| pointlessness |
[May. 25th, 2004|09:35 pm] |
...
Mortal, having exams is no excuse for making me do things like this. |
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| This journal thing is harder than it looks. |
[Apr. 28th, 2004|06:30 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  distressed | ] |
While I'm working on some accounts of my life, I have been informed that quiz results are an acceptable form of journal content. Since I spent an otherwise boring afternoon recently reading through a pile of slightly sub-standard but entertaining books, I figured I would do a quiz based on them.
be sorted @ nimbo.net
I wish I didn't. Honestly, I blame Father: he was the one who impressed on me the virtues of nobility and standing up for myself. What is most frightening is the fact that this is the house my conceited brother and his infuriatingly valiant offspring would probably end up in.
No, wait, I blame Morgoth. I always do. |
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| Crystal Visions: Song of Metal |
[Apr. 26th, 2004|03:42 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  touched | ] |
People say I want to prove better than others. That is wrong: I simply strive to outdo myself. The rest is coincidental.
Though I try to make each new project better than the next, I think these crystals of far-seeing are among my greatest works. Through experimenting, I managed to create a substance that resonates with an elf's mind. They enhance mind-speech and sight, as I wanted them to. They also strengthen foresight. It is as if I somehow managed to tap into something beyond the confines of Arda and time.
My love looks into them sometimes, and on those nights she does not come to bed until Laurelin starts to shine. She watches the children sleep far into the night.
My own gift in those matters is erratic at best. I look into my crystals and see visions of far-off places and times, but they fade from my mind too quickly. That is why I set them to paper now. Before it is too late.
Tonight, I saw a forge. There were two elves there, a boy of ten years and an adult in a smith's clothing. By the elder's face, he could not have been more than a couple of centuries old. Their faces were very much alike, and both bore the unmistakable features of members of my father's house: the stubborn jaw and knife-straight nose I myself share. Neither had Miriel's arching eyebrows, such as all my sons inherited from me, and so I concluded they must be heirs to one of my half-brothers' lines.
Their eyes were dull and lightless. That small fact chilled me to the bone.
The smith was showing the child a dagger.
"There is a thin line between a tool and a work of art," he was saying. "This blade can kill, but you have to look beyond its purpose. Look at what it is."
The boy touched the flat of the blade, passed his fingers from the tip to the hilt. "It's pretty," he volunteered. "Like the buildings in the city, or the sound of the fountains."
The smith squeezed the boy's shoulders. "Exactly. If you know how to listen, metal sings with a song as great as that of stone or water. It is part of your heritage: the mastery of metal, and all other crafts."
"What's this?" The boy was pointing to a place on the dagger's hilt.
"If you turn the dagger around, the tengwar will spell Lómion, my mother-name. I don't usually sign my works, except for gifts to people I value highly."
"Who's this one for?"
The smith smiled, and for a moment light shone in his dark eyes. "For you, little sea-friend."
The boy laughed. He threw his arms around the older elf, and the other hugged him tightly.
As the vision faded, and the crystal turned dark again, I smiled. I had seen scenes like this: I had been the one with daggers and in one case, a flute (because despite rumours I can take a hint), and I knew how it felt to see the fire of love for the song of metal light in your son's eyes. Whoever Lómion would be, in whatever far-off time and place he would dwell, I am sure he will be a good father for the boy.
550 words; 60 minutes
[[![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) bwinter: Eärendil is five years old in this fic, but he grows faster than an elf, and so he's the size of a ten-year-old elfling.]]</spa |
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| Deciphering this contraption |
[Apr. 26th, 2004|11:44 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  curious | ] |
While I'm infinitely more qualified to configure livejournal than certain other people *coughs*, some things puzzle me. For one, why is it that no-one shares the lj interests "killing Morgoth" and "sibling envy"? I would hazard that at least my more conceited half-brother (as opposed to the annoyingly puppyish one) would have both on his list.
And the mortal has provided me with a user picture. I think I should talk her into providing more: she has both tolerable taste and the patience to go through her myriads of photos and fonts to put something together. |
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| A soothing flame |
[Apr. 26th, 2004|11:24 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | touched | ] |
She left a trail from the forge: fragments of copper wire from a broken sculpture, smears of soot along walls, a strand of hair caught on a candlestick.
My boots echoed on the stone floor of the bathing chamber, but she did not heed them. She kept jerking the brush through her hair. Each time it caught on a snag, she cried out, half in pain and half with frustration.
She let me take the brush and try to do something to help.
"I can't do anything lately." Her voice was rough, catching on every other consonant. "I can't make anything new. I start working, and then I see it's another repetition, another trite statuette of nothing in particular. I want it so much to mean something."
I kneeled behind her and gathered her to my chest. Sometimes it's time for words. And sometimes you just have to hold her.
15 minutes; 150 words |
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