#illuminer

[vhscorp]

Le rêve est une étoile illuminant nos âmes, un éclat d’infini qui vient bercer nos nuits…

V. H. SCORP

[mesillusionssousecstasy]

"La Folie pratique" de Piero Fornasetti

[xjoyce66]

Le véritable amour ne vous épuise pas, au contraire, il vous embellit, il vous illumine, grâce à lui vous faites du bien à toutes les créatures, et surtout, vous êtes heureux. La sagesse ne vous donnera pas le bonheur, elle vous donnera la lumière, la direction à suivre, mais pas le bonheur. Et la puissance non plus ; avec la puissance vous serez peut-être invincible, mais pas plus heureux. Pour être heureux, il faut se lier à l'amour. C'est l'amour qui rend heureux, mais pas l'amour qu'on va chercher dans les régions inférieures.

Omraam Mikhaël Aïvanhov

[vhscorp]

Tu ensoleilles mes jours et illumines mes nuits, grâce à toi j’ai trouvé joie et sens à ma vie…

V. H. SCORP

[mesillusionssousecstasy]

Ces lueurs qui passaient aux yeux des Parisiens au milieu de la nuit, c'étaient les éclairs de leur haine qui illuminaient l'avenir.

Dumas (La Reine Margot)

[gxldenfinwe]

@illuminer from [X]

Artanis dreamt with her eyes open, for such was the way of children born beneath the Light of the Trees – wakefulness and dream mingling like threads of gold and silver braided into a single cord. Small hands lay folded in her lap, pale as seashells. Hair fell in a cascade of gold, flowing unbound over her shoulders, bright even in slumber. It gleamed with the gift of her father’s house, her eyes closed upon the depths of foresight that echoed his own. She had fallen asleep without yielding to it, her gaze gone heavy, her lips parted as though mid-question, lulled at last by her father’s low voice and the rhythm of distant surf. She stirred once as he bent, her eyelashes trembling like the beating of a moth’s wing against glass. Her body, still soft with youth, yielded when his arms gathered her. Against his chest she seemed scarcely to weigh more than a pearl cupped in the hand, yet she carried within her the fates of wars not yet fought, griefs not yet sung. In the half-light he bore her, the sweep of his robes whispering against marble tiles, his shadow vast and warm. She nestled into him, into his familiar scent, her hair catching at the clasp of his mantle as though determined to weave them together. In her sleep, in the safety of his arms, she smiled faintly. Laid into bed then, gently, carefully. Her breath rose and fell, small waves breaking upon unseen shores. Around her the air itself seemed to change, rich with portent, as though her dreams might bloom into prophecy even now, before she was old enough to name them. Artanis did not wake. Still, in her slumbering mind she felt the weight of her father’s hand tucking the coverlet around her and, in that gesture, was the truth of him. His strength not in the clamour of war or crown, but in this quiet tending. This patience, this steadfast love. When she woke with the dawn, she would not recall the moment, but the impression of it would linger, shaping all that was to come – the knowledge that greatness was not only in splendour but in gentleness, that her own light was born of such hidden mercies.

Arafinwë knew what it was to dream. Since his earliest memories, and likely before, his rest had been heavy with the future. As a child, he had not known how to manage it, and the distress it had brought him was great, though now he was more able to compartmentalise it, keep his waking mind his own.

But to know he had passed on the same suffering to his daughter pained him. There was indeed wisdom to be found in the glimpse of half-promised futures, but he would rather spare her the agony of it, the twisted mingling of grief for that which had not yet been.

Of course, he did not know that was what she dreamed of now, as he lifted her carefully into his arms. It might have been a dreamless sleep, or the wild imaginings of childhood, or a pleasant memory played out again. Arafinwë pressed a tender kiss to the crown of her head as he settled her in his arms, just as he had done when she was still so very small. Already, she had grown so much, when he was sure just yesterday, he had held her for the first time.

Gently, he laid her in her bed, making sure she was comfortable. In the sweet, domestic chaos of their home – brothers and cousins from both sides ever coming and going – some quiet moments should be cherished.

When Teleperion’s light had waned again, and Laurelin’s distant glow lit up the sky, Arafinwë returned to her room, bearing a tray of breakfast.

“I have brought you some before the boys devoured it all.”

[viaminvenia]

❛  tears fall for a reason. and they're your strength, not weakness. – for Sigrid, from Galadriel ( @illuminer )

@illuminer | meme [x]

It's only now, standing near the shores of Long Lake with the Lady Galadriel when Sigrid realizes that she hadn't yet been back to the Lake since the dragon's attack. Others had been, sure, and now there are some who have started rebuilding Esgaroth -- though in a different part of the lake, as no one wanted to rebuild on top of the dragon corpse that lay mingled with the ruins of the old town -- but Sigrid had not been. She'd been busy in Dale, and though she hadn't thought of it consciously, perhaps she hadn't been able yet to bring herself to go back to the lake. But she hadn't quite thought of that when she'd agreed to show the Lady of Light how Lake-town was being rebuilt as well as Dale.

The last time she'd seen it, Lake-town had still been smoking and smoldering from dragonfire, the fire having blazed so hot that it had made quick work of the town even after the dragon had fallen dead and crashed down through the burning buildings with an impact that had overturned several of the boats fleeing the fire. She'd known there was nothing left. She'd seen it then, but seeing it again now... She felt the tightness in her chest and the burning in her throat as tears blurred her vision and threatened to spill, and she'd turned away from Galadriel, trying to pretend like she was just looking at something else along the shore. She's always hated crying in front of people. She hears the Elf's voice, warm and kind, but Sigrid shakes her head, wiping the tears away as though that will will them to stop falling. "It doesn't feel like strength..."