Use: Enter a word, phrase, description, or pattern above to find synonyms, related words, and more.
Good For: Can't think of a word but can describe what you want it to mean, enter that description and it will give you words associated. Enter: "strong wind" -> gale, storm, tempest, tornado, etc
Cost: Free
✎ Writing Realistic Injuries
Use: Seems kinda obvious, learning how to write proper and realistic injuries.
Good For: ...writing realistic injuries I guess? It's really helpful: minor injuries like emotional reactions, fainting, shock, broken bones, dislocated joints, burns, hostile environments, includes some normal ranges for things like blood pressure, pulse rate, body temperature. Also has accurate blood loss amounts and what is considered normal, severe and maximum and from what body part.
Cost: Free
✎ Charlotte Dillon: Information Links for Writers
Use: Information on everything!
Good For: Research for medicine during the Middle ages or learning about what phrases were used in the Old West. Castle terms, rigor mortis information, viking foodstuffs, supernatural lore, regency facts, Irish sayings, and even ancient gynecology facts (why? no idea but it must be useful for someone). This place has everything.
Cost: Free
✎ Color Names and Descriptions
Use: Self explanatory.
Good For: Find some nice names for black or orange without saying black or orange. Get my drift?
Cost: Free
✎ Writers Write: Traits
Use: Find traits for your characters
Good For: Negative, positive, ambivalent traits, you get the picture.
Cost: Free
✎ Writers Write: Body Language
Use: Body language descriptions
Good For: Micro-expressions, hand gestures, and posture.
Cost: Free
🐝 ✎ Describing Words
Use: Find words to describe things.
Good For: Want to describe a tree? Enter tree and the site will generate descriptive phrases of a tree.
Cost: Free
🐝 ✎ Descriptionari
Use: Finding examples for creative inspiration.
Good For: writing prompts, descriptions of scenes, and help with describing a scene such a kiss or fight scene.
Good For: Generating names for people, places, things, planets, diseases, etc. Has a wide selection of name generators for all different ethnicities from African (varied by location) to Asia and Historic. Also includes fantasy and folklore name generators. It's my go to name generator for everything. You can also generate a description of a character or design your own map.
Cost: Free
✎ The Story Shack
Use: Generating names, creating your own generator, writing exercises.
Good For: Generating names, obviously. But also practicing writing through offered exercises.
Cost: Free
✎ RanGen
Use: Generating plots, appearances, archetypes, love interests, cities, worlds, items, and more.
Good For: What I just said previously. Very helpful.
Cost: Free
Images:
✎ Free Images for Commercial Use
Use: Pictures!
Good For: Whatever you want!
Cost: Free
Story Development & Plot:
＄✎ E.A. Deverell Workshop & Worksheet Index
Use: Learn how to plot your stories and build your world.
Good For: Character building, world building, narration, plot formula, prompts, ideas, genres, development. You name it, Eva has it.
Cost: Paid Courses, Free Worksheets & Tips.
＄✎ Story Planner
Use: Planning your story. Obvs.
Good For: People who need a little guidance with outlining and implementing before they jump into their story. Takes yous sentence by sentence building summaries and such.
Cost: Paid & Free Planners
Search Engines:
✎ Hiveword
Use: Search Engine!
Good For: Researching topics for your writing! This website has many links to articles that can expand your knowledge on writing. Also has name and location generator!
Cost: Free
Writing Software:
✎ Pages (iOS)
Use: Mobile Word Processor
Good For: Tagging folder system for organization, export documents, good for apple pencil, multiple formats & templates. Sync's w/ iCloud.
Cost: Free
＄✎ Liquid Story Binder XE by Black Obelisk Software (Windows)
Use: Liquid Story Binder XE is a uniquely designed word processor for professional and aspiring authors, poets, and novelists. Writing software for those who require the editing ability of a commercial text editor as well as a document tracking system. It is for those who want the freedom to create, outline and revise but are tired of losing track of their work.
Good For: Keeping your writing in one place, organization, compiling into one document, no internet connection required.
Perks: Drop Box Compatible
Cost: $45.95 US, free trial, one payment.
🐝＄✎ Scrivener (Mac, Windows, iOS)
Use: Scrivener is a word-processing program and outliner designed for authors. Scrivener provides a management system for documents, notes and metadata. This allows the user to organize notes, concepts, research, and whole documents for easy access and reference.
Good For: Keeping your writing in one place, organization, compiling into one document, no internet connection required.
Perks: Drop Box Compatible
Cost: $59.99 US (50.99 students & academics), $23.99 US for iPad, iPhone, or iPod Touch, free trial, one payment
Summary: A sympathizer of Les Amis de l’ABC witnesses their courage and their eventual fall.
A/N: For the first time since joining the Les Mis fandom, I've never seen a much more relevant piece of media. Compounded with me watching the musical last Feb, a lot of shitty things that have been happening worldwide, and an incident that had hit too close to home, I thought I'd make a piece that was a fanfic as well just in time for Barricade Day. ANW SERIOUS A/N OVER. ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE AND I TRIED TO MAKE IT AS HISTORICALLY ACCURATE AS POSSIBLE. ALSO MY FIRST TIME MAKING A GENDER NEUTRAL CHARACTER, SO PLS BE NICE. STICK TIL THE END FOR ANOTHER A/N. HAPPY READING! :D
No one in Paris could deny the brutal contrast between the lowest members of the highest members of French society. From the streets to the estates; from the rags to the frills and lace; from the scraps to the buffets. It was a comparison that the rich took with snobbish pride and the poor with longing and sometimes contempt. But both wanted more. The rich wanted more, a kind of want that they had and hoarded everything they need and didn’t—a kind of want where they were never satisfied even if they already had their fill. And the poor wanted more too, a kind of want that they’d do anything to get anything and everything they needed—a kind of want where getting scraps was never enough, but was almost always had to be.
And then those who were stuck in between. They had neither the streets nor the estates; neither the rags nor the frills and lace; and neither the scraps nor the buffets. They were stable, but only just. One misstep, and they’d lose everything.
But many, at some point, have drowned in the noise of their lives. Some have become too content in their marble estates that they’ve been taught not to see the troubles beyond its walls. Some have lost hope that their lives would ever change, living their last days with their begs and pleas falling upon deaf ears. And some have become indifferent in their barely-stable life, learning that demanding the more that they need was futile.
How could they not? When the government was much more bothered catering to the whims of the rich and powerful and ignoring the needs of the masses. How could they not, when a laborer would beg for scraps, the government would laugh, and he would be left to die? How could they not, when the rich stole for their fancy, they got a slap on the wrist; but when the poor stole food for their children, they were sentenced to imprisonment? How could they not, when merely speaking up for what was right, was returned with being silenced? The world they lived in was miserable; sickness spread like rats, hunger dominated the streets, and polluted water breached every crevice of Paris. The decline of their society and economy was all of the making of the government, who blamed the people for France’s misfortunes.
And yet, hope remained in the people who questioned. Questioned the state of society. Questioned the government. Questioned the policies that kept the poor poor and the rich rich. Questioned why people, who were suffering just as many others, were blind to the truth. Les Amis de l’ABC, they were called. The Friends of the ABC. Friends of the lowly.
They held meetings. They held rallies. They gave pamphlets and speeches to educate people of the deteriorating state of their society and their lives. They urged people to join them—a call to change the course of their pitiful lives. Most importantly, they gave the people something to hold onto.
And thus, they were the catalyst for many.
A figure in faded red stood in the sea of people who had gathered to listen to Enjolras, student-leader of Les Amis de l’ABC, speak at their rally. The figure strained their neck to catch a glimpse of him, with hair as bright as his mind. He spoke clearly, his message powerful; he spoke of policies and theories and power and stratification, but he did not speak in a way a book would. Despite his obviously educated background, he spoke for the people by speaking in their language, and not the language of textbooks or universities.
And so the figure stood in rapt attention. It was a waste of time, their family would tell them. Why would they care, when they were not begging for scraps or living in the streets? The people in their family had jobs, food, and a roof over their heads, what more could they want? Why should they concern themselves with the plight of others? Why would they care, even if one delayed wage could end them all?
But the figure in faded red was intrigued, yet they could not be there for every rally. They could not read every pamphlet or listen to every speech. Sometimes, when out on errands, they would listen to snippets of speeches. They would have brief encounters with some of the student-members—a short chat during the distribution of pamphlets led them to learn that Feuilly was the only workingman, but was struggling to make ends meet; or that an invitation to join them at the Cafe Musain would lead them to discovering the eloquent Combeferre was a surgeon. The members of the Amis then seemed more human than ever before.
Despite being intrigued, they found themselves declining unless it was utterly convenient for them. A knot of guilt would form in their gut, knowing that these students have been balancing their fight for a Republic with the other facets of their life. They would not join a rally, unless they had the time, and they so happened to be there already. They would not accept a pamphlet, unless they could hide it from their family or had time to read it. But their eyes and mind had never shut again, and the spark of intrigued never dimmed but also never grew.
But in every rally that they could catch, every speech that they could listen to, they would always think, “Enjolras would make a good leader of the Republic someday. He has my support now and in the future.”
They and their family lived in Place Saint-Michel, near the Cafe Musain. It was not uncommon to see the students passing by, especially in the chilly breeze of the evening and in the biting cold of midnight. They would greet the students, sometimes, when they would cross paths on the streets. Sometimes, they would lean out on their window of their flat and tend to their budding red poppies, while watching the lively students walk the street. Oftentimes, the students would carry nothing but themselves, with the occasional stack of pamphlets to be distributed to the people. But tonight, the street was filled with people. The students carried muskets and weapons, and they called upon the people, and the people answered. It was loud. There no grand speeches, only the excited shouts of a bright future right on their fingertips. The smell of gunpowder wafted through the cold night. Tonight, the streets were red with the flags of the revolution and the Republic.
And as the students led the people on the march in the street, as the flag of France and the revolution were waved down there and in the windows of the people, our figure watched with awe. They did not join, however, merely watching from above. They understood and believed in the students’ cause, but they remained in their spot by their window, surrounded by the buds of their red poppies.
The following day was the funeral of General Lamarque. It was a public event, as were all funerals of great men of the government; the people were almost required to attend. They went with their family, once again wearing faded red. Under the shadow of the Elephant of the Bastille, they squeezed in the crowd of mourners. Up front, they could see Enjolras in his blood red coat. And as the carriage carrying the casket passed them, the student-leader in blood red surged forward to wave a flag that looked as if it were made from the same cloth as his coat.
As the other students and workers surged and seized control of the carriage, banners and flags of red and the Republic flew ablaze in the wind. The orderly line that the National Guard wanted broke, the dam breaking to release the sea of people demanding for better and for more. A cacophony of “Vive la France!” and “Vive General Lamarque!” resounded from the people. Then angry shouts and gunshots started to mix; the National Guard had started firing and tried to rein in the crowd.
Their family took them and retreated back to their flat at Place Saint-Michel. Their family did not want to be associated with them, “unnecessary rabble. Created nothing but trouble for everyone. Should’ve stuck to mourning the dead. We’ll be safe here, away from it all.”
Their heart thumped heavily in their chest, as if it were bashing against the ribcage, demanding to be set loose. They sat on a chair, their mind trying to wrap around what had just happen, when they heard the angry shouts and urgent commands and the faint smell of gunpowder. They looked out their window to see that the rabble rousers have arrived. The cobblestone street was replaced by the heads of people escaping the gunfire and moving towards a new dawn. Change waited for no one, they realized.
Soon, the students moved into the surrounding buildings, houses, and establishments. They took any and whatever pieces of furniture they could find, dragging them towards just outside the Cafe Musain; chairs, tables, benches, even an old piano was not spared. Some of their neighbors were generous enough to throw down their own pieces of furnitures before the students could even ask. They were starting to pile high outside the Cafe, an amalgamation of the students’ vision and the people’s support. A barricade to safeguard the future Republic.
Without warning, the door to their apartment burst open. Their family screamed in shock as the students apologized while taking some chairs and a table. But they themselves showed no resistance at all. They glanced at their family, who were fighting with the students for the furniture, and made no move to help or resist. Enjolras then stepped forward, reaching towards the chair they had sat on. Their breathing became labored; would they help these people, who have now obviously turned themselves into criminals for the people, or would they do nothing, and distance themselves from a fight that they thought wasn’t theirs?
When they did nothing, Enjolras got the chair and held it with reverence, as if it were a holy relic rather than a simple sitting tool. With a kind “thank you”, and armful of wooden furnitures, the students left. A hole was left somewhere deep within them, too. It was as if something that should be inside them didn’t exist. They wanted to run down and join the students on the barricades, but what good would that do? What did they hope to achieve? So they did nothing.
The remaining hours seemed to pass by in such a painstaking speed. They and their family dared not to venture out in fear of getting shot or involuntarily thrown into the mess. God forbid they and their family be mistaken as part of the insurrectionists. So they stayed still. It wasn’t until the first round of gunfire did the family move. They took cover in whatever remaining furniture or features they had in the flat. Our figure stayed away from the window where their red poppies were, leaning instead against the wall farthest from the barricades. Their hands flew over their ears as the bang bang bang of guns rang out. Their ears felt like imploding. Their heart pounded in rhythm with the sound of gunfire, their heart and guns outside were in such harmony, they felt as if they were being shot as well.
BANG! THUMP!
BANG BANG! THUMP THUMP!
As the gunfire ceased, they slumped against the wall. They felt as if they had been the one out there fighting. Should they go down and help their wounded? Perhaps not, it was still risky even if the fighting had paused.
And as their heart’s pace slowed down, their eyes drooped as well. The world turned dark and quiet.
BOOM!
They were once again awoken by a deep and heavy sound. As they heard it, the very floorboards and their being seemed to tremble in tandem. Their heart started thumping rapidly again as the gunshots resounded once more. They crawled towards the window with the budding red poppies and gazed down below.
They could barely see. In the flashes of guns and cannons, they could see vague figures on the ground, unmoving. Some were of the National Guards but many were students. Some they recognized. In the flashes of guns and cannons, they could vaguely spot outlines of figures running to the nearby houses and buildings.
“HELP!”
If it was possible, they jolted and froze at the same time.
BAM BAM BAM! “LET US IN! PLEASE!”
They stared down. The barricade had fallen, and students were fleeing and seeking refuge from the very people who had given them support.
Should they let the students in?
Perhaps not. After all, the Amis had many supporters. Surely, many of them would help the students.
They withdrew from the window and returned to their wall. They covered their ears once more, drowning out the sounds of the fight and the pleas of the students. Their eyes were tightly shut, blocking out the sights of the bodies on the street and the students pounding on the doors. And their heart thumped rhythmically along with the gunshots, closing themselves to the very people trying to fight for more doors to open for the citizens of France. In their huddled state, safe in their flat, they did not see the people of Paris turning their backs on those that fought for them.
As the pleas of the students were silenced, as the sounds of the cannons halted, as the crying stopped, as the gunfire ceased, their heart slowed.
Thump thump thump…
Thump thump…
Thump…
Thump…
With their eyes closed tight, they saw nothing but darkness, nothing different from the world outside. They fell into a restless slumber, the dark in front of their eyes occasionally flashing with blood red shapes.
They awoke the next morning to the quiet of the outside. Their family was bustling about, bringing in the chairs and table that the students had borrowed yesterday. The pieces of furniture were mostly damaged but still useful after they’ve been fixed.
The bright ray of sun caught their eyes, so they walked towards the window to close it. Instead, they found themselves stunned. Their red poppies had bloomed into vivid, strong, petals of red. And below in the street, was a sea of red. Not of flags or banners or even clothes. It was the red of the students, a glaring dark crimson puddle of their sacrifice. And somehow, the figure looking down felt the red drain from their face. They felt a nasty, cold and biting shiver crawl down their spine. They watched as the red of the streets was being washed by the grey of contaminated water as people started scrubbing the quiet cobblestone street of Place Saint-Michel. And so, our figure in faded red took a pair of scissors and gently cut the red poppies from their stems.
They went out in the streets, ignoring the women cleaning them and ignoring the men of the National Guard lingering about. Their nose scrunched up with the nasty mix of smells, but they forced themself onwards. They walked the short distance to the Cafe Musain.
No lively banter.
No heated debates.
No smell of food.
In front were bloodied figures of men. They were lined up, but not one in front of the other as if awaiting trial; they were lined up on the ground, side by side. Enjolras was the first in line, as he always had been for them. His blood red coat stood up amongst the others, but blended well with their wounds.
They knelt down in front of the fair-headed student-leader first. They reverently placed a red poppy on his chest, as if it were a holy relic that would save his soul instead of a simple flower.
For Enjolras, the law student.
And one by one, they knelt down for the rest of the fallen members of Les Amis de l’ABC.
For Combeferre, the surgeon.
For Courfeyrac, the center.
For Feuilly, the workingman.
For Joly, the medical student.
For Lesgle, the man with the eternal smile.
For Bahorel, the witty gentleman.
For Prouvaire, the poet.
For Gavroche, the little boy who found his family with the students.
And for Grantaire, the cynic and critic who stood with Enjolras to the very end.
They did not return home. Instead, they went to the nearest and cheapest bookstore they could find. They recalled the thinkers Enjolras would cite, and pulled out all the books that they could find.
They spent the rest of their life reading. Learning. Making up for what they should have done for the students.
And so in 1848, they fought in the Revolution, helping to establish the Second Republic. The monarchy was gone, and the people were given hope. But they hadn’t only fought for the current and future citizens of France, but they also fought for the martyrs of the past that were failed by the people they fought for.
Today, perhaps this story may resonate with some of us. Some of us may have been through similar experiences. When those who have sworn to serve and protect its people start to fail, be aware, and do not remain blind in your comfort. Must we wait for someone to give their life to start fighting for the safety and the needs we are obliged?
~~~
A/N: I hope yall caught the red poppies thing (and i hope i interpreted and used the meaning/symbolism properly 💀)
Old art from 2021, dragging it out of the archives for a new Barricade Day.
This is an AU in which Grantaire wakes up just a little too late. He stumbles into the room just in time to see Enjolras shot. It is too much for him to bear in the moment and he collapses, the guards mistaking him for dead. As the sun finally rises, he wakes once more. He drags Enjolras back in from the window, desperately hoping the man survived somehow. Refusing to face the fact that his one source of light is gone.
As he falls to the floor, clutching Enjolras in his lap, he sings a very somber reprise of “On My Own.” It ends with “I love him….I love him…I loved him…” before the final line is just him breaking down into sobs.
Who knows? We may succeed. We are few in number, we have a whole army arrayed against us; but we are defending right, the natural law, the sovereignty of each one over himself from which no abdication is possible, justice and truth, and in case of need, we die like the three hundred Spartans. We do not think of Don Quixote but of Leonidas. And we march straight before us, and once pledged, we do not draw back, and we rush onwards with head held low, cherishing as our hope an unprecedented victory, revolution completed, progress set free again, the aggrandizement of the human race, universal deliverance; and in the event of the worst, Thermopylæ. – Victor Hugo, Les Misérables
Not entirely sure what this is, it started with blackout poetry for the conversation between Joly/Grantaire/Lesgle on June 5 and evolved from there. I knew I wanted to do a piece that centred Joly, because I connect with him so much as someone with anxiety and OCD, especially in the hygiene/health realm.
"Guy" and "man" have different connotations with adjectival nouns. Like "tree guy" = arborist but "tree man" = he lives in a tree, or maybe he is a tree.
Just because you did something wrong in the past doesn’t mean you can’t advocate against it now. It doesn’t make you a hypocrite. You just grew. Don’t let people use your past to invalidate your current mindset.
Recently, the incompetent bastards in CICC classified tumblr as a gambling website instead of cracking down on actual illegal gambling sites. So far, the ISP currently affected are PLDT, SMART, and SKY.
Luckily I am fueled by spite for the government and I have some technical knowhow, so if you want to bypass this ban without a VPN by using Google's public DNS, I recommend these steps:
For Windows 11:
Open Settings > Network & Internet.
Click Ethernet or Wi-Fi > Hardware properties.
Click Edit next to "DNS server assignment".
Switch to Manual, enable IPv4, and enter: Preferred DNS: 8.8.8.8, Alternate DNS: 8.8.4.4. If that doesn't work, try IPv6, and enter Preferred DNS: 2001:4860:4860::8888, Alternate DNS: 2001:4860:4860::8844. If either doesn't work, enable them both and enter all of the above (worked for me).
Click Save.
For Android:
Android 9 (Pie) or higher
Go to Settings > Network & Internet > Advanced > Private DNS. If you can't find it and your settings enable you to search for it, look up Private DNS.
Select Private DNS provider hostname.
Enter dns.google as the hostname of the DNS provider.
Click Save.
Unfortunately I don't know how to change these settings for iPhone/Mac and other operating systems, so if you have information on how to do it, feel free to add to my post.
Spread the word! Copy paste these instructions for your Filo oomfies, etc.
Pairing: Valandil x Elendil's daughter!original character
Genre/Trope: last brain activity when dying
Warnings: death and angst
Summary: On his deathbed, Valandil is taken back in time.
A/N: IM SO SORRY I PROMISED THIS LIKE 2024 BUT I GOT BUSY W UNI anw i forced myself to write even if the semester is still ongoing. and yes i used the name of Boromir and Faramir's mother for the OC here (it's not the first time a name is used twice in the legendarium and refers to different characters so 🤷♀️)
The shrine welcomed the Faithful to its embrace. Candles lit the space that surrounded the relic of one of the Valar. The stream in the middle glittered from the candles that floated as people added more. They were ferried down the stream by small shells. The moment was meant to be a solemn mourning for all those that had fallen in Middle Earth. Valandil, along with Elendil had placed candles for Isildur and Ontamo.
The last thing Valandil remembered before the sharp metal sticking out of his gut brought him to his knees was his Captain's voice commanding him not to kill Kemen, who had barged and disrupted their mourning.
Darkness shrouded his eyes as he laid in Elendil's lap. Why couldn't he move? Why couldn't he see his Captain's face? Why couldn't he feel?
The dark soon transformed into a soft glow. He saw nothing else at first, then he heard giggles. Familiar giggles.
"You're too slow, Valandil!" A little girl.
"Slow down!" A slightly older boy, but it wasn't his voice.
Then the soft glow grew color. Bold hues of red, gold, blue, and green, with the touch of greys and browns. Then the blurry colored-glow turned sharper, more defined. The shapes of houses, merchants’ stalls, and the cobblestone streets of Armenelos. The streets were bumpy and the wind blew into Valandil’s face.
He remembered that day well. One of the many days he would play with two of Elendil’s children: Isildur and Finduilas.
Finduilas. That was her name.
He felt someone knock into him from behind, causing him to fall smack on the cobblestone street. After having upright himself, he came face-to-face with the little girl Finduilas. But instead of seeing her from the top (as he had expected), he found himself eye-to-eye with Elendil’s youngest daughter. She had wild brown locks, wavy, as if the sea that surrounded Númenor were created from the strands of her hair. Her eyes were gleaming with mischief, and her gap-toothed smile was wide.
“That was easy!” Little Finduilas exclaimed as another boy came catching up from behind her. His oval face and dark wavy hair could only mean this was Isildur.
Oh, Isildur, why must you have gone back for the Queen?
Valandil remembered that day in the streets. The sun was nigh touching the sea; the sky was gold and purple. He recalled that their parents had arrived soon after, scolding them for playing so late.
Yet no parents came this time. In fact, the streets were empty save for them, but he was sure the place had been crowded that day.
The streets and the faces of his friends turned dark as pitch. Once again, there was nothing he could see save for the eternal black darkness.
With nothing in sight, he forced himself to move. There was nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Until he could slowly feel soft ground, no longer the hard cobblestone street of the city. It was soft and warm. Then he smelled salt, then he could hear the crashing of waves, then he felt the strong warmth of the sun. Finally, he saw it—it was a beach, and standing on either side of him was Isildur and a curly golden haired boy. Ontamo.
He remembered that day. They had been around thirteen summers old, chatting about their aspirations of joining the Sea Guard when they grew older.
But something—-someone was missing.
“I want to be in the Sea Guard too!”
There she was. Finduilas, her hair now slightly longer but no less wild, if only managed by some hair ties that were struggling to hold her hair in place. She had to run to catch up to them, trying to squeeze herself in the group. The boys were in the age where they were growing up, and Valandil could feel his head tilted downwards just to look at Finduilas in the eye. He couldn’t remember what he said—couldn’t remember if he said anything at all.
But Isildur said something, and as Finduilas excitement deflated and manifested into a pout, he knew it wasn’t something good.
Then her face turned to him.
He wasn’t saying anything. Did he even say anything that day? Did he say anything to make her feel better?
His line of sight withdrew back to Ontamo and Isildur.
He remembered now. He had said nothing that day. Just left her there.
Suddenly, the sand fell beneath his feet, swallowing him whole. He tried to yell for help, but nothing came out of his mouth, only the course grains of sand going in. As his vision turned dark once again, he spluttered and struggled to breathe. And just when he thought it was his end, he screamed.
His heart raced, beating as if it were beating against his ribcage to release itself from his chest as he felt himself fall.
Falling.
Falling.
Falling.
Until he felt his behind land on something wooden.
It was loud. He sat in front of a long table—a counter—that was busy with mugs of drinks being served left and right. Chatter and shouts and song overlapped each other left and right, a familiar cacophony to Valandil’s ears. On either side of him were two empty seats. One for Isildur, one for Ontamo.
He remembered that day. He must’ve been around nineteen summers already. A man in his own right. He had grown taller, his own dark hair curly. His body was lean, as if it knew that Valandil would soon to be a promising addition to the Sea Guard.
He looked around once again. Many filled the wooden seats of the tavern, save for the ones beside him. He knew that Isildur and Ontamo were late that day, and he had sat in the middle seat to save his friends their spaces.
“Have you seen my brother?” A voice asked.
He turned to his left, and there she stood. Finduilas, whose hair was no longer wild. Her hair was now neat but still let loose, save for some locks that were pulled back into braids. She stood there gracefully, poised, as if she were in audience of the Queen instead of her brother’s dear friend. Her gaze no longer held mischief, but nervousness and a hint of warmth. They had grown apart in the years since that day in the cobblestone streets, but perhaps…
“He informed earlier that he and Ontamo would be late. Please, sit, it will be his seat, anyway,” he said. And so she did. Conversation flowed but few and far in between. He felt strange as he tried to reconcile the little girl he used to play with, and the stranger that sat beside him. His dear friend’s sister.
He soon discovered her passion for carving. She discovered his secret love for words and poetry. He recounted his injury with Isildur a few weeks ago. She told the story of how she nearly burnt her chambers down. He revealed his regret of growing apart from her and his fear of running out of time for things he desired.
The more they talked, the lesser the sounds of the tavern was heard. Until there was silence, and only his and Finduilas’s voice could be heard. He looked around, seeing nothing but chairs, tables, and drinks. Strange, as he knew that that night, the tavern did not grow empty.
Suddenly, a cold splash fell upon him from above, his head lurching forward from the impact. When he lifted his head, he could see a clear sky and the Great Sea ahead in the horizon. He felt the warm sand beneath once again, and something warmer in his left hand.
Finduilas. Her right hand in his left.
He remembered that day well. Just a few summers after that night they had renewed their friendship. And just a few weeks before he, Isildur, and Ontamo sailed to the Southlands.
His bond with Finduilas was stronger now. He felt strange in her graceful presence, like drinking a hot bowl of soup on a cold night. Or like sitting close to the hearth during a thundering tempest. Or…no. He could not quite describe it. How could he? How could one ever truly encapsulate this wondrous feeling when they’re in the presence of one they hold most dear above all else?
How could he, lowly Valandil, put into words his feelings for his Captain’s daughter? For his dear friend’s sister?
Feelings? What was he feeling? He did not know, exactly. All he knew was that it felt right to have her hand in his; to hold her and kiss her forehead before they part ways for the night; to divulge their hearts’ deepest secrets and aspirations; to always seek each other when the day had only just begun. It was as right as the sun rising and setting each day.
“Do not fret about your apprentice with the palace scribe,” he said to her tenderly, “I know you will do well.”
“And do not fret about your training with the master swordsman,” she rebutted playfully, “I know you will do well.”
A beat of silence, and then…
“I truly am glad we became friends again, Valandil.”
Should he tell her? Perhaps another time. After all, what would he tell her, that he was feeling…something…that he could not name? No, he would tell her when he knew what it was.
The warmth that he felt in her presence spread throughout his body. He smiled. Then the warmth quickly isolated itself in his torso and back, and the rest of his body was wracked with shivers. The light of the sun faded into nothingness, and there was no sensation left for him to feel.
Love. That was it. He could finally tell her.
Where was she? His last thought, pondering her whereabouts, consumed his mind, just as the darkness finally consumed whole.
And as a struggling Elendil was forcibly removed from the shrine, Valandil was left lying under the watchful gaze of the relic of one of the Valar—-now a mourner for the first of the Faithful to fall.
By the next night, his body had been removed. The shrine now empty, save for a singular shell floating down the stream in the middle, ferrying a candle—-and Valandil’s spirit.
