blurring and stirring the truths and the lies—so i don't know what's real and what's not—always confusing the thoughts in my head—so i can't trust myself anymore
( there is a cosmos stretched between them, threads of starlight drawings them into each other's pulls — darkness and light and it may be impossible for one to exist without the other. i, alone, can see your greatness. i, alone, can see your light.
she stands radiant, a cascade of moonglow off proud shoulders, a tempest in her eyes. he'd offered her so much, standing on a raft carved from dreaming, from mind and memory, with the rolling sea lulling beneath their feet. he'd offered her a place by his side, and albeit dared her to answer to the darkness he knew was there all along. challenged her, with albeit a mirror held to her face, for all the actions that have led them to stand where they were now.
she must have known it too, mustn't she? back in the dark smithy of numenor, when she'd come to him to push and push at him (join her in her fight, in their fight; come wear the southland crown). when she looked to him and said that she cannot stop and he saw that seed of darkness in storm-blue eyes and the shadows of her face.
she was meant for greatness. and with her...with her, he could perhaps welcome in a new world. a new power, for them to rule in some twisted amalgamation of belief that the task before him now was to heal what he helped ruin in the first place. to forge a new age, to save this middle earth.
he thinks she is still uncertain, when they emerge back within the grove, deep within eregion, to the babbling river. to the scroll of a long dead lineage floating along the waters. his hand had still lingered on her wrist, had kept the sharp edge of pure valinor gold and silver away from flesh, curiously watching the inner conflict unravel like golden thread. he knew that where a part of her still arose in opposition, another of it knew a different truth: that he was right.
he'd deceived her little, he'd say. what he's done was hold a mirror.
they return to celebrimbor's workshop, and the rings are forged. three, as she carefully offered and he did not see it fit to argue, a look shared between the two of them. some secret thing. he'd asked her if she felt the power within the bands, a quiet question when they were out of earshot. he'd asked if she felt things changing the way he did. he'd asked her if the ring fit.
the first thing he offers to do is accompany their return to lindon with their solution, to see the sum of their labors firsthand. to heal what he has ruined, he reminds, and power rolls meteoric behind dark eyes.
it works, of course. the joyous occasion of which helps divert most suspicion of a lowman being here at all. celebrimbor sings high praise, a glass raised, thank you, for the gift, softly spoken and all he can do is smile in return with humble eyes, playing the part so well.
it is when they are away from all others, when the rest revel in the relief of their light no longer waning that his posture returns, the ages creep back into the set of his brow, and he stands by the great golden tree and watches its leaves shudder in the evening breeze.
you knew our past meant nothing, weighed against our future.
he hears her steps behind, and turns to her. he extends his hand, to guide her up the stone steps, an offer and reminder of the place by his side.
their connection is cosmic; their paths were bound. by light and dark. ) Come to see what we've started?
( he can see, evident in where he still stands, that none of the rest of her people yet know the truth. of who he is, truly is. of who galadriel played ardent ally to. with whom she fought, side by side, united against a common enemy the rest of her people wanted to deny still existing.
the power of the ruins left within the southlands still rolls off his skin like a burn, threatens to suffocate in the memory of that uruk. he is next, sauron thinks. next to witness the combined weight of this new power. but for the moment, he thinks he's earned the right to enjoy the victory, turning a curious eye to look upon her. )
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so go on and scream—scream at me—i'm so far away
blurring and stirring the truths and the lies—so i don't know what's real and what's not—always confusing the thoughts in my head—so i can't trust myself anymore
no subject
she stands radiant, a cascade of moonglow off proud shoulders, a tempest in her eyes. he'd offered her so much, standing on a raft carved from dreaming, from mind and memory, with the rolling sea lulling beneath their feet. he'd offered her a place by his side, and albeit dared her to answer to the darkness he knew was there all along. challenged her, with albeit a mirror held to her face, for all the actions that have led them to stand where they were now.
she must have known it too, mustn't she? back in the dark smithy of numenor, when she'd come to him to push and push at him (join her in her fight, in their fight; come wear the southland crown). when she looked to him and said that she cannot stop and he saw that seed of darkness in storm-blue eyes and the shadows of her face.
she was meant for greatness. and with her...with her, he could perhaps welcome in a new world. a new power, for them to rule in some twisted amalgamation of belief that the task before him now was to heal what he helped ruin in the first place. to forge a new age, to save this middle earth.
he thinks she is still uncertain, when they emerge back within the grove, deep within eregion, to the babbling river. to the scroll of a long dead lineage floating along the waters. his hand had still lingered on her wrist, had kept the sharp edge of pure valinor gold and silver away from flesh, curiously watching the inner conflict unravel like golden thread. he knew that where a part of her still arose in opposition, another of it knew a different truth: that he was right.
he'd deceived her little, he'd say. what he's done was hold a mirror.
they return to celebrimbor's workshop, and the rings are forged. three, as she carefully offered and he did not see it fit to argue, a look shared between the two of them. some secret thing. he'd asked her if she felt the power within the bands, a quiet question when they were out of earshot. he'd asked if she felt things changing the way he did. he'd asked her if the ring fit.
the first thing he offers to do is accompany their return to lindon with their solution, to see the sum of their labors firsthand. to heal what he has ruined, he reminds, and power rolls meteoric behind dark eyes.
it works, of course. the joyous occasion of which helps divert most suspicion of a lowman being here at all. celebrimbor sings high praise, a glass raised, thank you, for the gift, softly spoken and all he can do is smile in return with humble eyes, playing the part so well.
it is when they are away from all others, when the rest revel in the relief of their light no longer waning that his posture returns, the ages creep back into the set of his brow, and he stands by the great golden tree and watches its leaves shudder in the evening breeze.
you knew our past meant nothing, weighed against our future.
he hears her steps behind, and turns to her. he extends his hand, to guide her up the stone steps, an offer and reminder of the place by his side.
their connection is cosmic; their paths were bound. by light and dark. ) Come to see what we've started?
( he can see, evident in where he still stands, that none of the rest of her people yet know the truth. of who he is, truly is. of who galadriel played ardent ally to. with whom she fought, side by side, united against a common enemy the rest of her people wanted to deny still existing.
the power of the ruins left within the southlands still rolls off his skin like a burn, threatens to suffocate in the memory of that uruk. he is next, sauron thinks. next to witness the combined weight of this new power. but for the moment, he thinks he's earned the right to enjoy the victory, turning a curious eye to look upon her. )