[rafikecoyote]

requested by twobrokenwyngs

[sorrowmaven]

There is so much stubborn hope in the human heart.

Albert Camus, Absurd Creation. (via sorrowmaven)

[vikingrollo-deactivated20160114]

Vikings 3.07

[ofthemark]

friendly reminder that, once the siege of gondor was lifted, it was elfhelm who was given insane cleanup duty. he led three thousand riders northwest through drúadan forest and back in the direction of rohan to take care of any and all rovers who had been effectively cutoff from their army. he did the thing, and for that ( and valor shown at pelennor ) éomer created a whole new title for my son, the badass, namely marshal of the east-mark. 

[ofthemark]

I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes. ( !!! the night he discovers her amongst the men in the drúadan forest ???1 )

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING SENTENCE STARTERS ( accepting )

He could strike her.

It was an ugly feeling, birthed forth out of rage and a helplessness he had never before experienced. Drúadan was not quiet this night, nor any night since its trees were but pine seedlings in the dark fertile ground. The sounds of Rohirrim and Drúedain speaking in soft whispers could be heard in the not too far off distance, with the cover of trees and night only granting the pair of them but the shortest passing of time before he would have to return to his men. And she…

( Éowyn. )

Even as she stood there before him, discovered, her helmet held by her side, she still looked proud. Gone, however, was the girlhood arrogance in the set of her mouth. Gone too were the frustration and despair he had seen flashing in her eyes during the days leading up to the march for Gondor. There was nothing now but determination and calm resignation in her gaze as she rested it upon him, unblinking. For one wild, ludicrous moment she seemed more the marshal than he, and he could feel laughter wanting to crawl out of his chest and into his throat. It died before it was ever allowed to leave his lips, anger and fear and incredulity leaving no space for anything else. He had never hated her more than he did in this very moment.

He had never loved her more.

He could not send her back. He could not expose her presence to their King. Her uncle. There was little other choice but to allow her to ride with them, and fight with them. She would find a way. She had already. And had he not allowed it this far onto the road already? Thousands rode on this march. And yet, somehow, it was him who had found her this night. Had he not known, even before he had ridden from Edoras? Had his eyes not rested on every horse with a gray coat by day’s end and wondered? She was a fever in his blood, a barb in his heart, and the ache had not faded with every mile ridden, as it sometimes did. It had deepened, sharpened, a shadow growing in the back of his mind because he had known. He had known. And even now, their gazes locked as they stood in the middle of nocturnal Drúadan, he knew he would not send her back. She knew it, too.

He was the first to break away, head turned sharply to the side to look at nothing in the darkness beyond. Tension remained throughout his body. There was a deeply unhappy set to his eyes and mouth as he came to a decision not entirely of his own making. But for her, he would do this. For her, he would turn a blind eye. One last time.

“ My men shall know to take no notice of you, or the Halfling, ” he began, reluctance in every line of his body as he spoke, his gaze slowly returning to her. “ If it is to Minas Tirith you wish to ride, this Éored shall lead you there. But know this. ” 

He moved, not in the slow and grounded manner she was accustomed to see from him ; but quick and jagged, as though he was still battling to control the anger inside whilst suffering from a great wound at the same time. He stood in front of her then, near enough that he had only to lean in a little for his whispered words to be clear to her. 

“ Know this, Éowyn. You will not be the only one buried, should you fall in the days to come. Should your eyes close, so will mine. And as your heart stops, so will mine. I will not be made your storyteller. Not even if that is all you have to give me in what is left of this life. ”

[ofthemark]

                                         Yet the Horse-lords had formerly kept many herds                                          and studs in the Eastemnet, this easterly region of                                          their realm, and there the herdsmen had wandered                                          much, living in camp and tent, even in winter-time.

                                         But now all the land was empty, and there was a                                          silence that did not seem to be the quiet of peace.

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

There was about her a wildness that flashed in her eyes. She was spoiled and beautiful and easily bored. She was either fiercely excited or cool and detached.

Kendra Bean, from Vivien Leigh: An Intimate Portrait (via violentwavesofemotion)

[baliantremaine-blog]

A hard truth: that courage can be without meaning or impact, need not be rewarded, or even known. The world has not been made in that way. Perhaps, however, within the self there might come a resonance, the awareness of having done something difficult, of having done… something.

Guy Gavriel Kay, The Last Light of the Sun (via baliantremaine)

[ofthemark]

How much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping! (from faramir lmfao)

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING SENTENCE STARTERS ( accepting )

It is not so difficult a thing, Elfhelm thinks, to bring forth the oldest memory of him weeping. It has been the same for as long as he can recall. Even now he can feel the heat of helpless emotion on his cheeks where his tears have left tracks in the skin, and the cooling touch of the wind where she caresses him before she returns to play with the heath that grows upon the hills. He remembers the smell of smoke and blood, a sweet and dark mixture that had made his young stomach roil at the time. He remembers the deep and calm timbre of his father’s voice, speaking words of reassurance and teaching. The feeling of the knife’s grip in his too small hand.

He should not have named the goat. He did not heed his father’s warning, believing himself above such sentimental attachments as a herdsman’s son, but it was not so. For kindness sake, his father’s voice sounded, you must first render the animal unconscious before slitting its throat, Elfhelm. Strike it with a blow to the head. Use the hilt of your blade. It will be easier.

It had not been easier. Simpler, perhaps. But not easier. The tears had welled up and fallen as soon as the deed had been done. There had been no rage from his father, nor disappointment. Only understanding and calm explanation. In a way, that had been better. In a way, it had been worse. He had dried off his tears with the sleeve of his shirt, the fabric rough against his face, and helped his father string up the lifeless body of the goat to collect its blood. He did not name another goat after that.

( He may have whittled the head of a goat on every spear he ever wielded since, but that is a different story for a different time. )

Observing the man in front of him, Elfhelm finds himself reminded of his younger self for the first time in many seasons. It is, perhaps, the combination of wide-eyed earnestness combined with grimmer undertones. For he is not fooled. Behind the lighthearted demeanor of the man Elfhelm detects a core of steel ; one does not lead an éored without understanding the hearts of its men at a moment’s notice. There is something reassuring about it, to sense this deeper, earthen world that resides behind such an amused gaze.

“ It is clear to me you have never felt the joy of weeping at the end of one of Grimbold’s nighttime tales simply because it has, at long last, ended. ”

A flash of a grin follows the wry words, obscured from view by a quick sip of wine before Elfhelm’s expression turns more solemn in thought.

“ I ask you this, my lord : many of our people, yours as well as mine, have wept these past months. Some from joy, others from sorrow. Others still from relief. Are they not all tears? Should they not all fall when felt? Better, worse, I think it matters little. ”

[ofthemark]

@shieldarm @aglaecan éowyn your boyfriend is talking about happy tears and elfhelm is Lost but also doesn’t want to offend the earnest pup please send aid thank you

[ofthemark]

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING SENTENCE STARTERS;

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more.

Men were deceivers ever.

How many gentlemen have you lost in this action?

He hath done good service in these wars.

And a good soldier to a lady: but what is he to a lord?

A lord to a lord, a man to a man; stuffed with all honourable virtues.

He hath every month a new sworn brother.

He wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat; it ever changes with the next block.

I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your books.

If he were [in my books] I would burn my library.

Let me be that I am and seek not to alter me.

I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than a man swear he loves me.

I do love nothing in the world so well as you - is not that strange?

Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.

He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man. He that is more than a youth is not for me, and he that is less than a man, I am not for him.

When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married.

For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?

There was a star danced, and under that was I born.  

I wish my horse had the speed of your tongue.

Why, what’s the matter, that you have such a February face, so full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?

Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.

Peace; I will stop your mouth.

What, my dear Lady Disdain! Are you yet living?

I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.

When you depart from me sorrow abides and happiness takes his leave.

Against my will I am sent to bid you come into dinner.

I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes.

How much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping!

Speak low, if you speak love.

Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could say how much.

[ofthemark]

temp dash only while i try to figure out what to do with this bear puppy of mine.

[ofthemark]

is anyone even still here

[vikingshistory]

[maziqeen]

(x)

[ice-hear-t-deactivated20180625]

[shieldarm-a-blog-deactivated202]

MODERN ÉOWYN     /     2 OF ?