#griefsung

[martyrshe]

Loss is not something she's faced a lot in her life --- or rather, not loss of something she actually cared about. She's experienced it plenty, more often than not about abstract things, rather than living people. The one she regrets the most? Loss of innocence. Her family, when she didn't know they'd willingly gave her away. Nothing but a kid, nothing but a small thing taking love for granted. Not anymore.

‘ 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏 𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚎. ’

Grief? What's grief, if not love eternal? A love so powerful trascending space and time. And what is love, if not weakness? She understands love, far from it, but she refuses to let herself be crippled by the loss of it. Anger? Yes, anger she understands, anger she can do easily. Anger is a type of fuel that spurred her on to move forward.

"You should channel your... grief in a more productive manner." She says, spitting the word as if it leaves a bad aftertaste in her mouth. It does. She squints towards @griefsung, gaze running up and down their figure briefly before she turns, hands clasping together in front of her.

For all your bravado, you're not immune to it, are you?

That's the curse of living long, isn't it? Eventually, everyone you know will die, and you'll outlive them all. "No one expects anything, but wallowing in despair about what once was is not the way to go at it."

[walkpathe-arch]

it is kanafinwë's own hand that halts his retreat,   thwarting his attempt at sliding back into the shadows,  unseen and unheard.  caranthir seems to uncoil slowly  —  he unhooks his fingers from the elder's wrist,  arm falling back against his side,  and at the last he unclenches his jaw.  he does not relent his hold on his sword,  however,  white knuckled and tense as if the fighting hadn't stopped,  as if he might still hear arrows whistle through the air.  he almost scowls,  when he suspects his brother might be trying to offer comfort,  yet he blinks the crinkle in his brows away when understanding dawns on him with the sudden force of a delayed blow.  there is blood still weeping from his shoulder,  where an arrow had struck true.  there is blood upon his hands and blade,  also,  the crimson stains near dried and not from his own body.  morifinwë pushes the horror of having slaughtered his own kin away,  buries it underwater until he can glimpse at it no longer,  until he feels nothing but righteous outrage toward anyone who might dare hinder their path.

❛   hold still,    and i shall leave thee go in just a moment,   ❜    kanafinwë commands the younger quietly.    the throb of his own bandaged thigh pushed to the corner of his mind,    he tends carefully to morifinwë's injury.    the concentration his task requires is almost a brief respite from the happenings around them.   (   @griefsung​   )

'  must you speak to me as you would a child?  i can tend to it myself.  '   morifinwë speaks with no grace, yet the words hold no real fire to them. his tongue a weapon he throws just for the sake of doing so, while his actions manifest a whole different language: he moves not, allowing his brother to see to his wound. the dark pools of his eyes flicker up towards kanafinwë's face, before he twists his own sideways in a show of attentively observing the sea — dark and swollen with fury, ripe for destruction.

[doomdefied]

@griefsung​  ♥’d for a starter!

By the light of a meagre candle, Efailwen lies alone, feverish and sweat-drenched, on her cot in the corner of Minas Tirith’s Houses of Healing. It’s been a few hours since the last healer left, and the pain has returned with a vengeance, as if the shard of that black blade is still lodged in the wound. Ghastly, phantom images appear before Efailwen’s eyes, memories of her Father enduring months of torture, of her Mother and Sister being put to the blade. She feels as though she is burning, though she cannot stop shivering, and terror fills her heart, while Sauron taunts her, telling her that she too will fall and join the rest of her House in extinction. 

Efailwen clutches at her mid-section, burying her ashen face in the damp straw mattress, whispering pleas to the Valar, to her family, for deliverance in the Ñoldorin mothertongue. If she cannot survive the Black Breath, then perhaps the Halls of Mandos may take her before she succumbs to the dark foe and his poisonous power.

“Atar, Amil, lar- mime óma,” Efailwen utters between sobs. “It hurts. Take it away.”

[soulhaunt]

                               THROAT CLEARS UPON ENTRANCE,   gaze surveying her as if searching for the same behavior his co-workers ‘warned’ him about.    so  far,  so  peaceful.   ❛  did you rest, miss?  ❜   urged more than anything, posture ghosting closer with ease. tucked in the pockets of  his uniform were extra medication, just in case she felt like taking any this time around.   ❛  i’m kangtae.  ❜  demeanor remained soothing as he seated himself by her bed frame.

* ~ @griefsung​​​ !