there are some hurts that go too deep; that have taken hold.
It is the shield-arm that is maimed; but the chief evil comes through the sword-arm. In that there now seems no life, although it is unbroken.
Written for terrifying tolkien week. Contains hallucinations and self-mutilation. Sorry Eowyn.
There are no dreams. Above all, it is never a dream.
She keeps a vial of athelas with her at all times, and at
the worst moment she uncaps it with practiced fingers to crush a leaf under her
nose. It’s so little, but it helps. All she has left are the little things.
Sometimes her body gets so cold she thinks she will shatter
by moving. The dull, bone-deep ache in her shield arm returns, familiar and
manageable. That wound she can bear.
“My arm is not alive.” She speaks aloud to the darkness as
her husband sleeps beside her. She hasn’t been sleeping. Not for a long time.
Faramir wakes at the sound of her voice, blinking but
quickly alert. It’s a skill he needed, one which kept him alive. Now it has
become yet another scar. He looks from her eyes to the pale hand resting on the
bedcovers, folded as neatly. “What are you saying?”
“It’s dead,” she tries again. “The flesh, it isn’t mine. It
went cold the day that I—that day.”
Faramir takes her hand in his, and he kisses her fingers,
her palm, her veins. “It’s only the night’s chill,” he murmurs into your skin.
“I can feel your warmth. Your pulse.”
It’s not my pulse, she
wants to say. There’s something else moving
A lifesaver for anyone who’s ever copped a steal at a market only to find their 50p holy grail roll like a wave machine when played back at home, Canadian audio company TTW developed an outer periphery record clamp back a few years back to flatten warped records and reduce any unwanted distortion.
Yet, until now, the size of the ring had meant that it was not possible to use…
Sometimes I’m walking along the street and a shaft of sunlight falls in a certain way across the pavement and I just wanna cry. And then a second later, it’s over. I decide, because I’m an adult, to not succumb to the momentary melancholy.
TERRIFYING TOLKIEN WEEK 4/?: T H E P A T H S O F T H E D E A D
The Paths of the Dead was a haunted pass through the White Mountains and the route by which Aragorn traveled from Rohan to Gondor. When Sauron attacked Gondor in S.A. 3429 and Isildur called upon the Men of the Mountains to honor their oath, they refused. Isildur then cursed them and their king, proclaiming that they would have no rest until the oath was fulfilled. The Men of the Mountains fled before Isildur’s wrath, hid in the mountains away from other men, and dwindled away. Thereafter their haunts, the hill of Erech and the Paths of the Dead, became places of terror to living men. [x]
OK, so real talk. I have been putting off reading The Trouble With Faking It (TumblrFFAo3) because it had been getting such wild, flailing reviews that I had to wait until the stars were properly aligned to give it my due attention.
I JUST READ 20 CHAPTERS IN 1 SITTING AND I AM EMOTIONALLY COMPROMISED. I was not ready. I am so engrossed. My chest actually felt pangs. My legs actually felt wobbles. Audible, very inhuman sounds escaped my lips.
I know I am super late to the game, but if you are not reading TTWFI you are completely missing out. This is not just me fangirl flailing over good fic (its that too, but still). This is quality writing, exceptional characterization and compelling, dynamic storytelling at is best. nowforruin you are a gift and a treasure. Please never stop.
Lammoth was a shoreland region far to the northwest of Beleriand. It was where Ungoliant set upon Morgoth to attempt to gain the Silmarils. As Morgoth was being strangled he cried out in anguish and the echos of this shout remained in the land thereafter. [x]