Instant drabbling...
More instant drabbling... me, Juno, Aranel, Arandil, Isil Elensar, Narwen, and Ann!
Proof - Theme: Lightfoot. Autumn, worth, extension, headstrong.
Lightfoot had been given to him when he had returned: worth a king’s ransom. While his Riders whispered curiously about his dark-haired queen, Thengel trained the headstrong foal.
It was as if he had to prove himself all over again, prove that he was fit to be their king. And on the autumn day he and the colt moved like seamless extensions of each other, with everyone watching, he knew he had succeeded. His people believed in him again.
He would go to Morwen in his winter years, but it was Lightfoot to whom he owed his summer and his people’s loyalty.
Reality - Theme: Celebrimbor. Wandered, idolized, histories
Every day, at Már-in-Curulië, he watched her. What life did you live here, he thought silently, as we wandered about Ennor?
For she was not the person his father (and the uncles he once idolized) had told him of: the broken wife, the mother who turned her back, the woman who abandoned her family.
Our histories were written by the victors, Celebrimbor mused, flattening a piece of mithril tissue-thin, and on the other side of the sea, he was the victor.
But which person, he wondered later, as twilight flitted about corners like spirits flying from Mandos, truly won here?
Momentary - Theme: Boromir. Pair, follow, watch.
Note: This is the First Age Boromir, the great-grandson of Bëor the Old.
His hair is unkempt, obscuring most of his face, but his eyes are bright, dark, and knowing. Looks up at the sky, sees the time, and smiles. Holds a finger to his lips: Quiet.
A beckon. Follow.
Running down the deer trail, slipping through the knobby, prickly pines, and into a hidden glade where the weak winter sunlight filters through the trees, throwing jagged shadows on the half-melted snow and wet earth.
He stops and points. Watch.
The sun breaks through the trees, illuminating a single white flower. And the Elf thinks, Perhaps these mortals know something we do not.
Proof - Theme: Lightfoot. Autumn, worth, extension, headstrong.
Lightfoot had been given to him when he had returned: worth a king’s ransom. While his Riders whispered curiously about his dark-haired queen, Thengel trained the headstrong foal.
It was as if he had to prove himself all over again, prove that he was fit to be their king. And on the autumn day he and the colt moved like seamless extensions of each other, with everyone watching, he knew he had succeeded. His people believed in him again.
He would go to Morwen in his winter years, but it was Lightfoot to whom he owed his summer and his people’s loyalty.
Reality - Theme: Celebrimbor. Wandered, idolized, histories
Every day, at Már-in-Curulië, he watched her. What life did you live here, he thought silently, as we wandered about Ennor?
For she was not the person his father (and the uncles he once idolized) had told him of: the broken wife, the mother who turned her back, the woman who abandoned her family.
Our histories were written by the victors, Celebrimbor mused, flattening a piece of mithril tissue-thin, and on the other side of the sea, he was the victor.
But which person, he wondered later, as twilight flitted about corners like spirits flying from Mandos, truly won here?
Momentary - Theme: Boromir. Pair, follow, watch.
Note: This is the First Age Boromir, the great-grandson of Bëor the Old.
His hair is unkempt, obscuring most of his face, but his eyes are bright, dark, and knowing. Looks up at the sky, sees the time, and smiles. Holds a finger to his lips: Quiet.
A beckon. Follow.
Running down the deer trail, slipping through the knobby, prickly pines, and into a hidden glade where the weak winter sunlight filters through the trees, throwing jagged shadows on the half-melted snow and wet earth.
He stops and points. Watch.
The sun breaks through the trees, illuminating a single white flower. And the Elf thinks, Perhaps these mortals know something we do not.