ar lma-vandá enyalaz

archived.

[griefsung-archived]

uhhh mags is now back on my multi @saovaene

[griefsung-archived]

src

[meetsorcerya]

HE IS NO STRANGER TO THIS when had he first felt the burn of flames licking across his skin? at his grandfather's knee, watching the steel be tempered, watching the blade be formed, the metal red hot and seeming so soft beneath the hammer blows, bending, but still, never breaking. he can still hear it, the sizzle of the quench, the spit of the oil when the sword falls in. his hand, small as a fig, just as soft, having not yet grown the callouses of a sword hand, how he'd reached for the blade and felt the heat send shivers like a heartbeat across his skin.

hands, trembling and perfect pressed to heated skin, stuttering along burns emblazoned into flesh, how their song falls over him like silk against skin. aching to return that tenderness, the first lick of flame across him and it had felt, for the barest moment like a homecoming, easy as answering the call of your name. for all that he's left bits and pieces of himself strewn along dirt roads and in village gutters this he holds onto, when he's long since left his identity drifting along in some stream - lost. philanthropist of self, his mud caked titles and names, his patchwork living, little by little he's unraveled himself with his own hands, and here, these dying bits of personhood respond with an old longing. kindness, like new sprouts pushing through soil.

tell me, like an overburdened leaf, wet with morning dew, bowing to the weight of a new day, have you learned like i have, that you must bend before you break? does the dew dry all at once?

their song and it feels like the burbling of a brook, quiet and self contained, as if any jubilance that was once felt must be harvested. sat here, soothed, and what kind of beast is he, that music affects him this way? and what kind of beast is he, here and dreaming of blood? wondering if he'll leave the space rust stained. bloody. if it will just be wyll asking, how much blood is too much? a pint in the stomach will make you sick he knows, he's experienced it, but a few drops here, there, will that ruin the softness? will that stain the cotton? how many people, good, bad, how many people rest their heads on bloody pillows and sleep well?

his hand, unshaking, catching the threads of shadow and moonlight spilled around him like ink, or the first edges of an oil spilled night. the strands are fine and soft against his skin, and he's careful, so careful not to pull, not to tug, already, always, feeling something of a bumbling fool in his eyes. as maglor so carefully wove a healing into song, wyll threads their hair back, tucking it into the heavy plait it's fallen from.

❛ thank you, ❜ his voice hushed, all subdued adoration. as if he’d had to wrestle it back to its place, as if it’s a creature that must be tamed. meeting their stare and smiling, if slightly rueful, self-deprecation twisted round like the roots of some young tree. ❛ i'm no stranger to scars, but, i hope my luck holds. a scar is only as wanted as it's story is entertaining. and i think, this story hasn't nearly enough magma mephits or elementals to be worth the time. ❜

[griefsung-archived]

THERE IS AN ACHE TO TENDERNESS. as if he were splitting flesh, reopening scars, baring that fresh, day-old skin that burns at every touch, if only to draw from somewhere long forgotten what it means to be gentle. it bursts forth naturally, yet comes from so deep within, so buried, it has to carve its way through a whole age written unto his body. the music is easy. even the dressing of a wound, albeit less so, when trying to guard his senses, his inner eye. trying not to think of the blinding pain, sea-salt lapping at his melted hands. to be cleansed does hurt so very much.

but it is the touch that has them halt. barely a brush, not even touching their skin. the smallest shift in the weight of their hair as a piece of it is returned to its place. they look up and for a moment it isn't wyll before them but little atarinkë. laurë, he demands, laurë, hold still. the voice is so clear in their head, their breath gets caught in their throat, and though it fades quickly as it came, it takes a moment for maglor to recover, to hear what the other had said.

❛ every story is worth its time. ❜ the objection comes in equal quiet. the elf looks over their finished work, then up to wyll's eyes, which albeit of a similar hue, seem so much brighter than their own. younger, yet knowing. ❛ and some scars with great stories become only a mark of regret. ❜ they smile faintly. ❛ but let us hope. and this one will pass and be forgotten. ❜

the night seems heavier for the absence of song, and the elf has reached his soothing's end. after all, that is all he knows: to draw music and blood. he retreats, kneels to rinse his hands in a small basin and tries to understand what tenderness is again. he looks at wyll and sees no beast but something valiant and almost familiar, uncertain what a friend is but knowing he might've once liked to be his.

❛ stay, if you like, til morning. i shall guard your rest. ❜ a laughable thought perhaps, to some, from one marked by age, whose garments are little in the way of protective. whose long, slender sword seems glued to its sheath with time. he offers with an open chest, tender still from moments of kindness.

[aamuusva]

Kinslayer

[griefsung-archived]

on a whole, i'm not a fan of sprinkling random quenya / sindarin into reply dialogue, since in my head the whole conversation is usually held in that language anyway. i will do it if the conversation is explicitly held in another language, and i want to emphasise the quenya use of a word, for example.

but i can't resist a good old atya/amya. it's just too good

[griefsung-archived]

i won't abandon you again. / this one also. fëanor again <3

HIS KNEES ACHE, the cold of the stone below seeping into his flesh, claiming him whole, until he does not even feel the chill any longer, does not know himself shivering, a leaf in the winds. after decades in a golden cage under ereinion's watchful eye, the cold is a small price to pay for the wind on his face. an hour has passed since sunset, and by now night's veil has fallen over ost-in-edhil, crowned in the many flickering lights of the city below. the horizon is calm, obscured by hill and forest, with even the elven eye halted at the great shores beyond. there is naught to observe, naught more than the ascent of the moon, pale and slim in the sky. still the noldo's eyes are trained west, and were it not for his tremble, in the dark some might think him a statue, staring relentlessly at nothing at all.

suddenly, something steals the moonlight. something, no, someone has stepped in front of him. someone calls his name. not in sindarin, not his name in these hither lands, nor even the quenya cadence of the settlers. no, the old name, spoken with the touch of one who himself crafted its cadence. kanafinwë heeds the call and knows even before he lifts his eyes who stands before him.

he whispers, ❛ my ... ❜ the word does not come. king? the crown is long gone. its sister sits upon ereinion's brow, yet its true self was lost with his uncle. lord? they are but shadows, without people nor possession, no land or home. almost involuntarily, kanafinwë bends low, their hair, once lush and dark as night now mattened and threaded with white, falling at the sides of their face, shielding them. ❛ atya, ❜ is the only word they can find, older than the city beneath them, than the moon in the skies. because there stands their father whose flame still burns. their father who is myth, beacon, rock, horror, god. their father who is the only one left.

makalaurë knows he ought to rise. he must, he must, lest he prove himself no different than the despairing wreck upon the shores, a century ago. how does one ghost honour another? ( part of him dares not look up, dares not see whatever awaits in his father's eyes. where fury would wound, pain might cleave his heart in two. ) it takes a long moment until they gather enough strength to push themself to their feet, only to fall, without any remnant of grace, into their father's arms. ❛ i thought i would never see you again. ❜ suddenly, they become very small. for a moment they are an elfling again in a vision so lifelike they smell the bloom of laurelin-- it falls as quickly as it came.

i won't abandon you again, father says, a promise like a soothing balm over their heart worn raw, a shielding hand. if they know only one truth, it is that curufinwë fëanáro is a man of his word.

❛ ai, ❜ they choke against his chest, fingers thick with scars digging deep into fabric and flesh, ❛ what is to become of us? i feel i've become a wraith; how weary i am. forgive me, forgive me, forgive me ... ❜ the shiver returns violently, yet he does not weep. clinging still to fëanáro's robes, his voice becomes naught more than a mournful whisper. ❛ i want to go home. to amya. ❜

MONSTRILIO

[griefsung-archived]

happy sunday.

k.áno isn't very sexual in exile (too busy losing his mind + justifying endless slaughter to himself somehow), but was more free about it in aman, but mostly so post-transition, still demisexual though. they're the submissive type, very gentle and giving, lots of worship, but certainly a playful streak (will be a brat). no particular preference as to which person does the penetration if there is any. elven endurance and very skilled fingers & tongue, need i say more.

[sweatermuppet]

daily tasks are: wake up haunted, get sick, wallow, memory loss, grief, get sick, do the dishes

[mandhos]

without context, he may be killing orcs or extended family, you never know

[maatimo]

He pictures himself with their soft-spoken offer. Those long, fiery locks that Káno's small fingers used to comb through in the days of bliss, babbling about something or other in delight, insisting that he could tie up Maimo's hair "good and proper" to keep it out of his way whilst he was with their father in the forge. He smiles at the thought, his gaze absent and empty as the small quirk of amusement pulls the corner of his lips up.

He has a wound on his face, he remembers, that hasn't healed quite right, so the smile hurts. He drops it.

He imagines himself looking like a Man, those who take so little pleasure in pleating and braiding it out of the way instead of shearing it off at the first sign of filth and damage. It is humbling, in a way; never did he think himself invincible but it would almost have been a mercy to die chained to that rock, to grow old and feeble and let his corpse feed the vultures. Men have that privilege of passing on that he and his kind do not.

I can shave it, Kanafinwë offers, and even though that's for the best he feels something twist in his gut. It isn't even vanity or pride that makes him hesitate, it is the idea of losing yet more parts of himself.

"Shave it," he asks softly, feeling some comfort at the idea that it is Makalaurë doing this and not the others. He wouldn't dream of demanding this of the twins, or even Turcafinwë or Morifinwë or Curufinwë. There are things they should not be exposed to.

Even so, it pains him to demand this of Kanafinwë. It is almost as if he is pleading with them to relieve him of the other hand.

"I can't stand how it touches my neck and my ears," he confesses with a degree of frustration, tinged with both grief and revulsion as it leaves his sore throat. He considers asking them to leave some length up top, but that feels too raw, as well. "It disgusts me. Take it off," he asks, and adds another; "Please," as if it would make it easier.

"I want to be able to look at myself again."

[griefsung-archived]

IN THE MIRROR'S ABSENCE, and standing behind him to swipe cuttings of hair from his brother's shoulder, he misses the smile and its disappearance alike. had he witnessed it, makalaurë might not have known what to make of it. he who once thought to know his dearest brother well now feels far removed from understanding him.

there are many things in nelyafinwë's voice then, revealing perhaps more than ever he has about his fëa's state since his return. what before they only ever read in his eyes, in the asking itself, now clearly lines the decisive demand. it melts away all hesitancy, any concern over how more ghostly, hollowed, he would appear with his hair shorn so short one could see the skin of his scalp. it is all suddenly left by the wayside, if only to relieve maimo of this ache. in so many things he stands helplessly by; this at the very least he can do for him.

kanafinwë obliges not his king, but his brother, whose hunched position almost makes him look even smaller. ❛ then let us be rid of it all. ❜ they trade their scissors for a smaller, sharper pair of shears. the silence grows oppressive even to makalaurë then, though they take care to work as quickly as possible without nicking his skin. a thinner, final layer of croppings settles around them. when they step around to look at him from the front, something shifts in the dark of their eyes.

❛ it's all gone now, nelyo, ❜ he tells him softly, glad to finally disturb the silence again, though he cannot quite keep the faintly fatigued smile from colouring his voice a slightly higher hue. ❛ you may look, if you wish. ❜ as if to give him privacy, káno averts his eyes, sets down the shears and wipes over his hands, his garment, sending a quiet scatter of hair like snowfall to the ground.

❛ what should be done with it? ❜ they seek maitimo's eyes then, uncertain of what the answer will be. yet they must ask, if only to give him some semblance of agency.

[cuthalions]

Maedhros answered: ‘But how shall our voices reach to Ilúvatar beyond the Circles of the World? And by Ilúvatar we swore in our madness, and called the Everlasting Darkness upon us, if we kept not our word. Who shall release us?’ ‘If none can release us,’ said Maglor, ‘then indeed the Everlasting Darkness shall be our lot, whether we keep our oath or break it; but less evil shall we do in the breaking.’ Yet he yielded at last to the will of Maedhros, and they took counsel together how they should lay hands on the Silmarils. [...] But the jewel burned the hand of Maedhros in pain unbearable; and he perceived that it was as Eönwë had said, and that his right thereto had become void, and that the oath was vain. And being in anguish and despair he cast himself into a gaping chasm filled with fire, and so ended; and the Silmaril that he bore was taken into the bosom of the Earth. And it is told of Maglor that he could not endure the pain with which the Silmaril tormented him; and he cast it at last into the Sea, and thereafter he wandered ever upon the shores, singing in pain and regret beside the waves.

— THE SILMARILLION, CH. 24: OF THE VOYAGE OF EÄRENDIL AND THE WAR OF WRATH (insp. by middle-earth-mythopoeia)

[maatimo]

The reflection which stares back at him in the small, smudged mirror is a strange, dead man. This man's eyes are hollow and lifeless, and he has to look at the consistency of the blinks to remind himself that they are his. He squints a little, turning his head to and fro and tilting it like some perplexed, maimed animal. This cannot be the same Nelyafinwë known for his prowess and beauty, can it? This thing looking back at him looks like a specter.

He reaches up to feel his own face, streaked with scars and drained of its blush, only to be met with an absence of touch before he remembers that his right hand is gone. Ah, he thinks, I will have to get used to that.

His brother remains by his side like always and aids him in any way he knows how. Makalaurë says nothing so as to not speak to soon, or too harshly, or to hurt his feelings; he is diligent and careful as a good brother would be. Nelyafinwë finds the silence oppressive and nauseating, the repetitive snip snip snip of the scissors even more so. He half wants to shear his scalp clean, half wants to ask them to stop cutting the matted, filthy mess of hair so that he can at least pretends to look somewhat like his old self.

He puts the mirror down abruptly, viciously sickened by the sight of himself... Amya wouldn't even recognize him like this. He remains hunched over as he sits before them, his breaths even and quiet and almost mimicking the same rhythm as Makalaurë's lungs in a desperate attempt to not vomit up the small amount of food he managed to keep down.

"Cut it shorter," he demands of them, his voice gentle yet heavy. He wishes he could comfort him, he sees how hard this is on him — the subtle pitying looks, though better than the expressions of horror and grief on the others, are still not lost on Nelyafinwë.

He pauses a moment, his tone growing quieter even than the crackle of the hearth. "Please," he adds in a whisper.

CONTINUED. / @griefsung

[griefsung-archived]

KEEN EYES CATCH THEIR BROTHER considering his reflection as though it were someone else's portrait. whatever goes on in his mind then, káno can hardly hope to glean, and perhaps they had best not be privy to it. selfishly, makalaurë mourns the maitimo that was. were their places switched, maitimo surely would not waver, would know what to do. selfishly, he wants to embrace him and weep. but he wept enough when the elder slept. the time for tears has passed and he cannot lay down whatever too-large mantle of strength he assumed in the eldest's absence. the king is returned in name only, their brother returned only in part.

yet when nelyafinwë commands shorter, there is almost an echo of the old him, passing by the window as a shadow of night. though gentle a demand as it was, it startles kanafinwë, yet he says nothing. obediently, the younger returns to work, unraveling his vision to bring it closer to whatever agony chokes his brother's voice to a whisper. larger chunks fall again as they begin at the base of the neck, working upward, cropping closer, until their fingers no longer fully disappear in the shocks of dull crimson. ❛ like so? ❜ he asks then with an equally gentle quietude, holding out a hand to offer to hold the mirror, so that maitimo might feel with his remaining hand the length of it at the back.

for a while already kanafinwë has known that the old maitimo will never return. but it is only now, that he stands in the piles of his hair at his feet, its snippets littering his hands, arms, garment, until later he will scrub it from his skin with a quiet sob, that he truly understands this.

❛ i can shave it, if you wish it shorter still. ❜ he cannot quite contain the hesitancy with which the offer is made. the thought of maitimo wholly shorn is sickening, if only for how much more hollow he'd appear. yet were it asked he would oblige, and guide the blade with an ever steady hand.

[griefsung-archived]

81 + reverse (from maatimo <3)

THE SILENCE IS MOURNFUL as it lays over them like fog thick in the morning marshes. makalaurë works at a careful pace to not prolong the moment, but to take care not to cut too much, to leave dignity in the result. the snip of the scissors and the crackle of the dying fire are the only sounds attempting to fill the void all around them. he cannot even sing as he used to, not the merry rhymes he would hum for the twins when in their youth he cut their hair. when for a moment he remembers, crimson hair blurring between his fingers, he pales even more.

yet he can catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror @maatimo's remaining hand holds and knows he must be calm. as calm as he tried to be, when the elder asked his aid and after a moment's silence he had agreed.

what remains of the brilliant flame of nelyafinwë's hair, dulled to nothing but embers and ash, falls piece by piece to their feet. the beginning was the most difficult; though they'd seen in his slumber the state of it, cutting away the matted clumps of hair and grime cost some composure. for maitimo's sake they kept their face steady, their hands without pause. by now, most of it has fallen and their fingers run cleanly through the remaining strands, though they feel dry and not at all as silken as once they did. once, when they were little laurë's hands, awefully atttempting to tame their brother's hair. their brother, who was once a god to them, mighty and untouchable, not at all like the frail shadow of him that returned from thangorodrim.

❛ do you feel lighter now? ❜ he asks, and though he keeps his voice low, it ripples through the silence. careful not to touch maitimo's scalp or neck too much, he runs his fingers through his hair once more, shedding remnants of the cut, and holding a few strands to trim as if to put the finishing touches to a painting. when he steps back to take in his handiwork, makalaurë's lips carry a fickle, mournful smile. it will grow again, they want to say, yet it seems childish consolation. perhaps maitimo will hear it in their thoughts regardless.

100 NONVERBAL PROMPTS: HELPING STYLE THEIR HAIR

[ohisms]

𝟏𝟎𝟎 𝑵𝑶𝑵𝑽𝑬𝑹𝑩𝑨𝑳 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺 .    (  a  collection  of  100  nonverbal  action  prompts .   mature  and  potentially  triggering  themes  are  present .   add  “ + reverse ”  to  swap  assigned  roles .)

∗ o1﹕ sender  tucks  hair  out  of  receiver’s  face . ∗ o2﹕ sender  offers  receiver  a  bite  from  their  fork . ∗ o3﹕ sender  places  their  feet / legs  in  receiver's  lap . ∗ o4﹕ sender  offers  receiver  an  earbud  to  share  their  music . ∗ o5﹕ sender  comforts  receiver  in  the  aftermath  of  a  nightmare . ∗ o6﹕ sender  gives  receiver  company  in  the  hospital . ∗ o7﹕ sender  wraps  their  arms  around  a  hysterical  receiver  to  calm  them . ∗ o8﹕ sender  shows  up  at  receiver’s  home  late  at  night . ∗ o9﹕ sender  falls  asleep  leaning  against  receiver . ∗ 1o﹕ sender  wields  a  [ gun / knife ]  at  receiver . ∗ 11﹕ sender  runs  their  fingers  through  receiver’s  hair . ∗ 12﹕ sender  invites  receiver  to  dance . ∗ 13﹕ sender  takes  a  [ picture / video ]  of  receiver . ∗ 14﹕ sender  places  their  head  in  receiver’s  lap . ∗ 15﹕ sender  and  receiver  make  eye  contact  across  a  busy  room . ∗ 16﹕ sender  pushes  receiver  against  a  wall  to  kiss  them . ∗ 17﹕ sender  and  receiver  cook  together . ∗ 18﹕ sender  comes  to  receiver  after  being  injured . ∗ 19﹕ sender  sits  in  receiver’s  lap . ∗ 2o﹕ sender  lifts  receiver's  chin ,  invoking  eye  contact . ∗ 21﹕ sender  overtakes  receiver  in  combat . ∗ 22﹕ sender  finds  receiver  [ injured / bloodied ] . ∗ 23﹕ sender  straightens  an  article  of  receiver’s  clothes . ∗ 24﹕ sender  crawls  into  bed  with  receiver . ∗ 25﹕ sender  rolls  their  eyes  at  receiver . ∗ 26﹕ sender  lights  receiver’s  [ cigarette / joint ] . ∗ 27﹕ sender  is  caught  wearing  receiver's  clothes . ∗ 28﹕ sender  strikes  receiver  with  a  pillow . ∗ 29﹕ sender  writes  a  note  on  receiver’s  skin :  [ note ] . ∗ 3o﹕ sender  wraps  a  blanket  around  receiver’s  shoulders . ∗ 31﹕ sender  runs  and  jumps  into  receiver’s  arms . ∗ 32﹕ sender  shoves  receiver  out  of  anger . ∗ 33﹕ sender  hovers  over  receiver’s  shoulder  as  they  complete  a  task . ∗ 34﹕ sender  is  found  by  receiver  somewhere  they  shouldn’t  be . ∗ 35﹕ sender  curls  up  against  receiver  in  their  sleep . ∗ 36﹕ sender  is  found  drunk  by  receiver . ∗ 37﹕ sender  throws  an  item  of  sentiment  bitterly  at  receiver . ∗ 38﹕ sender  joins  receiver  in  the  shower . ∗ 39﹕ sender  is  caught  following  receiver . ∗ 4o﹕ sender  traces  one  of  receiver’s  [ scars / bruises ] . ∗ 41﹕ sender  twines  their  fingers  with  receiver’s . ∗ 42﹕ sender  barges  into  receiver’s  home  unannounced . ∗ 43﹕ sender  kicks  receiver’s  shin  beneath  a  table . ∗ 44﹕ sender  aggressively  shoves  past  receiver . ∗ 45﹕ sender  kisses  receiver’s  [ forehead / cheek ] . ∗ 46﹕ sender  pulls  receiver  out  of  harm’s  way . ∗ 47﹕ sender  is  found  sobbing  by  receiver . ∗ 48﹕ sender  locks  receiver  out  of  their  room . ∗ 49﹕ sender  brings  receiver  [ coffee / tea ]  in  the  morning . ∗ 5o﹕ sender  rests  their  forehead  against  receiver’s . ∗ 51﹕ sender  plays  a  song  for  receiver  that  reminds  them  of  them :  [ song ] . ∗ 52﹕ sender  takes  a  [ punch / stab / bullet ]  meant  for  receiver . ∗ 53﹕ sender  buys  receiver  a  drink  at  a  bar . ∗ 54﹕ sender  needs  receiver’s  help  getting  in  the  bath . ∗ 55﹕ sender  and  receiver  cross  paths  in  the  kitchen  late  at  night . ∗ 56﹕ sender  twists  receiver’s  arm  behind  their  back . ∗ 57﹕ sender  winks  at  receiver . ∗ 58﹕ sender  is  found  collapsed  by  receiver . ∗ 59﹕ sender  prevents  an  injured  receiver  from  getting  up . ∗ 6o﹕ sender  claps  a  hand  over  receiver’s  mouth  to  silence  them . ∗ 61﹕ sender  cages  receiver  against  a  [ wall / the floor ]  with  their  arms . ∗ 62﹕ sender  storms  away  from  receiver  during  an  argument . ∗ 63﹕ sender  is  found  by  receiver  sleeping  in  receiver’s  bed . ∗ 64﹕ sender  [ applies / touches up ]  receiver’s  makeup . ∗ 65﹕ sender  throws  receiver  into  a  wall  during  combat . ∗ 66﹕ sender  dances  sensually  with  receiver . ∗ 67﹕ sender  strikes  receiver  across  the  face . ∗ 68﹕ sender  places  their  hand  on  receiver’s  leg  while  driving . ∗ 69﹕ sender  pulls  a  chair  out  from  under  receiver . ∗ 7o﹕ sender  catches  receiver’s  wrist  when  they  turn  to  leave . ∗ 71﹕ sender  leaves  an  intimate  mark  on  receiver . ∗ 72﹕ sender  beats  receiver  in  a  video  game . ∗ 73﹕ sender  and  receiver  stand  in  stunned  silence  after  a  fight . ∗ 74﹕ sender  cares  for  receiver  while  they’re  sick . ∗ 75﹕ sender  and  receiver  go  on  a  hike . ∗ 76﹕ sender  is  caught  snooping  in  receiver’s  things . ∗ 77﹕ sender  and  receiver  cuddle  while  watching  television . ∗ 78﹕ sender  throws  something  aggressively  at  receiver . ∗ 79﹕ sender  creeps  up  behind  receiver  to  scare  them . ∗ 8o﹕ sender  and  receiver  go  shopping  together . ∗ 81﹕ sender  helps  receiver  [ dye / style ]  their  hair . ∗ 82﹕ sender  draws  receiver  into  a  kiss  by  the  back  of  their  neck . ∗ 83﹕ sender  is  discovered  having  a  panic  attack  by  receiver . ∗ 84﹕ sender  accidentally  injures  receiver  during  sparring . ∗ 85﹕ sender  grabs  receiver  roughly  by  the  hair . ∗ 86﹕ sender  brings  receiver  to  their  knees  during  combat . ∗ 87﹕ sender  shows  receiver  evidence  of  a  lie  they  told . ∗ 88﹕ sender  winks  [ seductively / mockingly ]  at  receiver . ∗ 89﹕ sender  yells  at  receiver  to  put  their  hands  in  the  air . ∗ 9o﹕ sender  helps  receiver  patch  up  a  wound . ∗ 91﹕ sender  holds  receiver  as  they  cry . ∗ 92﹕ sender  silently  and  angrily  points  receiver  towards  the  door . ∗ 93﹕ sender  gestures  for  receiver  to  sit  down . ∗ 94﹕ sender  pulls  receiver  into  their  lap . ∗ 95﹕ sender  cradles  receiver’s  face . ∗ 96﹕ sender  tackles  receiver  out  of  the  way  of  danger . ∗ 97﹕ sender  has  hidden  an  injury  from  receiver ,  and  receiver  finds  out . ∗ 98﹕ sender  confronts  receiver  about  their  unhealthy  behavior . ∗ 99﹕ sender  proposes  to  receiver . ∗ 1oo﹕ sender  has  just  died ,  receiver  finds  out .

[griefsung-archived]

TELL ME, FATHER, WHICH TO ASK FORGIVENESS FOR: WHAT I AM OR WHAT I AM NOT? TELL ME, MOTHER, WHICH SHOULD I REGRET: WHAT I BECAME OR WHAT I DIDN'T?

last stop - george seferis, the lost road and other writings - j.r.r. tolkien, the unabridged journals - sylvia plath, blood makes the blade holy - evan knoll, 'thinking tangling shadows' twenty love poems and a song of despair - pablo neruda, thoughts of a stray iii - m.a.w.

do not reblog unless i follow you or i will personally commit a fourth kinslaying

[griefsung-archived]

still rewriting the proper bio (later) but i made the "káno for beginners" page, with a summary of the silm, a small name guide, and a small summary of mags' role in the story. i hope that's useful! it's more text than i'd planned, but still better than a wiki i hope

[griefsung-archived]

i haven't done much with romance on here, based largely on the fact that really, there isn't much space for romance in this elf's life, and also it's a pretty terrible fate... doesn't mean i don't think about it though, and how he would have once been desirable, if not coveted, likely courted by other houses. prestigious blood as the crown prince's child aside, he was charming without ulterior motive, undeniably beautiful, a skilled dancer, and an even more skilled poet and musician, with passion but also a gentler disposition. half of any courting attention would have gone over their head unnoticed, the other half surely noticed, and some of its flattery appreciated, nay welcomed. i wouldn't put them down as a flirt necessarily, although denying that entirely would also be false. he'd enjoy the attention, but seek a genuine love. before the oath darkens everything and they kill innocence with their own hands.

and while much of them changes, so much of their self left behind piece by piece, burnt and cut and thrown in the sea... the essence of it was always there and always remains. love, romantic or platonic both, as devotion, as sacrifice of the self for the other. love as giving with the faint hope of someday receiving, offering rivers of blood for that hypothetical. oath or not, káno was always made that way.

what remains aside from the inherent proclivity toward utter devotion, though, by the end of the line, isn't really outwardly desirable at all. marred, half-mad, grief-riddled, and without purpose or identity, not even his silver tongue could be what once it was, even his music now never the same. he doesn't think of love ever again, doesn't even consider it an option, even after he finally accepts that going into the water won't work, that he will be bound to live until some greater force decides to finally release and bring him to judgment. he doesn't see a life anymore, only an endless stretch of road where he is what he always feared: alone.