|will-o'the-wisp|

careful where i lead you-

[beleriand-rhapsody]

[introduction]

elen síla, fellow tumblr wanderer!

i go by lune, and this is where i put all my tolkien related stuff. i post poetry, headcanons, fanart, memes, etc, plus the occasional bits and pieces straight from my dysfunctional brain. yes my focus tends to amble around a lot. send me an ask anytime for requests, or for whatever reason you want to talk to me.

hey, and if you've got nothing better to do, maybe you could check out my main acc(@found-cause)!

[beleriand-rhapsody]

a little celegorm cosplay

might delete

[beleriand-rhapsody]

It’s a fine-looking day. To be precise, it’s a fine-looking beginning of a day. A Good Morning, so to say.

And if this is the correct fandom, one would likely expect a certain quote to come to mind at the previous statement… so how could I not specify? By a Good Morning, I am referring to the present occasion in which the sunshine is as radiant as Finrod.

Cutting to the chase; enter our heroine. Effortlessly blond with curls worth an hour spent ironing, Finrod is sprinting down the block like a college student late for his favorite lecture. Which he is. Not because of the curls as one might deduce- there’s this thing called natural beauty- but only since his dreams were reluctant to lose him to wakefulness.

Late!! Late late late-

Bits of sleep are still clinging to his mind even as he dashes to cut through the green, tries to thread an arm into his jacket sleeve, and glances at his phone screen simultaneously. Until distant shouts and a sudden, full-body slam in the side has him wide awake in a flash.

“Heel, boy, HEEL- WOAHHH!”

After a precarious second of gravity doing its job, Finrod finds himself crashing to the ground. An overlarge, ruffled-up dog joins him shortly.

“Damn, Huan,” wheezes a guy holding the leash as he brushes himself off from the grass. “I think I said heel… man. Dog’s gone batshit crazy. M’bad.” He glances over at Finrod groaning beneath the furry mass, scratching the bridge of his nose. The added apology sounds rather like an afterthought.

Finrod stands up gingerly, checking his bones and- most importantly- his phone. Nothing broken. Well that’s good, at least… The offending dog sniffs his jacket and gives a bark, tail becoming semi-invisible in motion. Heartrate subsiding slowly, he turns his attention to the dog owner. Silver strands tumble down over translucent cheekbones, giving off an air almost straight out of some celtic myth. The effect is somewhat ruined by the impatient flicker of his gaze.

“No, it’s fine,” he breathes. A tendon stands up in the guy’s forearm as he forcibly retrieves Huan, and Finrod wishes he could rewind that part to play it at 0.5x speed. The class is nowhere near his priority list now, to be sure. He’s still feeling off his balance and lightheaded… from the fall. Yes, definitely that. Thus it’s said off-balanced lightheadedness speaking and not his unstoppable mouth when he says; “Some meet-cute situation, huh.”

“Eh, but like, with you and my dog.” The reply comes with a slightly confused shrug. Finrod winces. Note to self: think before you speak. Especially half-baked pickup lines.

“Yeah- uhm, right.”

…..

“Well, I gotta go to class-“ “If you’re alright, then-“

Words collide and Finrod reflexively swallows the rest of the sentence. The guy scrubs the back of his neck, fiddles with the leash once, then moves to take a step backwards with some muttered words he didn’t quite catch. Finrod shuffles toward his way as well.

But before either of them could depart with the interaction left to fester in Finrod’s mind, Huan snags the jacket slung over his arm as he brushes past. With a muffled bark he breaks into a full-speed run, dragging his curse-spluttering owner behind through the streets, while Finrod stares bemused.

“Hm- HUAN, I swear to god, what the hell is wrong with you?! Bad boy! STOP! HEEL!!” Bellowed commands come floating back, along with a “I’ll- god fucking- NO, HUAN!! Oof, I’LL GIVE IT BACK LATER!!”

And if he’s being honest, Finrod can swear he saw Huan glancing back before rounding the corner, and that he winked at him.

[beleriand-rhapsody]

drips against the floor, wet and crude. another sequence of sounds that preludes a drab afternoon spent scrubbing stains off floors. the effort spent in eradication of that aftermath is ridiculously puny compared to the implications of the crime itself; kano muses.

he doesn't deign to rise from the couch and face the source of the sound. perhaps experience, perhaps something more wry and gnarly. perhaps he's simply beyond caring about that slim chance that it might be a homicidal home intruder, instead of the banal presence of his brother.

said banal presence grunts faintly. booted steps thud softly as they approach the main area through the air curtain, testament to unusual fatigue. the air curtain machinery whirls in indignance, vainly trying to rid his grimy garb of whatever impurities banned from entering the apartment. over my dead body, kano imagines its screech. as if there are not enough of those slumped over in the redheaded mercenary's wake.

he hears rustles from the kitchenette as his brother rummages around- presumably- for an edible bite. he can get the precise time before his inevitable disappointment down to the second- fifteen, sixteen, seventeen; there it is. he'd inventoried the entire pantry enough times, after all. there's nothing better to do in the house in the bleak daylight hours; not since he traded his electric lyre for a handful of credits.

not that things are much different when dusk comes creeping in along with his brother, save that his lethargy is now stretched thin and quavering, blurring the discriminating line from, say, a bad case of nerves.

the footsteps turn toward the couch, a notch heavier with pent-up frustration now. kano lets out a long, inaudible exhale, a cowardly version of a sigh. still he keeps his gaze directed forward, stubbornly holding onto the illusion of a dividing wall. he hopes the subtle twitch of his fingers against the armrest goes unnoticed as the stale tang of copper assaults his nose- most likely not.

"in the oven, wirebrain," he mutters, voice tacky with dried-up venom rather out of context. for a petulant moment, he hopes the tone hits home.

"-i was about to ask if you had dinner yet," comes the grated reply.

in his mind flashes images of hands- or rather, one hand and one deathtrap of plasma feigning nonchalance- with bits of charred myofiber and membrane sticking to them. the same ones, deployed to pick up utensils that cut synth-beef and flatbread.

his thoughts are interrupted by a clatter of something against the coffee table; the familiar sound of encrypted credit chips.

bloodied, thrice washed and untrackable, so dreadfully philistine-

kano clenches his trembling fingers into a fist.

[beleriand-rhapsody]

today i'm thinking about how prudish elves are, and how it strangely makes sense.

just imagine. you live forever and you're eternally pretty for that lifetime. if you're not inherently coded and societally bound to love only one person platonically(until you get married, that is), chaos might happen...

like, what if your daughter-in-law is super cute and you get swept into a whirwind romance? what if your grandchild has a friend and he's got eyes for you? what if you somehow get yourself a total of twenty six lovers of varying degrees of intimacy during your lifetime, and have twenty five divorces accordingly? and what if your ex partner decides to get together with your son from another ex marriage?

[beleriand-rhapsody]

me getting out my electric guitar after months of neglect

[beleriand-rhapsody]

at least to me, elrond is the key character of the saga as a whole- the silmarillion, the hobbit, and the lord of the rings.

he's the son of the hero. he loses his mother because of a silmaril, and gains two father figures. in the end, the three silmarils share a fate with each of his three fathers. his brother becomes the king of numenor, which is to be the greatest and the most influential kingdom of men.

he's the sole heir of gondolin, and to him goes glorfindel's allegiance; the balrog slayer reincarnated and returning from the blessed lands. in him lives on fingolfin, turgon, idril, tuor, melian, luthien, and beren.

he's there when sauron returns, and he's there in the thick of battle against his might. he's the herald of the high king, and to him is entrusted one of the three elven rings. he witnesses isildur taking the one ring.

he's the one pointing thorin and his company toward the halls of their fathers and the arkenstone, and his house- the last homely house, the last refuge and place of healing- is where bilbo wishes to return to after a long lifetime.

he fosters the line of his brother; the mortal children who would become chieftains of their people- one of which helps save the world and becomes king.

he shelters frodo, and he directs the one ring to be destroyed. in his house was coordinated the fellowship, and it is where they set out on their journey to mordor.

with his passing ends the age of the elves. a new chapter begins, where the narrative pen comes to a halt. with his passing ends the tale.

[beleriand-rhapsody]

The city rains neon.

Lines and lines of vibrant heresy over the dark; unapologetic lacerations scissored between monoliths. The vertical roads connect the many levels of the city beneath the dome looming somber overhead, buzzing with traffic even at the late hour- perhaps more so, now that the nightlife comes to take over the city. Tonight, Tyelko is one of said nightlife as well. His electrocycle is a streak of cunning momentum, a hull of black highlighted with green that almost screams obscene. His lip curls in satisfaction-

Another swerve to avoid barreling into a car headfirst. It honks outragedly as it whizzes past him; but nothing ever hits him squarely in the chest. Handles gripped tighter under gloves, the familiar acceleration blurring landscapes. This is why he can't give up these reckless late night excursions, this thrill of being the only point of clarity among the haze. A sentiment apparently not shared by his more sensible brother.

"That your preferred method of fucking suicide?!"

Curufinwe bellows from the opposite line- because yes, he's riding on the wrong side of the road, the sole occupant moving upward in a descending line of traffic. His brother, of course, is not one for such stunts, although his cycle is also at breakneck speed to match Tyelko's.

"Come on, no one's gonna die," he yells back, voice straining over the rush of wind, "unless your cowardly ass decides to tell on Nelyo!"

Curvo snorts, or so he imagines he would be doing under the sleek helmet. The silver-lined cycle veers closer to his own, aligning side by side with the guardrail between them.

"So you do have the cognitive capacity to predict negative outcomes of your actions. Interesting."

His brother snipes back tersely, shoulders stiffening as Tyelko's electrocycle dodges yet another car. He barks a laugh at that, a feral sound.

"Who said I'm the one that's gonna die! I was talking more about me wringing your neck after that, but yeah, whatever you want to think."

[beleriand-rhapsody]

the reason why ecthelion's name in particular is a battle cry, is that glorfindel has returned to endore and made it a fashion statement- and of course all the elves of rivendell just had to copy.

[beleriand-rhapsody]

carrot-thir.

carrot-thir.

CARROT-THIR.

[beleriand-rhapsody]

[poetry]

Narsilion

In night you will dance

blind to the starlight

Led like birches in wind

your sighs naught but breath

Ere the last step

fade will the stars bright

Chase as you may

they will scatter to death

Then you will weep

bewildered and lost

for how could you dance

when the breeze, too, departs?

Fleet steps will halt

every move now with cost,

every young song of birds

rings hollow in hearts-

-echo they shall

in the hollow like skies

Only then will you see

stars are ever but made

O heart, skies, and void!

Gladly fine-tune the cries

to which you will dance

Anew, yet afraid

[beleriand-rhapsody]

today I'm thinking about how fingon put several dozen arrows in glaurung's scaly ass, and how maedhros gave him a dragon helm.

[beleriand-rhapsody]

Ar-Pharazôn ought to be reduced to Ar-Pha, since evidently, él no tiene razón.

[beleriand-rhapsody]

[poetry]

letterbottle

Truth, abrupt with a face ever bland

long have you bided to piece severance

will you now lift up a mirror-planed lure

as wondering sunbeams fall shattering, vain?

brazenly vague, let my eyes pay tribute

and venture with tentative steps in a trance

will you now reach out with fingertips cold,

as closed around wrist, sodden will they do drain?

with vengeance you pull, as if there is a cause

for torrent and thrash, this bewildered penance

will you now reel in and fall against skin

as blades may recede but the lesions remain?

have i had words, I would name you a ruse

-a sail torn, estranged when the birds fly askance

as you now reign over muted translucence

will saltwater ripple through hollowed-out vein?

[beleriand-rhapsody]

everyone needs a fingon to make their day.

[beleriand-rhapsody]

[poetry]

Forgery

Strokes of fate fall languidly

like swings of hammer dense,

if fate indeed they are and not

my patient threads' pretense

Exquisite do they glint, discreet

as burnished wire caressed

yet in the dim of night they loop

with serpentine finesse

Cordial, my palm upturned,

a flame that courts the lead-

your silver hand with fingers curled

around what you shall cede

to me, the gift you not yet know,

in luscious dreams i held

one day cut out of my design

that tampered tears will meld

Only then will you look down

into the goblet's dredges,

and find my gaze has ever been

a tad blurred at the edges

The softest of the whispers hides

the sharpest of derision

Come, golden-edged nausea of

inaccurate precision

So count your pride, the motes of sand,

rub raw the skin they may

yet when artful treachery does snap

alongside vertebrae,

then faced with hate, my scalding want

will trickle down in glass;

in mire- Ah, to my heart's desire

and mold to my morass

[beleriand-rhapsody]

makalaure is maglor.

tyelkormo is celegorm.

carnistir is caranthir.

yes, but how about morifinwe?

morfin?

now i need a crackfic about modern caranthir running a drug cartel and provide city(tuna?) with morphine and all its likes. pretty sure he'd be damn good at it.