Re: fill: gen, some fili/kili: sinfully (2/2)sospesJanuary 21 2013, 23:01:40 UTC
[sloth] It’s been this way since they failed outside the gates of Moria, since Balin watched his king’s head go rolling by his feet and did nothing. He sits in the circle of the fire’s warmth and lets his brother prowl the perimeter, lets Gloin cook supper, lets Kili laugh and joke and chase Ori around the trees with his brother looking on - and all Balin does is watch and not think. He’s never tired, not anymore-how can he be tired with this eternal slowness in his heart? he never does enough to tire himself out-and he sits by the fire in the darkness of the night, still awake even though it’s not his watch and he remembers Erebor, remembers Azog, remembers that nothing gets better, that he is old and this is what Aule made him to be, that there ceased to be a point to this many years ago.
[wrath] Dwalin has seen too many friends fall with skulls split and limbs lost. He carries their names in his heart, carries them in the tattoos inked into his skin, and every time he dreams of how they cried for their mothers when the end came, he wakes with fresh rage in his heart, burning ever hotter. It consumes him, like a fire on the mountaintop, until there is no love left, not for his brother, not for his king, only the need to kill, to take revenge, to fight until there is nothing left but the fire of his anger blazing bright.
[envy] Ori has been in his brothers’ shadow all his life. Dori mothers him and Nori puts money in their pockets, and Ori is the baby, the weakling, the one who’s good with a pen but little else - and he hates it, hates it. He’s more than a child to be looked after, and when the dragon is dead and he sits down at a writing desk in the earth below Erebor, quill in hand and parchment smooth and crisp beneath his fingers, he thinks of how his brothers snatched away every chance he ever had for glory, for fame, for love. He puts pen to paper, scribbling long into the night, and he lies: he says they were cowardly and weak, says they were selfish and vain. That’s how history will remember them, and Ori condemns them with a bitter, jealous smile.
[pride] Fili knows who he is. He knows his ancestry, knows his lineage, knows everything that is his right by birth, knows that one day he will rule their people and be glorious - but still he sits with a mug of ale in his grasp, an exiled prince in a smoky tavern, and watches as his brother works his magic, one hand on a stranger’s hip, another brushing braided hair out of his eyes. It’s like a dagger in his heart, but he does nothing, says nothing. He is Durin’s heir. He will not beg, he will not bend. He will live as Thorin would want, upright and proper and loving nothing but the gold under the ground, and he will forget the jewels of Kili’s smile, the mithril of his laugh. His heart will allow him nothing else.
Re: fill: gen, some fili/kili: sinfully (2/2)sospesJanuary 22 2013, 03:01:17 UTC
Good god, this is excellent. The way you use words here is so visceral, so tearing, and I love the brief snaps of the characters you give us here. Amazing. Thank you.
Re: fill: gen, some fili/kili: sinfully (2/2)->OP HeresospesJanuary 23 2013, 09:59:14 UTC
Oh sweet Jesus how do you manage your talent? No, really, looks a full time job! I love the fic and, secretly, I was hoping for some Ori in it ... Well, dammit, in six lines you wrote a whole story for him! Ori's one is definitely my favourite! Quickly followed by Wrath&Sloth! Its all so perfect I can't even say it properly!
Re: fill: gen, some fili/kili: sinfully (2/2)->OP HeresospesJanuary 23 2013, 13:45:26 UTC
Oh, thank you, OP, I'm so glad you liked it! I really love this kind of fic, and so your prompt just made me really happy. And I bet Ori has a he'll of a wicked side... :D Thank you!
It’s been this way since they failed outside the gates of Moria, since Balin watched his king’s head go rolling by his feet and did nothing. He sits in the circle of the fire’s warmth and lets his brother prowl the perimeter, lets Gloin cook supper, lets Kili laugh and joke and chase Ori around the trees with his brother looking on - and all Balin does is watch and not think. He’s never tired, not anymore-how can he be tired with this eternal slowness in his heart? he never does enough to tire himself out-and he sits by the fire in the darkness of the night, still awake even though it’s not his watch and he remembers Erebor, remembers Azog, remembers that nothing gets better, that he is old and this is what Aule made him to be, that there ceased to be a point to this many years ago.
[wrath]
Dwalin has seen too many friends fall with skulls split and limbs lost. He carries their names in his heart, carries them in the tattoos inked into his skin, and every time he dreams of how they cried for their mothers when the end came, he wakes with fresh rage in his heart, burning ever hotter. It consumes him, like a fire on the mountaintop, until there is no love left, not for his brother, not for his king, only the need to kill, to take revenge, to fight until there is nothing left but the fire of his anger blazing bright.
[envy]
Ori has been in his brothers’ shadow all his life. Dori mothers him and Nori puts money in their pockets, and Ori is the baby, the weakling, the one who’s good with a pen but little else - and he hates it, hates it. He’s more than a child to be looked after, and when the dragon is dead and he sits down at a writing desk in the earth below Erebor, quill in hand and parchment smooth and crisp beneath his fingers, he thinks of how his brothers snatched away every chance he ever had for glory, for fame, for love. He puts pen to paper, scribbling long into the night, and he lies: he says they were cowardly and weak, says they were selfish and vain. That’s how history will remember them, and Ori condemns them with a bitter, jealous smile.
[pride]
Fili knows who he is. He knows his ancestry, knows his lineage, knows everything that is his right by birth, knows that one day he will rule their people and be glorious - but still he sits with a mug of ale in his grasp, an exiled prince in a smoky tavern, and watches as his brother works his magic, one hand on a stranger’s hip, another brushing braided hair out of his eyes. It’s like a dagger in his heart, but he does nothing, says nothing. He is Durin’s heir. He will not beg, he will not bend. He will live as Thorin would want, upright and proper and loving nothing but the gold under the ground, and he will forget the jewels of Kili’s smile, the mithril of his laugh. His heart will allow him nothing else.
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I love the fic and, secretly, I was hoping for some Ori in it ... Well, dammit, in six lines you wrote a whole story for him! Ori's one is definitely my favourite! Quickly followed by Wrath&Sloth!
Its all so perfect I can't even say it properly!
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