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it's usually morally correct to make fun of the usa but whenever i hear british people do it it feels kinda tone deaf. idk if we have the high ground here guys. its like your mom making fun of your mental illness like ma'am where do you think i got it from.
Raising their eyebrows at the bride’s assertion that she was “adventurous,” wedding guests of Tatiana Hines and Felix Byrne confirmed Friday that the couple’s vows were a damning chronicle of how much she had changed herself for him. “She keeps thanking God for bringing him into her life, but wasn’t she a staunch atheist, like, two and a half years ago?” said guest Madelyn Gonzalez, frowning as Hines, who had once stated that if she ever got married she would have a budget-friendly ceremony at city hall, stood in a $7,000 dress at the altar before nearly 500 people who were primarily friends, family members, coworkers, and acquaintances of the groom.
Silmarillion characters rated on a scale of 1 - 10 based off behavior in airport security
Feanor: -10/10 - refuses to give up his sword. Threatens the security with it, telling them to get thee gone from gate F7. Is arrested.
Maedhros: 7/10 - very on top of things. Has all of his things in the xray bins, and manages to get all of his brother’s things set for security too. Points deduced because he always forgets to warn them about the metal prosthetic hand and then cracks hand jokes when they ask him. He is also too tall for the xrays you walk through but he’s apologetic.
Celegorm: 2/10 - he rolls his eyes but abides by the no weapons rule. He says they can’t take his teeth or claws. He does not, however, do all the paperwork to bring however many animals he has at the moment. And some bite.
Amrod and Amras: 6/10 - they trade passports between each passport check. Sometimes more. Otherwise Maedhros is able to get them to behave. Sort of.
Celebrimbor: 8/10 - is excited to be traveling with his friend Annatar. Follows all of the rules and is on perfect behavior. Except he tries to gift each person working there a ring. His friend smiled creepily each time someone took one.
Beleg: 4/10 - argues that he does not have to remove his red boots because he is unbegotten, and if old people don’t have to remove them he doesn’t have to.
Fingolfin: 5/10 - on good behavior until he gets into an argument with security to release Feanor. Gets delayed so much by this that he misses his flight and has to take one with the A/C stuck on.
Fingon: 8/10 - pretty well put together, until he slips further forward in line to argue with security a little about Maedhros's prosthetic. He accidentally drops he is the reason Maedhros has it.
Turgon and Aredhel: Not applicable. They wander off and miss the flight and aren't seen until the next family reunion several years later, where Aredhel has a son and ex husband she won't explain, and the kid keeps making comments that suggest Turgon killed someone.
Argon: 9/10 - doesn't create problems and has perfect behavior, but people keep picking fights with him.
Finarfin: ?/10 - says he is a king so he don't have to go through security. Was giving off enough vibes that the security guards just let him though. Unclear if he is actually allowed to do this.
Finrod: 2/10 - holds up the line for ages because he wore so much jewelry that it keeps setting off the metal detector. He cannot take off enough for it not to go off. They send him to take more off at least 5 times. Almost wanders off past security to investigate the food court and souvenir shops twice, has to be pulled back. Eventually finds his way into the back hallways and pilot's lounges. Strikes up conversation with one and convinces them to teach him to fly a 747 someday. Leaves with extensive knowledge of plane terminology. Cannot hold a normal conversation for the next 2 weeks.
Aegnor: 3/10 - was So Ready to take off his shoes and put everything in bins, then experienced love at first sight with a woman in a neighboring line. Was so enraptured by her he forgot to do everything. They meet after security, and share a brief 57 minutes before they are dragged onto different flights, never to see each other again, and heartbroken.
Galadriel: security thinks she is a 10/10. She is in fact a 1/10 who smuggled several weapons past them in case Feanor tries asking for her hair again.
Edrahil: 6/10 - perfectly behaved, security didn't even realize he was there, until he insisted on holding all of Finrod's jewelry for him, saying the jewelry should be passed to a steward while not on Finrod's person. Tried to give it to Aegnor but Aegnor was still staring lovingly at Andreth.
Gandalf: -15/10 - the one time he tried to fly he attempted to check a cart of fireworks, and was caught with a significant amount of pipe weed. On the no fly list.
Huan: 4/10 - ate his service dog paperwork because he found it demeaning, was one of Celegorm's undocumented animals. Was better behaved than Celegorm. Slightly.
Beren: 5/10 - can be polite but won't if insulted
Luthien: -100/10 - airport security can't keep track of her, can't keep her out of places, and just has to let her do what she wants.
Gildor: 5/10 - fairly well behaved, but a little prone to wandering, and has a lot of questions about how things work.
it's kind of crazy climate change has occurred at such a remarkable pace that I and everyone else around my age can remember a completely different climate in our childhoods. I truly watched winter gradually disappear in my life.
"You're too young to remember this, but there used to be so many insects outside that you would have to clean them off the windshield after a long car ride" is the kind of sentence that would have been in a cheesy scifi short story earlier in my life, perhaps submitted to a literary magazine and accepted to show support for its environmentalist message - now it's something I've said in earnest.
divider by: @cafekitsune & @saradika
word count: 3.9k
synopsis: Talion never expected to find love as he held back forces of evil in the land of darkness yet there you came.
a/n: After finishing Shadows of War, I think I shed a few tears at the ending, and with literally being able to find only one fic on this man, I needed to write at least something for him.
You were one of the few, who called themselves the Blade of Galadriel. Elves trained and forged in light and secrecy, tempered by purpose. You had been sent alongside Eltariel to hunt down the Nazgûl once and for all. Your path had been clear, your mission unwavering, your loyalty bound to the Light of the Lady herself.
Yet it seemed the Valar had a different plan for you and you felt your fate shift.
All because you met him.
Talion.
A Ranger clinging to life by the will of a wraith, driven by grief, vengeance, and some stubborn fire that refused to die. You had heard the whispers—the rumours of a man who rose again and again, defying death as though it were nothing more than an inconvenience. But whispers were only shadows of truth.
You had not expected to find him bleeding, cornered, surrounded by snarling orcs yet still fighting like a cornered wolf, refusing to yield even as his strength waned.
Instinct took over.
You stepped into the fray without hesitation.
Your dagger slid into a throat before the creature even registered your presence. Your blade came down an instant later, cracking through bone and scattering blood across the ash that laid thick among the ground. The orc fell, and Talion turned toward you, chest heaving, eyes narrowed beneath the weight of exhaustion and pain—
—until, slowly, the smallest spark of recognition lit his face.
“You are a Blade of Galadriel. Eltariel mentioned she came with another,” he grunted, cutting down an Uruk as though the motion required no thought at all.
“Funny,” you shot back, spinning your blade in a swift arc that opened another orc’s throat, “she made no mention of you, Bright Lord.”
His mouth twitched—just slightly—into something that almost resembled a smile. “Yet somehow you still know who I am.”
From that moment onward, your paths were no longer separate. Time and time again fate brought you two back together to fight the shadows of Mordor. Each battle bound you tighter, until eventually you no longer merely crossed paths.
You continued on together.
You and Talion were like two lights choking in the unending darkness.
You fought beside him through sieges and ambushes, through the blackened lands where even the air seemed to rot. Talion was a storm—relentless, unstoppable, cleaving through Mordor’s hordes with a fury that began to send whispers of fear through the dark lands. You were like a blade of moonlight cutting through the darkness, your every strike a filled with the light of your people and your Lady.
Together, you held the armies of Mordor at bay, carving out the time Eltariel desperately needed to hunt the Nine.
And in the rare stillness between battles, when the fires burned low and the orcs’ howls drifted into distant echoes, the two of you spoke.
Sometimes Talion’s voice was quiet, almost fragile beneath the weight of everything he carried.
“You’re far from Eltariel’s side,” he murmured one night, staring into the embers. “Does she approve of you risking your life with me?”
A faint smile tugged at your lips. “She doesn’t need to approve. We all serve in our own way.”
“Celebrimbor disagrees,” he said dryly.
The wraith materialized beside him, cold light flickering like frost fire. “You should not drag her into our war,” Celebrimbor said, his tone clipped. “Her light is a beacon to all manner of dark creatures—hungry to snuff it out.”
You raised a brow. “And yet your mission seems endlessly hungry for every blade it can get.”
Talion’s mouth twitched into an almost-smile. Celebrimbor only faded back into the shadows, unimpressed.
Silence settled between you and Talion then, a rare calm that was found scarcely in Mordor. The fire crackled softly, its glow catching on the lines of exhaustion etched across his face.
After a moment, he glanced over, voice low. “Do you ever… fear losing yourself in all this?”
“In Mordor?” You huffed a bitter laugh. “Every time I close my eyes.”
“And yet you stay and fight.”
You looked at him then, really looked at him—the lines of exhaustion worn deep into his face, the way his hands trembled ever so slightly before he forced them still, the lingering shadow of Celebrimbor’s presence behind his gaze.
“Because someone has to hold the line,” you said softly. “You are strong and pure, Talion, but you are one light in a sea of darkness.” You reached out, fingers brushing his gauntleted hand. “I will share that burden with you—for as long as my own light shines.”
Talion didn’t reply. But when your eyes drifted back to the fire, his gaze softened as he studied you in the flickering light. In Mordor, where everything was ash and shadow, your inner light gave you a near-divine glow. You were a glimmering star in an endless abyss, something impossible that he found himself clinging to more and more with each passing day.
A reminder of what he once was.
And of what he feared he could still lose.
Somewhere between these shared nights and those battles, feelings began to deepen.
It happened after a long, brutal skirmish near the cliffs of Udûn. The air still stank of blood and fire, heat rising from scorched earth where bodies of orcs and beasts laid strewn in contorted heaps. Yet somehow, amidst the ruin, the two of you had carved out a brief pocket of silence.
Talion stood a few paces from you, breathing harder than he wanted you to notice. He had taken a crushing blow from a massive Olog that was aiming for you— the impact had knocked him off his feet, hard enough that you were certain one of his ribs had cracked. But he held himself stiffly, jaw set, as though sheer will alone might fool you into thinking he felt no pain.
It was a lie so thin you could see right through it.
You caught him wincing as he tried to stand straighter, and without thinking, you reached out, pressing a hand to his side.
“Hold still.”
He froze.
The heat of your palm seeped through his layers and settled against his bruised flesh. His breath hitched—not from the pain this time, but from the sudden closeness. You felt the way his body tensed, the way Celebrimbor flickered faintly behind his eyes before retreating, as if giving the two of you space.
“You’re hurt,” you murmured, voice low. “Where?”
Talion’s answer came rougher than he intended. “I’ll manage.”
Your sharp eyes narrowed. “I didn’t ask if you’d manage. I asked where it hurts.”
His gaze flickered to yours—blue eyes dimmed by exhaustion yet unbearably clear in that moment. For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke.
Slowly, your hand slid beneath the torn edge of his tunic, fingers brushing warm skin as you checked whether your hunch about his ribs was right.
Talion inhaled sharply—both from pain and from the jolt your touch sent through him.
His fingers closed gently around your wrist—not to stop you, but to steady himself, grounding against you like a man trying not to fall.
“You shouldn’t… worry for me like this,” he murmured, voice strained, roughened by more than injury.
“And you shouldn’t be so reckless,” you countered evenly, your touch still light but unwavering. “Celebrimbor may be the reason you can crawl back from death, but that does not make you invincible.”
Your eyes lifted to his, steady. “Nor does it mean you must go seeking death at every turn.”
Talion let out a slow breath—something between defeat and resignation. His gaze dropped, just for a moment, to where your hand rested against him, then rose again, shadowed.
“I am the Gravewalker,” he murmured, voice rough, almost hollow. “I’m already dead.”
You shook your head, fingers brushing lightly along the bruised line of his ribs before you withdrew your hand—only so you could catch his jaw, guiding his gaze back to yours.
“No,” you breathed. Your thumb traced the edge of his cheekbone. “You think death owns you, Talion. But it doesn’t. Not yet.”
A muscle in his jaw tightened.
“For now you are still here,” you said softly. “Still fighting. Still trying.”
You leaned in, forehead almost brushing his, breath mingling with the cold ash-scented air.
“And as long as that is true… you are not dead.”
His forehead hovered just shy of yours, close enough that you could feel the roughness of his breath, close enough that one more inch would have brought your lips together. His eyes searched yours with a depth that made your chest tighten—a man caught between wanting to pull you closer and believing he had no right to.
“You shouldn’t…” he whispered, though the conviction in his voice wavered. “This path will only pull you further into the darkness. I do not want to see your light fade.”
“Talion,” you murmured, your thumb dropped to brush the taut line of his jaw. “I am here because I choose to be. Do not take that choice from me.”
His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, as if the admission struck something deep within him. When he opened them again, the emotion there was raw and filled with fear and pain.
“I don’t want to drag you into what I am becoming,” he said hoarsely. “Every step I take leads me further from the man I was. I feel it—like a shadow clawing at my soul.”
You shook your head, your touch warm yet firm against his cheek. “You are still fighting. That means there is still a man to save.”
He swallowed, throat bobbing. “And if I fail? If I fall?”
“Then I fall with you,” you vowed. “But I will not walk away. I choose you, Talion.”
Talion’s breath stilled, his chest barely rising. For a heartbeat he simply stared at you, as though the words were something he had never dared to hope for.
“You don’t know what you’re promising,” he said at last—though his fingers, traitorous and trembling, rose to curl lightly around your wrist where your hand still cupped his jaw.
“I know exactly what I’m promising,” you replied softly.
Your voices hovered in the same breath.
So did your lips.
“It will come at a price,” he murmured, fear and longing tangled in his voice.
“Then let me pay it,” you breathed and you closed the final inch between you, pressing your lips to his.
The moment your lips touched, Talion froze. Then the last of his resolve—those thin, fraying threads he’d clung to for so long—finally snapped.
He kissed you back with a desperation that stole the breath from your lungs.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, pulling back just far enough for your lips to brush with each word.
“No.”
His mouth crashed back onto yours.
His hands, trembling at first, rose to cradle your face, then tightened, pulling you closer as though afraid you might vanish like mist in the cold Mordor air. You felt the shudder that ran through him—years of grief, loneliness, and untold burdens pouring out in one raw, fevered exhale against your lips.
His mouth moved against yours with a fierce, aching hunger—pain and longing tangled into something that felt like breaking and healing all at once. The kiss deepened, grew rougher, his breath ragged as though he had been running from death for so long and only now realized he was alive.
When he finally tore his mouth from yours, it was only because he had to breathe. He rested his forehead against yours with a softly, his breath shaking, chest rising and falling in uneven jolts.
“I am terrified,” He admitted, his fingers stroking your cheek, “Because If I lose you now, there will be nothing left of me.”
“As am I,” you confessed, your voice low but unwavering, “but I choose to give my heart to you anyway. There is no guarantee to our fate—not here, not while Sauron still lives.” Your hand slid from his jaw to rest over his chest, feeling the frantic thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. “But I would rather spend whatever time I have left loving you… than spend it denying what my heart already knows.”
Talion let out a shaky breath, his eyes closing in acceptance. His fingers tightened around your wrist, holding your hand firmly against his heart, the steady, frantic pulse thundering beneath your palm. It was his way of silently telling you what his words were failing to say.
That night the fire burned low, crackling softly as the last embers fought against the chill settling over Mordor. Talion had drifted into a rare, uneasy sleep beside you, his sword still clutched in his hand as though even unconscious he feared what might come.
His breath rose and fell in shallow, restless waves—until your fingers slipped gently into his hair.
You combed through the dark strands with slow, tender strokes, humming an elvish lullaby under your breath, the melody soft enough not to wake him but enough to soothe. At your touch, his rigid body finally loosened. The tension in his shoulders eased. A tired exhale escaped him.
For a moment, you simply watched him. The hardened lines of battle softened in sleep; the shadows beneath his eyes looked far too deep for any mortal man. Exhaustion had carved itself into him so permanently it felt as though only darkness kept him standing anymore.
A faint cold brushed the air.
Celebrimbor materialized in front of you, his spectral form glowing faintly in the dark.
“He weakens,” the wraith said.
You didn’t startle. You had grown used to his sudden appearances.
“He is tired,” you corrected quietly.
“His body frays. His will wanes. You see it.” Celebrimbor drifted closer, the cold glow of him stretching your shadow long across the dirt. “And you must know what comes if he falters.”
Your jaw tightened, but your voice remained calm and steady. “He is not your vessel of destruction.”
“He is my vessel,” Celebrimbor corrected, his voice sharpening like drawn steel. “That is the only reason he still lives.”
You stiffened. “Talion is his own strength.”
“Talion is a man standing in the maw of the Dark Lord,” Celebrimbor snapped, his form crackling with sudden, icy intensity. “A man who clings to hope—and now to the foolish notion of love.” His spectral eyes narrowed, piercing through you. “Tell me, do you believe your presence strengthens him… or softens him?”
“You fear he listens to me,” you said quietly in realization.
Celebrimbor’s eyes glowed brighter. “I fear he listens to his heart.” His gaze sharpened, burning through you. “He cannot afford such a weakness.”
“He is not weak,” you countered.
“No. But love is.” His tone dropped to something darker. “He will break,” Celebrimbor murmured. “And you will break with him.”
You fought the urge to rise to your feet, and step between the wraith and Talion’s sleeping form. “If he breaks, I will be there to help him rise again.”
Celebrimbor’s expression twisted, soured by something old and bitter. “And if he falls?”
“Then I fall with him.”
A long, cold silence stretched between you.
The wraith regarded you with something like pity—or perhaps fury held tightly behind centuries of control. His pale light flickered, sharpening the lines of his incorporeal face.
“And what if you fall first?” he challenged.
Your breath hitched, your next words stuttering before they could form. The thought lingered like a shadow—one you had not dared to look at directly.
“You speak of choices, child of Galadriel,” Celebrimbor whispered, voice thin as frost. “But you know nothing of the price you will pay.”
His form flared briefly, light pulsing with restrained rage.
“He is my vessel,” Celebrimbor hissed repeating his earlier claim, the ancient wrath in him briefly unfettered. “My weapon. And I will not let you stray him from our goal.”
“You mean your goal,” you shot back, your voice low and cutting. “Your arrogance will be your downfall—just as it was when you were alive. You damned all of us when you forged those rings, and mark my words,” you leaned forward, eyes burning into his spectral form, “you will damn us again.”
Celebrimbor’s glow dimmed, faltering as though your words had struck a place even the dead were not immune to.
For a moment, the wraith simply stared—silent, unreadable.
Then, without another sound, he dissolved into the cold night air, leaving only a fading shimmer where he had stood.
You turned back to Talion.
He slept on, unaware of the storm that had passed inches from him.
You watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, and exhaled quietly.
No—he didn’t need to know what had transpired between you and Celebrimbor. Not tonight. Not when a scout had ridden in with grim news only hours before: Sauron was gathering his armies. The assault would come at dawn.
Talion needed to enter battle with a clear head, not weighed down by the wraith’s venomous warnings or the shadows of doubt he carried so heavily already.
So you said nothing.
You simply sat beside him, brushing a stray lock of hair from his brow, guarding his sleep for a little while longer—the last moment of peace either of you would know for a long time.
When the final assault began, the Orcs on both sides of the armies surged forward like a relentless tide, their roars shaking the very ground as they met with a deafening clash of steel. Shadows writhed and coiled around the shrouded figure of a Nazgûl at the head of the army.
You and Talion fought back-to-back until the chaos swallowed you both.
Someone screamed your name—his voice, unmistakable even amidst the thunder and death—but the horde tore you apart before you could answer. You fought your way through the crush of bodies, carving a desperate path through snarling Uruks and shrieking ghouls, your heart pounding with a terror you had never allowed yourself to feel before.
When you finally broke through the last of the snarling horde, cutting your way free of the melee, you lifted your gaze—searching, frantic.
And then you saw him.
Talion collapsed on the opposite end of bridge, one hand clamped desperately around his throat as blood gushed between his fingers. His body convulsed, knees buckling beneath him as he collapsed.
You watched helplessly as Eltariel knelt over him, her expression twisted into something that looked painfully close to remorse, the glint of Talion’s ring now resting on her finger.
Behind her, Celebrimbor hovered, his incorporeal form illuminated by the pale blue glow of his spirit. He looked upon the man who had carried him for so long with merciless coldness.
Even as you broke into a sprint, heart pounding against your ribs like a trapped thing, Eltariel and Celebrimbor turned away. They walked without hesitation, without a backward glance, leaving Talion bleeding and dying on the bridge betrayed by the very people he trusted.
You were too far.
Far too far.
Already, Shelob’s brood began to creep across the stones, tiny shadows converging on his fallen form. Their spindly legs skittered around him as though drawn to the scent of a dying soul. You reached him just as the spiders scattered at your approach, your knees slamming to the stone beside him.
Your hands trembled as they flew to his throat, trying—desperately, uselessly—to stem the torrent of blood pouring between his fingers. The warmth of it coated your palms, slick and horrifying.
“Talion!” you cried, your voice cracking under the weight of terror.
His head lifted weakly at the sound of your voice. His eyes—usually sharp, unyielding—were hollow now. Broken. Desperate.
Then his gaze faltered, shifting past you. His hand reached out—not for you, but for something glinting faintly on the stone behind you.
You turned.
A ring lay there, glowing with a dim, amber light.
Isildur’s ring.
“No,” Talion rasped, the sound torn from a throat drowning in his own blood. “Not… like this.” He shook his head weakly, as if fighting an invisible hand closing around his soul. “I cannot… not again.”
But you saw it—the slow collapse happening inside him. The way his breath stuttered, slipping further and further out of rhythm. The way the light behind his eyes was fading.
“I will not lose you,” you whispered fiercely, leaning close enough that your forehead nearly touched his. “Not like this. Not today.”
His breath shuddered, fear and longing tangled in the sound. “If I take it… I will no longer be the man you knew.”
“Then I will love the man you become,” you swore, voice breaking as your fingers brushed his cheek. “Even if the world calls him lost.”
His fingers curled weakly around yours.
“You would stand by a monster?” he whispered.
“I would stand by you.”
The ring pulsed where it lay on the stone, its corrupted glow beating like a sickly heart. Talion stared at it, breath rasping, torn between terror and instinct. He hesitated, trembling, caught on the edge of life and death.
And when his strength faltered—when his hand slipped—you caught it gently, guiding his fingers toward the corrupted gold, giving him the final choice of whether to live or die.
His hand closed around the ring.
“As long… as I have breath in my body,” he rasped, barely audible, “my fate… is my own.”
And with that last thread of will, he slid the ring onto his finger.
For a single, devastating moment, his body went utterly limp in your arms.
“No—no, Talion, no—” you gasped, shaking your head as panic ignited in your chest like wildfire. You caught him against you, fingers digging into his armour, pulling him closer, desperate for any sign of life. “Talion, please—please—”
Your frantic plea died on your tongue as Talion’s eyes snapped open.
But they were no longer the northern blue you had grown to treasure. They burned—
a searing, unnatural amber—lit from within by the molten fires of Mordor itself.
Dark veins crawled like blackened lightning along his corpse-pale skin, spreading from the ring’s corrupted gold, from his molten eyes, all along his body and face.
Talion rose, no longer just a man who held the spirit of a wraith inside of him.
He was Forsaken.
Bound to darkness.
Now a wraith himself.
He looked at you through the haze of raw power, as though uncertain of what remained of himself. But you leaned down toward him, unflinching, pressing your forehead to his.
“If the light within me must dim,” you whispered, “then let it dim beside yours.”
His voice was rough. “You should run from me.”
You smiled through the ache twisting in your chest. “I think you know by now that I never run.”
For the first time since taking the ring, Talion exhaled. The molten amber of his eyes dimmed, softened, and for a fleeting heartbeat—just long enough to break you—you saw the man you once knew beneath the veil of shadow.
His gauntleted hand rose and cupped your cheek with a reverence that made your throat tighten.
“Then stay with me,” he murmured, “until Mordor falls… or we do.”
Your fingers slid into his, lacing together with a certainty untouched by fear or fate.
“Always.”
The word bound you as surely as any vow etched in stone.
And as the shadow swept across the land—rolling over the ash plains, swallowing flame and sky alike—you walked into it together. Not as light and darkness. Not as saviour and damned. But as two souls choosing one another in a world that had offered neither of you mercy.
Two souls bound by a truth Mordor could never corrupt:
Okay so some might be familiar with the silmarillion headcanon that the Arkenstone is a Silmaril, and I agree to some degree, but just now I thought of something.
If the Arkenstone is in fact a Silmaril, well, we know where the other two are, so this makes me wonder, since Dwarves dwell in caves and mountains can even be volcanoes...
Was it Maedhros' Silmaril? Was the mountain they dug it out of once a fiery chasm from a volcano that cooled?
And what is making me teary in the dark is the question of wondering what they would have done with his body. If it was Maedhros' Silmaril was there a skeletal hand holding it? Did they find elven armour? Would someone have buried him or discarded his bones in awe of the jewel and not caring for this corpse?
