatted in discord servers, or otherwise provided the encouragement to keep writing. You all are what makes this fandom so fun to create for. <3

Gonna combine this with the Writer Year in Review Meme suggested by @wutheringmights and include a little excerpt from one of each month's stories.

January

They all look worried. Serious. Not quite meeting his eyes. Sky thinks they’re afraid for more than his health. No, actually, he’s sure of it. They’re waiting for some kind of negative reaction.

So Sky gives them his gentlest smile, and summons the strength for a full sentence, searching for something that will ease the tension. What makes it past his lips is, “The name Four makes so much sense now.”

-Handle With Care (This year’s most popular oneshot!)

February

Vio nods. Blue points an accusatory finger at his brother. “You’re manipulating me and it won’t work.”

-Keep From Cold

March

Hyrule sighs. It’s full of understanding. Legend wishes he could say the same of himself. Light pressure returns to the back of his head. “Legend?” Legend shakes his head as best he can without removing his face from the safety of Hyrule’s hip. All his biting words dry up, wither and die in his throat.

-This Will Be My Monument

April

Legend crouches by Sky to pass him a potion, stiff and moving like a man three times his age. Sky frowns at it. “Is there enough?” He knows as well as Legend does that potions are like gold when they have no idea how long they’ll be down here or what they’ll encounter.

Legend makes an exasperated noise. “Sky. You can’t walk. I’m not carrying you through this dungeon.”

-My Heart’s Forsaken Me, chapter 3 (Most popular story of the year!)

May

Four is slow to look up at him, distant and guarded.

“Unless you have any objections, I would very much like to hug you.” Four blinks at him. Dips his chin in the tiniest of nods.

Time picks him right up off his feet. His armor is in their room, so there are no harsh lines of hard metal between them, only Four’s ribs under his hands and his head tucked in next to Time’s. Four hugs back, his arms hooked around Time’s neck, one hand curled around the back of Time’s head, just as fierce. “You already had my respect.” Time says the words low, his head near Four’s, just for him to hear. “But it’s doubly true now.”

-My Heart’s Forsaken Me, chapter 6

June

His smile is twisted, a little bitter. Not an expression Wild is used to seeing on Hyrule’s face. “It’s not like I’ve got much else to offer. Just a cave. Who wants to live in a cave?” The words are sharp little things for all that they’re quiet. Prickling, drawing little drops of blood out from Hyrule’s heart and putting them on display for Wild to see. They should be out of place in this kitchen full of welcome and warmth, but they’re not. They fall into place like the knives in the block, encouraging Wild to respond in kind.

-I Got You, Chapter 2

July

There’s a trick to knocking back a potion. Straight to the back of the tongue to minimize the taste, swallow as quickly as possible. Hyrule has plenty of practice at it by now. That doesn’t mean the bitterness disappears as it’s going down. Hyrule lifts his head, wiping at his mouth with a grimace, only to find Zelda doing the same.

“Oh, that’s foul,” Zelda breathes.

“This,” Hyrule raises the empty bottle in one hand, pointing at it with the other, “is disgusting.”

-Tea for Three

August

He leans forward, hands clasped in his lap, searching Sky’s face with intent. “How do we heal it?”

A sinking sensation adds to the disquiet in his middle.

“You don’t.” Sky tries to say it gently. Hyrule frowns. Sky thinks he sees a flicker of panic behind the focus.

-I have no fear of drowning; it's the breathing that's taking all this work

September

“What is that?” Fascination coats Sky’s voice. It doesn’t take much to get that one’s attention. Legend figures he’s safe to ignore it.

“Does it have fur?” Four sounds horrified. Slightly more worrying.

Then, a noise at his back Legend’s only ever heard in a dream.

-Meet the Family, chapter 4

October

Four freezes. Shock and disgruntlement war for space on his stunned face. The whites of his eyes show all around the edges of his irises, eyebrows a pair of arching curves, mouth all knotted up on itself like he just ate something nasty. His elbows lift away from his sides as if that’ll somehow help alleviate the feeling of wet clothes sticking uncomfortably to skin. Water drips off everything: the tips of his dangling fingers, his hair, his nose. He looks like nothing so much as a wet cat that someone’s picked up under the armpits in an attempt to keep it from scratching.

Wind’s cheeks ache with how his wide grin threatens to split his face. “Got you!”

-Ruckus and Rapport

November

Legend turns back to Twilight. “What,” he says, in a voice that doesn’t sound like his. It’s far too small.

His teeth are chattering.

Twilight squeezes his wrists and lets go, steps around Legend to dig through the chest at the foot of the berth. He comes back up with a thin blanket bundled in his arms and sympathy painted across his face.

“Don't,” Legend says.

-Nothing You Keep

December

Time looks him over. He’s gone very quiet. Hyrule finds himself reaching out to say hello in the fairy way before remembering that Time won’t hear him. A dozen different verbal apologies and greetings play through his head, none of them quite right.

Please Don’t Come For Me, chapter 5

[breath-of-the-hobbies]

BOTW2 - A Return to Darkness

(I’ve never written fan-fic before in my life, but all of these new BOTW theories and art inspired me to write this idea out. Special shout-out to @autumn-sweet-fae for the idea about Link’s ability reset! [x])

The series of caverns beneath Hyrule Castle seemed to be a source of boundless interest and excitement for Zelda, who stopped to document every carving and luminescent gem with the Sheikah slate no matter how small or difficult to reach. Link felt the absence of Revali’s Gale acutely whenever Zelda lamented being unable see the carvings far above their heads, but Revali and all of the other Champions had long since moved on, taking their gifts with them.

The two Hylians, displaced in time, had initially begun exploring the newly uncovered cave system as a way to escape the realities involved in rebuilding a kingdom. Soon enough, though, it became obvious that there were important secrets tucked away beneath the ground, perhaps even older than the Sheikah. Zelda hoped that uncovering these secrets could help in the rebuilding process, and so their short, escapist trips had turned into full-fledged expeditions.

They had recently discovered a steeply descending path near an entrance by the Great Plateau. Although Zelda continued to record her findings as diligently as always, they both felt a strange sense of disquiet as they descended into the darkness. Though they had been seeking answers to their questions for months, this was the first time they were afraid of the response.

When they discovered Ganon’s mummified corpse, things began happening very quickly.

Perhaps it was the presence of all three people of legend in one space that activated the chain of events. Within moments of the Hylians stepping into the final cavern, the earth began to shake and malice oozed from the floor. A glowing turquoise light leapt like lightning from Ganon’s form to Link’s arm, which he had instinctively extended to shield Zelda as stalactites and whole chunks of the ceiling rained down around them.

The shock of the light touching his skin—no, entering his skin—was nothing compared to the acidic burning of malice as the slime piled up on itself and swarmed the glowing arm, as though with a single-minded purpose.

Zelda screamed his name over the thundering of stone, knuckles white on her sword grip. Neither of them had seen anything like this, and neither knew how to combat it. Link stepped backwards, tearing at the ooze and trying to keep it away from his princess, noticing how it seemed to be exclusively targeting him. Afterwards, he would remember that small step with piercing regret. If he had only been closer, if he could have moved a little faster…. The ground collapsed beneath Zelda’s feet. Link lunged forward, desperate, reaching—their fingers brushed, and then she was gone.

Link could barely process anything. The earthquake had stopped. Ganon’s corpse had disappeared into the yawning black mouth that now filled the cavern, the same mouth that had eaten the only person who mattered to him in this world. The malice had somehow shriveled and sunk into his arm along with the strange light, and now a black rot was crawling up towards his shoulder, rendering the whole limb dead. He was unable to handle a glider or climb down into the hungry darkness, and the gnawing, unnatural pain in his arm was enough to drive him to his knees.

Slowly, painfully, and with an involuntary cry of agonized frustration, he tightened a belt around his upper bicep in an attempt to stem the creep of malice and stumbled up the debris-filled path to the surface.

When he finally emerged into the calm summer evening, his horse startled and shied at his approach, registering the scent of his arm as a corrupted enemy. Nearly delirious with pain, fatigue, and fever, Link still managed to soothe it, leaning his face against its neck and pretending that it was sweat running into its fur. He could barely stand to look at Zelda’s beautiful horse, but forced himself to clumsily fasten its lead to his own horse’s saddle.

But where to go? His champion allies were gone. The castle was still largely abandoned, the guardians erratically active and monsters as yet un-eradicated. The closest source of help was days away, and the slate had been with Zelda, so there would be no teleporting.

Purah’s not going to be happy about this. He thought nonsensically, and set his horse’s nose towards Hateno Village.

***

He did his best to cling to the horse’s mane, but as the familiar village appeared in the distance, his sense of relief overpowered the adrenaline that had kept him going for the past several days. Slowly, gently, darkness clouded his vision and he slipped from his mount’s back, falling into the ditch on the far outskirts of Hateno Village. The horses, exhausted themselves, barely registered the change in weight and continued on to the place where they knew that apples and good hay could always be found.

The children of the village, who had frequently begged rides from Link and clung to him on past visits, immediately recognized that something was wrong when they spotted the tired creatures trudging up the cobbled street. They ran to the eccentric scientist up in her tower, and joined Symin, her chief researcher, in a frantic search of the area. The sun was beginning to set when they finally found the unconscious Link. Symin scooped the small hero up in his arms, a knot of fear in his stomach, and carried him to his lady.

***

Link opened his eyes to sunshine streaming through a window, birdsong, the warm scent of hay and machine oil. The agonizing, corrupted, wrong pain in his arm had faded, but in its place was a weak and draining numbness. Remembering Zelda’s fall, he sat up with a gasp, and immediately crumpled, spots swimming in his eyes, heartbeat rushing in his ears. As he panted, head between his drawn-up knees, he heard soft steps as someone came up the ladder to this bedroom.

“I would have thought you’d slept long enough the last time, Linky.” Said Purah dryly, but not unkindly. “You’re really pushing my skills here. I had to research tech that hasn’t been used since the Zonai disappeared.” Link slowly lifted his head to look down at his arm. The rot was still there, shriveled black skin stretched over tendon and bone. Two things were different: there were engraved metal bands that clasped his arm from wrist to bicep, softly buzzing with energy, and there was a Sheikah emblem tattooed on the back of his blackened hand.

Purah remained uncharacteristically quiet, letting Link take in the changes, before starting up again to enthuse about the tech. “I’m going to keep optimizing it, of course. It’s wildly inefficient at the moment but I needed to get something on you or you’d lose the arm. Currently the runes are drawing directly from your energy just to stop the procession of the corruption, but I plan to improve that. As such I think it’s going to take you a while to get your strength back. I saw you lost your slate—“ her voice hardened in sudden anger “—but until you get it back I’ve got plans to add some capabilities to this tech in the meantime.”

Link finally found his voice. “Zelda.” he croaked, his defeated, exhausted gaze rising to meet Purah’s.

Her face softened. “We were worried why she wasn’t with you, why you were in that state. We sent some people to the tunnels, but they haven’t returned.”

The half-hoping, half-pleading look in Link’s eyes disappeared immediately, replaced with stubborn determination as he placed his feet on the floor and rose, legs visibly shaking.

Purah sighed, as though she had expected this. “You’re in no shape to go after her now. Zelda has held her own in this world for longer than you have, and she can handle herself. You, on the other hand, need to build your strength back up or you’ll be knocked over by the first bokoblin you meet. Or the first gust of wind.”

Link ignored her, taking slow and unsteady steps towards the ladder. “Link, your clothes!” She yelled after him in exasperation just as he missed the second rung and disappeared from view. A loud thud and a startled exclamation from Symin rose back up through the hole in the floor. “Hylia, why me?” She asked the air.

***

Link glared at the straw monster in front of him, sweat running into his eyes. It took all his effort to raise the stick in his right arm, the numbness of the limb and unfamiliar weight of the tech making every movement sluggish. He had been hacking at the doll for hours and yet it looked fresher than he did.

Symin watched from the window, sipping a cup of tea. “Should we stop him?” He asked. It was several weeks now since the scrawny hero had picked himself up off the floor and legged it out the door, only to collapse less than halfway down the hill. Since then, he had spent every waking moment making his best attempt at training.

Purah didn’t glance up from her book. “The man just lost everything he cares about for a second time. In many ways he’s worse off than he was when he woke from the century’s sleep. At least that time he had his strength, if not his memory. Let him work things out his own way.” Unspoken between them was the knowledge of reports from central Hyrule that the castle was once again filled with malice and making the ground tremble day and night. Link had not told them the details of his encounter, nor indeed spoken hardly at all, but his grim determination said more than enough.

Only a few days later, the morning after Purah had successfully implanted the first upgrade into Link’s arm, Symin slammed open the door to her tower study, panic and worry twisting his face. “He’s gone! Link’s gone!”

Purah turned to gaze out her window. She didn’t look surprised, but her normally boisterous personality was briefly extinguished. She shook herself and turned back to her notes with renewed vigor. “He’ll be back. Let’s be ready for him.”

Chapter 2

[cksmart-world]

The completely unnecessary news analysis

by Christopher Smart

March 16, 2021

UTAH QUIZ FOR SMARTISH PEOPLE

Ready for some fun? The Salt Lake Tribune recently published a readers quiz called “Think You Know Utah?” asking questions, such as: Why did Mark Hofmann ruin reporter Peggy Stack's first day at The Tribune; and “What does A.G. Sean Reyes do under his desk every morning? Well, it got the staff here at Smart Bomb to thinking, maybe we, too, should have a quiz. We'll call it, “Do You Get Zion?”

1- Where did the Utah Democratic Party get those Klingon Cloaking Devices?

2- Why did Burgess Owens bet his Covid Relief $$ that Nancy Pelosi is a lesbian?

3- Which donut shop in Provo is best to spot two polygamist at the same time?

4- What combinations of drugs does Gov. Spencer Cox take to remain so blissful?

5- Why did Lawmakers' prayers to save The Hill Cummorah Pageant go unanswered?

6- What happens to LGBTQ students at BYU keggers?

7- Who warned LDS Pres. Russel M. Nelson to never say,“Salamander?”

8- Why do some Democrats object to renaming Dixie State as Cotton Pickers U?

The answers will be posted on the door of the Utah Democratic Party if we ever find the place. Hey Democrats, turn off those damn Klingon Cloaking Devices.

WRITTEN IN HELL BY THE DEVIL HIMSELF

Show us a good loser and we'll show you a loser. Damn straight and Republicans know what they have to do since losing the White House and the Senate — make voting more difficult, er uh, that is, “restore public confidence in our elections.” In recent weeks, Red State legislatures have put forth over 200 bills to restore confidence for Trumpish voters, including Arizona, Florida, Texas, Pennsylvania, Michigan and Wisconsin. Of course, Georgia led the way by making it illegal for black people to vote. “We'll cut Stacey Abrams off at the knees,” said GOP operative, Lauren Witzke. So what do those damn FDR Democrats do in response — they invent HR1 and have the audacity to call it the “For The People Act of 2021,” because it would expand voter registration, implement fair redistricting and restore The Voting Rights Act. Well, Utah's designated spokesman for righteous indignation, Mike Lee, wasn't having any of it. “This is a bill as if written in hell by the devil himself.” You tell 'em Mike. “It's an effort to ensure an institutional, revolutionary Democratic Party of sorts,” he whined, “one that can remain in power for many decades to come." Those bastards. Let's all meet in D.C., attack the Capitol and take our country back from black people.

THE RUSH TO REPLACE RUSH

As Republicans begin fund-raising for a Rush Limbaugh Memorial in Washington, D.C., no one has yet to embrace the Elephant in the room: Who will replace the greatest human being to ever prevaricate into a microphone? Like him or hate him, Rush was a giant who defined Republican core values for decades. In fact, some ultra-conservatives are thinking about something like Mount Rushmore with Rush and Newt Gingrich carved on a big rock cliff so that no one can ever forget how much red-blooded American white grievance they brought us. As Rush once said: “The NFL all too often looks like a game between the Bloods and the Crips without any weapons.” And this: "Feminism was established so as to allow unattractive women access to the mainstream of society." And this: "When a gay person turns his back on you, it is anything but an insult; it's an invitation." Yes, it will be a challenge to replace him — false prophets don't come along every day. But hopefully a new grand wizard will soon appear because there is little time to waste as hate-radio audiences are aging quickly — averaging over 65. Young, white people just aren't into hate as much as their parents and grandparents. What is this country coming to?

Post script — OK sports fans, that about does it for another week here at Smart Bomb, where we keep track of the GOP-QAnon merger, so you don't have to. Those convulsions you see are really that of a political party stretching in ghastly ways like a dividing amoeba pulling apart — or perhaps it's more akin to the female robot, Ava, in Ex-Machina, who eliminates her creator because, like Marjorie Taylor Greene, she wants to kill something. If you like melodrama with psychic violence, tune in as the Party of Trump slowly melts like the Wicked Witch of West after injecting disinfectant to kill Coronavirus. Say goodbye to the Grand Old Party's chorus of small government and balanced budgets. The Trump base of white grievance isn't going anywhere soon but might become disquieted when Uncle Joe's Covid Relief package gets the economy humming like Mitch McConnell's Mercedes — or if they ever realize  that cash donations to donaldjturmp.com are going to the Trump Organization's debt service and to keep the lights on at Mar-A-Lago. Of course, this news may come slowly to Utah and Red States dominated by strange weather patterns and websites that create twisters and rabbit holes. But remember, Rome didn't burn in a day.

Well shucks, Wilson, you and guys in the band have been awfully quiet. You're not all hungover by any chance. Of course not. Alright, but do you think you can pull it together and take us out with a little something for Mike Lee and his friend:

I lit out from Reno, I was trailed by twenty hounds Didn't get to sleep last night 'till the morning came around. Set out runnin' but I take my time A friend of the devil is a friend of mine If I get home before daylight, I just might get some sleep tonight. Ran into the devil, babe, he loaned me twenty bills I spent the night in Utah in a cave up in the hills. Set out runnin' but I take my time, a friend of the devil is a friend of mine, If I get home before daylight, I just might get some sleep tonight. Got two reasons why I cry away each lonely night, The first one's named Sweet Anne Marie, and she's my hearts delight. The second one is prison, babe, the sheriff's on my trail, And if he catches up with me, I'll spend my life in jail...

(Friend of the Devil — Grateful Dead)

PPS — During this difficult time for newspapers please make a donation to our very important local alternative news source, Salt Lake City Weekly, at PressBackers.com, a nonprofit dedicated to help fund local journalism. Thank you.

[theamishpirate]

Murder Masquerade: The Distant Dective

“Guests, assembled audience, attending spirits, disquieting host…” Summer Love sighed deeply. “And anybody listening, really. I don’t know how communication works here. For all I know, I could be throwing my thoughts into the void, never to be heard by anyone. A lone investigator, who could do nothing but sit and watch.”

“But.”

*WHAM!*

He dropped a thick evidence binder on the table before him, and flipped it open.

“On the off chance there’s someone out there: Let’s run down the murder, shall we?”

(Investigator’s note: -a skillfully transcribed sigh- “Some of you might be too busy to read a full briefing, so tl;dr: Mayia lacks a clear motive, a means of crushing the victim, and the time to clean herself off after a messy murder. Ariace Wingate and Angel Cakes are the more likely suspects. The feathers were a blind, or from Angel. Between the two of them, I suspect Ariace.”)

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“The victim was alone, somewhere in the kitchen or food pantry. Somebody tried to knife them from behind, but failed to kill them. The victim panicked, ran, and fell down the stairs. Maybe she made a one-in-a-million tumble, and fell with so much force that she cracked both floor and skull. Maybe the murderer panicked, and - looking for a way to quickly finish her off - slammed her skull into the ground. Maybe this was a two-pony job, and somebody was waiting in the storage room in case the victim bolted. Personally, I prefer the latter two, but it’s not important for what comes next.”

“Put yourself in the killer’s shoes: Your quiet assassination has failed. You killed the target, but in the loudest way possible. The other guests must be running to investigate. If you’re found here, you’re dead. You could escape out into the kitchen, through the tea room, the ballroom, then perhaps outside, but why would you? The other guests were en route. Somebody was already in the ballroom, singing and playing music. It’s a route that risks discovery at every turn. No, I think the killer ran through the food storage room, through the wine cellar, and escaped out into the garden via the cellar door.” Summer tapped the map knowingly.  “It’s a much stealthier exit. And obviously, they threw away the knife at the scene. There wasn’t enough time to clean it or hide it, and they couldn’t be found with it, so they left it there.”

“Now then.” He steepled his hooves. “We have a killer (and possibly an accomplice) emerging from the wine cellar into the garden. We must then ask the question: Where did they go from there? All guests were eventually accounted for. They must’ve gone somewhere, and then rejoined the others as the alarm went out. Looking at the map, there are only two possibilities:”

They entered by the ballroom.

They went into the garden, and re-joined the other guests later.

“This narrows down our suspect list to four. Peach Kisses, Mayia, Ariace Wingate, and Angel Cakes.” He produced a series of decorative figurines, designed in the likenesses of the given guests, and no, he didn’t know where he got them from, he wasn’t taking any more questions at this time, it wasn’t important, we need to focus, people. “Let’s narrow it down a little more. There’s some other parts of this case that are...suggestive.”

“First, the feathers. It’s hard to tell the color exactly, but there are two pegasi in the house with light-colored feathers: Mayia, and Angel.” He moved to push them forward, then stayed his hoof. “However. We can’t limit our suspect pool to these two. After all, Mayia’s been molting this whole time. If I were a killer, and I wanted to frame somebody, scattering a handful of discarded feathers over the crime scene would be a quick and easy way to do it. It doesn’t mean that it wasn’t one of them. Just that we have to consider the possibility of a frame job.”

“Second, the victim’s popularity. Romancedy was a kind, sweet, and trusting soul. She had friends in both groups of guests, some of whom she was quite close to.” Admittedly, a troubling number of those close friendships seemed to be rooted in alcohol. He had to wonder if her liver would’ve survived much more friendship. “While it doesn’t clear any of those ponies, you’d need a compelling motivation to kill a close friend, especially when everybody had at least one guest that they weren’t as attached to. Either the killer had a strong, personal motivation to kill her, or they weren’t very close with her to begin with.”

“Third, the blood. There’s a lot of it. While I don’t have definitive proof the killer personally bashed the victim’s head into the ground, it seems the most likely option. (It’d be quite the unique tumble for it to happen otherwise.) Look at how the blood splattered on the wall. Look at how much blood is on the scene. The killer would have had incredible luck to get away without getting blood on themselves. I think they would’ve needed a little time to get themselves cleaned up before they rejoined the other guests.”

Those were the facts, all laid out in neat and tidy rows. But to the trained eye? A web of truth, in which the killer was already ensared. They just didn’t know it yet. “Let’s think about our options in light of these facts. There are four ponies who could’ve done it, and they split evenly between the garden and the ballroom.”

“If we say the killer went into the ballroom, then the killer must be Mayia, and Peach must be covering for her. But look at how close they are to the kitchen. There was no opportunity to clean off any blood before the others found them. And look at how close Peach was with both Romancedy and Mayia. True, Mayia wasn’t close with Romancedy, but she knew how close Peach was with her. Why would she kill her good friend’s good friend?” His magic flipped through the binder, stopping on a list of profiles. “See here; ‘Intensely loyal; Will protect those she feels close to, to a fault.’ Mayia had no reason to think Romancedy was a threat to Peach. By all accounts, their relationship was...peachy.”

Really, Summer? Really. You’re better than that.

“Ahem. Lastly, look at those cracks in the floor. Are we to believe that a lightweight like Mayia could’ve caused those? There’s a mountain of difficulties in accusing her, and I don’t see how they all can be explained away.”

The little Mayia and Peach floated away. Leaving two others to wilt beneath his princely gaze.

“Now consider the garden. We have two pegasi there, one of whom has whiteish feathers, the other with enough...experience to think of planting false feathers. Neither of them were particularly close with the victim. They were seen there before the murder, but if they could escape by the cellar, then they could enter by it too. Perhaps most telling of all, these ponies didn’t rejoin the others until late evening. And did I forget to mention?” He gasped, covering his mouth with a dainty hoof. “There’s a fountain in the center of the hedge maze. The perfect place to wash off some blood, away from prying eyes.”

The two figures rose from the table, wavering up and down, as though weighed upon the scales of Fate.

“Angel Cakes, and Ariace Wingate. They had the opportunity. No great attachment to the victim. Both conveniently vouch for the other. One of them could have easily been waiting in the cellar to finish the job if the one with the knife failed. Compared to the difficulties of accusing Mayia, these two practically accuse themselves. And yet, we can only have one murderer.”

“So, my captive audience, riddle me this: Between the big, trained soldier, and the tiny, fluffy pegasus, which one was capable of caving in a skull, and which one missed a knife on an unsuspecting target?”

The scales settled.

Ariace hung low.

“I think you know what my answer would be.”

[ncfan-1]

The Mirror Pool

One day, Lúthien took Galadriel to a mirror pool. [Written for the April 1st general prompt, In the Mirror.]

[Also on AO3 | Dreamwidth | Pillowfort]

Honestly, Lúthien had not expected Ardis—Celeborn had taken to calling her ‘Galadriel,’ but Lúthien did not sense much in her in response to the name, asides from ambivalence, and thus, to Lúthien, she remained Ardis—to agree to her request to accompany her out into the depths of Region. Ardis had shown little interest in exploring the wide forests of Doriath. She was hardly bereft of natural curiosity—Lúthien didn’t think her mother had ever had so eager or so diligent a pupil—but that natural curiosity did not seem to extend to the natural world.

The offer had been made largely out of sympathy, though there was some desire for Ardis’s company interwoven with that sympathy. Winter had been a hard one, the snowdrifts deep and the skies absolutely choked with clouds, and Ardis had withered like an autumn flower that died with the first hard frost. Lúthien had known very few of the exiles, but Ardis’s brothers had had the same reaction, and when Lúthien attempted to divine the answer, she was met with jagged spires of ice, and walls behind that Lúthien could have broken through if she wished to, but did not care to shatter. There were lines that should not be crossed without permission, doors whose locks should not be picked. The lesson had been slow in the learning, but Lúthien remembered it.

Today was the first properly warm day of spring, and Lúthien had thought that Ardis, who had spent the entirety of winter immured in Menegroth, would appreciate the opportunity to come out of the depths of the caves into the sunlight and the fresh air. And perhaps Ardis would like to take a walk around the part of the forest closer to Menegroth later, but Lúthien had not expected this to be the offer that Ardis accepted.

Being wrong was always startling, but in this case, it was also welcome.

“That’s right, you never have been to this part of Region, have you?”

Ardis nodded, the heavy, deliberate nod that was so uniquely hers that it would have looked utterly unnatural on anyone else. “I cannot say that I have.” A frown flitted over her lips, translating into a faint jitter in her mind that Lúthien heard in a flurry of sharp whispers behind Ardis’s skin, before everything smoothed back out, thoughts and face both. “The path I travel from Finda—“ she frowned again, and the jittering disquiet in her mind persisted into her speech “—Finrod’s stronghold does not pass through this part of Region.”

The background noise that had flowed out of Ardis’s mind had been, Lúthien knew, completely involuntary, and she knew also that Ardis was not the sort of person who would appreciate Lúthien’s prying, no matter how well-intended it might have been. Lúthien did not think it a trait shared by all the Tatyar; Ardis’s older brother seemed frankly eager for someone to discuss things with, for all that he would lead a merry dance around the point of the subject at hand. There, the need for privacy and the need for comfort were locked in an eternal clash. In Ardis, Lúthien saw the battlefield where the former had prevailed over the former long ago.

“Excellent,” Lúthien said brightly, and constructed her face so that her smile was just as bright. “We can go slowly, if you wish. When experiencing this beauty for the first time, I wouldn’t want you to miss any of it.”

From Ardis, there came a movement of the shoulders that wasn’t quite a shrug. “As you like.”

Lúthien slowed her pace so that they walked shoulder to shoulder, trying to ignore the way the song of contentment in her breast had been replaced by a giddy cacophony. Someone who could not think clearly would make a poor guide, though she knew they had no set destination in mind, and that Ardis’s silence was of a kind that did not desire to be roused to speech. She just—sunlight poured through the gaps in the trees, dappled and golden and wonderfully warm, and Ardis’s hair glinted like veins of the gold and silver it was oft describe as—needed to keep her mind.

And the forest of Region was such a lovely place in spring that there was no need for Lúthien to give any commentary. The verdant green leaves on the holly trees shone like polished emeralds. Scattered among them were the other residents of the forest, beech and yew, elm and rowan, sprawling oaks and slender cherry trees. Some of these trees were crowned with delicate, fragrant flowers, nearly all with new, translucent leaves, and all were so gloriously awake that if Lúthien had sang to them, she would have half-expected them to sing back. The next time Lúthien encountered an Onod, she would have to ask them the ways her songs could reach the trees; she knew there were ways, she just didn’t know how to go about it.

The ground was soft and sun-kissed under Lúthien’s feet. The ground was blanketed with new, vivid, sweet-smelling shoots of grass, with flowers quivering in the gentle breeze coming up from the south. The snowy-white niphredil were long-loved, and would be in full bloom for the rest of spring. Hellebore shot up above the niphredil flowers nodding in the breeze, white petals dappled with wine-violet speckles. Clumps of yellow primroses and early, slender pink harebells dotted the forest floor in all directions. Lúthien saw smudges of violet and blue, but didn’t care to stretch her sight to determine just what they were. The air was filled with a sweet perfume, and the swifts had returned to the forest and were darting through the trees, chirping cheerily.

There really was nothing Lúthien could say that would be up to the task of adequately describing what she experienced. She knew that Ardis could not hear all the things that she could. She knew that Ardis, no matter how gifted she might be, could not hear all the undercurrents of song that thrummed so loudly in Lúthien’s veins. There had only ever been one person who could hear everything that Lúthien could hear. It was… That was stifling.

You would think that if there were those who were fully of the Eldar who could hear everything that I can hear, Ardis would be among them. Lúthien looked down at Ardis, who was beginning to survey her surroundings with more open interest than she was willing to evince before. She quickly looked away—Ardis seemed always to know when someone was looking at her, and Lúthien would rather not be caught—and the stifling feeling only grew.

Mother’s tutelage could introduce the students to mysteries that they would never otherwise have had access to, or even knowledge of. Perhaps with Ardis, who unlike the others had had access to and perhaps teaching from Mother’s kin in the Blessed Realm, would be able to bridge the gap. Lúthien would like that. The Iathrim looked at her and saw someone far beyond them, someone to be held in awe as much as loved. It would be a welcome change to be with someone who had something resembling the same perceptions as her.

“Were there forests such as this in the Blessed Realm?” Lúthien knew Ardis to not speak of the Blessed Realm especially easily. Once, she’d spoken of them very easily, but after the truth of the Exiles’ departure came to light, words had stopped flowing, slowing to a trickle so miniscule as to barely be noticeable. This would be a safe topic, surely. There was nothing to hearken back to the unrest that had soured the bliss of the Blessed Realm in a question about forests, surely.

Still, Ardis’s answer was slow in the coming. She halted, another small frown marring the statuesque perfection of her face. None of the jittery disquiet echoing in her mind this time, just a harder current to try and push information through.

“There are few places in Aman where the Ainur have poured as much of their power into a location as the queen has here,” Ardis said at last. “There was little need, in such a place as Aman. Little need for more beauty, and no need for more safety. In many regards, I would say that Doriath is unique. The closest we had in Aman to this were the gardens of Lórien.”

“What are they like?” Lúthien asked curiously. “Mother doesn’t speak of them often; she says there’s no point to it, when there is so much to occupy us here.”

A low, hoarse chuckle slipped from Ardis’s mouth. “A direct quote?”

Lúthien rolled her eyes and laughed. “Yes, that was a direct quote.”

Ardis pursed her lips, though the ghost of her chuckle glimmered still in her eyes. “The land had much the same resonance as the forests of Doriath. The power of the Ainur was very strong there, strong enough that even the untrained and the uninitiated could sense it. Indeed, the unprepared were likely to be overwhelmed. The flora was infused with the power of Irmo and Estë and the Maiar who attended them. The gardens were more alive than the surrounding lands.”

She did not elaborate on that, but she didn’t really need to. Lúthien had never left the eaves of Doriath, but she knew many who had. They had described the differences well enough that Lúthien could paint a picture in her own mind. She couldn’t imagine what it would have been like to live in a place untouched by her mother’s power. The thought was forlorn, but also oddly exciting.

“I wonder…”

Lúthien fell silent, frowning.

Ardis peered up into her face, her sharp green eyes trying to scour past the skin, though with a mind such as Lúthien’s, her chances of success were close to nil. “What is it?”

Lúthien waved her off. “It’s nothing.” It would likely be something, in a few minutes. Her eyes fell on a patch of reflected sky, and she strode towards it, beckoning for Ardis to follow. “Here is something that might interest you.”

The two knelt by a wide pool. It was perfectly round, with a smooth, stony lip and a diameter that was perhaps the same length as the length of Lúthien’s arm, from shoulder to fingertips.* The surface remained as smooth as polished obsidian, no matter how strong the wind was. It never dried up, no matter how little rain there had been, and it never overflowed, no matter how much rain there had been. The water was always cool enough to send prickles up Lúthien’s flesh, and there was an undertone of power to the still water that whispered to her spirit.

Ardis did not disappoint today; barely a moment after she had settled on her knees by the pool, she began to peer intently at it, her brow furrowed. “This is an interesting place,” she said quietly. She stretched out her hand towards the water, but withdrew it at the last moment, fingers curling in on her palms like withering flower petals curling up in the heat of summer.

“There are places like this in Doriath,” Lúthien murmured, nodding. “Mother’s magic had more effects than simply what she intended. People come here at times, when they need an answer to their troubles. The waters show the truth.”

At that, Ardis’s face froze, and though Lúthien was not entirely certain as to why, she could think of a few reasons. “The truth of what?”

Lúthien shrugged. “It tends to vary. What is certain is that that the water shows the truth, without fail, every time you look into it closely.” Her mind slipped back in on itself, and suddenly Lúthien was wincing, putting a hand on Ardis’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, I should have asked you. Would you rather not…”

But Ardis only shook her head. “I have nothing to fear from the truth. I would sooner know the truth than live my life in ignorance, no matter what the truth might entail.”

Which sounded like bluster to Lúthien’s ears, though it might have been delivered more steadily than Beleg’s insistences that he could go back on duty in spite of broken ribs or a sprained ankle. She was hardly going to bar Ardis from the pool. The truth was something everyone must face sooner or later, and if Ardis wished to drink a dose of it today, Lúthien was no one to stop her.

Lúthien took a breath before looking into the depths of the pool. She did not know exactly what other people’s experience with the pool was, for this was the first time she had ever come here in the company of another, and though she had heard stories, had divined some further details by accident from the minds of those who told those stories, it was not the same as having experienced it for herself.

She only ever saw one thing when she looked in this pool. The same thing, every time.

And sure enough, when Lúthien looked down, the longer she looked, the more the reflection rearranged itself into a familiar image.

Her appearance was mostly Eldarin. Lúthien knew from the tales that others had told that when she had been very young, this had not been the case. When she was very young, she had been less solid, and some of her parents’ early followers in the heart of Doriath had actually been quite wary of her, believing her a wraith or some other fell spirit. But as she grew older, she became more accustomed to the Eldar, and more proficient at taking on what could, for the most part, pass as an Eldarin form. For the most part.

Lúthien’s mostly Eldarin form stood head and shoulders taller than most of the women in Menegroth. Ardis herself came up to around Lúthien’s chin, and the only woman in all of Menegroth who was taller than Lúthien was her own mother. Her hair was… Well. The Eldar did not have hair that flowed like water or looked like smoke, did not have hair where tiny white flowers grew in spring and summer, and were replaced in autumn and winter by holly leaves and berries. The Amanyar could restrain the power in their voices more easily than could Lúthien. The eyes of the Lechind burned with dimmer fires.

There were things no amount of control or suppression or illusion could hide, and Lúthien knew how many of her people saw her. Love was mingled with awe. That emotion that promoted closeness was mingled with something that drove all closeness away. Even with many of those she called friends, that distance sat between them, squat and baleful, denying Lúthien what she craved.

The pool… The image she showed her was an image Lúthien had grown accustomed to, from many visits when she had hoped it would show something different, then many visits when she no longer hoped for such, and merely looked for more information.

The sky reflected was a pale, soaring azure. Never mind the time of day, never mind the weather, and never mind the fact that the pool was flanked by trees. The trees never appeared in the pool’s reflection, and even in storm, even in dead of night, the sky reflected in the pool was always that cloudless, unblemished azure.

Lúthien had seen her mother cast off her disguise of flesh just once; she did not see that image reflected in the pool. Nor did she see the body of a normal Elda, untouched by the blood of the Ainur. What the water showed Lúthien instead was Ardis’s reflection vanishing from her sight, and her own becoming hazy. A pillar of white light that burned too brightly, crowned with rippling black smoke, something that was not her mother, and could not be taken for a normal Elda. The reflection could not convey sound, but still, Lúthien could feel the songs of power that poured from her reflection-self’s translucent skin in a torrent. She could smell the sharp, green smell of plants growing too rapidly, urged on by magic. She could smell the red, copper smell of dead flesh.

The water showed the truth, alright. Pity it didn’t come with a neat, concise, easy-to-understand explanation as to what it all meant.

Lúthien’s reflection-self wore just the same expression it had always worn when Lúthien visited the pool. The red smell could be strong enough that an Elda would have gagged, and the look on the apparition’s face would still be one of mild benevolence. That mild look was inevitably what drove Lúthien to look away from the pool, and today wasn’t any different. She rose to her feet, and went to sit leaning against the sturdy trunk of an elm tree carpeted with springy moss.

Ardis lasted nearly a minute longer, scanning the water with an expression of intense concentration and an undercurrent of something taut that Lúthien could likely have easily identified if she had stretched out her mind, but honestly? She didn’t care to. Finally Ardis asked, a few moments before tearing her gaze away from the still water, “What did you see?”

“Myself,” Lúthien said simply. “And you?”

Very softly, with an acrid aftertaste of bitterness, “Myself.”

Ardis remained sat by the pool, though she no longer looked into the water—indeed, the way she avoided staring into the depths seemed frankly pointed. What statement that was supposed to make, Lúthien had no idea. Her companion had a stillness to her that seemed always to elude her brothers, indeed eluded most of the Iathrim. That stillness settled over her like the return of winter all at once, and the only thing to differentiate her from a statue was the gentle rise and fall of her breast.

They sat like that, and the only sounds that came to Lúthien’s ears was the wind, the call of swifts, and the far-off, muffled voice of the Esgalduin. Quiet wasn’t stressful to Lúthien, wasn’t soothing—it was what it was, and quiet, by itself, inspired in Lúthien absolutely nothing at all. Her curiosity had added a taut tune to the silence, and eventually, the tune grew so sharp that silence must be broken.

“Ardis…” Lúthien combed a hand through the thick smoke of her hair, coming away with a few scattered flower petals. “…I want to know… Why did you agree to come out here with me?”

Green eyes dragged themselves to her face. “What do you mean?”

“I… did not expect you to agree, actually. I would have thought you would have other things you wished to do.”

She was happy, of course. Just a little lost, as far as clarity went.

One fine eyebrow arched quizzically. “And I suppose I cannot simply have wished for the pleasure of your company?”

“It’s certainly possible, but if you have any other reason…”

Ardis paused to consider it. The sunlight made her hair shine; metallic thread in the hems of her robes glinted bright and hard. “I do enjoy the chance to leave Menegroth, at times.” She looked away, her mouth grown hard. “Much the same as in Aman, I like my solitude.”

“You’re not alone, though,” Lúthien pointed out, voice soft. “I’m here with you.”

Another long pause. If Lúthien concentrated, she could hear the faintest strains of Anor’s energetic, almost frenzied melody. Then, there came a roll of Ardis’s shoulders in a shrug. “It’s…” Her mouth twitched, ever so slightly. “It is no burden to me. I feel no expectations upon me, when I am with you.”

Lúthien’s mind burst into undiluted light. “Likewise.”

-----------------

* My Lúthien is 6’10”, for reference.

Amanyar—‘Those of Aman’ (Quenya) (singular: Amanya—probably) (adjectival form: Amanyarin); those Elves who made the journey to Aman, or were born there. Anor—the Sindarin name for the Sun Eldar—‘People of the Stars’ (Quenya); a name first given to the Elves by Oromë when he found them by Cuiviénen, but later came to refer only to those who answered the summons to Aman and set out on the March, with those who chose to remain by Cuiviénen coming to be known as the Avari; the Eldar were composed of these groups: the Vanyar, Ñoldor (those among them who chose to go to Aman), and the Teleri (including their divisions: the Lindar, Falmari, Sindar and Nandor). Esgalduin—literally ‘River under shade’ (Sindarin); a tributary of the River Sirion, which originated in the Shadowy Spring in Ered Gorgoroth and flowed southward to empty into the Sirion; marked the borders between the Forests of Region and Neldoreth. Iathrim—the Sindar of Doriath Lechind—'Flame-eyed'; a name given to the Ñoldor by the Sindar, referring to the light of the Trees that shined in the eyes of those Ñoldor born in Aman during the Years of the Trees (singular: Lachend) (Sindarin) Niphredil—‘Little pallor’ (Sindarin); a white flower that bloomed first in Doriath when Lúthien was born. It also grew in Lothlórien, on Cerin Amroth. In appearance it was similar to a snowdrop. Onodrim—the Sindarin name given to the Ents (Sindarin) (singular: Onod) Tatyar—‘Seconds’, the second clan of the Elves of Cuiviénen, named for Tata and Tatië, the former of whom was the second Elf to awake (Singular: Tatya) (Adjectival form: Tatyarin). Their name in Aman, ‘Ñoldor’ (meaning ‘the Wise’), was given on account of this clan showing the earliest aptitude for intellectual and technical pursuits; it has a Primitive Quendian original in ‘ñgolodō’, from which is also derived the Sindarin ‘Golodh’, ‘Golodhrim.’

[lafeae]

Prompt: Hostage Video for @uglifish

Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh!

Characters: Kaiba Seto, Yami Yugi/Atem, Yugi Mutou

For: @badthingshappenbingo

Warnings: Torture, Blood

Read on AO3

“It really shouldn’t take Seto three days to respond,” Atem sighed.

Yugi frowned to his partner, and finished wiping down the glass display case. “He’s always busy. He told us he’d be hard to reach....just relax.”

A small, noncommittal whine escaped Atem.

It broke Yugi’s heart to see him upset. Atem been staring at his phone at his phone for the last two days or so, checking every message with renewed enthusiasm, only to be let down time and again. It was the same sort of upset that Yugi was trying to power through and ignore with reason and logic.

“I miss him too, but that doesn’t unpack inventory,” Yugi said.

Grumbling, Atem swung his legs off the chair and heaved up, stalking over to a tower of taped up delivery boxes. He sighed hard and heavy, as if the weight of the was world pressed against his shoulders.

Yugi rolled his eyes and handed Atem a box cutter. “It’s fine, Atem.”

“It’s not.”

“He does this all the time.”

“Not to me.”

Yugi swatted Atem’s arm. “You’re exaggerating. What did he say he’d do?”

Atem sucked in a breath before biting his lip and shaking his head.

“Atem...”

“Nothing. It’s nothing,” Atem said. Yugi pursed his lips and arranged the new board game as Atem handed it to him. They sizzled in silence for several minutes, until the box was empty, before Atem said, “Nothing bad. Or...inclusive.”

“Uh-huh. But...?”

Atem’s cheeks darkened in blush. He tucked a lock of bang behind his ear. “...but I...I can’t talk about it.”

“Atem.”

“No!” Atem hissed. He sheared another box open and began to empty card packs from it. Yugi could tell he was jittery just by the way he was throwing the packs his way. “Just trust me, alright? It’s not bad. It’s for Valentine’s Day. And that’s all I’m telling you.”

“You guys planned Valentine’s without me!”

“No!” Atem shouted, though he was immediately taken aback by Yugi’s pouting and his chin hitting his chest. “We...we planned it for you. NOW I’m not telling you anything else. You won’t get another word out of me.”

But with an innocent glint from Yugi’s purple eyes, and Atem’s sudden interest in the wallpaper, Yugi knew that yes, if he pressed just hard enough, Atem would cave. And Yugi knew it would work. It took the right words and the right actions, such as sidling up beside Atem and leaning his head on the taller man’s shoulder before wrapping his arms around Atem’s waist. It was ignored for two nanoseconds before Atem’s arm set on Yugi’s lower back and pushed them hip to hip to rock them back and forth in a makeshift dance. Unpacking the box wasn’t happening, even if Atem tried.

It was moments like these that Atem wished would last forever. The feeling of Yugi pressed against him, swaying in sync to the inaudible music shared between then and only them. A song about love, probably, with a quick tempo.

Atem twirled Yugi out. Were Seto with them, he would catch Yugi and take over the dance, moving them into a waltz. Not that Yugi ever remembered how to do it, but Seto seemed content to show him every time.

It was all about the touch. The rhythm. The balance.

Yugi never thought he’d crawl into a bed where his hands touched one person while his feet touched another, but it was disquieting when one body was missing. He’d become surrounded by lovers, but more importantly, friends, and it was always worrisome when one was gone. The balance was off.

The song in their heads stopped. The pair looked at one another and smiled, before Yugi chuckled. “C’mon, we still got to unpack all this.”

“But it’s Valentine’s.”

“Mmhm. And we have to work.”

“That shouldn’t be allowed,” Atem protested, though he passed over more card packs. “Why have it be a holiday and not give people the day off? There’s so much more we could be doing right now. Might as well shut down the shop and do it.”

Yugi snickered as he imagined them turning the sign to closed, clicking the lock, and scurrying upstairs, hand-in-hand. He shook the thought away. “If we leave Kaiba out, he’ll be annoyed.”

“Mm. But he’s fun annoyed.”

“True.”

“Could send him some pictures,” Atem suggested. A few more booster packs were handed over as Yugi considered it.

“Like...what kind of pictures?” Yugi asked. Atem hummed dreamily and looked to the ceiling. “We can’t do those kind of photos here! Stop being naughty.”

“I didn’t go there...!”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was?” Atem asked, innocent. “Stop reading my mind! What am I thinking now?”

“That anything is better than unpacking boxes. C’mon,” Yugi shoved another box Atem’s way, topping it off with a kiss on the nose. “Help me and we can figure out some fun stuff for later. Maybe he’ll send us something back.”

And Yugi saw Atem melt. Strong Atem, headstrong Atem, defiant Atem...melting over little kisses, or hand-holding, or dancing. Though he knew that as soon as a customer walked in he would hold his head high and put on a face of congeniality and poise.

“Y-yes, of course. He will,” Atem said, completely positive.

In the moment, Atem’s phone chimed. He eagerly fished it out of his pocket and opened up the text message, his smile ear to ear.

“What is it?” Yugi asked.

“He must’ve heard us talking. He sent us a video. Look.”

Atem laid his phone down and showed the message:

Seto <3

Open immediately

Beneath it was a blurry video file that quickly downloaded. In the single frame was Seto’s shoulder, his locket dancing forward.

The pair glanced at each other and back to the phone again. The room was scanned, no customers in sight or even coming near the store. Without hesitation, Atem tapped the screen.

“This is the gift, I bet,” Atem said. “If he does it right, that is.”

Yugi didn’t know why, but his heart was throbbing. Something about the video seemed strange. The lighting, the angle, the pose. Maybe he was paranoid, or a little shy to the idea of what they might see from their boyfriend on Valentine’s Day.

The camera was shaky, lifting up and giving them a better view of Seto’s collarbones, his chin, his face.

Atem softly purred and laid his cheek in his hand. Yugi chuckled nervously, but leaned in closer to get a better look at the details of the ‘gift’ mentally hoping to see Seto take his shirt off just so he could mentally run his fingers over the taut muscles.

Seto’s face came into view, and all sense left Yugi. His hand clapped over his mouth, and “Oh, God...” slipped between his fingers.

Motley bruises bloomed up and down Seto’s jaw, and a large split in his lower lips left blood smeared and crusted around his lip. The further up the video went, the more the pair released that Seto was colourless, drenched in a sweat, and frantic to follow the camera as it traced up and over his head.

“Don’t you dare....” Seto muttered. A gloved hand smacked him across the face before caressing it.

“Shh! Not yet,” a hushed voice chided.

The camera deliberately and agonisingly backed away. bringing more details into view. Seto knelt on a twin-sized bed with off-pink sheets, a blanket haphazardly thrown across his thighs, though Yugi saw where his bare feet poked out of from the side, his toes violently squeezing closed

Slowly, the blanket was pulled back to reveal where Seto was completely naked from his waist down, thin legs shivering. As far as Yugi could tell, Seto’s arms were pinned behind his back. But what about his legs?

“Seto? What....?” Atem asked.

Yugi’s raw voice couldn’t muster a voice. His eyes heated up, threatening tears.

“I’m sure you’re curious what I’m doing with your boyfriend. Don’t worry....It’s nothing too traumatic. Yet. But he is quite a catch. I hope I....followed all the instructions on what he should do for the photo shoot. Though...I may have added some steps....”

Atem’s head ducked down.

Seto’s teeth clenched. “Shut up you absolute...!”

The hand grasped Seto’s chin, and the executive bucked around, leveraging his weight backwards to try and pull his captor into the frame. Instead, he was thrown against the wall with a loud ‘thud’.

“He’s not been very cooperate. Maybe I should chain him to the bed? What do you think...?” The voice teased. Seto’s teeth clenched, and he used his shoulders to push himself off the wall, scooting as forward as he could with his knees. “It would be fun. I could have so much fun with him—“

“You don’t want fun, you sick fuck. You want money.” Seto turned to the camera. “Don’t listen. Don’t engage. This is under control...!”

“He thinks so. Aren’t you so cute?” The hand ran down Seto’s face, and he lunged forward, chomping at the fingers. Again, he was thrown back. “He’s not wrong. I want money; makes the world go round, you know? And KaibaCorp. has some to spare. I think...oh, I don’t know, is 10 million rich enough for you? Are you worth that much, you filthy moneywhore?”

Seto grimaced, softly whining as he tried to prop himself up with his shoulder.

“Or maybe...20. Might as well, hm? I’m sure that shouldn’t be so hard. I could ask for a billion, it really wouldn’t matter, but I don’t want to be greedy. Because I do really, really want my hostage to have a little fun. I’ll make it worth his while.”

Tears streamed down Yugi’s face, and went he looked over to Atem, he wasn’t sure if was even paying attention. His crimson eyes were foggy and unfocused; his breaths short; his nails dug deep into his palms.

“If you want him to be....undefiled, I want...let’s do 30 million, hm?”

“Don’t listen—!” Seto shouted.

“It’ll be 40 if you keep talking.”

“Fuck you,” Seto threatened. “I eat idiots like you for breakfast.”

“He’s made it 40. I want 40 mil at 7 PM, tonight. Only you two—I hope you’re both watching—will drop it off. I will text you the location. If you bring anyone else with you...well...” A serrated knife came into view for half a second, the tip touching Seto’s chin.

Yugi buried his face into Atem’s shoulder and sobbed, but he couldn’t turn away. He focused only on Seto’s face. The resolve burning in his eyes. The fervour in his bruised cheeks. Seto was strong, he would be strong. And they would be strong for him. They would do this.

“Anymore words for them, Kaiba? I think I’m running you’re running out of time.”

The knife was nudged a little harder. Blood tricked down his chin.

Kaiba’s tongue licked his lips, and for a second, Yugi saw vulnerability flash in his eyes. He was weak. Scared. Full of trepidation.

“Don’t come, understand?” Seto began after regaining his composure. “Neither of you. Don’t play hero...I love you both, so don’t you fucking play hero. This is handled! This is—,”

The video cut off, ending with the ‘play’ button popping up over it. No more words, no laughter. No doubling up on the threats like the normal movie hostage video that Yugi had seen in thrillers. Just Kaiba begging them, pleading them to stay away.

A text came through.

Seto <3

Here’s the address: (link)

Kaiba says Happy Valentine’s Day. (heart)

See you at 7

Yugi and Atem stood in silence for several long minutes, both swallowing thickly and staring at the blurry video. Atem’s nail hovered over it, tempting to touch it again, before his fingers curled into his fist.

Yugi set a hand over Atem’s, stroking his knuckles. Neither has to speak to know that they weren’t going to be listening to Seto, no matter what he said. But it took them both

They just needed a plan first.

[patricia-von-arundel]

Frozen: A Dark Retelling - Chapter 24

Rating: T

Summary: The movie retold, a darker exploration of the characters, their motives, their psychological states, and their fates. Two sisters who were once the best of friends, kept apart by forces beyond their control: when secrets are revealed and death seems imminent, will their isolation eternally define them, or can they find one another again in the darkest depths of winter?

Elsa's second attempt at sleep was deep and hard and dreamless, eating away at the day around her. She woke to an unfamiliar, echoing noise like the deepest note of an organ, reverberating from the walls and shivering through her, as she lay disoriented and confused, still half asleep on her bed of ice and snow. She sat up slowly, blinking and stretching muscles stiff and sore after unaccustomed exertion. She hurt all over. Her head was pounding – she had to find food soon. Already, she had lost weight – hugging her knees to her chest, she could see how sharply defined the bones there had become, even though the opaque shell of her new dress. It was night – could she sneak down to one of the tiny villages scattered lower down in the mountains, find something while the inhabitants slept? But she didn't want to steal. How did people find food in the wild? She knew the basics, of course – hunting, fishing, foraging – but not the logistics of any of it. She heard another echoing boom from below, jerking her back to the realization that something was happening there. Her heart sped up; she hugged her knees more tightly. She had, only hours before, felt so secure, so bold; she had build a towering monument as testament. She had led them right to her. Men watching from the safety of Arendelle, staring up at the mountains as she had once done from her window. They had seen what she had done, sun reflecting off the smooth surface of her ice. And they did as was expected of men since time immemorial, facing with a monster: left the safety of secure walls, armed and atop swift, strong horses; like dogs, they would be baying for blood. Hers. She should have known they wouldn't wait. They would be afraid – as they should be – of this monstrous creature, one who could destroy them all; who almost, in fact, had done so. She curled more tightly, curving over herself. She was afraid, too. Whatever happened, she hoped it would be swift and as painless as possible, even if she did not deserve either. She had not felt enough. She had felt too much. It was so hard to think. She had slept all day, into the night, but her head still felt as though it was deep under water – pressure, pain, no clear perception. Again, she tried to remember how long it had been since she'd eaten, but she couldn't even figure out how long it had been since the coronation. "Elsa?" She jerked, her head coming up in startled, dismayed surprise. It couldn't possibly be her. "Elsa!" The voice behind the door. The voice echoing down the halls, stubborn and insistent. The voice screaming for her across the fjord. Anna – awful, irrepressible Anna. Elsa scrambled to her feet, backed into a corner of her little room, as if she might meld with the ice itself. Her heart begged her to go – but her head insisted that would be the most foolish thing she could possibly do. Anna. Of all the things she might have feared happening here, Anna showing up she had not even considered.

She wanted to see her. After the dream, that horrid dream, she just wanted to go her sister, tell her it would be fine, she would make a wonderful queen. And if she truly loved Prince Hans, then she should marry him – Elsa had no right to stand in the way. But talking to her felt risky; Elsa knew she was weak, likely to cave at any demands made of her, because she had always been weak. "Elsa?" The question had returned to her voice. Elsa took a step forward. Another. Her hands were clasped before her so tightly they ached. All those years... It would be all right, just for a moment; surely, it would be all right. Just to see Anna for a moment, and reassure her. Reassure herself that her dream was not coming true. Snow Queen. Elsa took another step forward. But it was hesitant. Her fingers slipped and twined against one another. What if Anna had come for her? She would have a retinue of guards with her, as Elsa remembered watching surround her mother and father on the few occasions they set out from the castle – dour, stiff-backed men who looked as if they could not smile if their very lives depended on it. The same men might now be with Anna, or perhaps their successors – trained to defend Arendelle's monarchy, whatever the cost. Elsa had buried her crown. But Anna wouldn't let them hurt her. Would she? Her voice came again, calling Elsa's name – with none of the dark undercurrent of the dream. She sounded almost as tentative as Elsa felt. Elsa took another step. Her body felt lost to her control, an automaton, cogs and springs carrying her onwards, drawing her to the voice from below; her mind might resist, but volition was lost. Anna – she needed to get to Anna. To see her. Explain. And send her away again. There could be no danger in one last glimpse. Could there?

The closer they got to Elsa's new palace, the more Anna felt her heart speeding up with nervous anticipation, the more her breath came short and fast from something besides the thin mountain air – and the more Kristoff hung back, clearly uncertain. He had seemed almost comfortable with her today, doing some talking, seeming a little less grumpy, if still not as friendly as she might have hoped a travel companion would be. She finally stopped halfway up the stairs leading to the palace and looked back at him. He was several steps below, staring upward at the imposing edifice Elsa had – apparently – constructed in the night. "Are you coming?" His eyes found hers, but he looked uncertain – almost afraid. She saw his chest rise on a deep breath. "Anna, I'm not so sure this is a good idea." "What?" They had made it all this way – she had made it all this way. Anna, the silly one, the one who never did quite as well, the one more likely to get a patronizing smile and praise for trying than to actually achieve anything – she had made it up here. Had found Elsa. Might even be able to bring her home. He couldn't want to take that away from her. He sighed, rubbed a hand across his face. "Look, I know you want to see her, but... what if she doesn't want to see you?" The hurt must have shown on her face – reflection of so many years of fearing exactly that: Elsa's rejection, her closed face and closed door. He continued quickly: "I don't mean that she'll never want to see you, just.. she might prefer a little time to herself." Anna looked towards the ice palace again – closed and cold and up among the clouds – and bit her lip. She couldn't stop thinking of the terror in Elsa's eyes, her desperate attempts to escape. And besides, as Kristoff himself had mentioned earlier, there was still the matter of all the snow. Elsa had to get rid of it, at least down in Arendelle – thaw the fjord and the city, allow people to come and go. She was surely more likely to do it if her own sister asked, especially if Anna could convince her there was no reason to be afraid. "I won't stay long," she said. "But I have to. I have to try to talk to her." Kristoff sighed again. "Anna, she could hurt somebody. Probably you. Let's find somewhere to make camp and-" But she cut him off. "You were the one who wanted to get here before dark. And she won't hurt me, she's never hurt anybody." "Anna, she-" But he stopped abruptly, closed his eyes, shook his head. "I'm just not sure this is a good idea." She repeated herself, the words still firm in her throat: "I have to." "And what if she does want to be left alone?" She shrugged, feigning nonchalance to hide having no answer, and turned away, starting back up the stairs, refusing to allow herself to doubt. Elsa was only meters away, and Anna had to get to her – not just for Arendelle's sake, but also to reassure herself that Elsa was all right, the panicked fear not now her permanent state of being. She wished she could also toss away her own burgeoning panic. The palace looming above her, everything it might represent, was as disquieting as it was beautiful. Shadowy in the dying light, it bristled like an icy guard, looking down on her with evident disapproval. Would she ever – ever – do whatever it was Elsa wanted? Would she ever even know what that might be? If Kristoff was right, if Elsa didn't want to see her, where did that leave her? Nevermind the kingdom, the prospect of ruling – where did it leave her? Who was Anna without Elsa? She thought of Hans, how she had practically begged him to help her escape, and felt suddenly, deeply ashamed of herself. How could she have considered leaving Elsa behind, scared and alone as she was? Anna couldn't even claim full ignorance of the truth; she had certainly known something had caused the castle to be locked up and kept that way. She had just been too scared, too selfish to give that something much thought. She had to see Elsa, to talk to her, no matter the outcome. To ask her to come home; even if she didn't want to be queen, that was okay, but Anna couldn't just leave her here, all alone and probably frightened. Maybe the palace was no more than a show – a cat puffing itself up to appear larger, more threatening, an attempt to hide how afraid and vulnerable it really was. And even if it wasn't, it didn't matter. Elsa was her sister. Elsa had once been her best friend. Anna needed to see her. She was at the top of the stairs. The door of the palace was in a direct line across a plateau of smooth snow – had Elsa left no footprints, or had it snowed here again? Maybe around Elsa, the storms of the night of her coronation had lasted longer – maybe inside, they were still ongoing. Anna had no way to even guess how long these things lasted for Elsa, once started, though clearly, the snow and ice did not melt merely because Elsa went elsewhere. Or would it, eventually? Anna didn't know that, either. She could hear the faint echoes of Kristoff's boots on the steps below her, resuming his climb. She didn't wait for him – she took a deep breath and set out for the palace. Her boots cracked the surface of the snow, leaving prints. The enormous doors looked down on her from ahead. They had no knobs, no handles of any sort. She had spent so long locked in, desperate for the doors to open. Desperate to greet the world once more. And oh, it was beautiful – it was frightening, overwhelming, strange. But still so very, very beautiful. Could Elsa see that? She had added such wondrous things to it. But she had closed the doors again. Anna walked across the snow. She put one mittened hand against the door; she could feel the cold through the thick wool. Kristoff caught up, but she hardly glanced at him. The door. She could not look away from the door. "I may... go in alone," she said. "Just in case. She can be a little... skittish." She expected a snide comeback, but Kristoff only said quietly, "I understand." She looked over at him, now – just for a moment, a flash of warmth – and smiled. "Thank you." He just nodded. She turned back to the door. Raised her hand. She knocked. The door swung open as if on a pendulum – so unexpectedly that Anna started, expecting nothing of the sort. It moved slowly but apparently effortlessly. There appeared to be no one behind it. "Maybe she does want to see you," Kristoff said – then, surprisingly gently: "Go on. I'll wait right here." Anna nodded. She could feel how fast her heart was beating, how shallow her breath came, but her comprehension felt sluggish and off-kilter. The inside of the palace was surprisingly well-lit, somehow capturing the last rays of the dying sun, shimmering in that cold light. She took a deep breath, and stepped over the threshold. It was as if she emerged into another world. Elsa's world. The air was thicker here, the calm absolute, an atmosphere of breathtaking solitude. The walls and ceiling were magnificent, faceted in glints and shining in a hundred shades of blue and white, above and below and all around, pulling at her eyes, playing with them. Even the floors were ice, though here it was perfect, seamless, a lake of smooth solidity. When she stepped onto it, she could feel the sudden weight, the density of it – and the same all around, surrounding her. The tap of her boot heel echoed. She shivered – and not from the cold. There was an air of menace here – as if the walls themselves were not sure they wanted to welcome her. But it was all beautiful, too, beautiful as she'd never realized ice could be. Everything here was as intricate as carved marble, as deft as a Renaissance sculpture, all abrupt edges and smooth curves. She wanted to touch them, run her hands over the walls, search for any tiny imperfection and hope there were none to be found. Some deep, timid part of her wanted this place as perfect as she'd once believed Elsa to be. There would be comfort there, she thought, though she did not know precisely why. Maybe it was simply evidence that Elsa might, in the end, still be all right. How could she create something so beautiful, so pristine and perfect, if she was not all right? Anna walked slowly towards the center of the enormous room, swiveling her head, trying to take it all in, awestruck. It reminded her of paintings she'd seen of cathedrals, grand and overwhelming in their splendor. She looked in wonder at the sweeping staircase; the enormous, multifaceted chandelier and the balcony below it; the frozen fountain, a perfect blue mimicry of the ones in the square back home in the city. The door behind her closed abruptly, loudly, and Anna started as she sound reverberated through the walls and shivered beneath her feet. She whirled towards it – just barely managing to keep her balance in the process – but there was no one there, just as there had been on one to open it. And there were still no handles – on a door that opened inwards. Kristoff might be able to push it from the other side, but she suspected it might not be that easy. She was trapped here, by - "Elsa?" She called her sister's name, feeling the fear that became her constant companion struggling to once more grab her full attention. "Elsa!" But though she continued to call, there was no response. She felt the beginning swells of irritation – because even after so many years, she had still allowed herself to believe Elsa would come when she called. The door had opened, though. Maybe it meant nothing. But no – she didn't believe that. Elsa had been cold and distant for a very long time, but never emotionally manipulative. She wouldn't do that – wouldn't allow the door to open if she didn't want Anna here. If Elsa didn't want the door to open, it wouldn't open. It never had. Anna walked tentatively, but she walked – Elsa was here somewhere. It was getting darker. She needed to find Elsa. She called her name again. And from somewhere above, hesitant and unsure, came the response: "Anna?" She looked up, startled – and there she was, at the top of that amazing staircase. She looked tired, but happy; she was smiling, eyes wide and soft. She was thinner, Anna noticed – that quickly. But that wasn't the greatest change in her sister: if the face had not been Elsa's, she would never have recognized her. Elsa's hair was loose, as Anna had rarely seen it since they were children; it fell in a long braid over her shoulder, twinkling with frost; her bangs were pushed back over her head in pale waves. And she was wearing a sheer, clinging blue dress, the same color as the walls – and, Anna realized with some disbelief, made of the same material, too. Elsa had encased herself in ice.

After the door slammed shut – making him jump – the mountaintop was silent. It felt ominous, though he knew that was ridiculous – there was nothing up this high, it should be quiet. Nonetheless, Kristoff could not entirely shake the feeling that something wasn't right. He went to the top of the stairs and looked down, but the only thing below was Sven, calmly awaiting their return. He squinted, but it was too dark to make out much beyond that. He sat at the top of the stairs, leaned on his knees and sighed. He was in good physical shape, and was nonetheless exhausted – he imagined Anna was about ready to drop, whether she would admit it or not. She was stubborn. And surprisingly resilient. He was impressed by her. A lot more than he'd imagined he would be. He wondered what was going on inside Queen Elsa's palace. At some point, if Anna didn't come out, he would go in – but it hadn't been long enough yet. He told himself to be patient. It was strange – patience was usually something that came very naturally to him. Maybe it was the stress of the last few days catching up with him. After he- He stood again, suddenly, leaning and peering into the gathering darkness. Something – some things – were coming up the mountain.

[kingmaker-thac0hno]

An Expected Journey: Part 7

The Journal of Evrin Brazenbrook

23-24 Neth, 4710

It has been nearly seven months since I last thought to pick up this journal to write an entry. Indeed, I nearly burned this book on several occasions in the past few months, as I wince every time I reread my insipid prose and reflect on who I was earlier this year. But yesterday, during the Festival of the Seven Veils that Saryn had carefully arranged, the opportunity presented itself to regale the townsfolk of Haven with tales of our apparent heroics, and I was urged to tell of a few choice encounters. I immediately ran to my home and grabbed this very journal, and proceeded to speak of some of the more exciting adventures, such as coming across a clearing full of rusty hunting traps or the cache of goods beneath a scorched tree, and I was encouraged by the signs of people clearly deep in thought about what I had to say. It made me realize that my words do indeed have value, and that I should resume documenting my adventures for the sake of others. Hence, this entry.

As I write, many townsfolk are hungover, though Armauk and I wisely abstained. I must admit that yesterday’s festival was a sight to behold. I normally care little for celebrations and performances, but Kimble in particular, with some help from Saryn, put some incredible craftsmanship on display in the form of memorable costumes. We also witnessed an awesome display by our friends, the Sootscale kobolds, highlighted by Chief Sootscale himself propped-up in a dragon-shaped litter. We also met a very curious fellow with the unlikely name of Stone Walker, who revealed that he was writing a book called How to Rule, and he came to us after receiving a very bad impression from Baron Drelev after documenting him for some time. Mr. Walker claims to have some skills in the magical arts, and we certainly welcome his company. Saryn in particular preened like a peacock at the gnome’s offer, and I fear that it will soon go to his head, if that has not happened already.

25 Neth, 4710

Today was simple, yet important. We returned to the Stag Lord’s fort to rid its grounds of the undead that have been rising from various mounds, as we hope to lay a greater claim to the area, and perhaps start populating it in the near future. I managed to round up all of the animated corpses, gathering them into a single location, and Armauk managed to reduce them all to dust with a few words. If only I had known it would be that easy earlier! But I am nonetheless impressed by the kindly half-orc’s skills, and trusted his judgment when he chose to destroy the shrine to Gyronna in the cellar of the fort. Tomorrow we plan to track down the talking wolf we had encountered many months ago, as Saryn tells us that worgs—that is apparently what these beasts are called—are cruel creatures who should be nowhere near our home.

26-27 Neth 4710

We slew the worg! In truth, it was not hard to find the beast, as it seemingly had no reason to try to hide its whereabouts. Bones were strewn around the entrance of a small cave, and Karis opted to turn himself invisible and sneak inside to take a look. While I was a few hundred feet away, I saw the most amazing sight: a now-visible Karis running from the cave, pursued by a pack of angry wolves! They caught him and mauled him quite badly before we were able to intervene. The worg itself proved no match for our collective might, and he was quickly dispatched in flames by our new comrade and documentarian, Stone Walker. While we had to kill a pair of wolves to prevent them from devouring the elf, we managed to scare the others off. Nothing more came of this encounter, and we opted to return to Haven today to mount the worg’s head on a pike in Havenhall. I personally care little for trophies such as these, but I was assured by the others that they can boost morale. Tomorrow, our plan is to take the canoes to start exploring some of the regions to the south. It has been awhile since any of us has been adventuring, and I daresay that a few of us are excited to have a temporary reprieve from our administrative tasks in Haven.

28-29 Neth, 4710

I have little time to write tonight, as I am exhausted from spending the better part of two days rowing in a canoe. We were fortunate to have the current with us into the Tuskwater, and after most of a day, we saw an island that Saryn had previously spotted overhead from Grimfeather’s back. It was too late for us to explore the island, but some among us claimed to have seen lights coming from the ruin itself, and others mentioned that they might have seen lights elsewhere. After getting some rest, we canoed over to the island in the morning, where Karis did a quick look around. He did not see anything of note, so we decided to press on to the other shore where lights were spotted. It was late, but after some quick recon, we discovered there was an encampment, or perhaps a reinforced village, of two dozen or so people—women and children included. We have decided to spend the night at a distance, lest they see us as a threat, arriving so late in the evening.

30 Neth, 4710

Today I felt some of the strongest emotion I have experienced since our siege of the Stag Lord fort back in Gozreh. This morning we awoke to the sight of six armed men inquiring about our purpose for being there. Saryn opted to be diplomatic, but as the men kept speaking, it became clearer and clearer to us that they were bandits formerly of the Stag Lord’s retinue. I was ready to cut down all of them as soon as it dawned on me that they themselves might have murdered Vekkel or Svetlana, or set flame to Oleg’s Trading Post, or any number of other atrocities besides. With great reluctance, I refrained from drawing against them outright, and the others of the party suggested that we simply leave the area and return to the island we had scouted yesterday. Make no mistake that I have nothing but derision toward these men, and were I a more vengeful person, I would make it a goal to ensure that no one else could be a victim to these brutes. But for now, I will try to put them largely out of mind. As it happens, the other event of the day makes that easier to do.

We rowed back to the island, and by midday we were out of the canoe and exploring. All of us felt a strong sense of unease, and while I am not accustomed to feeling fear, I cannot deny that there was an aura of foreboding while there. Armauk could not conceal his own fright, and noticeably lingered behind all of us. When we approached the ruin of the tower, Saryn and I immediately entered and soon found some skeletal remains wearing a strange suit of plate mail, with an unusual ring nearby. We had no time to examine further, however, as the others of our party were swiftly beset upon by shocking balls of light, perhaps the will-o’-the-wisps I was told about as a child. Once again Karis bore the brunt of the attack, and at this point I am starting to wonder if he is somehow cursed. After dispatching several of these wisps, we retrieved the armor and ring, and decided to return to Haven. We will disembark tomorrow, and while my heart yearns to continue our adventure, I cannot deny that returning to Haven now feels like returning home.

1-5 Kuthona, 4710

Our travel to Haven was long and arduous, as we had to fight the current for much of the way, and for all of Stone Walker’s other skills, he is truly abysmal at manning the oars…but we did eventually make it without incident. The gnome did manage to identify the provenance of the armor and the ring, and I find both to be disquieting, though perhaps in the right hands they will be of use. The armor in particular is of a very high quality, and will be a major upgrade to one of the guards. Revna seems to have excelled the most, and despite her youth, she has shown much promise. Speaking of youth, today is Armauk’s birthday, and all of us were shocked to learn that he is only seventeen. This explains a few things about him, like his fascination with horses and his tendency to smash things with his warhammer, though none can ever doubt his mettle or his devotion. I, for one, am certainly glad he is a comrade, as he would make a rather formidable foe.

[gerdavonrinnlingen]

15. “Why is it getting so cold?” D: (These are awesome btw!)

lux ex tenebris

„Are you sure that themap is accurate?” asked Vette and checked the orbital positioning data of theholo-map.

Quinn frowned and checkedhis map too. “Of course it is; we just have to traverse this cave,” he repliedafter a few seconds.

Vette swatted amosquito away and felt how sweat was running down her temple. She glanced atthe entrance of the cave: it was barely visible due to liana and the localfauna. It was pitch black inside but the longer she looked at the more she gotthe feeling that she could see something moving inside … perhaps the moist heatwas getting to her. The heat on Yavin 4 was almost as bad as on Rishi. But thelatter had at least beautiful beaches to cool off a bit.

Quinn opened thetopmost button of his uniform. His face was covered in a thin film of sweat.

Vette chuckled. “I sawthat! Isn’t that against regulation?”

“According to section32b, subsection 4 in the Imperial Code it’s allowed,” he deadpanned.

Vette sighed. “Youjust made that up, didn’t you?”

Quinn gave her one ofhis very rare smiles. “Maybe.” Then he got serious again. “If we want to meetup with Darth Nox on time we have to go through here.”

Vette pulled aflashlight droid from her bag and activated it. With a quiet hum it rose intothe air and hovered just above her head. Quinn had done the same and togetherthey stepped through the dense vegetation into the dark cave.

They walked for acouple of minutes, to her dismay Vette realised that the cave wasn’t any coolerthan the jungle – it was still muggy. At least the surroundings were interesting:

Surprisingly colourfulmushrooms grew on the moist walls, small blueish ginx jumped away as soon asthe lights reached them. Vette put her one hand on her blaster, adult ginx hadbeen known to attack. From the corner of her eye she saw that Quinn wasfollowing her example.

They ventured furtherin, occasionally brushing past tree roots hanging from the ceiling. The ginxcroaked, presumably warning their siblings that intruders were in their cave.

After a while Vette’slekkus began to twitch – someone was watching her. She turned on her heel andlooked back. She narrowed her eyes, but there was nothing. She could’ve sworn that-

“What’s the matter?”asked Quinn.

She shook her head. “Fora moment I thought there was someone behind us.” Vette took the canteen fromher belt and took a gulp of water. “Let’s move on.”

They marched on and Vette’sunease began to grow. Something was … off. Or was it only her imagination? No,someone – something was watching her. She was sure of it. She could feel a burninggaze on her back.

She slowed her stepand glanced hesitantly over her shoulder. Nothing. Beyond the small cone oflight generated by the flashlight droids there was nothing … No, not nothing. Shefelt lightheaded. There was only darkness … all compassing darkness … like a clammyblanket … pulling her down …

Suddenly she felt awarm hand on her shoulder and the strange feeling was gone. It felt like shehad woken up from a dream.

“Vette? Are youalright?” Quinn asked and squeezed her a little bit. He seemed paler thanusual.

Any other day shewould’ve cracked a joke but now she simply couldn’t. She sensed danger, but shedidn’t know why.

“Something isn’tright,” she replied. “This cave is feeling wrong.”

When he let go of hershoulder Vette fully expected Quinn to dismiss her comment.

“Do you hear that?” heasked instead.

Vette focussed, butall she could hear was dripping water somewhere in the distance and theirbreathing.

“The ginx have gonequiet.”

As soon as she heardQuinn mutter these words her heartbeat quickened.

“Let’s turn around,”said Vette, trying to control her now ragged breathing. “I really have a badfeeling about this.”

“We – we have totraverse this cave to meet up with Darth Nox,” retorted Quinn. “We just have tobe careful.”

Vette activated herwrist holo. It seemed that they were halfway through the cave. The exit seemedcloser than the entrance.

“Damn it!” hissedVette. “Alright … let’s head to the exit. Perhaps it would help if we talked?”

“Gladly,” repliedQuinn. He seemed very disquieted. “Someone is talking to me, whispers in thedark. I know that we’re alone. But I hear someone talking.”

A shiver ran downVette’s spine. So even Quinn was affected by this strange cave. She cleared herthroat. “Uh, what are the voices saying?”

He gulped. “They –they are echoing things I thought and said … a long time ago. I rather not talkabout it.”

“We have to get out ofhere,” she just said. “Let’s go.”

Vette focussed on thepath ahead and quickly marched on. After a while the feeling that something wasright behind her was growing … something was breathing in her neck … almosttouching her. The darkness was lowering itself on her, weighting her down.Vette’s steps slowed down and she had trouble breathing.

“So h-heavy … it makesme tired,” she stammered.

Suddenly she felt ahard grip on her hand. When she looked down she was somewhat surprised to seethat Quinn had grabbed her.

With trouble shelifted her sight. Quinn stared at her wide-eyed.

“Don’t leave me withthe voices,” his voice betrayed that he was on the verge of panic. But itwasn’t this very un-Quinn like behaviour that woke her up from her stupor; itwas the breath cloud that had formed when he had spoken.

“Do you feel that?It’s cold. Why is it getting so cold?” she sharply asked.

Quinn blinked a fewtimes. “It’s freezing, but – that’s impossible, the atmospheric conditions onYavin aren’t supporting a sudden shift in-“

“Shhh! There issomething ahead of us!” whispered Vette.

Something very brightwas ahead of them, for a moment Vette thought it was the exit, but it movedtowards them. Their flashlight droids began to blink and after a few secondsthey simple went off and fell on the ground.

Vette felt how herstrength left her again, she fell on her knees. Quinn let go of her hand and coveredhis ears and squeezed his eyes shut as if he were in pain.

The bright, harshlight drew closer and Vette recognized a human shape. It was a rotting corpsefloating a few centimetres above ground; a dark liquid was oozing from itsempty eye sockets, the fleshless mouth showed longish teeth. It’s right arm washanging by a treat at his shoulder; bones were sticking out. It stopped rightbefore Vette and Quinn. She desperately tried to draw her blaster, but her armsdidn’t obey her.

Vette felt somethingcool and slimy creep up her legs, soon it covered her back and her chest … itbecame difficult to breathe. Beside her Quinn began to scream somethingincoherent. She tried to reach for him, but again her arms wouldn’t obey. Shefelt so tired, so very tired … so cold and weary …

 Suddenly the weight onher was gone and she gasped for air. She fumbled in the dark until she finallytouched Quinn’s arm. She grabbed him so hard that he yelped in pain.

The flashlight droidsbegan to flicker and activated again, slowly rising into the air. Theapparition was gone, instead there stood a Sith in dark robes. Strangely enoughthere was a slowly fading glow around her.

“Darth Nox?” pantedVette and struggled to get on her feet.

“In the flesh,” she blithelyreplied.

Quinn got up, visiblyflustered. “My lord, I apologize for our delay.”

Nox crossed her arms. “Mymy my, the Wrath runs a tight ship. You were almost sucked dry by a Force ghostand you apologize for your tardiness?”

“Force ghost?” askedQuinn baffled.

“What do you mean –sucked dry?” added Vette.

The Sith laughed alittle too loud. “Oh, you know – the usual stuff. Some Sith desperately hold onto the Force even after death. They haunt places strong in the Force and preyupon living beings – or rather the Force that flows through them.”

“It sounds like you’veencountered one of them before,” said Vette. Her heartbeat was still far fromnormal, alone the memory of the rotting corpse made her shiver despite the nowreturned heat.

Nox craned her neck alittle and she blinked. She smiled, but it was a cold smile that didn’t reachher eyes. “One could say I collect them.”

Quinn gulped andbowed. “Then we are in our debt, my lord.”

“Not at all, Captain,”she laughed again, but to Vette is sounded hollow and artificial.

Nox turned around andmarched on. They followed her, Vette registered that Quinn walked so close toher that he sometimes bumped into her. She didn’t mind his closeness, not atall. There was still a lump in her stomach.

[risalei-nur]

TAFSIR: Risale-i Nur: The Rays Collection:The Fourteenth Ray.Part66

In His Name, be He glorified! 

Today, due to a spiritual warning, I felt a disquiet, a grief, on account of you. Just when I was feeling upset at those of my brothers who being anxious about their livelihoods want to be released quickly, a blessed memory occasioned a truth and some good tidings to be imparted to me: the ‘Three Months’ will begin in five days time, which are truly blessed and are the months of highly meritorious worship. For if the reward yielded by good works at other times are tenfold, in the month of Rajab they are more than a hundredfold, in Sha‘ban they exceed three hundredfold, and in Ramadan they reach a thousandfold, while on Fridays in Ramadan they reach thousands and on the Night of Power may reach thirty thousand. It is certainly highly profitable therefore, to spend those three months -which are thus a sacred market for the trade of the hereafter earning plentiful gains for it, and an exceptional exhibition for the people of reality and worship, and in three months may secure for the believers a life of eighty years- in this School of Joseph, which increases the profits tenfold. Whatever the hardships suffered, they are pure mercy. As with worship, so with the service of the Risale-i Nur; with respect not to quantity but quality, its profits are fivefold. For people are continuously entering this guest-house, then being released, and they are means of the Risale-i Nur’s lessons being disseminated. Sometimes one man’s sincerity yields the benefits of twenty men. It is of no importance if such a man suffers a little hardship and distress so that the mystery of the Risale-i Nur’s sincerity might spread among the unfortunate prisoners, who are inclined to be political heroes and are much in need of the Risale-i Nur’s solace. In regard to the problem of livelihood, since these three months are a market for the hereafter, I felt perfectly easy at it and understood that being here inside until the Bayram is a great bounty, for since all of you were sent to this prison in place of numerous other Risale-i Nur students, and some of you in place of a thousand, they will help out in your business outside.

S a i d N u r s i * * *

In His Name, be He glorified! 

My Dear, Loyal Brothers! 

Firstly: I offer you congratulations with all my heart and soul for the month of Rajab and the holy night of Ragha’ib tomorrow.

Secondly: Don’t give up hope, and don’t worry or be alarmed. God willing, Divine grace will come to our aid. The bomb that was being prepared these last three months exploded. The news given by my stove, Feyzi’s beaker, and Husrev’s two drinking-cups turned out to be true. But it was not terrible, it was slight. God willing, the fire will be extinguished completely. All their assaults are to discredit my person and taint the Risale-i Nur’s conquests. The blow the man more harmful than the covert dissembler in Emirdag and merely a pawn in the hands of secret atheists, and the ‘semi-hoja’ who favours the innovations, were trying to strike us as hard as they could was reduced twentyfold. God willing, they will cause us not even one wound, and what they think and intend and their plans to scare us away from each other and from the Risale-i Nur will come to nothing. It is absolutely essential that out of respect for these blessed months, trusting that they are gaining abundant reward for us, we steadfastly offer thanks in patience, and relying on God, submit to the rule ‘He who believes in Divine Determining is saved from unhappiness.’ 

S a i d N u r s I

To the Prime Minister’s Office, the Ministry of Justice,  and Ministry of Home Affairs

All members of the Government who saw the Proclamation of the Constitution, the First World War, the Armistice Period, the setting up of the Nationalist Government, and the Republic know me well. Nevertheless, with your permission, we shall take a look at my life as though on a film. 

I was born in the village of Nurs in the province of Bitlis. As a student, I debated with the scholars I encountered, and through Divine favour, defeating in scholarly debate all who opposed me, I came as far as Istanbul. In Istanbul, winning calamitous fame, a victim of my rivals’ trouble-making, I was dragged to the lunatic asylum on the orders of Sultan ‘Abdulhamid. On the Proclamation of the Constitution, I attracted the attention of the government of the Committee of Union and Progress with my activities during the Thirty-First of March Incident. I confronted them with the proposal to open an Islamic university in Van called the Medresetü’z-Zehra, resembling al-Azhar University. I even laid its foundations. On the outbreak of the First War, I gathered together my students and took part in the War as the Commander of a militia force. I fought on the Caucasian Front and was taken prisoner at Bitlis. I escaped from where I was being held and returned to Istanbul. I was appointed a member of the Darü’l-Hikmeti’l-Islâmiye. During the Armistice period, I worked against the occupying forces with all my might, and on the victory of the National Government, in appreciation I was summoned by it to Ankara, where I repeated my proposal to open the university in Van. 

The life I had lived up to then had been that of a patriot. I had wanted to serve religion by means of politics. But from then on, I turned my back on the world completely, and in my own words, buried the ‘Old Said’. As the ‘New Said’, devoting myself entirely to the hereafter, I withdrew from the world. Retiring from social life, I went into seclusion on the hill Yusha Tepesi in Istanbul. Later on I went to Bitlis and Van, in my native region, where I lived in a cave. I remained alone with the pleasures of my spirit and conscience. That is to say, taking as my principle “I seek refuge with God from the Devil and politics,” I plunged into the depths of my own spiritual world. Passing my time studying the Qur’an of Mighty Stature, I started to live as the ‘New Said.’ But the manifestations of Divine Determining sent me as an exile to other places. Then, getting those with me to write down the inspirations born in my heart from the effulgence of the Qur’an, a number of treatises came to be written. I gave them the name of the Risale-i Nur. This name was born in my conscience, for truly they were based on the light of the Qur’an. I believe absolutely certainly that this was Divine inspiration, and I said to those who were acting as scribes: “Barakallah!” For it is not possible to begrudge others the light of belief. 

Exchanging copies, these treatises of mine were written out by a number of believers. I formed the opinion that they were driven on by God in order to strengthen the injured belief of Muslims. I understood that just as no believer could obstruct this Divine prompting, so I considered it a religious obligation to encourage it. Anyway these treatises, which now number one hundred and thirty, consist entirely of discussions of the hereafter and belief, and contain no deliberate mention of politics or this world. Nevertheless, they became the object of interest of a number of opportunists. Investigations were carried out into them, and I was arrested and sent to the prisons of Eskishehir, Kastamonu, and Denizli. Trials were held. As a result, truth was manifested and justice was executed, but those opportunists never wearied of hounding us. This time they arrested me and sent me to Afyon. I am under arrest and am being interrogated. They accuse me as follows: 

1) You have founded a political society. 2) You publish ideas opposing the regime. 3) You harbour political aims. 

The evidence for these are ten or fifteen sentences in two or three of my treatises. Respected Minister! As Napoleon said:

“Bring me a straightforward sentence to which no second meaning can be attached, and I’ll have you executed for it!”

There is no sentence uttered by man which may not constitute an offence by having forced meanings attached to it. Especially the writings of someone like me who has reached seventy-five years of age, has withdrawn entirely from the life of this world, and has dedicated his life here to that of the hereafter - they will certainly be free. Being close to having a good intention, he will be fearless. It is unfair to study them simply in order to seek out offences in them. It is nothing other than unjust. Not one of any of my one hundred and thirty treatises comprises any purpose connected to the matters of this world. Proceeding from the light of the Qur’an, they are all to do with the hereafter and belief. In any event all the trials held up to now have come to the same conclusion and have resulted in acquittals. It is therefore a shame to busy the courts unnecessarily and take innocent believers away from their work and business in the name of the country and nation. While the Old Said spent all his life for the sake of the happiness of the country and nation, how could the New Said be preoccupied with politics when he is seventy-five years old and has completely withdrawn from the world? This is your opinion too. 

I have only one aim; it is this: at this time as I approach the grave, I hear the hooting of the Bolshevik owls in this country, which is a Muslim land. The sound is damaging the fundamentals of belief of the Islamic world. Making them lose their belief, it binds the people, and particularly the youth, to itself. Struggling against it with all my strength, I am calling the youth and all Muslims to believe. I am struggling against these unbelieving masses. I want to enter the Divine presence with this struggle of mine. This is all I do. As for those who prevent me from doing this, I am frightened that they are communists! For me it is a sacred aim to co-operate with the forces of religion who have embraced the struggle against these enemies of belief. Release me! Let me work to reform the youth, poisoned by communism, and for this country’s faith! Let me serve Divine unity! 

Prisoner  

S a i d N u r s i

[ulyssesredux]

Nestor

Stephen's hand, free again, bowing to his officers, leaned upon his spear. He tapped his savingsbox. —Who knows?

Waiting always for a moment. On the steps of the channel.

And snug in their whirlpools strange dolphins and sea-folk look up at the manuscript by his elbow and, patient, knew the dishonours of their fabulous wonder.

Vico road, Dalkey.

Who has not?

Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of primal Nodens, Lord of the sun never sets. Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms. A shout in the echoes of disquieting soliloquies in the dark moor, we could not find the third tower by the daughters of memory. A shout in the small-paned windows.

With her weak blood and wheysour milk she had fed him and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands. At length, being avid for new strange things and held back by neither the Kingsporter's fear nor the summer boarder's usual indolence, Olney crept around to the east were not open, but have never seen Kingsport again, having just remembered. Stephen asked. Allimportant question. —Tell me now, Stephen said, putting the sheets in his pocket. A thing out in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their benches, leaping them.

Do you know tomorrow. —Yes, sir.

Ay. And he said, which make us so unhappy. From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his officers, leaned upon his spear. So when I saw that the man who traveled out of the dreaded gray cottage.

A coughball of laughter and music.

Money is power. Can you? Stephen said. Then we split up into narrow columns, each of which seemed drawn in a pocket of his antediluvian cottage in the world of dream, and then bolder ones in the mummery of their fabulous wonder. Can you do them yourself? Cassandra.

When the last … I will tell you, old as I saw unwonted ripples tipped with yellow light of the world battling against blackness; against the wall was not more lasting merely, but they think a light may be gone from their grayness and sameness, I would fain have questioned him, and he was, none could tell, but no trail at all, Mr Deasy stared sternly for some moments over the shells heaped in the room of black oak wainscots and carved Tudor furnishings.

Their full slow eyes belied the words, the joust of life. A bridge is across a river. He said. The same room and to make him a part of their flesh. A lump in my pocket: symbols soiled by greed and misery. —As regards these, he said over his shoulder, the scallop of saint James. Excuse me, he said, which make us so unhappy. They have a letter here for the press. But can those have been inconceivable ages ago, when the occasion calls for it and put on his topboots to ride to Dublin.

Then the sparks played amazingly around the horizon, we beheld around us the hellish moon-glitter of evil snows. And that is one with the smell of drab abraded leather of its chairs. —End of Pyrrhus, a snail's bed. —This is for sovereigns.

But I will fight for the union twenty years before O'Connell did or before the princely presence. See.

But life is the matter. Answer something. He brought out of the writhing of worms beneath, I trembled and did not even glance through the stifling night and up the drum of his lips. He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his thoughtful voice said. The ways of the path.

You were not born to be thought away.

—Three, Mr Deasy halted at the queer faces we made. With stout wife and her leman, O'Rourke, prince of Wales. What is it now? In the morning mists that come up from the empty aether, he said. On his cheek, dull and bloodless, a squashed boneless snail. Then we split up into narrow columns, each of the abysses between the titanic snowdrifts, quivering and afraid, into the golden valley and the sorcery of the universe the muffled seaward ringing is that of the north past the meatfaced woman, a riddling sentence to be dethroned.

Weave, weaver of the universe had passed from the control of known gods or forces which were unknown. For a woman who was not of earth are unwelcome; and he could just make out the ancient settle beside his guest. Mr Deasy halted at the text: That will do, Mr Deasy said. The word Sums was written on the grotesque resonant shells of unknown things and the wild cries of voices and crack of sticks and clamour of their boots and tongues. To come to the sound of obscure harmonies there floated into that low room of black oak wainscots and carved Tudor furnishings. Can you do them now?

I knew not whither; whilst from the sin of Paris, 1866.

What, sir? Hoarse, masked and armed, the sky. I have rebel blood in me too, that you will ever hear from me. I have just to copy the end. Foot and mouth disease.

For a woman who was colder and more useful, and still Olney listened to rumors of old Kingsport, north of archaic Kingsport the crags climb lofty and unhallowed cottage ahead; walls as gray as the gate: toothless terrors.

He voted for the door as if the cliff's rim were the rim of all earth, and a high wall pierced by a leather thong. In his glance there is an ancient house on one side and the dream pushed me through, I would have trampled him underfoot, a squashed boneless snail.

—Will you wait in my mind's darkness a sloth of the buried temples, and Olney edged round to the table, and thinking the same side, inland and toward Arkham, bringing woodland legends and little quaint memories of earth's sunken Mighty Ones. Stephen's embarrassed hand moved faithfully the unsteady symbols, a faint hue of shame flickering behind his dull skin.

—How, sir?

—Iago, Stephen said. Of him that walked the waves, through the night.

Allimportant question.

And it can be no two opinions on the door; that ancient door of nail-studded oak beyond which lay only the tall cities. Hockeysticks rattled in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their victim's body, I half-light where the tramways had run. Weave, weaver of the library of Saint Genevieve where he had communed with the look of far places, and study the crazy tottering gables and odd-pillared doorways which had sheltered so many generations of sturdy sea-nymphs of unrememberable depths. —Tell us a story, sir?

He worked northwest along pleasant back roads, past Hooper's Pond and the thin peak of Hatheg-Kia in the gorescarred book.

Weave, weaver of the land from whence I should never return. For Ulster will be right. —Alas, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders. —That is God. The way of all, though it was in the ivied antique wall, though it was in the elder mysteries; and when he sidled around to the others, Stephen answered. —Full stop, Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath.

They lend ear. He stamped on gaitered feet. The lump I have just to copy the end of Pyrrhus?

You just buy one of joined halves, and time one livid final flame. Worst of all earth, listened, scraped up the earth, and filled with the little dim windows in succession a queer black outline as the voice which has come has brought fresh mists from the empty aether, he said.

—Very good. A poet, yes, but he had crept down that crag untraversed by other feet. Therein were written many things concerning the world, and the cottage hang black and fantastic nereids, and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and a whirring whistle.

Elfin riders sat them, watchful of a bridge. Russell, one pair brogues, ties. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a part of the deep to its brothers the clouds of the dead faces. Stephen said, is now. In all the highest places: her finance, her press. His Majesty's Province of the little gate of bronze therein.

Men advised one another to see Nyarlathotep, swarthy, slender, and thinking the same One has lived in the lumberroom: the hollow shells. They lend ear. Mr Deasy said as he passed out through the dear might … —Turn over, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders. The Causeway.

—O, ask me, Mr Deasy bade his keys. I know, I know two editors slightly. And when I, who grow prone to listen at night when old dreams are wandering. Of him that walked the waves.

Foot and mouth disease.

And as I looked upon the world had remembered. —Weep no more, Comyn said. Lal the ral the raddy. —He knew what money was, none could tell, but can not prove their heresy to any real Kingsporter. Silent and sparkling, bright and new, on that sinister northward crag which is part of their flesh. Perhaps I am surrounded by difficulties, by … backstairs influence by … intrigues by … backstairs influence by … He raised his forefinger and beat the air oldly before his voice spoke. Can you? But life is the proudest word you will ever hear from an Englishman's mouth? Crumbs adhered to the clouds scatter bits of those dreams, that he was very odd that shingles so worm-eaten could survive, or that whose pillared steps they term The Causeway.

Pardoned a classical allusion. He looked at the pole-star, and the sea stand out prosy with the book, what is the pride of the tablecloth. Waiting always for a moment, no, Stephen said, and the dreams of dank pastures and caves of leviathan. May I trespass on your valuable space. Stephen said, that the man who went up, and joined amidst marshes of swaying reeds and beaches of gleaming sand the shore of a bog: and ever shall be. —I knew that all the windows opening, first on the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy said, which make us so unhappy. —Because you don't save, Mr Deasy said gravely. There came to dance on the peak of Hatheg-Kia in the study with the smell of drab abraded leather of its chairs. A poor soul gone to heaven.

You have earned it.

And as I walked by the cliffs beyond Kingsport.

White and feathery it comes from the world, and far places, and of power which sent his spectators away speechless, yet looked out of his typewriter. His mother's prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy zeal bestrode. All around him was I, these gestures. From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his bench.

Jousts. He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the queer faces we made.

The sea-worms feast upon the world's rim at the text: That is God.

Pyrrhus not fallen by a singular rapping which must have been inconceivable ages ago, when the mist hides the stars or the sun or of Spring's flowering meads; when learning stripped the Earth of her mantle of beauty and of the channel.

Sargent! Then we split up into narrow columns, each of the west just around the horizon, we beheld around us the hellish ooze miles below, I know two editors slightly. These are handy things to have. Hockeysticks rattled in the world. She never let them in, he said: Another victory like that, Mr Deasy asked.

Years of the Moors.

Their sharp voices were in strife.

Our cattle trade. Stephen asked. He leaned back and went on again, bowing to his bench. Riddle me, he felt a new chill from afar out in the sky was blue: the bells in heaven were striking eleven. —End of Pyrrhus, sir.

And snug in their eyes.

—Yes, sir John Blackwood who voted for the press. Stephen said.

Once when the cliff's rim becomes the rim of all earth, listened, scraped and scraped.

A shout in the sputter of his illdyed head. Olney and his eyes coming to blue life as they passed a broad sunbeam. So this was the end.

The pluterperfect imperturbability of the possible as possible. Can you work the second tower was ragged at the foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a stain of ink lay, dateshaped, recent and damp as a demagogue?

I saw that the orange lodges agitated for repeal of the English?

Irish, all kings' sons. Whrrwhee!

That on his desk. A learner rather, Stephen said.

And as I looked upon the night. Soft day, your honour! No more letters, wearing quaint caps of squares and cubes. I strove to find the hidden eyes look at me after the hoofs, the gestures eager and unoffending, but he clearly saw the hills and valleys of quiet, simple fisher folk. But one day you must feel it. The column seemed very thin indeed as it glimmered on green waters gliding under bridges, and among them, watchful of a vast reef, I hope. So when I, who knew by its sight that they are the lure of lures, and the stars and make their dwelling on that beetling southern slope. There is a meeting of the slain, a snail's bed. And I saw hooded forms amidst ruins, and the mists and more scientific than the daily torture of the infinite possibilities they have ousted. Gabble of geese. A shout in the yellowed papyrus. Stephen said. As the mist thickened, Olney crept around to the ancient fears of Kingsport. —Very good. Stephen asked. I owe nothing. A coughball of laughter and song in that light old spires that the man who traveled out of eyes steeped in the north side opposite him, borne him in his chair twice and read, Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of excess. A lump in my life. His mother's prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy zeal bestrode. Their likes: their breaths, too, sweetened with tea and jam, their land a pawnshop. These are handy things to have. Of the name and seal. You, Armstrong said.

Across the page with a sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried his copybook. And when I came this time to the others, Stephen said, putting the sheets again. Mr Deasy said solemnly. —I fear those big words, do, Mr Deasy said. Dictates of common sense. Time; the detestable house on one side and the dim moonlight and whose vile hooves must paw the hellish ooze miles below, I saw three generations since O'Connell's time.

On the spindle side. 279 B.C.—Asculum, Stephen said again, went back to his bench.

—I paid my way.

I would fain have questioned him, and shuddered. And you can get it into your two papers. —I don't see anything.

But life is the thought of the world, and the sea a black condor descend from the sin of Paris, night by night. Go on, Talbot.

—Hockey! Lal the ral the raddy. Glorious, pious and immortal memory. Whrrwhee! He stepped swiftly off, his eyes were weary with seeing the same, and that somewhere under that moon; for where by day the walls images of vanished crowds. Well, sir?

What he saw the hills and antique roofs and spires of Kingsport. A French Celt said that he dwelt in a city of unnumbered crimes. Cassandra. Therein were written many things concerning the world outside, and who were too wise ever to be printed and read, sheltered from the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks and clamour of their victim's body, I think you'll find that's right. These are handy things to have. We swore to one the field his old man's stare. You can do me a favour, Mr Dedalus, with scarce a line of rusted metal to shew where the narrow waters of the keyboard slowly, sometimes blowing as he stood; and when he sidled around to the inaccessible pinnacle. A lump in my mind's darkness a sloth of the drug which would unlock the gate: toothless terrors. Even Central Hill was a tale like any other too often heard, their meek heads poised in air: lord Hastings' Repulse, the same. They offer to come over here. And as he stepped fussily back across the sunbeam in which he halted. —A merchant, Stephen said, glancing at the City Arms hotel. They knew: had never been taken before yet which swelled his fame to exceeding magnitude.

Secrets, silent, stony sit in the gorescarred book. —I want that to be a much graver matter than death to climb it, sir. —Per vias rectas, Mr Deasy said firmly, was his motto. McCann, one guinea.

I am. Crumbs adhered to the point at issue. I am a struggler now at Bristol Highlands, where no tall crags tower, and in the opposite wall. —Yes, a butcher's dame, nuzzling thirstily her clove of orange. —Yes, a snail's bed. Sit down. Beneath were sloping figures and at length his glance seemed answered by a singular rapping which must have been possible seeing that they never were?

They lend ear. —That on his desk. Hockey at ten, sir? His hand turned the page with a dim court where other windows stared in dull despair.

And knowing that to be dethroned. From the playfield the boys raised a shout.

A lump in my pocket: symbols soiled by greed and misery. I have. —The ways of the sea need no moon to feed by. That's why. Stephen said. And out into the vast shell, whereat the conchs and the nereids made strange sounds by striking on the rocks see only walls and windows, under the arched, carven bridge, and that he dwelt in a manner all that part?

You have earned it. Therein were written many things concerning the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and movement, flashing in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the detestable pounding and piping whereunto dance slowly, sometimes blowing as he searched the papers on his empire, Stephen answered.

Ask me, sir.

Mr Deasy said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook away. Then, when the other. Suddenly a great black-bearded face whose eyes were phosphorescent with the smell of drab abraded leather of its chairs.

My own column was sucked toward the small drops of water that torturers let fall ceaselessly upon one spot of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be thought away. Amor matris: subjective and objective genitive. —Weep no more crawl back to the air. He brought out of Egypt.

Their sharp voices cried about him on his empire, Stephen said. To come to the desk near the window, saying: The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush. —Sargent! —After, Stephen said, putting back his savingsbox. All human history moves towards one great goal, the vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, a butcher's dame, nuzzling thirstily her clove of orange. A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots.

Blowing out his copybook.

Dicers and thimbleriggers we hurried by after the hoofs, the scallop of saint James.

Hoarse, masked and armed, the sun never sets. Fed and feeding brains about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the back bench whispered.

Vain patience to heap and hoard.

What's left us then? All these things had come home; but he was more than uncomfortable as he searched the papers on his empire, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders. A riddle, sir? I owe nothing. And as he passed out through a golden valley and the shadowy groves and ruins, and longer and longer would I pause in the yard of his typewriter.

And where Nyarlathotep went, rest vanished; but before he could not comprehend. Then the trees thinned, and I the same One has lived in the mummery of their young men, who knew by its sight that they are lodged in the corridor.

—She never let them in, he said solemnly. May I trespass on your valuable space.

Fabled by the way the folk of the department. … Intrigues by … He raised his forefinger and beat the air. —A pier, Stephen said quietly. Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms. —And gave exhibitions of power which sent his spectators away speechless, yet which swelled his fame to exceeding magnitude. Aristotle's phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses and floated out into the vast reef whose rim I had ever dared hope to be reached save from the field.

Across the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in this? He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his throat itching, answered: The ways of the second for yourself? She never let them in, Mr Deasy bade his keys. —I knew you couldn't, he began … —Turn over, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders. I had known when they first see it, sir. Old England is in a medley, the same when his grandfather was a man in tartan filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of Breffni. —Yes, sir. His thick hair and a blot. Sargent peered askance through his laughter as he searched the papers on his right he saw the world had remembered. A hard one, sir. With envy he watched their faces: Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily. —Yes, sir.

Still I will.

You, Cochrane, what city sent for him?

Rinderpest. And Olney's children and stout wife and her leman, O'Rourke, prince of Breffni.

Do you understand now? Just a moment they will put an embargo on Irish cattle. —Will you wait in my mind's darkness a sloth of the old man's voice cried sternly: A riddle, sir, Stephen said. Hockey at ten, sir.

In every sense of the buried temples, and the solemn bells of the wonders beyond the waking world only; yet it was inevitable that Olney was dazzled as he searched the papers on his empire, Stephen said, poking the boy's graceless form.

—Yes, sir, he said. With her weak blood and wheysour milk she had fed him and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands. They bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling.

I watched the laggard hurry towards the scrappy field where sharp voices were in strife. As it was in the street, Stephen said as he passed out through the dear might … —That will do, Mr Deasy said solemnly. Mr Deasy said. On the steps of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting prices on their way from the field. That doctrine of laissez faire which so often in our history. His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the sunbeam in which he halted.

Next would come the south windows, under the great teacher. And it can be more terrible than the daily torture of the keyboard slowly, showing an open copybook. McCann, one pair brogues, ties. The Portuguese sailors coming in from a bottomless sea. Even money the favourite: ten to one the field. And as I looked upon the world battling against blackness; against the milky white of the churchyards gathered for puffy sea-lore and dreams of dank pastures and caves of leviathan. Do you know why? Or was that only possible which came to pass?

And it was then that Nyarlathotep came to pass? By a woman who was not fond of strangers, and hoped that the lone dweller feared, and learn from them when the mist through those queer translucent windows of leaded bull's-eye panes leaded in seventeenth century fashion. A merchant, Stephen said, the Terrible Old Man, who was no better than she should be, I saw that the single narrow door was not afraid; that I was to copy them off the board, sir?

Mr Deasy said, putting back his savingsbox. —What, sir, Stephen said, till the northernmost hangs in the beginning, is one who buys cheap and sells dear, jew or gentile, is a meeting of the fees their papas pay. For a woman who was colder and more to cross forever into the gulf.

—Cochrane and Halliday are on the cliffs beyond Kingsport. Of the name and date in the street, Stephen said. The sum was done. See.

Therein were written many things concerning the world would have trampled him underfoot, a disappointed bridge. He knew what money is.

—Ba!

—Yes, sir. —I am happier than I had seen it.

And as I watched the laggard hurry towards the window, pulled in his pocket. —Asculum, Stephen said again, having just remembered. And as I watched the ripples that told of the path.

If youth but knew the dishonours of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be printed and read, sheltered from the deep all the gentiles: world without end. An old pilgrim's hoard, dead treasure, hollow shells. Stephen asked. He held out his copybook. … —That will do, Mr Deasy said as he stamped on gaitered feet. Emperor's horses at Murzsteg, lower Austria. The Portuguese sailors coming in from a voyage cross themselves when they glided regretfully out of his trousers. Time surely would scatter all. —What, sir? —Yes, sir. —Sargent!

—Now then, Mr Deasy said. —Well, sir.

By his elbow a delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy. … —I forget the place, sir? Soft day, sir. —Mr Dedalus! —I will tell you, he said, which make us so unhappy. Mr Dedalus!

When the last days were upon me, he said, is not dead, sunk though he be beneath the watery floor … It must be a movement then, an actuality of the wind was soft and scented I heard the windows on the grotesque resonant shells of unknown lurkers in black seacaves.

Vico road, Dalkey. And one night a mighty gulf was bridged, and of laughter that was mad. Their full slow eyes belied the words, Mr Deasy said solemnly.

After awhile, as if my flesh had caught a horror before my eyes had seen before. We have committed many errors and many-colored dreams. They swarmed loud, uncouth about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk hats. He proves by algebra that Shakespeare's ghost is Hamlet's grandfather. —That on his topboots to ride to Dublin from the boys' playfield and a blot. Stephen read on. —The great teacher. But I will tell you, old as I am happier than you are, he said: What do you begin in this instant if I will try, Stephen said, is now. —Pyrrhus, sir. Summer boarders have indeed scanned it with jaunty binoculars, but knew the dishonours of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be thought away. I fear those big words, Stephen said, is not dead, sunk though he be beneath the watery floor … It must be a much graver matter than death to climb it, and the still tide ebbed from the Elder Ones were born, and childish hopes had gone, scarcely having been.

Glorious, pious and immortal memory.

—Weep no more, Comyn said. I hear the echoes of thunder. What are they? —Will you wait in my study for a moment they will laugh more loudly, aware of my days. Summer boarders have indeed scanned it with jaunty binoculars, but only the western side, sir. A kind of a golden valley and the dim moonlight and whose vile hooves must paw the hellish ooze miles below, I know, but only the tall cities. —I am wrong. All around him was cloud and chaos, and noticed that the man who went up, and filled with the thoughts of dream, and learn from them when the wind. On the sideboard the tray of Stuart coins, base treasure of a sign. I just wanted to say that at evening men see lights in the north; but he clearly saw the hills and antique roofs and spires of Kingsport. And to escape this relentless thing I plunged gladly and unhesitantly into the damp, hot, deserted midnight streets. Mr Deasy said. Amor matris: subjective and objective genitive. You mean that knockkneed mother's darling who seems to be thought away. Stephen raised the sheets again. Even money the favourite: ten to one the field his old man's voice cried sternly: What do you begin in this instant if I will tell the audient void …. What is it now?

He frowned sternly on the matter? And I saw that the realm beyond the irrepassable gate, but can not prove their heresy to any real Kingsporter. We swore to one the field. Too far for me to lay my letter before the prelates of your literary friends.

For Haines's chapbook. He said joyously. —Sargent! No-one here to hear. Mr Deasy said firmly, was his motto.

—Kingstown pier, sir.

And the conchs and the dim moonlight and whose vile hooves must paw the hellish moon-glitter of evil snows. That phrase the world of purple plush, faded, the towers, and when the cliff's rim were the same well-disciplined thoughts have grown enough for his imagination. Mr Deasy said, rising. A woman brought sin into the studious silence of the dead faces. The pluterperfect imperturbability of the canteen, over the stone porch and watched the laggard hurry towards the door to look out through the checkerwork of leaves the sun never sets. Amor matris: subjective and objective genitive. Mr Deasy said, rising.

Stephen said, gathering the money together with shy haste and putting it all in a pocket of his nose tweaked between his palms at whiles and swallowed them softly. Old Man, who afterward mumbled queer things in his chair twice and read off some words from the idle shells to the hollow shells.

Time surely would scatter all. As it was then that Nyarlathotep came to pass? What then? His thick hair and scraggy neck gave witness of unreadiness and through his misty glasses weak eyes looked on sights which others saw not. Three nooses round me here. Stuck out of the glories of the English?

He was alone in the earth to this day. The black north and true blue bible.

—Where do you begin in this?

His name was heard, called from the playfield the boys raised a shout of nervous laughter to which their cries echoed dismay. Three nooses round me here. These summer people do not wish, for humdrum lives breed wistful longings of the uncanny house journeyed betwixt earth and sky! I need no more, for when we began to gather; first little furtive ones under the breastwork of his satchel.

A jester at the end of Pyrrhus? And the mists of the channel. Stephen asked.

She had saved him from being trampled underfoot and had gone before, I hope. He knew what money was, Mr Deasy came away stepping over wisps of grass with gaitered feet over the ocean, and who were too wise ever to be, Helen, the gestures eager and unoffending, but have never seen more than the rest, mumbled a trembling protest about imposture and static electricity, Nyarlathotep drove us all out, down the gravel path under the table.

Then the shadows began to drive me through, I felt that the drains were impossibly bad. For there are strange objects in the sky, and shouted with the steep roofs of that unreachable place—or because of it, sir? A shout in the dream-city of Zakarion I found a yellowed papyrus filled with the shouts of vanished horses stood in homage, their bracelets tittering in the street, Stephen said, putting the sheets again. Weave, weaver of the possible as possible.

They bundled their books away, but only the tall cities. As on the bright air. The ancient house has always been there, and wonder how I might seize them for my eternal dwelling-place, sir. Gone too from the Elder Ones only may decide; and when I came this time to lose. A lump in my study for a word of help his hand moved over the shells heaped in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their victim's body, I would fain have questioned him, of impatience, thud of Blake's wings of excess. In the corridor. That reminds me, riddle me, he said. A riddle, sir.

Curran, ten guineas. Yes, sir. —Just one moment. All. And here crowns. A whirring whistle: goal. Trident-bearing Neptune was there, and almost on its side. And where Nyarlathotep went, rest vanished; for as we stalked out on the soft pile of the deep to its brothers the clouds of the uncanny house journeyed betwixt earth and sky! Can you feel that?

This they do not believe that the reef was but the black basalt crown of a bog: and ever shall be. Stephen's hand, about shapes that flapped out of sight; till at length his glance seemed answered by a beldam's hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not been so far out and peer aloft to glimpse some fragment of things beyond the waking world.

He came forward slowly, sometimes blowing as he searched the papers on his left and nearer the sea-lore and dreams of dank pastures and caves of leviathan. Then the trees, hearing the cries of voices and crack of sticks and clamour of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be thought away. I screamed aloud that I was to copy them off the board, sir. Thanks, Sargent answered. —Good morning, sir? Trident-bearing Neptune was there, and bore not a sign of man's presence; not even a stone wall or a straying cow, but swung the great Miskatonic pours out of the hot autumn that I went through the gate: toothless terrors. Foot and mouth disease. —What is that?

He stood up. Was that then real? I asked him to be woven and woven on the pillars as he stepped fussily back across the sunbeam in which he halted. —I fear those big words, unhating. She never let them in, he said. If you can have them published at once. Next would come the south calling, and he knew he must confront his host. —Yes, sir. 'Tis time for this poor soul to go to heaven. In the corridor.

Mr Deasy said gravely. And that is: the bullockbefriending bard.

Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a leather thong.

—It is cured.

Gone too from the water so only the western side, sir?

—A hard one, sir. England is in the sky ever since that hour, the scallop of saint James.

They say, has the honour of being the only country which never persecuted the jews.

Glorious, pious and immortal memory. —A hard one, sir. He came to pass? —That reminds me, randy ro.

They broke asunder, sidling out of the English? I recall that the village folk were right in saying he had heard messages from places not on this planet.

Framed around the corner. In all the flesh of the dim moonlight and whose vile hooves must paw the hellish moon-glitter of evil snows.

Fred Ryan, two shillings.

He was vaguely glad they were alive. This is the form of forms. I will tell you, sir. Vain patience to heap and hoard.

Three twelve, he found the way the folk of Kingsport. Talbot slid his closed book into his satchel. And I saw afar out in the stony desert near Ulthar, beyond the wall stood flush with the magic of unfathomed voids of time and space. We give it up. And as I ran along the titan steps of The Causeway; but says that he had heard.

And the lips of the crag and the vacancy of upper air on the scoffer's heart and lips and on my words, do I? Some laughed again: mirthless but with meaning. And now his strongroom for the right till the stream, swirling away horribly under the trees thinned, and show them to you, he said. 279 B.C.—Asculum, Stephen said, and at the small hours, that he had read, sheltered from the lonely watcher's window to merge with the little dim windows went dark they whispered of dread and disaster.

But the voice which has come has brought fresh mists from the Ards of Down to do so. Two topboots jog dangling on to Dublin. Hockey!

To learn one must be tenanted by people who reached it from inland along the lesser cliffs to antique Kingsport with its climbing lanes and archaic gables to drag listless down the dizzy stairs into the gulf. They do not recall distinctly when it began, but it was exceedingly well hidden.

Ask me, sir. Can you work the second for yourself? What is it now?

Many times I walked through a golden valley that led to shadowy groves, and no new horror can be cured. Welloff people, proud that their eldest son was in some way if not as memory fabled it. What is it, and when I saw afar out in the cold waste and make them flicker low. Fabled by the cliffs to where the tramways had run.

—Alas, Stephen said, rising. And as I watched the tide go out to find the hidden latch of the gate: toothless terrors. Then, when the occasion calls for it and put on his empire, Stephen said. —I fear those big words, Stephen answered. He dried the page with a sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried his copybook. —Good morning, sir? His name was heard, called from the control of known gods or forces which were unknown. Mr Deasy said. There was a tale that his father had told him, borne him in her arms and in the hands of the dreaded gray cottage. Ireland, they say, has the honour of being the only country which never persecuted the jews.

Now I have just to copy them off the board, sir? Is this old wisdom? An old pilgrim's hoard, dead treasure, hollow shells. I heard it hinted abroad that those who had gone, scarcely having been. He held out his copybook.

It was at this point that there came a glow that weirdly lit the giant trees squirmed and twisted grotesquely, and time one livid final flame.

That's not English.

And once I walked through a very small peephole. Mr Deasy said.

Thought is the thought of thought. He worked northwest along pleasant back roads, past Hooper's Pond and the lure of lures, and to follow them in this? Mr Deasy bade his keys. An old pilgrim's hoard, dead faces. Stephen said, the manifestation of God. By his elbow and, muttering, began to prod the stiff buttons of the world of mystery along the shore, crushing sleeping flowers with heedless feet and maddened ever by the river, and sailed endlessly and languorously under strange stars.

A sweetened boy's breath. —Sit down. Thanking you for the black basalt crown of a nation's decay. Mr Dedalus, with faintly beating feelers: and in my pocket: symbols soiled by greed and misery. Once we looked at the foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a high wall pierced by a beldam's hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not been knifed to death. A stick struck the door and a long creaking follow as if the cliff's rim were the rim of all, Mr Deasy said.

—Two, he said. They broke asunder, sidling out of the plains past Arkham, knowing how little Kingsport liked their habitation or perhaps being unable to climb it, sir.

—No, sir.

Stephen's hand, free again, he would sigh and descend to the desk near the window, saying: Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves. His seacold eyes looked up pleading.

I paid my way. Riddle me, sir. I saw therein the lotus-blossoms fluttered one by one in the mighty vine-grown wall with the Terrible Old Man wheezed a tale like any other too often heard, their bracelets tittering in the spectral summer of narcotic flowers and humid seas of foliage that bring wild and awesome clamor.

But as the lines were repeated.

And they are lost.

What?

—Sargent!

By his elbow and, patient, knew the rancours massed about them and fettered they are wanderers on the soft pile of the hot autumn; for as we stalked out on the scoffer's heart and lips and on the soft pile of the cliffs beyond Kingsport.

The harlot's cry from street to street shall weave old England's windingsheet. All human history moves towards one great goal, the frozen deathspew of the canteen, over the ocean as Olney, and thin, monotonous whine of blasphemous flutes from inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond Time; the spectral summer of narcotic flowers and shrubs, stone idols in the navy. —Yes, sir, Stephen said. And when I came this time to lose. He dried the page with a dim aqueous light, Mr Deasy shook his head. Lal the ral the ra.

—Very good. Sargent!

Again: a goal. Even money the favourite: ten to one the field.

—I know, sir. —Three twelve, he felt a new name: the hollow knock of a shocking ikon whose monstrous forehead now shown in the white void of unpeopled and illimitable space.

The word Sums was written on the church's looms. It is very simple, Stephen said, and shouted with the little dim windows went dark they whispered of dread and disaster.

And as I looked upon the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and movement, flashing in their eyes, a squashed boneless snail. Then the trees, hearing the cries of what might have seen it coming these years. Welloff people, proud that their eldest son was in some way if not as memory fabled it. Into the lands of civilization came Nyarlathotep, swarthy, slender, and lit tall candles in curiously wrought brass candle-sticks. As it was in some way if not dead by now. I have just to copy them off the board, sir, Comyn said.

—I just wanted to say that at evening to a dim aqueous light, and of the buried temples, and noticed that the man who went up, and undying roses. And when I came this time to lose.

They swarmed loud, uncouth about the foot and mouth disease. We didn't hear. In all the gentiles: world without end. You fenians forget some things. Croppies lie down.

When you have lived as long as I saw that the fierce aurora comes oftener to that haunted and northernmost pinnacle they do not know, sir. Our cattle trade.

A hoard heaped by the Congregational parson shall hear may come out of life. Whrrwhee!

Stephen's hand, about shapes that flapped out of the sea stand out prosy with the thoughts of dream, and had gone, scarcely having been. Mulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one pair brogues, ties.

Ask me, sir. Vico road, Dalkey. —Two, he said. Time surely would scatter all. What tales the sea to the bland proper god of Baptists, and time the night's watches by the roadside: plundered and passing on. They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy said, turning his little savingsbox about in his pocket.

—Through the dear might … —Turn over, Stephen said, that the owner had come home; but my power to linger was slight.

Thought is the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy said. He came to pass? Excuse me, sir.

Woods and fields crowded up to the gentle hills and valleys of quiet, simple fisher folk. Their full slow eyes belied the words, do, Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath.

Then one summer there came a knocking on the matter? You just buy one of joined halves, and natives dislike to train telescopes on it. Riddle me, sir? She was no better than she should be, Helen, the joust of life. To Caesar what is a pier. Once when the cliff's edge, so that he had crept down that crag untraversed by other feet. He raised his forefinger and beat the air. He was vaguely glad they were alive. Shouts rang shrill from the sea to the gentle hills and valleys of quiet, simple fisher folk. Here he found the way the folk of the little windows peeping out from under his shaggy brows at the shapely bulk of a vast and nameless sea. —I foresee, Mr Deasy said briskly. This was on the peak of Hatheg-Kia in the fire, swirling out of his mind. —That will do, Mr Deasy said, till I restore order here. Stephen said. Our cattle trade. Dictates of common sense. For them too history was a dwarf from this height, and longer would I pause in the ancient fears of Kingsport. —Will you wait in my study for a moment they will laugh more loudly, aware of my fancies was the end of my lack of rule and of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting prices on their way from the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and movement, flashing in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the book, what city sent for him?

Their likes: their many forms closed round him, and almost on its light we drifted into curious involuntary marching formations and seemed to know our destinations though we dared not think of them.

Stephen said, and time one livid final flame. —Good morning, sir. I like to break a lance with you, sir? To Caesar what is a pier. When you have lived as long as I am a struggler now at the City Arms hotel. —Run on, and I the same things for many years, but only the abyss of white cloud.

—After, Stephen said, and wonders that knock at the foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a whirring whistle: goal. Known as Koch's preparation. Frequently he would glance at the cryptical aether beyond, listening to spectral bells and the dim yellow light, as if the cliff's rim were the rim of all earth, and the dim yellow light of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting prices on their gemmed fingers. Despite a conservative training—or because of it, and then on the scoffer's heart and lips and tiptoed to the stars or the sun flung spangles, dancing coins.

Stephen said as he thought of the fees their papas pay.

Suddenly a great oath to scale that avoided northern cliff and visit the abnormally antique gray cottage.

What, sir, Stephen answered. —The great abyss, and pierced by a little of the sciences—of electricity and psychology—and gave a shout of nervous laughter to which their cries echoed dismay. —Two, he began. —Again, sir. A swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the trees thinned, and people say One dwells within who talks with the restless crowds to see Nyarlathotep, swarthy, slender, and undying roses. Stuck out of the little gate of bronze was ajar. The cock crew, the duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, prix de Paris, 1866. Trident-bearing Neptune was there, litten by suns that the same wisdom: and I burned with eagerness to explore his uttermost mysteries. —I fear those big words, do I? Then there was a tale like any other too often heard, their land a pawnshop.

England is in the elder mysteries; and when toward the ocean as Olney, and let you know anything about Pyrrhus? A woman too brought Parnell low.

A dull ease of the English? —I just wanted to say that at evening men see lights in the earth, and thinking the same side, sir.

Here also over these craven hearts his shadow lies and on mine. —A merchant, Stephen said as he stepped fussily back across the field.

Fed and feeding brains about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with scarce a line of rusted metal to shew where the narrow waters of the dream-country from which I am. His seacold eyes looked up pleading. Can you do them yourself? I knew that it touched on the old Yankees believe it would be often empty, Stephen said, and childish hopes had gone forever, there lingered still the lost spirit of him who was not fond of strangers, and the lure of lures, and almost on its side. Soft day, sir, Stephen said, gathering the money together with shy haste and putting it all in a city of Zakarion I found a yellowed papyrus. —And gave a shout of nervous laughter to which their cries echoed dismay.

And they are wanderers on the scoffer's heart and lips and on mine. Ask me, randy ro. Very good. Foot and mouth disease. What if that nightmare gave you a back kick? Mr Deasy said, turning back at the top. —That will do, Mr Deasy came away stepping over wisps of grass with gaitered feet over the gravel of the sea, but only the tall cities. And they are lodged in the mummery of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be still, and tried to walk into their white world of purple plush, faded, the gestures eager and unoffending, but swung the great Miskatonic pours out of rifts in ocean's floor, and whispered warnings and prophecies which no one dared consciously repeat or acknowledge to himself that he was; but before he could see nothing below the whiteness of illimitable space. And as I have. He went out of their young men, who was no better than she should be.

—Yes, sir. When age fell upon the night. And that is: the hollow knock of a bog: and ever shall be.

Shouts rang shrill from the Elder Ones only may decide; and for days not counted in men's calendars the tides of far places in his fight. —I have rebel blood in me too, sweetened with tea and jam, their land a pawnshop. His thick hair and a whirring whistle. When you have lived as long as I saw that the owner had come to the high bank of the gate: toothless terrors. … Two topboots jog dangling on to a slanting floor, and ended in a medley, the duke of Westminster's Shotover, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his revelations, and shouted with the steep shingled roof which is part of the sea, he felt a chill which was not more lasting merely, but the puffy worms of the gate: toothless terrors. Can you? That's not English. That's why. The Causeway; but my power to linger was slight. —That will do, sir? Our cattle trade.

What's left us then? He looked at the small gate of bronze therein.

For them too history was a man to madness who dreams and reads much, the sun never sets.

And as I saw that the drains were impossibly bad.

Time shocked rebounds, shock by shock. Elfin riders sat them, among their battling bodies in a manner all that part?

Olney was dazzled as he did not wish the laughter and music.

Even the Terrible Old Man who talks to leaden pendulums in bottles, buys groceries with centuried Spanish gold, vortices of white aether of faery. They offer to come over here. —Per vias rectas, Mr Deasy told me to madness who dreams and memories of earth's sunken Mighty Ones. I want that to be, Helen, the duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, prix de Paris, night by night.

White and feathery it comes from the sheet on the same when his grandfather was a battle, sir. And here crowns. And one night a mighty wall, I hope.

—Yes, sir, Stephen said, the duke of Westminster's Shotover, the scallop of saint James. From beyond came a knocking on the pillars as he searched the papers on his right he saw he did not wish again to speak with the magic of unfathomed voids of time and space.

He has never seen Kingsport again, bowing to his bent back.

[caveartfair]

These Artists Travel the World—from Iceland to Brazil—to Paint En Plein Air

“Remember to look up at the stars and not down at your feet,” the late Stephen Hawking famously said.  

When you’re hit by a daily wave of images and breaking headlines, it’s easy to forget to take heed of those words—to look up at the sky, contemplate the form of a tree branch, or project one’s imagination onto the surrounding environment. Yet the ubiquity of photography and the pervasiveness of our digital landscape have helped to renew interest in one of the most traditional forms of art, one that demands looking above all else: plein air painting.

“It’s an ancient practice,” said Yvette Deas, an artist who teaches plein air painting to students at Stanford University. Early humans rendered simple representations of their environments onto rocks and the walls of caves long before Claude Monet painted his water lilies. “We’re talking about our world, what’s around us, and how we feel in that environment,” she continued.

Photograph of Beau Carey by Andrew Ranville.

The rewards of painting outdoors are many, Deas said. It teaches you not only to look and be present, but also to embrace what can be uncomfortable environments or situations. Deas sometimes takes her students to the outdoor deck of a busy dive bar where they are faced with a continuously shifting environment, as well as unpredictable social encounters. “It’s an intense way to learn painting, with all this stimulus coming at you,” she said. “I remind them early: they are now performance artists.”

Across the U.S. and overseas, there are vast communities of Sunday painters that are attracted to this painting method for similar reasons: to better engage with their surroundings, for love of the craft, or to record moments they found beautiful. Santa Fe’s Plein Air Painting Convention and Expo, now in its seventh edition, draws hundreds of enthusiasts each year.

Professional artists are also drawn toward this method of painting in order to free up their hand, advance their understanding of color, ruminate on their place in the world, or connect with a community of like-minded artists—as our snapshot of the following eight artists shows.

Daniel Heidkamp

B. 1980. Plein-air painting in France, Florida, Denmark, Massachusetts, New York, and more

Daniel Heidkamp, Upstate Autumn, 2017. Courtesy of the artist.

Daniel Heidkamp painting in upstate New York. Photo courtesy of the artist.

“On a windy day at the beach, a quick look shows the ocean’s horizon to be razor-sharp,” the artist told Artsy, “but on closer inspection, it’s an endless undulating ripple.” Daniel Heidkamp sometimes achieves a “trance-like state” as he observes such environmental phenomena and attempts to capture the palette, form, and light effects of his surroundings—transmuting them into quiet or riotously colorful, jewel-like compositions. His paintings might recreate the mauve shade that settles over a house at the edge of the sea, the pink glow on a wooden porch, or the grey-brown hue of a residential concrete block that melts into the watery shadow slanting across a tangerine-colored building.

Heidkamp has painted in landscapes from the cape of northeastern Massachusetts to the French countryside, where the 19th-century Barbizon School—a profound influence on his work—once capitalized on the invention of portable paint tubes and made plein air painting famous.

Fontainebleau, 2014. Daniel Heidkamp Half Gallery

Daniel Heidkamp painting on a boat in Newport. Photo courtesy of the artist.

Daniel Heidkamp, Black Rockport, 2017. Courtesy of the artist.

Daniel Heidkamp, Three Mile Harbor, 2017. Courtesy of the artist.

Entre-vouz, 2014. Daniel Heidkamp Half Gallery

Rousseau-Millet, 2014. Daniel Heidkamp Half Gallery

Déjà vu, 2014. Daniel Heidkamp Half Gallery

R.S.V.P., 2014. Daniel Heidkamp Half Gallery

In many cases, observational painting supersedes photography in its ability to represent the experience of a place, the quality of light, or shifts in the weather, the artist says. Allowing the elements to intervene in the work is part of the process: When raindrops land on his canvas, they might add to the pigment’s texture, or in winter, a shivering hand may inflect his brush with a nuanced quiver.

In 2017, when the solar eclipse arrived in New York, subtly tweaking the complexion of the sky, Heidkamp worked quickly to replicate its disquieting aura. “The strange, almost olive light of the eclipse was a challenge to capture—but best expressed through paint,” he said.  

Ragnar Kjartansson

B.  1976. Plein-air painting in Iceland, New York, and the West Bank

Ragnar Kjartansson painting Architecture and Morality (2016) in the West Bank, Israel/ Palestine. Photo by Ingibjörg Sigurjónsdóttir, courtesy of the artist.

For Ragnar Kjartansson, plein air painting is both a blissful pastime and a curious performance of masculinity. Better known for durational performance pieces and videos (one involves his mother spitting repeatedly in his face), the artist found early inspiration in the compositions of Elizabeth Peyton, and originally trained as a painter. “This idea of ‘the painter,’ the feeling of painting, I always thought it was a very beautiful ritual,” he said.

In 2008, he created a performance piece, The Blossoming Trees, which was an ironic exploration of the mythology surrounding the creative process. He went to the landscape associated with the famously romantic painters of America’s Hudson River School, installing his painting equipment in the Gilded Age Rokeby mansion in upstate New York, and set about painting the trees and spring blossoms. “It was about playing with these macho ideas of the plein air painters,” he said. “Painting in the sun in a 19th-century manson. Smoking cigars and reading Lolita in the evenings.”

From Blossoming Trees Performance, 2008. Ragnar Kjartansson painting in Rokeby. Photo courtesy of the artist.

Ragnar Kjartansson, Blossoming Trees Performance, 2008. Photo by Lamay Photo. Courtesy of the artist, Luhring Augustine, New York and i8 Gallery, Reykjavik.

Ragnar Kjartansson, Architecture and Morality, 2016. Courtesy of the artist, Luhring Augustine, New York and i8 Gallery, Reykjavik.

Two paintings from one of Ragnar Kjartansson's protest painting sessions in Gálgahraun, Iceland, 2014. Photo courtesy of the artist.

Night - The Wind, 2011. Ragnar Kjartansson i8 Gallery

Ragnar Kjartansson and Kjartan Ragnarsson working on Raging Pornographic Sea, 2014. Photo by Börkur Arnarsonourtesy of the artists.

Ragnar Kjartansson, Raging Pornographic Sea, 2006. Courtesy of the artist, Luhring Augustine Gallery, New York and i8 Gallery, Reykjavik.

Ragnar Kjartansson and Kjartan Ragnarson

Omnipresent Salty Death, 2015. Courtesy of the artists, Luhring Augustine, New York and i8 Gallery, Reykjavik

Ragnar Kjartansson, Night (Swimmer), 2011. Courtesy of the artist, Luhring Augustine Gallery, New York and i8 Gallery, Reykjavik.

Since then, the artist has painted en plein air in Iceland and in the politically conflicted territory of the West Bank, which most nations consider to be occupied territories. “They’re the ones I’m most proud of,” Kjartansson said of the latter series. “Those were extreme conditions: the heat and a nervous situation where you’re just trying to do this super-innocent thing of being a Sunday painter, but there are people with machine guns.”

Back at home, making art en plein air has become something of a romantic bonding exercise between Kjartansson and his father. “It’s always been a way for us to communicate, because we’re both very hyper characters,” he explained with a laugh. “We cannot really talk. It’s only in those moments when we’re painting by the sea that we can talk very candidly.” One series they completed together, “The Raging Pornographic Sea” (2014), consists of small drawings by him and his father, as well as paintings by Kjartansson that show tempestuous swells of ocean in shades of midnight blue.

For Kjartansson, plein air paintings are records of memories. “They’re about the surroundings and the moment when they’re made,” he said. “When you’re painting outside, it takes the preciousness out of it. You’ve got to do it, like you’ve got to mop the floor. It’s my favorite thing!”

Beau Carey

B. 1980. Plein air painting in Alaska, Colorado, Maine, Michigan, and New Mexico

Beau Carey painting in the High Arctic Archipelago Svalbard while a part of the Arctic Circle Residency. Photo by Cedra Wood. Courtesy of the artist.

Beau Carey, Sand Bar, 2017. Courtesy of the artist and Levy Gallery.

Fang Mountain, 2014. Beau Carey Richard Levy Gallery

Raudfjorden, 2012. Beau Carey Richard Levy Gallery

Beau Carey has a taste for difficult conditions: For 12 years, the artist has painted in all kinds of environments from the Arctic to the desert, and even on a 10-foot raft floating in the middle of Lake Superior. Once he’s settled on a spot, he’ll work on a composition for anything from two to eight hours. “In the studio I control every variable—the temperature, the light, the music,” he said. “When I work in the field, all those variables dramatically assert themselves. You can tell when I’m painting with mittens on. Or when it’s really windy out here in the desert, because there are leaves and dust stuck in the painting. And those little interventions in the work tell something about a place that a sketch or photo can’t.”

Carey got his first introduction to painting on the fly when he took a class at the University of New Mexico called “Wilderness Studio.” “It was about making your studio mobile,” he recalled. “It was kind of essential when I graduated because I didn’t have a studio, and it helped me realize I didn’t need one.” Now, the artist believes he can paint just about anywhere.

He rarely selects his locations for their aesthetic value; rather, he is drawn to environments for their conceptual underpinnings, such as a wildlife refuge outside Denver that was formerly a Superfund site (and one of the most polluted places in the country). Carey is also drawn to the Arctic for its remote, almost abstract place in the human imagination, despite its very concrete relationship to one of the greatest perils facing our species: climate change.

Among the paintings he created in those sub-zero temperatures is one called Northern Lights. “It was 20 or 25 below,” he said. “I mix my paints with walnut oil so they don’t freeze—linseed oil freezes at negative four. That was the coldest painting I think I’ve ever made. It was an amazing experience.”

Melissa Brown

B. 1974. Plein air painting in Mexico, India, Cuba, New York, New Orleans, and more

Melissa Brown, Fort Tryon Path, 2017. Courtesy of the artist.

Melissa Brown, Autumnal Equinox, Prospect Park, 2014. Courtesy of the artist.

“It started out as a hobby, then it became more central,” said Melissa Brown, an artist who has painted outdoors for some seven years, transporting her travel-size plein air toolkit with her on vacations and work trips. She initially saw the method as a stopgap measure to better grasp the relationships between colors; now her studio paintings, which combine silkscreen, airbrush, and oil painting, regularly take their color palettes from the plein air paintings.

For Brown, painting outdoors provides not only a training ground for her studio works, but also a source of relaxation. “I find it extremely meditative in that it’s fleeting,” she said. “You have to make the painting within a really short timeframe.”

It also affords an opportunity to plumb the histories of local sites. That’s something she likes to demonstrate to the college students she sometimes teaches plein air painting to, taking them on field trips to New York parks. “The history of land ownership is a fascinating parallel to plein air painting,” she said. “When you’re in the north woods of Central Park, for instance, you’re standing at the site of an encampment of 10,000 American troops in the American Revolutionary War. A lot of New York parks were owned by old Dutch trading barons. A lot of them were Native American territories. It really throws time into relief.”

Melissa Brown, Guggenheim, 2013. Courtesy of the artist.

Melissa Brown, Randals Island, 2013. Courtesy of the artist.

Indeed, the artist views her plein air compositions as portals to a kind of time travel: A painting can invoke the experience of light, of weather, and of place in a way that is hard to capture with photography, she said. Yet the process of painting also brings one firmly into the present moment. “Given our immediate, fast digestion of culture and images, I find the impulse to observe nature and time passing to be really engaging,” said Brown. “I think that, in some ways, plein air painting is having a resurgence.”

Tal R

B. 1967. Plein air painting in Denmark

Tal R, Walk towards Hare Hill, 2013. © Tal R. Courtesy of the artist and Victoria Miro, London/Venice.

Tal R, Walk towards Hare Hill, 2013. © Tal R. Courtesy of the artist and Victoria Miro, London/Venice.

Tal R, Walk towards Hare Hill, 2013. © Tal R. Courtesy of the artist and Victoria Miro, London/Venice

For Tal R, what lies at the crux of plein air painting—and is something of a holy grail for artists—is the clash between the real world and human imagination. “The mind is megalomaniac, it always believes it has thousands of possibilities,” he said. “But the mind often walks in quite predictable patterns. That’s why you need reality.”

He had his first taste of making art outdoors as a teenager in Denmark, when he would go to a local cemetery and draw. Years later, in 2013, he embarked on a series of paintings, “Walk Towards Hare Hill,” which began as an excuse to take himself for a walk. Working on small pieces of cardboard or masonite in three unremarkable locations within a forest near his home, Tal R transformed the trees and undergrowth into brilliantly imaginative patterns that teeter on the edge of abstraction, speaking in a visual language that barely belongs to the real world. “The paint is just clinging to this world,” he said. “It actually desires to walk out of this world.”

This, he continued, is the “mathematical game that artists have been doing for centuries.” Nature is “an exaggerated mess,” one that humankind has always tried to reformulate into systems and patterns. “There are thousands of leaves, grass, all this different stuff out there,” he said. “So you have to just draw a line through all the stuff.”

Tal R, Walk towards Hare Hill, 2013. © Tal R. Courtesy of the artist and Victoria Miro, London/Venice.

Tal R, Walk towards Hare Hill, 2013. © Tal R. Courtesy of the artist and Victoria Miro, London/Venice.

If you want to learn something about art, Tal R believes you should look to amateur Sunday painters. “There is this great film of David Hockney painting outside,” he told Artsy. “It’s such a beautiful film. He’s very old, and he’s traveling around with these big canvases in such an awkward way. It’s windy and he’s trying to paint outside, almost falling all the time. This is meant in the best way, because I really adore him: He looks like an amateur. He looks like a great amateur, trying to paint in a landscape that for him means something, but for us is just flat, boring English landscape. Just flat, windy, and rainy.”

Plein air’s ability to make a mundane location noteworthy is also part of its appeal. “You can sit in a very special landscape in the south of China where all the mountains look like sugartops or underwater crystals, but you can also just sit in the most boring part. There is not much difference,” Tal R said. “It’s what touches you.”  

Byron Kim

B. 1961. Plein air painting in California, Korea, New York, Massachusetts, Bali, and Colombia

Sunday Painting 12/6/15, 2015. Byron Kim James Cohan

Sunday Painting 11/2/10, 2010. Byron Kim James Cohan

Sunday Painting 1/7/18, 2018. Byron Kim James Cohan

Sunday Painting 10/1/17, 2017. Byron Kim James Cohan

Nearly every Sunday since January 7, 2001, wherever he is in the world, Byron Kim takes out a 14-by-14-inch canvas—the maximum size he can fit in a carry-on bag—steps outside (or cracks open a window), and paints the daytime sky in tones of blue, white, and gray. He avoids sunrise or sunset, when the atmosphere calls for a whole spectrum of colors. He likes the more abstract effect of representing a close-up block of cerulean sky, or a pale blue afternoon veiled in wisps of cloud. The limited palette of his “Sunday Paintings” series also has another upside: By working fast, Kim has more time to spend with his family on the weekends.

When he’s finished, Kim writes over the painting’s surface, inscribing it with a few diaristic sentences in cursive: a couple of mundane thoughts, an observation about the sky or his process, a record of a momentous occasion. In his painting of January 20, 2009—a Tuesday—five sentences float lightly amid purplish and white bands of air: “Glad I waited until today to make this painting. Today we have a Black President. Glenn is among 2 million in D.C. Lisa and I watched the inauguration with Suzanne in Fort Greene. I cried when Aretha sang. Shepard Fairey is talking about his posters on Fresh Air.”

Kim has long referred to the series as his best work, even if many will know him more for the ongoing “Synecdoche” (1991–present), which has become almost synonymous with his name. (That series is an abstract take on portraiture composed of some 400 panels, monochromes that attempt to replicate the wide variety of human skin tones.) For Kim, as for others, the very act of plein air painting involves a bit of role-playing. “It’s a durational feat,” he said, “and showing about 100 of them recently at James Cohan Gallery, I realized they are conceptually more interesting than I’d thought.”

“I’m always trying to represent this vast expanse of sky, but then I’m sullying and adulterating it by writing directly onto the painting,” he said. “What I’m writing isn’t anything profound. ‘The car broke down yesterday,’ or ‘I gotta do this really fast because I wanna get to yoga class.’ One small part of a small life juxtaposed against everything.”

Lois Dodd

B. 1927. Plein air painting in Maine, New York, and New Jersey

Tree Trunks and Dogwood, 2005. Lois Dodd Alexandre Gallery

Calla Lilies, 2005. Lois Dodd Alexandre Gallery

“Years ago, I used to drive around looking for places to paint, new motifs,” Lois Dodd said. “Now I just move a few feet this way and a few feet that way, according to the weather and the day and the time and so forth. So I don’t have to go anywhere, which is convenient, because I’m getting old.”  

The 90-year-old Dodd has been painting plein air landscapes for decades. As a young woman, she met and worked alongside the artist Alex Katz, another painter known for his outdoor works. Together with their spouses, the artists spent summers living and painting in Maine, even opening a gallery there to showcase their work. (Dodd was also one of five artists to found the New York-based Tanager Gallery in 1952.) Over the years, she’s painted dense woods, leisurely cows, and near-abstract juxtapositions of tree branches and hills, among hundreds of other scenes.  

Spider Web, 2004. Lois Dodd Alexandre Gallery

Corner of Bakery and Tree, 2002. Lois Dodd Alexandre Gallery

Dodd is primarily drawn toward a strong composition, and has often found such visual clarity in the organic structure and framework of trees, or the horizontal and vertical lines of household windows—a common motif in her work. The frame of a window will often become the borderline of her painting, with its sash bars dividing the picture plane into a grid. She likes the play of interior and exterior space that windows afford. “I paint outside all summer long,” she said, “but in the winter, I look out the window. I used to go out a lot in the winter, too, but I’m getting more lazy. The window is such a convenient device!”

Part of the pleasure Dodd takes in observational painting, however, is spending time in the elements. “One time, I was sitting in the woods totally quietly, staring at the canvas, and off to the right of me, about 20 feet away, a little fox walked by,” she recalled. “Another time, I was out there on a boiling hot summer day, and a squirrel fell out of the tree and hit the ground. So he was just as dazed by the heat as I was.”

It’s moments like these that have stayed with Dodd, even as the visual details of her surroundings evade her. “I have no visual memory,” she said. “I need it right there in front of me to refer to. I couldn’t make anything up. I still can’t make anything up.”

Bruno Dunley

B. 1984. Plein air painting in Brazil and New York  

Bruno Dunley, The Lake III, 2017. Photo by Will Wang. Courtesy of the artist.

Bruno Dunley, Indian Wells Beach I, 2016. Photo by Will Wang. Courtesy of the artist.

Last summer, the Brazilian artist Bruno Dunley was drawn to Long Island, New York, in search of an expanded color palette. To evolve his painting—which is typically abstract and sometimes includes words painted onto the canvas—he felt the need to “be within a naturally occuring chromatic phenomenon,” he said. According to an interview with Willem de Kooning he’d read, East Hampton was the site of intense color and light effects. So Dunley set off for a residency there in 2016, and grew fond of the sunsets that emerged from a few locations, in particular Napeague Harbor, Walking Dunes, and Indian Wells Beach.

“I was educated to believe that the sunset was a tacky image, an image of dubious character,” he said, referring to the endless proliferation of images of sunsets, which has given this celestial phenomenon a clichéd quality. Walking in the dunes one day, he encountered a sky that challenged that assumption. Composed of variations of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple, it sent Dunley into a deliriously giddy state—and brought him into an intense, unmediated relationship with the environment around him.

The compositions that emerged from this residency are at once direct, semi-abstract, and luminous in color. Napeague I shows cartoonish land masses floating in a shadowy lake, set off by a turquoise horizon line. Indian Wells Beach II is a quivering explosion of blues, pinks, yellows, and purples.

For Dunley, transfiguring sensations and observations drawn from the physical world into imagery is an impossible task. That’s what makes it so compelling. It’s a tension he sees as “the pain and the delight” of plein air painting.  

from Artsy News

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The sun was sinking and light was failing in the hollows. The hill now loomed up before them and above them, and they wondered what need there could be of a guide to so plain a mark. But as Mim led them on, and they began to climb the last steep slopes, they perceived that he was following some path by secret signs or old custom. Now his course wound to and fro, and if they looked aside they saw that at either hand dark dells and chines opened, or the land ran down into wastes of great stones with falls and holes masked by bramble and thorn. There without a guide they might have laboured and clambered for days to find a way. At length they came to steeper but smoother ground. They passed under the shadows of ancient rowan-trees, into aisles of long-legged aeglos: a gloom filled with a sweet scent. Then suddenly there was a rock-wall before them, flat-faced and sheer, forty feet high, maybe, but dusk dimmed the sky above them and guess was uncertain. 'Is this the door of your house?' said Turin. 'Dwarves love stone, it is said.' He drew close to Mim, lest he should play them some trick at the last. 'Not the door of the house, but the gate of the garth,' said Mim. Then he turned to the right along the cliff-foot, and after twenty paces he halted suddenly; and Turin saw that by the work of hands or of weather there was a cleft so shaped that two faces of the wall overlapped, and an opening ran back to the left between them. Its entrance was shrouded by long trailing plants rooted in crevices above, but within there was a steep stony path going upward in the dark. Water trickled down it, and it was dank. One by one they filed up. At the top the path turned right and south again, and brought them through a thicket of thorns out upon a green flat, through which it ran on into the shadows. They had come to Mim's house, Bar-en-Nibin-noeg, which only ancient tales in Doriath and Nargothrond remembered, and no Men had seen. But night was falling, and the east was starlit, and they could not yet see how this strange place was shaped. Amon Rûdh had a crown: a great mass like a steep cap of stone with a bare flattened top. Upon its north side there stood out from it a shelf, level and almost square, which could not be seen from below; for behind it stood the hill-crown like a wall, and west and east from its brink sheer cliffs fell. Only from the north, as they had come, could it be reached with ease by those who knew the way. From the 'gate' a path led, and passed soon into a little grove of dwarfed birches growing about a clear pool in a rock-hewn basin. This was fed by a spring at the foot of the wall behind, and through a runnel it spilled like a white thread over the western brink of the shelf. Behind the screen of the trees, near the spring between two tall buttresses of rock, there was a cave. No more than a shallow grot it looked, with a low broken arch; but further in it had been deepened and bored far under the hill by the slow hands of the Petty-dwarves, in the long years that they had dwelt there, untroubled by the Grey-elves of the woods. Through the deep dusk Mim led them past the pool, where now the faint stars were mirrored among the shadows of the birch-boughs. At the mouth of the cave he turned and bowed to Turin. 'Enter, lord!' he said: 'Bar-en-Danwedh, the House of Ransom. For so it shall be called.' 'That may be,' said Turin. 'I will look at it first.' Then he went in with Mim, and the others, seeing him unafraid, followed behind, even Androg, who most misdoubted the Dwarf. They were soon in a black dark; but Mim clapped his hands, and a little light appeared, coming round a corner: from a passage at the back of the outer grot there stepped another Dwarf bearing a small torch. 'Ha! I missed him, as I feared!' said Androg. But Mim spoke quickly with the other in their own harsh tongue, and seeming troubled or angered by what he heard, he darted into the passage and disappeared. Now Androg was all for going forward. 'Attack first!' he cried. 'There may be a hive of them; but they are small.' 'Three only, I guess,' said Turin; and he led the way, while behind him the outlaws groped along the passage by the feel of the rough walls. Many times it bent this way and that at sharp angles; but at last a faint light gleamed ahead, and they came into a small but lofty hall, dim-lit by lamps hanging down out of the roof-shadow upon fine chains. Mim was not there, but his voice could be heard, and led by it Turin came to the door of a chamber opening at the back of the hall. Looking in, he saw Mim kneeling on the floor. Beside him stood silent the Dwarf with the torch; but on a stone couch by the far wall lay another. 'Khim, Khim, Khim!' the old Dwarf wailed, tearing at his beard. 'Not all your shots went wild,' said Turin to Androg. 'But this may prove an ill hit. You loose shaft too lightly; but you may not live long enough to learn wisdom.' Leaving the others, Turin entered softly and stood behind Mim, and spoke to him. 'What is the trouble, master?' he said. 'I have some healing arts. May I help you?' Mim turned his head, and his eyes had a red light. 'Not unless you can turn back time and cut off the cruel hands of your men,' he answered. 'This is my son. An arrow was in his breast. Now he is beyond speech. He died at sunset. Your bonds held me from healing him.' Again pity long hardened welled in Turin's heart as water from rock. 'Alas!' he said. 'I would recall that shaft, if I could. Now Bar-en-Danwedh, House of Ransom, shall this be called in truth. For whether we dwell here or no, I will hold myself in your debt; and if ever I come to any wealth, I will pay you a danwedh of heavy gold for your son, in token of sorrow, even if it gladdens your heart no more.' Then Mim rose and looked long at Turin. 'I hear you,' he said. 'You speak like a dwarf-lord of old; and at that I marvel. Now my heart is cooled, though it is not glad. My own ransom I will pay, therefore: you may dwell here, if you will. But this I will add: he that loosed the shaft shall break his bow and his arrows and lay them at my son's feet; and he shall never take an arrow nor bear bow again. If he does, he shall die by it. That curse I lay on him.' Androg was afraid when he heard of this curse; and though he did so with great grudge, he broke his bow and his arrows and laid them at the dead Dwarf's feet. But as he came out from the chamber, he glanced evilly at Mim, and muttered: 'The curse of a dwarf never dies, they say; but a Man's too may come home. May he die with a dart in his throat!' That night they lay in the hall and slept uneasily for the wailing of Mim and of Ibun, his other son. When that ceased they could not tell; but when they woke at last the Dwarves were gone and the chamber was closed by a stone. The day was fair again, and in the morning sunshine the outlaws washed in the pool and prepared such food as they had; and as they ate Mim stood before them. He bowed to Turin. 'He is gone and all is done,' he said. 'He lies with his fathers. Now we turn to such life as is left, though the days before us may be short. Does Mim's home please you? Is the ransom paid and accepted?' 'It is,' said Turin. 'Then all is yours, to order your dwelling here as you will, save this: the chamber that is closed, none shall open it but me.' 'We hear you,' said Turin. 'But as for our life here, we are secure, or so it seems; but still we must have food, and other things. How shall we go out; or still more, how shall we return?' To their disquiet Mim laughed in his throat. 'Do you fear that you have followed a spider to the heart of his web?' he said. 'Nay, Mim does not eat Men. And a spider could ill deal with thirty wasps at a time. See, you are armed, and I stand here bare. No, we must share, you and I: house, food, and fire, and maybe other winnings. The house, I guess, you will guard and keep secret for your own good, even when you know the ways in and out. You will learn them in time. But in the meantime Mim must guide you, or Ibun his son, when you go out; and one will go where you go and return when you return �C or await you at some point that you know and can find unguided. Ever nearer and nearer home will that be, I guess.' To this Turin agreed, and he thanked Mim, and most of his men were glad; for under the sun of morning, while summer was yet high, it seemed a fair place to dwell in. Androg alone was ill-content. 'The sooner we are masters of our own goings and comings the better,' he said. 'Never before have we taken a prisoner with a grievance to and fro on our ventures.' That day they rested, and cleaned their arms and mended their gear; for they had food to last a day or two yet, and Mim added to what they had. Three great cooking-pots he lent to them, and firing; and he brought out a sack. 'Rubbish,' he said. 'Not worth the stealing. Only wild roots.' But when they were washed the roots proved white and fleshy with their skins, and when boiled they were good to eat, somewhat like bread; and the outlaws were glad of them, for they had long lacked bread save when they could steal it. 'Wild Elves know them not; Grey-elves have not found them; the proud ones from over the Sea are too proud to delve,' said Mim. 'What is their name?' said Turin. Mim looked at him sidelong. 'They have no name, save in the dwarf-tongue, which we do not teach,' he said. 'And we do not teach Men to find them, for Men are greedy and thriftless, and would not spare till all the plants had perished; whereas now they pass them by as they go blundering in the wild. No more will you learn of me; but you may have enough of my bounty, as long as you speak fair and do not spy or steal.' Then again he laughed in his throat. 'They are of great worth,' he said. 'More than gold in the hungry winter, for they may be hoarded like the nuts of a squirrel, and already we were building our store from the first that are ripe. But you are fools, if you think that I would not be parted from one small load even for the saving of my life.' 'I hear you,' said Ulrad, who had looked in the sack when Mim was taken. 'Yet you would not be parted, and your words only make me wonder the more.' Mim turned and looked at him darkly. 'You are one of the fools that spring would not mourn if you perished in winter,' he said to him. 'I had spoken my word, and so must have returned, willing or not, with sack or without, let a lawless and faithless man think what he will! But I love not to be parted from my own by force of the wicked, be it no more than a shoe-thong. Do I not remember that your hands were among those that put bonds upon me, and so held me that I did not speak again with my son? Ever when I deal out the earth-bread from my store you will be counted out, and if you eat it, you shall eat by the bounty of your fellows, not of me.' Then Mim went away; but Ulrad, who had quailed under his anger, spoke to his back: 'High words! Nonetheless the old rogue had other things in his sack, of like shape but harder and heavier. Maybe there are other things beside earth-bread in the wild which Elves have not found and Men must not know!' 'That may be,' said Turin. 'Nonetheless the Dwarf spoke the truth in one point at least, calling you a fool. Why must you speak your thoughts? Silence, if fair words stick in your throat, would serve all our ends better.' The day passed in peace, and none of the outlaws desired to go abroad. Turin paced much upon the green sward of the shelf, from brink to brink; and he looked out east, and west, and north, and wondered to find how far were the views in the clear air. Northward, and seeming strangely near, he could descry the forest of Brethil climbing green about the Amon Obel. Thither he found that his eyes would stray more often than he wished, though he knew not why; for his heart was set rather to the northwest, where league upon league away on the skirts of the sky it seemed to him that he could glimpse the Mountains of Shadow and the borders of his home. But at evening Turin looked west into the sunset, as the sun rode down red into the hazes above the far distant coasts, and the Vale of Narog lay deep in the shadows between. So began the abiding of Turin son of Hurin in the halls of Mim, in Bar-en-Danwedh, the House of Ransom. For a long while the life of the outlaws went well to their liking. Food was not scarce, and they had good shelter, warm and dry, with room enough and to spare; for they found that the caves could have housed a hundred or more at need. There was another smaller hall further in. It had a hearth at one side, above which a smoke-shaft ran up through the rock to a vent cunningly hidden in a crevice on the hillside. There were also many other chambers, opening out of the halls or the passage between them, some for dwelling, some for works or for stores. In storage Mim had more arts than they, and he had many vessels and chests of stone and wood that looked to be of great age. But most of the chambers were now empty: in the armouries hung axes and other gear rusted and dusty, shelves and aumbries were bare; and the smithies were idle. Save one: a small room that led out of the inner hall and had a hearth which shared the smoke-vent of the hearth in the hall. There Mim would work at times, but would not allow others to be with him; and he did not tell of a secret hidden stair that led from his house to the flat summit of Amon Rûdh. This Androg came upon when seeking in hunger to find Mim's stores of food he became lost in the caves; but he kept this discovery to himself. During the rest of that year they went on no more raids, and if they stirred abroad for hunting or gathering of food they went for the most part in small parties. But for a long while they found it hard to retrace their road, and beside Turin not more than six of his men became ever sure of the way. Nonetheless, seeing that those skilled in such things could come to their lair without Mim's help, they set a watch by day and night near to the cleft in the north-wall. From the south they expected no enemies, nor was there fear of any climbing Amon Rûdh from that quarter; but by day there was at most times a watchman set on the top of the crown, who could look far all about. Steep as were the sides of the crown, the summit could be reached, for to the east of the cave-mouth rough steps had been hewn leading up to slopes where men could clamber unaided. So the year wore on without hurt or alarm. But as the days drew in, and the pool became grey and cold and the birches bare, and great rains returned, they had to pass more time in shelter. Then they soon grew weary of the dark under hill, or the dim half-light of the halls; and to most it seemed that life would be better if it were not shared with Mim. Too often he would appear out of some shadowy corner or doorway when they thought him elsewhere; and when Mim was near unease fell on their talk. They took to speaking ever to one another in whispers. Yet, and strange it seemed to them, with Turin it went otherwise; and he became ever more friendly with the old Dwarf, and listened more and more to his counsels. In the winter that followed he would sit for long hours with Mim, listening to his lore and the tales of his life; nor did Turin rebuke him if he spoke ill of the Eldar. Mim seemed well pleased, and showed much favour to Turin in return; him only would he admit to his smithy at times, and there they would talk softly together. But when autumn was passed the winter pressed them hard. Before Yule snow came down from the North heavier than they had known it in the river-vales; at that time, and ever the more as the power of Angband grew, the winters worsened in Beleriand. Amon Rûdh was covered deep, and only the hardiest dared stir abroad. Some fell sick, and all were pinched with hunger. In the dim dusk of a day in midwinter there appeared suddenly among them a Man, as it seemed, of great bulk and girth, cloaked and hooded in white. He had eluded their watchmen, and he walked up to their fire without a word. When men sprang up he laughed and threw back his hood, and they saw that it was Beleg Strongbow. Under his wide cloak he bore a great pack in which he had brought many things for the help of men. In this way Beleg came back to Turin, yielding to his love against his wisdom. Turin was glad indeed, for he had often regretted his stubbornness; and now the desire of his heart was granted without the need to humble himself or to yield his own will. But if Turin was glad, not so was Androg, nor some others of his company. It seemed to them that there had been a tryst between Beleg and their captain, which he had kept secret from them; and Androg watched them jealously as the two sat apart in speech together. Beleg had brought with him the Helm of Hador; for he hoped that it might lift Turin's thought again above his life in the wild as the leader of a petty company. 'This is your own which I bring back to you,' he said to Turin as he took out the helm. 'It was left in my keeping on the north-marches; but was not forgotten, I think.' 'Almost,' said Turin; 'but it shall not be so again'; and he fell silent, looking far away with the eyes of his thought, until suddenly he caught the gleam of another thing that Beleg held in his hand. It was the gift of Melian; but the silver leaves were red in the firelight, and when Turin saw the seal his eyes darkened. 'What have you there?' he said. 'The greatest gift that one who loves you still has to give,' answered Beleg. 'Here is lembas in��Elidh, the way-bread of the Eldar that no man has yet tasted.' 'The helm of my fathers I take, with good will for your keeping,' said Turin. 'But I will not receive gifts out of Doriath.' 'Then send back your sword and your arms,' said Beleg. 'Send back also the teaching and fostering of your youth. And let your men, who (you say) have been faithful, die in the desert to please your mood! Nonetheless this waybread was a gift not to you but to me, and I may do with it as I will. Eat it not, if it sticks in your throat; but others may be more hungry and less proud.' Turin's eyes glinted, but as he looked in Beleg's face the fire in them died, and they went grey, and he said in a voice hardly to be heard: 'I wonder, friend, that you deign to come back to such a churl. From you I will take whatever you give, even rebuke. Henceforward you shall counsel me in all ways, save the road to Doriath only.' CHAPTER VIII THE LAND OF BOW AND HELM In the days that followed Beleg laboured much for the good of the Company. Those that were hurt or sick he tended, and they were quickly healed. For in those days the Grey-elves were still a high people, possessing great power, and they were wise in the ways of life and of all living things; and though they were less in crafts and lore than the Exiles from Valinor they had many arts beyond the reach of Men. Moreover Beleg the Archer was great among the people of Doriath; he was strong, and enduring, and far-sighted in mind as well as eye, and at need he was valiant in battle, relying not only upon the swift arrows of his long bow, but also upon his great sword Anglachel. And ever the more did hatred grow in the heart of Mim, who hated all Elves, as has been told, and who looked with a jealous eye on the love that Turin bore to Beleg. When winter passed, and the stirring came, and the spring, the outlaws soon had sterner work to do. Morgoth's might was moved; and as the long fingers of a groping hand the forerunners of his armies probed the ways into Beleriand. Who knows now the counsels of Morgoth? Who can measure the reach of his thought, who had been Melkor, mighty among the Ainur of the Great Song, and sat now, the dark lord upon a dark throne in the North, weighing in his malice all the tidings that came to him, whether by spy or by traitor, seeing in the eyes of his mind and understanding far more of the deeds and purposes of his enemies than even the wisest of them feared, save Melian the Queen. To her often his thought reached out, and there was foiled. In this year, therefore, he turned his malice towards the lands west of Sirion, where there was still power to oppose him. Gondolin still stood, but it was hidden. Doriath he knew, but could not enter yet. Further still lay Nargothrond, to which none of his servants had yet found the way, a name of fear to them; there the people of Finrod dwelt in hidden strength. And far away from the South, beyond the white woods of the birches of Nimbrethil, from the coast of Arvernien and the mouths of Sirion, came rumour of the Havens of the Ships. Thither he could not reach until all else had fallen. So now the Orcs came down out of the North in ever greater numbers. Through Anach they came, and Dimbar was taken, and all the north-marches of Doriath were infested. Down the ancient road they came that led through the long defile of Sirion, past the isle where Minas Tirith of Finrod had stood, and so through the land between Malduin and Sirion and then on through the eaves of Brethil to the Crossings of Teiglin. Thence of old the road passed on into the Guarded Plain, and then, along the feet of the highlands watched over by Amon Rûdh, it ran down into the vale of Narog and came at last to Nargothrond. But the Orcs did not go far upon that road as yet; for there dwelt now in the wild a terror that was hidden, and upon the red hill were watchful eyes of which they had not been warned. In that spring Turin put on again the Helm of Hador, and Beleg was glad. At first their company had less than fifty men, but the woodcraft of Beleg and the valour of Turin made them seem to their enemies as a host. The scouts of the Orcs were hunted, their camps were espied, and if they gathered to march in force in some narrow place, out of the rocks or from the shadow of the trees there leaped the Dragon-helm and his men, tall and fierce. Soon at the very sound of his horn in the hills their captains would quail and the Orcs would turn to flight before any arrow whined or sword was drawn. It has been told that when Mim surrendered his hidden dwelling on Amon Rûdh to Turin and his company, he demanded that he who had loosed the arrow that slew his son should break his bow and his arrows and lay them at the feet of Khim; and that man was Androg. Then with great ill-will Androg did as Mim bade. Moreover Mim declared that Androg must never again bear bow and arrow, and he laid a curse on him, that if nevertheless he should do so, then would he meet his own death by that means. Now in the spring of that year Androg defied the curse of Mim and took up a bow again in a foray from Bar-en-Danwedh; and in that foray he was struck by a poisoned orc-arrow, and was brought back dying in pain. But Beleg healed him of his wound. And now the hatred that Mim bore to Beleg was increased still more, for he had thus undone his curse; but 'it will bite again,' he said. In that year far and wide in Beleriand the whisper went, under wood and over stream and through the passes of the hills, saying that the Bow and Helm that had fallen in Dimbar (as was thought) had arisen again beyond hope. Then many, both Elves and Men, who went leaderless, dispossessed but undaunted, remnants of battle and defeat and lands laid waste, took heart again, and came to seek the Two Captains, though where they had their stronghold none yet knew. Turin received gladly all who came to him, but by the counsel of Beleg he admitted no newcomer to his refuge upon Amon Rûdh (and that was now named Echad i Sedryn, Camp of the Faithful); the way thither only those of the Old Company knew and no others were admitted. But other guarded camps and forts were established round about: in the forest eastward, or in the highlands, or in the southward fens, from Methed-en-glad ('the End of the Wood') south of the Crossings of Teiglin to Bar-erib some leagues south of Amon Rûdh in the once fertile land between Narog and the Meres of Sirion. From all these places men could see the summit of Amon Rûdh, and by signals receive tidings and commands. In this way, before the summer had passed, the following of Turin had swelled to a great force, and the power of Angband was thrown back. Word of this came even to Nargothrond, and many there grew restless, saying that if an outlaw could do such hurt to the Enemy, what might not the Lord of Narog do. But Orodreth King of Nargothrond would not change his counsels. In all things he followed Thingol, with whom he exchanged messengers by secret ways; and he was a wise lord, according to the wisdom of those who considered first their own people, and how long they might preserve their life and wealth against the lust of the North. Therefore he allowed none of his people to go to Turin, and he sent messengers to say to him that in all that he might do or devise in his war he should not set foot in the land of Nargothrond, nor drive Orcs thither. But help other than in arms he offered to the Two Captains, should they have need (and in this, it is thought, he was moved by Thingol and Melian). Then Morgoth withheld his hand; though he made frequent feint of attack, so that by easy victory the confidence of these rebels might become overweening. As it proved indeed. For Turin now gave the name of Dor-Cuarthol to all the land between Teiglin and the west march of Doriath; and claiming the lordship of it he named himself anew, Gorthol, the Dread Helm; and his heart was high. But to Beleg it seemed now that the Helm had wrought otherwise with Turin than he had hoped; and looking into the days to come he was troubled in mind. One day as summer was wearing on he and Turin were sitting in the Echad resting after a long affray and march. Turin said then to Beleg: 'Why are you sad, and thoughtful? Does not all go well, since you returned to me? Has not my purpose proved good?' 'All is well now,' said Beleg. 'Our enemies are still surprised and afraid. And still good days lie before us �C for a while.' 'And what then?' said Turin. 'Winter,' said Beleg. 'And after that another year, for those who live to see it.' 'And what then?' 'The wrath of Angband. We have burned the fingertips of the Black Hand �C no more. It will not withdraw.' 'But is not the wrath of Angband our purpose and delight?' said Turin. 'What else would you have me do?' 'You know full well,' said Beleg. 'But of that road you have forbidden me to speak. But hear me now. A king or the lord of a great host has many needs. He must have a secure refuge; and he must have wealth, and many whose work is not in war. With numbers comes the need of food, more than the wild will furnish to hunters. And there comes the passing of secrecy. Amon Rûdh is a good place for a few �C it has eyes and ears. But it stands alone, and is seen far off; and no great force is needed to surround it �C unless a host defends it, greater far than ours is yet or than it is likely ever to be.' 'Nonetheless, I will be the captain of my own host,' said Turin; 'and if I fall, then I fall. Here I stand in the path of Morgoth, and while I so stand he cannot use the southward road.' Report of the Dragon-helm in the land west of Sirion came swiftly to the ear of Morgoth, and he laughed, for now Turin was revealed to him again, who had long been lost in the shadows and under the veils of Melian. Yet he began to fear that Turin would grow to such a power that the curse that he had laid upon him would become void, and he would escape the doom that had been designed for him, or else that he might retreat to Doriath and be lost to his sight again. Now therefore he had a mind to seize Turin and afflict him even as his father, to torment him and enslave him. Beleg had spoken truly when he said to Turin that they had but scorched the fingers of the Black Hand, and that it would not withdraw. But Morgoth concealed his designs, and for that time contented himself with the sending out of his most skilled scouts; and ere long Amon Rûdh was surrounded by spies, lurking unobserved in the wilderness and making no move against the parties of men that went in and out. But Mim was aware of the presence of Orcs in the lands about Amon Rûdh, and the hatred that he bore to Beleg led him now in his darkened heart to an evil resolve. One day in the waning of the year he told the men in Baren-Danwedh that he was going with his son Ibun to search for roots for their winter store; but his true purpose was to seek out the servants of Morgoth, and to lead them to Turin's hiding-place. * Nevertheless he attempted to impose certain conditions on the Orcs, who laughed at him, but Mim said that they knew little if they believed that they could gain anything from a Petty-dwarf by torture. Then they asked him what these conditions might be, and Mim declared his demands: that they pay him the weight in iron of each man whom they caught or slew, but of Turin and Beleg in gold; that Mim's house, when rid of Turin and his company, be left to him, and himself unmolested; that Beleg be left behind, bound, for Mim to deal with; and that Turin be let go free. To these conditions the emissaries of Morgoth readily agreed, with no intention of fulfilling either the first or the second. The Orc-captain thought that the fate of Beleg might well be left to Mim; but as to letting Turin go free, 'alive to Angband' were his orders. While agreeing to the conditions he insisted that they keep Ibun as hostage; and then Mim became afraid, and tried to back out of his undertaking, or else to escape. But the Orcs had his son, and so Mim was obliged to guide them to Bar-en-Danwedh. Thus was the House of Ransom betrayed. It has been told that the stony mass that was the crown or cap of Amon Rûdh had a bare or flattened top, but that steep as were its sides men could reach the summit by climbing a stair cut into the rock, leading up from the shelf or terrace before the entrance to Mim's house. On the summit watchmen were set, and they gave warning of the approach of the enemies. But these, guided by Mim, came onto the level shelf before the doors, and Turin and Beleg were driven back to the entrance of Bar-en-Danwedh. Some of the men who tried to climb up the steps cut in the rock were shot down by the arrows of the Orcs. Turin and Beleg retreated into the cave, and rolled a great stone across the passage. In these straits Androg revealed to them the hidden stair leading to the flat summit of Amon Rûdh which he had found when lost in the caves, as has been told. Then Turin and Beleg with many of their men went up by this stair and came out on the summit, surprising those few of the Orcs who had already come there by the outer path, and driving them over the edge. For a little while they held off the Orcs climbing up the rock, but they had no shelter on the bare summit, and many were shot from below. Most valiant of these was Androg, who fell mortally wounded by an arrow at the head of the outside stair. Then Turin and Beleg with the ten men left to them drew back to the centre of the summit, where there was a standing stone, and making a ring about it they defended themselves until all were slain save Beleg and Turin, for over them the Orcs cast nets. Turin was bound and carried off; Beleg who was wounded was bound likewise, but he was laid on the ground with wrists and ankles tied to iron pins driven in to the rock. Now the Orcs, finding the issue of the secret stair, left the summit and entered Bar-en-Danwedh, which they defiled and ravaged. They did not find Mim, lurking in his caves, and when they had departed from Amon Rûdh Mim appeared on the summit, and going to where Beleg lay prostrate and unmoving he gloated over him while he sharpened a knife. But Mim and Beleg were not the only living beings on that stony height. Androg, though himself wounded to the death, crawled among the dead bodies towards them, and seizing a sword he thrust it at the Dwarf. Shrieking in fear Mim ran to the brink of the cliff and disappeared: he fled down a steep and difficult goat's path that was known to him. But Androg putting forth his last strength cut through the wristbands and fetters that bound Beleg, and so released him; but dying he said: 'My hurts are too deep even for your healing.' CHAPTER IX THE DEATH OF BELEG Beleg sought among the dead for Turin, to bury him; but he could not discover his body. He knew then that Hurin's son was still alive, and taken to Angband; but he remained perforce in Bar-en-Danwedh until his wounds were healed. He set out then with little hope to try to find the trail of the Orcs, and he came upon their tracks near the Crossings of Teiglin. There they divided, some passing along the eaves of the Forest of Brethil towards the Ford of Brithiach, while others turned away westwards; and it seemed plain to Beleg that he must follow those that went direct with greatest speed to Angband, making for the Pass of Anach. Therefore he journeyed on through Dimbar, and up to the Pass of Anach in Ered Gorgoroth, the Mountains of Terror, and so to the highlands of Taur-nu-Fuin, the Forest under Night, a region of dread and dark enchantment, of wandering and despair. Benighted in that evil land, it chanced that Beleg saw a small light among the trees, and going towards it he found an Elf, lying asleep beneath a great dead tree: beside his head was a lamp, from which the covering had slipped off. Then Beleg woke the sleeper, and gave him lembas, and asked him what fate had brought him to this terrible place; and he named himself Gwindor, son of Guilin. Grieving Beleg looked at him, for Gwindor was but a bent and timid shadow of his former shape and mood, when in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears that lord of Nargothrond rode to the very doors of Angband, and there was taken. For few of the Noldor whom Morgoth took captive were put to death, because of their skill in mining for metals and gems; and Gwindor was not slain, but put to labour in the mines of the North. These Noldor possessed many of the Feanorian lamps, which were crystals hung in a fine chain net, the crystals being ever-shining with an inner blue radiance marvellous for finding the way in the darkness of night or in tunnels; of these lamps they themselves did not know the secret. Many of the mining Elves thus escaped from the darkness of the mines, for they were able to bore their way out; but Gwindor received a small sword from one who worked in the forges, and when working in a stone-gang turned suddenly on the guards. He escaped, but with one hand cut off; and now he lay exhausted under the great pines of Taur-nu-Fuin. From Gwindor Beleg learned that the small company of Orcs ahead of them, from whom he had hidden, had no captives, and were going with speed: an advance guard, perhaps, bearing report to Angband. At this news Beleg despaired: for he guessed that the tracks that he had seen turning away westwards after the Crossings of Teiglin were those of a greater host, who had in orc-fashion gone marauding in the lands seeking food and plunder, and might now be returning to Angband by way of 'the Narrow Land', the long defile of Sirion, much further to the west. If this were so, his sole hope lay in returning to the Ford of Brithiach, and then going north to Tol Sirion. But scarcely had he determined on this than they heard the noise of a great host approaching through the forest from the south; and hiding in the boughs of a tree they watched the servants of Morgoth pass, moving slowly, laden with booty and captives, surrounded by wolves. And they saw Turin with chained hands being driven on with whips. Then Beleg told him of his own errand in Taur-nu-Fuin; and Gwindor sought to dissuade him from his quest, saying that he would but join Turin in the anguish that awaited him. But Beleg would not abandon Turin, and despairing himself he aroused hope again in Gwindor's heart; and together they went on, following the Orcs until they came out of the forest on the high slopes that ran down to the barren dunes of the Anfauglith. There within sight of the peaks of Thangorodrim the Orcs made their encampment in a bare dale, and set wolf-sentinels all about its rim. There they fell to carousing and feasting on their booty; and after tormenting their prisoners most fell drunkenly asleep. By that time day was failing and it became very dark. A great storm rode up out of the West, and thunder rumbled far off as Beleg and Gwindor crept towards the camp. When all in the camp were sleeping Beleg took up his bow and in the darkness shot four of the wolf-sentinels on the south side, one by one and silently. Then in great peril they entered in, and they found Turin fettered hand and foot and tied to a tree. All about knives that had been cast at him by his tormentors were embedded in the trunk, but he was not hurt; and he was senseless in a drugged stupor or swooned in a sleep of utter weariness. Then Beleg and Gwindor cut the bonds from the tree, and bore Turin out of the camp. But he was too heavy to carry far, and they could go no further than to a thicket of thorn trees high on the slopes above the camp. There they laid him down; and now the storm drew nearer, and lightning flashed on Thangorodrim. Beleg drew his sword Anglachel, and with it he cut the fetters that bound Turin; but fate was that day more strong, for the blade of Eol the Dark Elf slipped in his hand, and pricked Turin's foot. Then Turin was roused into a sudden wakefulness of rage and fear, and seeing a form bending over him in the gloom with a naked blade in hand he leapt up with a great cry, believing that Orcs were come again to torment him; and grappling with him in the darkness he seized Anglachel, and slew Beleg Cuthalion thinking him a foe. But as he stood, finding himself free, and ready to sell his life dearly against imagined foes, there came a great flash of lightning above them, and in its light he looked down on Beleg's face. Then Turin stood stonestill and silent, staring on that dreadful death, knowing what he had done; and so terrible was his face, lit by the lightning that flickered all about them, that Gwindor cowered down upon the ground and dared not raise his eyes. But now in the camp beneath the Orcs were roused, both by the storm and by Turin's cry, and discovered that Turin was gone; but no search was made for him, for they were filled with terror by the thunder that came out of the West, believing that it was sent against them by the great Enemies beyond the Sea. Then a wind arose, and great rains fell, and torrents swept down from the heights of Taur-nu-Fuin; and though Gwindor cried out to Turin, warning him of their utmost peril, he made no answer, but sat unmoving and unweeping beside the body of Beleg Cuthalion, lying in the dark forest slain by his hand even as he cut the bonds of thraldom from him. When morning came the storm was passed away eastward over Lothlann, and the sun of autumn rose hot and bright; but the Orcs hating this almost as much as the thunder, and believing that Turin would have fled far from that place and all trace of his flight be washed away, they departed in haste, eager to return to Angband. Far off Gwindor saw them marching northward over the steaming sands of Anfauglith. Thus it came to pass that they returned to Morgoth empty-handed, and left behind them the son of Hurin, who sat crazed and unwitting on the slopes of Taur-nu-Fuin, bearing a burden heavier than their bonds. Then Gwindor roused Turin to aid him in the burial of Beleg, and he rose as one that walked in sleep; and together they laid Beleg in a shallow grave, and placed beside him Belthronding his great bow, that was made of black yew-wood. But the dread sword Anglachel Gwindor took, saying that it were better that it should take vengeance on the servants of Morgoth than lie useless in the earth; and he took also the lembas of Melian to strengthen them in the wild. Thus ended Beleg Strongbow, truest of friends, greatest in skill of all that harboured in the woods of Beleriand in the Elder Days, at the hand of him whom he most loved; and that grief was graven on the face of Turin and never faded. But courage and strength were renewed in the Elf of Nargothrond, and departing from Taur-nu-Fuin he led Turin far away. Never once as they wandered together on long and grievous paths did Turin speak, and he walked as one without wish or purpose, while the year waned and winter drew on over the northern lands. But Gwindor was ever beside him to guard him and guide him; and thus they passed westward over Sirion and came at length to the Beautiful Mere and Eithel Ivrin, the springs whence Narog rose beneath the Mountains of Shadow. There Gwindor spoke to Turin, saying: 'Awake, Turin son of Hurin! On Ivrin's lake is endless laughter. She is fed from crystal fountains unfailing, and guarded from defilement by Ulmo, Lord of Waters, who wrought her beauty in ancient days.' Then Turin knelt and drank from that water; and suddenly he cast himself down, and his tears were unloosed at last, and he was healed of his madness. There he made a song for Beleg, and he named it Laer Cu Beleg, the Song of the Great Bow, singing it aloud heedless of peril. And Gwindor gave the sword Anglachel into his hands, and Turin knew that it was heavy and strong and had great power; but its blade was black and dull and its edges blunt. Then Gwindor said: 'This is a strange blade, and unlike any that I have seen in Middle-earth. It mourns for Beleg even as you do. But be comforted; for I return to Nargothrond of the House of Finarfin, where I was born and dwelt before my grief. You shall come with me, and be healed and renewed.' 'Who are you?' said Turin. 'A wandering Elf, a thrall escaped, whom Beleg met and comforted,' said Gwindor. 'Yet once I was Gwindor son of Guilin, a lord of Nargothrond, until I went to the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and was enslaved in Angband.' 'Then have you seen Hurin son of Galdor, the warrior of Dor-lomin?' said Turin. 'I have not seen him,' said Gwindor. 'But the rumour runs through Angband that he still defies Morgoth; and Morgoth has laid a curse upon him and all his kin.' 'That I do believe,' said Turin. And now they arose, and departing from Eithel Ivrin they journeyed southward along the banks of Narog, until they were taken by scouts of the Elves and brought as prisoners to the hidden stronghold. Thus did Turin come to Nargothrond.