#and they journeyed southward along the river

[moredhel]

enjoy the silence

#my art #tolkien #silmarillion #art #fanart #elves #tolkien fanart #finrod #felagund #findarato #turgon #turukano #nolofinweans #arafinweans #Turgon son of Fingolfin left Nevrast where he dwelt #and sought out Finrod his friend upon the island of Tol Sirion #and they journeyed southward along the river #do you think they had a situationship

[assortedseaglass]

The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Sixteen

Tom Bennett x OFC

[Masterlist]

Warnings: Strong Language, Smut, World on Fire spoilers

Word Count: 9.3K

Notes: Hiya pals.

“Welcome home, Mr Bennett.”

Tom looked behind the suited man and his clipboard. Beyond the small dockyard pier, he could make out the beginnings of a town still sleeping. Mist, or was it rain, was rolling in from the horizon of hills. In just a few hours, the train would take him through those valleys, along the Pennine Way and to Manchester.

“Not quite home,” Tom said to the man, who smiled in turn. “But almost.”

The boat from Gibraltar to Scotland had taken five days and, after his journey through central Spain, Tom was glad to be back at sea. In England, summer would have been making way for autumn but the heat still lingered in Spain. Days of walking, being bundled between cars, and of weeks waiting in Gibraltar for any news of his departure left Tom agitated. The heat had not helped. The days at sea had given him plenty of time for reflection. Stood on the stern of the boat, gazing as mainland Europe disappeared, he watched the surface of the water for disturbance. After the Battle of River Plate, he couldn’t shake the fear that U-boats were lurking beneath the waves, waiting to strike. Fighting for attention alongside these fears were thoughts of Bess. She had told him, before he left, that the Navy could be the making of him. In a way, she was right, for faced with the open ocean and endless sky, Tom felt freer than he ever had on land.

Home was so close now; he could almost smell it as the gentleman on the dock led him and a few other evaders towards a waiting vehicle. Roast dinners, grease from the dockyard, rain on the cobbles, perfume at the Palais and buttered chestnuts at Belle Vue. The dusty picture house, clean linen, Bess’ hair. Tom had tried to think of what he would do when he saw her, for seeing her was inevitable. For a while he thought of going to the Infirmary; she couldn’t scream at him while in her uniform. Or else, he could climb into the window of her flat like old times, but he didn’t know which was hers and hadn’t she said that the boarding matron had a strict rule of no gentlemen? Perhaps Tom could charm the woman. He wasn’t a gentleman, after all. He settled on seeking her in Longsight. Neutral ground. What he’d say he didn’t know, but that was one part of the plan he could account for; no more performing.

By evening, Tom and the other evaders that had made the crossing were trundling southwards, through Scotland and towards England. It was a supply train, and they had been given bunks by the men that worked to deliver steel, food and other resources across Britain. Tom watched as the sun set below the Pennines, knowing that in the morning he would awake in Manchester. He looked at the photograph of Bess. Almost nine months since he had laid eyes on her at the train station. Maybe tomorrow, he would see the real thing.

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Bess removed the blackouts to be dazzled by sunlight. She stood at her window a while; autumn was coming and soon all warmth would disappear from the sun. God she hated Manchester in winter. She scanned the city skyline. At least, what was left. As if in some perverse game of dominos, a few buildings that had been there last night were gone, dark smoke billowing in their stead. She had heard the first loud crashes. The air raid sirens hadn’t noticed this attack, and after the first distant explosion came banging doors as the girls of Carver Mills, dressed in nightgowns and curlers, hurried to the shelter at the end of the road.

Despite the terror of the night past, Bess found herself in unusually high spirits. The months had not been kind to her, and she could count on one hand the few times she had been truly happy since new year. Most of those times had been the first promising two weeks of 1940, sharing stolen kisses and glances with Tom. But this morning, with the sun shining through the horror, Bess felt perhaps if she couldn’t conquer the world, she could at least conquer the day.

She sat at the small vanity. She had been dancing at the Palais over the weekend and her rollered curls lingered. If she draped them just right at the base of the neck, she could hide them from Sister Stern under her nurses cap. Bess surveyed her reflection. It was a day that called for rouge. Rolling the lipstick from its tube, Bess swiped the colour across her lips and thought of the men at the hospital. She’d certainly brighten their day. The last thing to do was grab the photo from her nightstand. The paper was worn at the edges but despite this, and the black and white hue of the paper, Bess could feel Tom’s blue eyes gleaming at her. She tucked him into the pocket of her apron and donned her coat before glancing round the flat. It wasn’t much, but in the early autumn light, it felt like home. Perhaps she’d have Joan and Helen over that evening for supper and wine, if they could find some.  

The bus was just pulling away from the stop when Bess reached it, and she ran to join it. Douglas appeared at the open door and held out his hand to haul her onto the moving vehicle.

“Thank you,” she half whispered, half panted. Douglas touched his cap. A little awkwardness still coated the air after she had kissed him then revealed her feelings for his son; the month since had left little time for her to visit but she made a point to every time she was in Longsight. She valued Douglas’ friendship too much to allow her moment of insecurity and fear get in the way.

“Your father’s down the front,” he said as Bess moved to find a seat. “Looking a bit worse for wear.” Bess nodded and found her father slumped against the window behind the driver. His hair was unkempt and a little stubble was starting to show.

“Dadda,” Bess nudged him as she sat down. “Dadda!” He woke with a start and looked at her. A sleepy smile spread across his face and he took her hand in his own, patting it gently.

“I was going to pop into the hospital on my way home, to see if you were okay.”

“We’re all fine,” Bess squeezed his hand in reassurance. The Blitz was taking its toll on Fergal. More frequent air raids on the city meant that after his shifts at the dockyard he was straight into his warden’s uniform and on patrol, helping put out fires or guiding civilians to safety. Since Albie’s death, he was rarely home, his time taken up with helping the war effort and avoiding his grief. Bess laid her head on her father’s shoulder and they sat in amicable silence.

“Heavy night last night, they got Oxford Street. Palace Theatre got hit.”

“Many dead?”

“A fare few my girl, a fare few.” When they arrived at the Royal Infirmary, Fergal spoke again. “I do worry about you Bess. It’s only a matter of time before they get the hospital-”

“We’ve got a shelter in the basement, Dadda, we’ll be fine.” She kissed his cheek. “Tell you what, I’ll come by at the weekend for dinner. Stay over?”

“I’d like that, you take care.”

She waved off her father and Douglas from the stop as the bus made its way to Longsight, then hurried in to begin her shift. Sister Stern said nothing about her hair and lipstick, though from the twitch of her eye, Bess knew she wanted to. She was right too, the men loved it. She, Joan and Helen were the most popular nurses at the Infirmary with their beauty, charm and care. With every flirtatious comment, smile to her friends and patient helped, Bess felt her heart lighten. Uncertain the cause of this newfound contentedness, Bess was desperate to cling onto it regardless, and set about making plans for the evening with Helen and Joan.  

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On any other day, the walk from Manchester London Road to the Bennett house would take an hour. But as Tom strolled the streets that had coloured his childhood, his buoyance at being home turned to horror. The pub in which he snuck into for his first pint was no more than a pile of rubble. Houses of friends gone, skeletons of their childhoods all that remained. Even his secondary school, once an imposing building, had been brought down to a singular wall and the scaffold of the gymnasium. He felt sick. The war had at last come home. What if he arrived in Longsight to find it no longer existed? Walking through smoke and the rising dust of devastated buildings, he saw lines of people watching on as wardens and firemen attempted to put out the still simmering flames of the night before. At Victoria Park, a woman was trying to calm her young children, some of whom sat atop the rubble, as men scavenged what they could from the bombed-out street. A football lay abandoned in the road and Tom, taking pity on the woman, offered to kick the ball about with her sons while she rested.

By the time he had arrived in Longsight, any thoughts of happy reunions had vanished, replaced by the anxious dread that had followed him since his final days on the Exeter. The fear that around every corner, no matter how safe or familiar, life could be upended as easily as the spinning of a top. Keen not to feed his fear, Tom walked along the ginnel, avoiding the sight of the street and what it may hold. He reached the gate to the yard of his home as paused, taking a deep breath. The handle was cool in his hand, and it clicked gently as he opened it. Washing was strung across the line, mostly his dad’s shirts and a few of Lois’ small things. Instinctively, Tom took the sleeve of one of Douglas’ jumpers and brought it to his face, inhaling the smell of familiar laundry detergent. It fluttered from his hand in the breeze, and for a moment, Tom felt he could cry. It was that exact sound that stopped him. High and coarse, a wailing cry came from within the house, and Tom’s heart somersaulted.

Tentatively, he opened the door to the kitchen and stepped inside the house. A dull light streamed through the net curtains. Nothing had changed. The piano sat unused, the chairs the same, exactly where the family liked to sit. Douglas at the table, Lois by the window and Tom at the hearth. The only difference was the baby that lay swaddled and crying in its basket, set on the kitchen table. Slowly, ever so slowly, Tom inched towards the little creature. Its red face contorted as it kicked its covered legs and balled its tiny fists. He didn’t know who it belonged to, but Tom knew that somehow, he loved the little babe. Steps thundered on the landing upstairs. Tom just managed to tear his eyes away from the child when a pair of feet appeared on the stairs.

“I’m coming, I’m coming-” Lois slipped down the last few steps in her haste, buttoning the blouse she wore. “Come here then, you little bugger.” There was a moment when Tom thought he was a ghost, had died at Dunkirk and drifted home, for Lois looked straight through him with unseeing eyes. Her steps faltered as she made towards the Moses basket, looking at the space Tom occupied. She stopped and the wailing continued. The two siblings stared at each other, neither moving, as though scared they would startle. It was when Tom smiled at his older sister, dimples appearing in his cheeks, that Lois knew he was real. With a shriek she leapt at him, arms tight around his neck as she burst into sobs.

“Hiya,” he whispered with a laugh. She pulled back to look at him, taking his face in her hands and assessing him, making sure he was there. Deciding it was true, her brother was really home, she took a step back and smacked his arm, hard.

“You bloody bastard,” she laughed through her tears. “We’ve been so worried.”

“And busy,” Tom nodded his chin in the direction of the baby. Lois wiped her face with a watery smile and scooped the baby into her arms.

“Give over,” Lois huffed, unbuttoning her blouse and sitting in the rocking chair by the hearth. Tom watched as the baby’s cries turned to snuffles of contentment.

“Christ. Everything’s so different,” Tom whispered. Manchester, the war, a baby. The home he had longed for was irrevocably changed. And yet, looking at his sister cradling that little baby in her arms, Tom felt that somehow everything would be ok in the end. Lois watched Tom watching the baby and another small sob left her. “Don’t be soft,” Tom laughed, though he held out his hand and Lois took it.

“I’ve missed you,” she wiped her eyes again. “Needed you here.”

“Did you know? Before I left?” Lois nodded. “You should have told me.”

“I was scared. I’m sorry,”

Tom shrugged his shoulders, and Lois gazed back down at the baby. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” He said with a chuckle. The baby had finished feeding, and Lois held the little creature up.

“Sit down then,” she said, indicating the armchair opposite the rocking chair.

“You what?” Tom tried to sound light, but a spike of terror caused his ears to turn pink.

“Just sit down!” Tom did as he was told, and Lois lowered the baby into his arms. She laughed at her little brother, whose eyes were wide in shock. “You can relax, Tom. Lean back in the chair and I’ll put a cushion under your arm. Just take her head, that’s it-” Everything in Tom’s body stilled. His breath became deep, his racing thoughts quietened and any sound beyond the house disappeared. The baby in his arms licked its little pink lips, still milk-drunk, and looked up at him with shining eyes. “This, Tom, is your niece.”

“Fuck,” he whispered.

“Language.” Lois teased. “And this, little one, is your uncle Tom.” Knowing she was in tender care, the little girl gargling in his arms took hold of the finger that had reached out to brush her cheek.

“Fuck,” Tom said again, and wiped a tear of his own from his eye. With Tom missing, Harry married and facing a world of raising a child on her own, Lois had lost all expectations for the future she once dreamed of. A little piece of hope she thought missing slotted back into the space of her heart, as she watched her brother embracing her daughter. She ran hand through Tom’s hair tenderly and he leant into the touch, reminded of their mother. After minutes of contented silence passed Tom, never looking away from his niece, spoke.

“Is she Harry’s?”

“Yes. Though what he’ll have to do with her, I don’t know.”

“Bastard.”

“Quite.”

When he spoke again, it was to his niece. “Doesn’t matter thought, does it? You’re perfect.” Lois smiled and kissed his cheek.

“Are you alright with her there? I’ve got some folding to do,” Tom waved his hand; he’d sit there forever. “Not sure what to call her yet, I thought it’d be nice to name her after mum?” Tom nodded and Lois’ heart burst with pride. Her little family would be ok.

They talked for hours. Tom told Lois about his travels around the south of Europe, and about Dunkirk. How he ended up in Paris and his escape. About Claudette and the others he met along the journey. Lois told him of ENSA, Harry’s betrayal and of adoring Vernon. Of the baby and the birth; she spared him the detail, all but one fact. “Bess helped me deliver her.”

“Oh right,” Tom’s voiced croaked and Lois smiled to herself.

“You’d better go over and see the Vaughns later. They’ll be so happy to see you.” She came back to sit next to Tom and her daughter, now sleeping in her uncle’s arms. “I don’t suppose you’ll have heard that either, God, there’s so much to tell you-”

Tom didn’t get the chance to find out what Lois had to tell him, for the front door clicked open. Douglas walked in, shucking off his shoes and coat. “Where’s my granddaughter then?” He was happier than Tom had heard him in a long time and his stomach sank a little. Was it wrong, to have hoped to find his father devasted? Maybe he was right after all, maybe things were easier if he wasn’t here.

“Dad,” Lois’ voice was soft.

“Yes, love?” Douglas turned from hanging up his coat and glanced at his daughter, before his eyes flickered to the man sat beside her, cradling his granddaughter. Tom stood and Lois hastily took the baby from his arms. Douglas looked between his daughter and son, mouth a little ajar, and swayed on the spot.

“Hi dad.”

The words were barely out of Tom’s mouth before Douglas clapped a hand to his own and laughed. He bent double, laughing, and at this Lois began crying again. It was when his father stood straight that Tom saw the tears rolling down his face. “Dad,” Tom stepped forward but hesitated. For the second time in his life, he froze. The first was when Bess fled from this very house in tears, the second was now. Luckily for Tom, he didn’t have to wait long, for Douglas staggered forwards and gripped him in a desperate hug.

“My boy,” Douglas laughed through his tears. “My boy,”

“Hi dad,” Tom said again, weakly. Douglas, as Lois had done, cupped Tom’s face to look at him.

“My brave, brave boy.” Tom laughed awkwardly, but his heart soared with happiness. At long last, he was home.

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The afternoon was reaching for evening when the Bennetts finally grew tired of chatting. Baby Bennett was sleeping on her grandfather’s shoulder, who was watching his two children with adoring pride. Tom had taken the picture of Marie down from the wall and placed her at the table, the way the Vaughns did with their mother. Sipping the last of their tea, they sat in gentle silence and simple enjoyment of the fact that their family was together again. And not just together, but growing.

“What are your plans, Tom?” Douglas asked as he placed the babe back in her basket.

“Well, I imagine it won’t be long until I’m called back.” He hurried on at the darkness that befell Douglas’ face. “But it won’t be for a while. I’m not sure how much paperwork it takes to resurrect the dead. In the meantime, it’ll be a few good meals and see as much of home as I can.”

“Speaking of which,” Lois said. “You best get over the road. They need some good news and I think you’re just the thing.”

“Must have been devastating when I left, all the good-looking fellas gone-” Lois smacked his arm again.

“Be off with you!” Tom kissed her cheek and patted his father’s shoulder.

“Save some tea for me, Lois. I’ve been dreaming of your roast dinners.” Dressing in an old jumper and clean slacks, he made for the door and the Vaughns. The air was still warm from summer though an autumnal breeze was gathering through the street. A few little girls playing in the street shrieked when it lifted their petticoats around their woollen tights. Tom laughed. That’ll be the little one someday. Crossing the road, something else fluttering in the wind caused him to stop dead. A black ribbon, tied around the knocker of the Vaughn’s front door. His blood ran cold. Surely, Lois would have told him if it was one of the girls. If it was Bess. The sensitivity of the day’s emotion caught at the back of his throat and he swallowed. Hadn’t Lois tried to tell him something before his dad arrived home? Tom watched with quiet fear as the ribbon teased him, before stepping to the door and knocking. He straightened his jumper and ran a hand through his hair. God damn it, he should have looked in a mirror before he left. Or at least washed. Tom was just shaking out his shoulders when the door opened and he snapped to attention.  

“Co-” The words died in his throat as the eldest Vaughn sister jumped at him.

“Oh my God!” Cora withdrew to look at him, then crashed into him once more. “Oh my God! Dot. DOT! Come down here right now!” She dragged him over the threshold. As yet, Cora had said nothing to Tom, and no words were exchanged further when Dot came hurtling from the back room and screamed at the sight of him. Running across the kitchen, she jumped into his arms and bounced up and down.

“You’re alive, oh thank God,” Dot turned back to her sister. “Some good news at last!”

Cora didn’t take her eyes off Tom. “Bess will be thrilled,” Tom could have sworn he saw Cora smirk.

Bess. Tom remembered the front door. “Cora. What’s happened? The ribbon on the door,” Dot stopped her giddiness, still holding on to Tom’s hand.

“Oh Tom,” Cora shuffled around the table to hold her sister. “It’s our Albie. The Siege of Calais-” Her voice died away and Dot hiccoughed. Tom looked between the sisters.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, hating how feeble the words were and how they sounded in his mouth. Dot looked up and tried to smile through her watery eyes.

“But at least we have you back. And like Cora said, Bess will be thrilled.”

“I’m going over there to Manchester soon actually, Tom, taking some food round for Bess. If you want to come?”

Cora looked to Dot, who still had hold of Tom’s hand. She began to swing it, looking up at him mischievously. “Um,” he coughed. “Yes, will do.” Christ.

The journey back into the centre of town was easy. One of Douglas’ friends from the bus service gave he and Cora two free tickets on account of him returning home, and the bus detoured around the bombed buildings. Tom thanked God; he didn’t know if he could stomach it. Not when his mind was so occupied on seeing Bess within the hour. Next to him, Cora chatted away about Roger and how well he was doing with the RAF, about the memorial mass for Albie, and at that Tom tried to listen. But through imagined glimpses of the Vaughns’ grief, all he could see were flashes of Bess running alongside the train. It wasn’t until he and Cora departed the bus and arrived at an old mill building that he noticed he hadn’t been paying attention at all to the route they had taken. All he knew was that this was the old cotton trade quarter of the city. Tom looked up at the tall chimneys, smog-stained red brick and the shadow the old mill cast. Half of him thought that facing the Germans would be less terrifying than stepping in here and he laughed. Cora smiled lightly.

“Are you excited to see her?”

“Pardon?” Tom’s reaction was quick, so quick that when he whipped his head around from gazing up at the mill, he heard it crack.

“Give over Tom, I’m not stupid. I know all about you and Bess. She told me, after I caught you both kissing in the window.”

Tom grinned mischievously and rubbed the back of his neck. “I always get caught, in the end.”

“At least this time it isn’t trouble. Though I’ll tell you know, Tom Bennett. I adore you, but if you break her heart, I’ll kill you myself.”

“I think Dot’d kill me first.”

Cora laughed. “That she would. Now,” she put her hand on the door knocker. “Mrs Russo, the boarding mistress, doesn’t like gentlemen visitors so we’ll just tell her you’re waiting outside. Then we’ll sneak you in when she isn’t looking.”

“Aye, aye!” Tom saluted and with a laugh, Cora knocked. Once. Twice. Three times. There was a little noise behind the door and the two heard a pair of footsteps growing louder. It opened to reveal Mrs Russo, broom in hand and beaming, her bonny face shiny with exertion of cleaning.

“Cora, love, hello!” She pointed at the basket of food in her hand. “Got any for me?”

“Just deliveries for Bess I’m afraid,” the two women laughed and Tom sensed this was an ongoing occurrence. Mrs Russo then turned her eyes to him appraisingly and did not hide that she clearly approved.

“And who is this handsome lad?”

“Mrs Russo, this is Tom.” Cora lightly touched his shoulder. “A childhood friend. He’s just returned home this morning.”

“Ah, the missing fella!” Mrs Russo clapped her hands. “Bess has told us all about you, of course.” Tom felt a blush rise up his cheeks and Cora smirked. “Now, I don’t allow young men in the house, even ones as good looking as yourself, but would you take a cup of tea while you wait for Cora? I can open up the courtyard for you.”

“Only if you join me, Mrs Russo.” Tom winked.

“Oh, he is a charmer! I can see why you girls are so fond of him. I best get back to my cleaning but if you follow the building round, I’ll open the gate to the courtyard. Coming, Cora love?”

Tom began to walk along the red brick wall as Cora whispered, “I’ll come and get you when the coast is clear!”, and followed the lady inside. Mrs Russo had already opened the courtyard gate and hurried back to her chores when Tom reached it. Washing, bedsheets and nurse’s uniforms, hung between every window and at the centre of the small patio was a table and two chairs, a steaming cup of tea already awaiting him. No sooner had Tom sat down and taken his first sip was Cora hissing at him from a side door.

“Psst! Tom!” Tom hastily threw the tea into a plant pot and strode towards Cora. “Bess is still at work but I can let you in. You’re alright waiting for her, aren’t you?” Tom nodded his assent and felt his heart rate double. The two wound their way quietly up a few flights of stairs before Cora stopped to fumble with a set of keys. “Here we are, Bess’ humble abode.” She entered the flat first and Tom followed. It was as if he was trespassing on the room of someone recently deceased; it was so full of life yet the occupant was nowhere to be found. He half expected Bess to jump out at them.

The kitchen was miniscule. A cup and plate had been left by the sink, and Cora set about washing them for her little sister and putting away her parcel of food. On top of a rickety table was a vase, the dried flowers losing their leaves and scattering around two picture frames. One of Bess and her family, one of Etta. Tom smiled and moved to the window. Despite the missing buildings and the faint smoke rising from the air raids, Manchester looked magnificent in the late summer light. The sun was low on the horizon, piercing through chimneys, spires and mills. A little way off, Tom could make out the cranes of the dockyard. Beside him was an old armchair, its fabric faded and patched in places. Over the top lay some clothes, haphazardly draped, and a book of Nursing Practice. A little to his right, the bedroom door was askew, and Tom just caught a glimpse of the bed when Cora spoke. She was halfway out the door.

“I know what happened, Tom, before you went away. Bess has a steely mind and a sensitive soul, but she needs the truth.”

She didn’t allow Tom to add anything more before shutting the door. He was left alone.  

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“Got a bottle of wine from one of the lads,” Joan said, placing dirtied bedding into the wash bin. Helen was smoking discreetly out of a store cupboard window, carefully avoiding Sister Stern.

“How on earth did you manage that?”

“Said I’d give him a kiss,” Joan said sweetly and Bess laughed.

“Honestly,” Helen pretended to chastise her friend, but still smiled as she exhaled a plume of smoke. “What time shall we come up to yours Bess?”

“Eight o’clock, I’d say.” Bess was helping Joan to tidy away the linens before heading home to pick up some sewing work. “Gives me a chance to finish the clothes.”

“I wonder if there’ll be another air raid?” Helen worried the skin of her lip as she flicked her cigarette away.

“If there is,” Joan straightened and stretched her back from the day’s labour. “I’m glad I’ll be with you girls.” Bess squeezed her hand and waved her goodbyes.

The five o’clock sun set the city ablaze, and when Bess stepped onto the street, the glare the sun cast from the windows caused her to walk straight into somebody.

“I’m so sorry,” she held out her hands to steady herself against the person.

“Bess,”

Bess looked up, and into the sullen and scarred face of the man before her.

“James!” Bess took an instinctive step back. “How are you? The scarring is healing well, glad to see my stitching was neat.”

“Yes, I uh-” James looked nervously at her and shuffled on his feet. “I’m here to see one of the doctors about my sight. If he thinks I’m healed, it’ll be back to the front for me.”

Neither spoke for a moment, then Bess reached out to hold his arm. “The offer still stands, James. If you want someone to write to, you know where to find me.” She gestured to the building behind her. “Good luck.” She began to walk away when the calling of her name stopped her.

“Bess, if I do go back, would you come for dinner with me before I go?”

“James-”

“Please, just one last time.”

Despite his height, the soldier seemed to slouch under Bess’ gaze. His messy hair blew in the breeze and the coat he wore hung loosely around his shoulders. He looked completely lost.

“James, I’m sorry. I’m taking care of my heart at the moment, I don’t think I can handle any more heartbreak.” The man she spoke to straightened at this, seemingly buoyed by the fact that in some life somewhere, he could have the capacity to break this magnificent woman’s heart. The reality was entirely different, and Bess’ mind drew images of blue eyes and thin lips before her. Still, this little offering seemed to ease the soldier’s spirit and she smiled. “Good luck, James,” she said again, before heading for the bus stop.

Mrs Russo was exiting Carver Mills when Bess arrived home a while later. The little woman was buttoning her coat over a blue skirt Bess had mended for her when she spotted her tenant.

“How was work love?”

“Exhausting.”

“Well, you’ll be glad to know that Cora popped round a little while ago with a very handsome man and a food basket for you.” Bess smiled, imagining the fuss Mrs Russo surely made over Roger. He really was taking his time with that proposal.

“Perfect. Helen and Joan are coming up for supper later if you’d like to join us?”

“Oh heavens no!” Mrs Russo smiled. “I’m off to see my daughter, and besides, you girls don’t want an old biddy like me hanging around. No, you have your fun.”

“And you,” Bess passed Mrs Russo in the doorway and dragged herself up the stairs towards the flat. Despite her weariness, and run in with James, Bess still felt in her heart the lightness that had settled there that morning. For the first time, she smiled as she thought of Albie. Bess had never been particularly faithful, unlike her mother and father, but she wondered if this happiness and warmth came from her brother watching over her. Perhaps he was annoyed at her moping and was sending her a gift from the heavens. He always got annoyed when she was miserable, the likely cause being their twin moods. Or maybe it was because she had finally settled into her life in Manchester, away from her family. It was true, she missed them, and missed the piano, but this newfound sense of freedom gave her something she hadn’t known since she worked at the atelier. Only three miles away from where she was born, yet somehow this little world felt like hers entirely. The only thing that could dampen her happiness was Tom. She heard Albie’s reassuring and logical voice in her head. “Missing, not dead.” She reached the door to her flat, a little out of breath and pulled her keys from her bag.

“Missing, not dead.” She said aloud to the stairwell, placed her key in the door and began humming Mack the Knife. The sun painted her kitchen a brilliant gold, and Bess stood in the open doorway letting the last of the day’s warmth touch her face. She turned back to the door, still humming and locked it before removing her coat and shoes. Reaching up under her dress, she unhooked her itchy tights and pulled them off also, the cool tiles of the floor sending shivers up her legs. It was as she was retrieving the contents of her bag that the sudden and harsh scraping of a chair across the kitchen floor caused her to gasp and spin around.

A man was stood at the table. Wisps of his blond hair were haloed in the golden sunset, his broad shoulders squared, and Bess could just make out the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. Electricity hummed in her fingers tips. If I reach out and touch him, she thought, I might spark. At this surge of power, of energy, warmth welled in her bosom and her chest burned, as though taking her first gasping breaths of oxygen. Bess’ body, far before her mind, reached out to the figure, lit like a beacon in the autumnal light. She stepped forward, yet the figure didn’t move. He didn’t need to.

Bess would have known it was him had she been blind. If he’d not been a man, but a perfect ray of sun or a bird perched on her window or the chime of bells on Sunday, she’d have known. She would have known it as the air stilled around them. If he hadn’t come back until she was an old maid, and he an old man. She would have known it was him, just like she knew he was the reason for the day’s high spirits. Bess raised her hand and, shielding her eyes from the light, she saw him. The depths of those grey eyes, the sweep of hair. The strong neck that led to that stone jaw. The slope of his nose, pink at the tip and those lips, curved and oh so tempting. She edged ever closer, her hands instinctively reaching out to him.

Tom had been prepared for stony silence, a confrontation, or an affectionate kiss on the cheek and a “welcome home”. But when Bess looked at him as though he were the only man on earth, Tom Bennett could do nothing but watch. Watch, as she stood bathed in the sunlight. Watch, as she took in every feature of him. Watch, as her shock turned into recognition, and watch as she advanced on him, her dark eyes set and certain.

“Bess, I-” his voice was barely above a whisper, and the hopeful need he heard in his own was matched in the stormy eyes of the woman before him. Months of despair and self-hatred, years of waiting and wanting all came undone at the sound of his voice. Taken over by carnal desire that only he could ignite, Bess rounded the tiny kitchen table and collided with him.

“Tom,” her voice was shrouded in desperation, and no sooner had his name left her lips were they on his, warm, wanting and needy. Tom sighed, letting Bess devour him in a frenzy of lips, teeth and tongue, and in an instant his hands were at her back, pressing her body flush against his chest. Bess pushed Tom into the wall and pawed at his chest, desperate to touch any part of him she could. Pulling away from his lips, she tugged at the jumper he wore. She dropped it to the floor and pressed her body against his, wanting nothing more than to melt into his touch. Bess untangled her hands from Tom’s hair and frantically began undoing the buttons of his shirt. Her nimble fingers made quick work of the offending garment and Tom watched with proud awe as she ripped it away from his body and ran her eyes over his hard chest. When a small gasp left her parted lips his pride turned to fear however, until Bess ran gentle fingers under the skin his left shoulder. There, above his heart and below his collarbone, the puncture of scar tissue darkened his alabaster skin.

Seeing horror flash across her eyes, Tom placed a hand on hers and held it over his scar. “They shot me,” he said simply with a sad smile.

“And that’s why you didn’t come home,” it was a statement more than a question, and Tom nodded. Slowly, Bess removed her hand from the scar and placed a tender kiss to the mottled skin. Tom’s wayward heart drummed in his chest as something akin to hope anchored there.

“I’m sorry,” Bess whispered, peppering kisses across his chest, always returning to kiss the gunshot. “I’m so sorry,” her voice quavered and when Tom moved away from her she whined. Tears were forming in her eyes, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She reached out to Tom but he batted her hand away and instead took her face in his hands.

“Why are you apologising?”

“I didn’t say goodbye to you,” Bess took a shuddering breath. “What if you hadn’t come back? It’s, it’s-” Her voiced raised in pitch. “It’s so close to your heart, Tom.” She had barely finished the words before prolonged grief racked her body. She tried to hide her face but Tom didn’t let her. Instead, he ran a thumb over her cheek and committed this moment to memory. In the streaming, yellow light, and filled with tears, her brown eyes looked gold. She must have been wearing lipstick during the day, for the faded pigment lingered at the centre of her full lips, now wet with his kisses and slightly parted. A flush covered her cheeks and nose, and her eyebrows were knitted with anguish. Tom grinned with tenderness for her. Once more running a finger over her cheek, he wiped away a tear and spoke softly.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he kissed her slowly, savouring the taste of her salty tears and the warmth of her tongue. “I’m here, Bess. I’m home.” At this, Bess whimpered through his kisses and clutched at his shirt. The sound sent tremors straight to Tom’s cock and he inhaled harshly, attempting to restrain his desire to take Bess where they stood. Urgent for closeness, Bess wound her hand through Tom’s sandy hair and gripped hard at the nape of his neck. When he moaned aloud, she ran her tongue along his lips before moving to nip at his jaw, down his neck and his bare torso. His head fell back and hit the wall as she ran her tongue up the length of body, skirted her hands over his chest and wound them around his neck. She bit him there once again and Tom laughed.

“I missed you so much, love.” Tom whispered, the ghost of a smirk on his handsome face.

“Tom,” Bess ran her tongue along the column of his neck and bit the pulse point there. The action caused Tom to buck his hips and Bess giggled. She did it again and this time, Tom growled. “Fuck, Tom,” once more her hands found his hair and she tugged him down in a fiery kiss, their tongues fighting to gain dominance. One of Tom’s large hands gripped Bess’ waist and pulled her towards his groin, where she felt the growing hardness beneath his trousers. Head spinning, and whining at the friction through his trousers and her layers of uniform, Bess broke the kiss and licked her lips seductively. Tom pulled forward. She pulled away.

“I dream of this every night, Tom Bennett.”

That was it. That was all it took for Tom Bennett to snap. Months, if not years of wanting Bess Vaughn burst from him as he roughly took hold of her face and crashed his lips onto hers. No longer were his kisses soft and loving, but hard and wanton. Bess mewled at his display of ownership over her and began unbuckling his belt.

“Fuck,” he tore his mouth away from hers to suckle at her neck; hot, wet kisses as she fought to free him from his trousers. When the belt was undone, still dominating her mouth with his tongue, he gripped her hips with his hands and forced her backwards until her legs hit the wood of the kitchen table. With both hands under her backside, he hoisted her onto its surface and she grabbed him for another devouring kiss. Without coaxing, she spread her legs and Tom groaned as he stood between them, grinding against her layers of skirt.

“Tom,” Bess’ head tipped backwards and he ground into her. He reached behind her back and pulled the ties of the nurse’s apron and threw it to the ground. With her legs wrapped around his waist and her arms about his shoulders, Bess clung to Tom as he fought with the buttons and zip of her bodice. Cold air and Tom’s long fingers traced the skin there when he managed to undo it, and no sooner had Bess moaned is name was Tom pulling her free of the arms and bodice of her uniform. He huffed at the sight of her brassiere, and with no warning or hesitation, ripped its satin straps so that Bess’ chest was entirely bare to him. Instantly, her pink nipples puckered with cold and Tom’s eyes blew wide. He dipped his head to kiss at the full flesh there, and Bess’ hold around his waist tightened.

“Please, Tom.” His name was all she could say. Tom was all she could comprehend. Still teasing her breasts, Tom reached beneath her skirt and roughly pulled down her knickers. She moaned with need as Tom ran a finger through the treasure he found there.

“Fuck,”

Bess bucked her hips.

“Fuck,” he said again, bringing his lips back to hers and moaning into her mouth. “You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined doing this to you.”

Bess laughed with the pleasure and power those last words brought her. “Yes I do,”

“Confident,” Tom smirked as he continued to kiss her and run his long fingers through her now dripping folds.

“’I’d have fucked you with my mouth, my fingers, my cock. Watched you take me.’” Bess quoted, and Tom stilled. Through lust-hazy eyes, he looked down at her. His fingers stopped their work and Bess whined.

“What did you say?”

“’I don’t want to imagine anymore what those nimble fingers of your can do.’” Bess quoted again, and she watched as his pupils dilated further and his Adam’s apple bobbed with nerves. He huffed a laugh and Bess bit her lip.

“How do you know that?”

Bess tried to drive her hips upwards, frantically trying to feel his fingers against her but he moved them away. “What do you mean?”

“I-I didn’t send that letter,” Tom whispered, his mouth close to hers. Bess frowned a little, confused but eager for their reunion to continue.

“Well, you have a guardian angel because not only did they send you back, but they sent that letter too. And I’ve read it every night and every morning since it arrived. I’m tired of using my hand and pretending it’s your mouth around me.” Bess kissed him quickly, chastely.“I could say exactly the same.”

Tom regarded her with admiring shock then, with a harsh thrust as quick as lightening, brought his fingers to dip inside her. Bess cried out but was silenced by Tom’s hot mouth on hers. Who was more wanton, neither could say, for no sooner had he touched her was Bess bucking her hips onto his hand. Faster and faster, Tom fucked her sex with his fingers. First one, then two. When he added a third he felt Bess clench hard around him and he buried his head in her chest.

“Please,” she whimpered, curling an arm around his neck for purchase. “Please, I need you Tom.” At the sincerity of her words, a singular sob rent its way from Tom’s tense body. He looked down at her, at his Bess, spread before him on the table, half dressed and flushed with lust. It was true that Tom had thought of this moment, though his dreams could never equal the excitement, terror and elation that he felt roaring through his veins. But his obsession with Bess was so much more than lust. These nine months he had carried her in his pocket, through battles and enemy-occupied states. If he did have a guardian angel, surely it was she. Surely, it had always been her. On the Exeter, wasn’t it her hair he saw in the flames? When entangled with another woman he didn’t know the name of, wasn’t it her lips he’d imagined? It was memories of her, teaching him piano, nights at Belle Vue or the Palais, the momentous occasions he had made her belly laugh, or quiet evenings sharing a cigarette that had got him through those lonely, fearful nights at sea. It was the certainty that when he got home Bess would be there, waiting for him or not, that dragged his tired and war-battered body across Europe to safety. He needed her, completely and entirely.

With a swift kiss, Tom removed his fingers from her arousal and fumbled hastily with his slacks. Bess bolted upright and her hands found his. Together, with smiles and desperation, they wrestled with his slacks and briefs until the growing hardness that had strained so uncomfortably against the hard fabric was freed. Bess’ mouth watered at the sight and she kissed Tom with a renewed hunger. Looking back to his hard erection pressed against the soft flesh of her thigh, she whimpered. A few pearlescent beads of precum were gathered at its pink and swollen tip, and the veins that travelled along the shaft to its base in the thicket of blond curls throbbed. Without hesitation, Bess gripped his wide length and Tom hissed as she pumped his arousal before lining it up with her centre. Bracing his hands on the table either side of her lips, Tom’s head fell forward against Bess’ and she ran the tip of his cock along the entrance of her dripping sex. She inched closer to the edge of the table, mouth falling open in a silent moan as the tip of Tom’s painfully hard cock pressed against her entrance. He was panting with need, and the effort to not slam his hips forward and fully seat himself inside her. Already, their kisses were sloppy. The small kitchen was alite with the heat of the sun and their bodies. Bess’ hands gripped his broad shoulders and Tom took himself in hand, but when her legs wrapped around his slight waist, he faltered.

“I-I-Christ,” he was cunt-drunk before he’d even fucked her. “I don’t have a sheath.”

Bess ran a hand through his flaxen hair. She had waited years for this man, known since the war began that it was Tom Bennett or no-one. Any consequences of loving him wholly be damned. “I want all of you, Tom,” she whispered. “Please.”  

And Tom, with a shuddering breath, inched himself slowly into the welcoming heat of Bess’ body. Simultaneously they groaned, as Tom bottomed out in the warmth of Bess’ cunt. Her head tipped backwards and exposed the column of her elegant neck. Not moving within her, Tom leant forward to kiss the delicate skin there, the act pushing him forwards so that the tip of his cock brushed that sensitive spot within Bess’s pussy.

“Fuck,” her cry sounded pained, and Tom would have withdrawn from her were it not for the piercing of her nails in his shoulders, or the plump flesh of her thighs holding him ever closer. Slowly, so tantalisingly and cruelly slowly, Tom edged out of her heat, causing Bess’ eyes to flutter shut. He paused to watch the heaving of her breasts as she raggedly gasped for air, and at his stillness she looked at him through half-lidded eyes. “Please-” Whatever she was to say next died in her throat, for Tom slammed his hips so forcefully into hers that she saw stars. Over and over, Tom thrust his aching cock into her heat as she mewled and clawed at any part of him she could reach. With every snap of his hips Bess’ body came alive for him, from the quivering of her walls around his cock to the babbled gasps of “more”, “Tom”, and “harder”.

For Tom, the tight heat of Bess around him, the image of her coming undone at his touch and the desperation with which he had always wanted her reached a feverish pitch in which the overwhelming cacophony of feeling rendered his mind utterly blank. All he knew was Bess, the sound of her pleading voice, the harsh rasps of their hot breath on each other’s bodies and the obscene sounds of their love making. Harder and faster he pounded into her, all thought of gentleness gone from both their minds, bodily need and years of craving each other taking over.

The banging of the table legs against the floorboards of the old flat was barely audible over Bess’ moans and Tom’s muttered adorations, and neither noticed nor cared. Tom was too caught up in the waves of pleasure washing over Bess, and when her body fell back against the table and revealed her parted sex taking his cock so perfectly, he reached down to circle a thumb over her needy clit. Bess gripped his wrist and Tom felt her cunt clench around him.

“Don’t stop,” she gasped, and at her demand Tom felt he could continue no longer. Eager to satisfy her, he ground his jaw and with a hand at her hip and the over rubbing perfect circles over her sex, he watched as a flush of red bloomed across Bess’ cheeks and chest. Her body tensed and began to quake, and Tom knew he had never seen anything so beautiful; he promised himself he would bring Bess to pleasure as often as he was able. The shockwaves of her orgasm pulsed through her body, hard and untameable, and at the feeling of her climax Tom came undone, growling lowly as he came within her. Bess’ body went limp and he brought her against his chest, cradling her in his arms. In turn, Bess kissed the side of his forehead and laughed. When he looked at her through his loving and fucked-out gaze, he saw the surely uncomfortable position she was in; legs spread wide around his waist, leant slightly against the hard table and half dressed. Slowly, Tom pulled out of her still quivering sex and Bess gasped. The sound made Tom grin with smug satisfaction and Bess laughed. He kissed her smiling lips and pulled her to her feet.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered with a chuckle. Bess stood and, as she did so, the skirt of her uniform slid from her hips and pooled on the floor. Completely naked in front of him, Tom reached out a hand and caressed he full hips.

“Now you’re the one apologising!” Bess stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing his perfect lips and feeling his cock grow hard once more at the touch of her bare body. He laughed.

“I had grand plans for when I came back to you, and fucking you on the kitchen table wasn’t one of them. I’m sorry-”

“I don’t know,” Bess cut him off with a languid kiss. “It seems appropriate to me, the course of our lives seems to have occurred in the kitchen.”

“Not anymore, love.” Bess raised a quizzical brow but her question went unanswered, for Tom bent low and flung Bess over his shoulder. She squealed and held his waist, Tom’s own hands firm on the plump roundness of her bottom. Bess could sense the shit-eating grin her wore and she smacked his arse.

“Cheeky,” Tom walked her to her bedroom, kicking open the door and dropping her on the bed. His eyes were hungry and she expected him to ravish her. Instead, he crawled atop her and rested his head against her soft stomach and curled his hand around her hips. It was then that Bess realised that hunger and lust for another person were not the same, and her heart beat with a fresh wave of love for the man clutching at her body.

“I missed you,” he said again, running his hands up her sides. She shuffled beneath him, rolling onto her side and Tom was forced to look up. Bess was reaching for the drawer of her bedside table.

“I want to show you something,” her voice was strained as she stretched awkwardly to retrieve something amongst the pile of makeup, magazines and fabric samples. Sitting up, naked and vulnerable, Bess handed Tom a bundle of paper. It was only when he looked closer that he realised they were letters. Each dated, with his name in the centre. He looked from them to Bess with wide eyes, doubting that anyone, including his father or Lois, had ever loved him this much.

“I never stopped writing, after you went missing,” she wiped her eyes and a glimmer of the old Bess, defiant and hardy, appeared before Tom. He wrapped a hand in the copper hair at the base of her neck and kissed her deeply.

“You’re some woman, Bess Vaughn.” And with dexterous fingers, he opened the first letter and began to read.

Notes: I’m sorry this took so long, hen dos and Eurovision and mega work deadlines and illness got in the way. Forgive me. Expect communication and long, sexy, heart-felt smuttiness in the next chapter! See you soon (I promise!)

EDIT: If you've read Come Back To Me, you may have noticed that in my illness-addled mind I called Bess the wrong name. All sorted now.

Tags: @aemonds-wifey @multiple-fandoms-girl @jessssica1234 @babyblue711 @anditsmywholeheart @exitpursuedbyavulcan @myfandomprompts @allthefandomtherapy @valerie977 @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @chainsawsangel @greenowlfactif @thelittleswanao3 @yentroucnagol @beiigegalx @skikikikiikhhjuuh @just-emmaaaa @mefools @aquakaris @its-actually-minicika @whoknows333 @arcielee @honeymaltgelato @girlwith-thepearlearring

#ewan mitchell #tom bennett #tom bennett x ofc #ewan mitchell x reader #the seamstress & the sailor

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Silmarillion Daily - Of the Great Journey (Years of the Trees 1115)

The Great Journey of the Elves to Valinor begins in the year 1105 of the Ages of the Trees, 20 years after Oromë first meets the Elves and 5 years after the Valar defeat Melkor.

It is told that when the hosts of the Eldalië departed from Cuiviénen Oromë rode at their head upon Nahar, his white horse shod with gold; and passing northward about the Sea of Helcar they turned toward the west. Before them great clouds hung still black in the North above the ruins of war, and the stars in that region were hidden. Then not a few grew afraid and repented, and turned back, and are forgotten.

They’re not in a hurry, and are inclined to stop whenever Oromë isn’t there to chivvy them along; despite choosing the journey based on the advocacy of Ingwë, Finwë and Elwë, they’re still not sure about it, and are not enthusiastic about the idea of leaving Middle-earth. The world is still new to them, and they find the new places they stay beautuful, and prefer to stay there.

Long and slow was the march of the Eldar into the west, for the leagues of Middle-earth were uncounted, and weary and pathless. Nor did the Eldar desire to hasten, for they were filled with wonder at all that they saw, and by many lands and rivers they wished to abide; and though all were yet willing to wander, many feared rather their journey’s end than hoped for it. Therefore whenever Oromë departed, having at time other matters to heed, they halted and went forward no more, until he returned to guide them.

It takes the Elves 10 years to reach the lands that we’re familar with from The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings: Greenwood the Great, the River Anduin, and the Misty Mountains.

And it came to pass after many years of journeying in this manner that the Eldar took their course through a forest, and they came to a great river, wider than any they had yet seen; and beyond it were mountains whose sharp horns seemed to pierce the realm of the stars. This river, it is said, was even the river which was after called Anduin the Great, and was ever the frontier of the west-lands of Middle-earth. But the mountains were the Hithaeglir, the Towers of Mist upon the borders of Eriador; yet they were taller and more terrible in those days, and were reared by Melkor to hinder the riding of Oromë.

Some of the Teleri decide they like this area, and between that and being intimidated by the Misty Mountains, they decide they would prefer to live here than continue on to Valinor. These are presumably the ancestors of the Wood-elves of Greenwood (later Mirkwood) and of the original elves of Lothlórien, and are distant (or not-so-distant, given the long lives of Elves) relations of Thranduil, Celeborn, Galadriel, and the Sindar who later join them there.

Now the Teleri abode long on the east bank of the river and wished to remain there, but the Vanyar and the Noldor passed over it, and Oromë led them into the passes of the mountains. And when Oromë was gone forward the Teleri looked upon the shadowy heights and were afraid.

Then one arose in the host of Olwë, which was ever the hindmost on the road; Lenwë he was called. He forsook the westward march, and led away a numerous people, southwards down the great river, and they passed out of the knowledge of their kin until long years were past. Those were the Nandor; and they became a people apart, unlike their kin, save that they loved water, and dwelt most beside falls and running streams. Greater knowledge had they of living things, tree and herb, bird and beast, than all other Elves.

This reminds me of a lot of good stuff in The Nature of Middle-earth about the Great Journey, and the Teleri in particular. The Teleri have a less centralized ethos than the Vanyar or Noldor, and it’s Elwë (later Thingol) who stands up for the rights of all elves to choose what they prefer in terms of the journey, and not feel compelled to all act as a single unit. It’s also him who expresses the idea of the Great Journey as a way to see other parts of Middle-earth and decide where they want to live, not necessarily continuing on to Valinor. This lines up with the later patterns of different groups of Telerin elves (Nandor, Sindar, Falathrim, the Teleri who continue to Valinor, and later the Green-elves of Ossiriand) branching off in a variety of directions.

Elwë says, “I will go with my friend [Finwë], but I do not choose for anyone but myself. Let all my Folk do likewise. I do not see what harm dividing the Kindred will do - and it cannot be avoided, unless some are to be forced to do what they do not wish to do (to remain or to go). No doubt (indeed this is guaranteed) we, or any who wish, will be free to return to our homes when the War is over.” Also he says, “We are a great company - the most give n to wandering afar. Let many of us at least go with the safe conduct of the Lord Oromë and see what Endor is like, and the Sea! We need not pass the shores!”

One thing that strikes me from this is the surprising commonalities between Elwë and Fëanor. In the first place, in the attachment to Middle-earth and the desire to explore its ‘wide lands’ - Thingol in NoME, in contrast to the Silm, prefers the starlight of Middle-earth to the Trees of Valinor, and his choice of Valinor at this moment is based on his friendship with Finwë rather than on the appeal of Valinor itself. In the second place, in the emphasis that if the Elves do go to Valinor, they need to be able to return to their homes if they later choose that. The contrast, though, is that Elwë is all about everyone making a free choice of what they want to do, whereas Fëanor (at least by the time he’s wanting to return to Middle-earth) becomes hostile, angry, and insulting to anyone who does not adhere to all his ideas.

#tolkien #the silmarillion #silmarillion daily #elves #thingol #feanor #nandor #teleri

[swanmaids]

And when again thirty years had passed, Turgon son of Fingolfin left Nevrast where he dwelt and sought out Finrod his friend upon the isle of Tol Sirion, and they journeyed southward along the river, being weary for a while of the northern mountains... Of the Return of the Noldor, The Silmarillion. for @thelordofgifs. ao3 link

They had been walking for twelve days when they came upon the mere.

The river Sirion was alive everywhere, but here in this maze of lakes and fens most of all. Shining fish danced through its clear waters, and its banks were thick with a blanket of reeds and grasses. The air around it was heavy with the thrumming of dragonflies. It sung too with the voices of so many water-spirits, those Maiar who did not walk in the world that they lived in but were one with it. Finrod who had come of age in the land of the gods was not unfamiliar with such places, but he had not yet come across a place so clearly suffused with life in all its forms in this Middle Earth. It was not so long ago that he had traversed the lifeless Ice, and the memory of its cold cruelty was fresh in his mind.

Speaking of alive...

Finrod watched Turgon wash up by the banks as he stoked the fire and cleared away the remains of their meal- two great silver fish from the river stuffed with wild onion and garlic, and some of the hard bread and cheese that Finrod kept in his pack - and considered his oldest friend.

Turgon looked, if not quite himself, then better than Finrod could remember him having looked for a long time. Though Finrod had missed him at the Feast of Reuniting, the withdrawal to Nevrast had evidently been good for him; and perhaps he could credit himself that their little journey along the river had helped his friend too. His body, starved for so long, had at last begun to fill out; and he smiled more, if usually briefly. He smiled the most when he spoke of his daughter.

The young princess too was beginning to blossom amid the white stone of Vinyamar, enough that she had taken on her father's duties in his absence. Finrod thought that he would like to see her again- she had still been a girl when he saw her last, despite her far-sight and however old she appeared in spirit. He had not intended for so much time to pass without a visit - but somehow decades had slipped by without his notice.

By the time Finrod had tidied away, Turgon was almost finished bathing. He clambered onto the grass, water running in rivulets down his arms, reached for his pack and began to towel himself off. As Finrod began undressing to bathe himself, Turgon was busy oiling his double-stranded twists. He still refused to grow them past chin length - a mark of mourning, he said. His hands moved deftly through his braids, even with two fingers lost to frostbite.

"Are you going to stop dreaming and get into the water anytime soon?" Turgon grinned, breaking Finrod from his thoughts. Finrod nodded in response and shucked off his tunic and trousers.

Standing in the mere, which shone strangely pink as the setting sun relected in the ripples, Finrod could feel the spirits of the River Sirion even closer. As he splashed his face and rubbed soapwort behind his ears, he had the feeling that he was being watched by an unseen presence - but it hardly seemed frightening. Rather, it felt as though whatever was sharing this small part of the world with the two of them was simply gently curious about these new visitors.

"It's strange, isn't it," Turgon said, giving voice to Finrod's thoughts, "we're definitely not alone here."

"I don't think anything here means us any harm, though," Finrod replied.

In fact, Finrod felt more at peace in this moment than he had since the Trees died. To be in a place where the land and the water itself echoed with the music of the Ainur, well-fed and soon to be rested, reunited with his dearest friend - it was as though he could finally breathe again after so long spent suffocating.

"No, me neither. But I wonder what it is about this place that makes it so full of life? We've been following the river for some time now, but this is the first time that I've felt so...surrounded."

"You might be right. But I'm just glad that whatever it is that dwells here is letting us bathe!"

Turgon laughed at that. "Absolutely."

On the Grinding Ice, they had never felt clean. Sweat and grime had built up between the many layers of fur and hide that they had clothed themselves with, and they had all been foul and bedraggled by the time they had descended upon the Lammoth. Now that they were journeying along the river, neither Finrod nor Turgon had gone a day without bathing. At least Turgon was able to laugh about it.

By the time Finrod climbed out of the mere, Turgon had laid out their bedrolls and banked the fire; and was sat on his bedroll in a tunic and with his hair wrapped. Although they had not actually discussed whether they would make camp where they were or move on, Finrod could not disagree with the choice - he was certain that they would find no danger here. He dried off quickly and went to lie down beside his cousin - the buzzing of the dragonflies and the gentle lapping of the waters were having a strangely soporific effect.

"Thank you for coming here with me," Turgon said, all of a sudden. "I had not quite realised how much I missed the open lands and the green smell of the forests."

"You did not miss your favourite cousin, then?" Finrod teased.

"Really, you have to ask? You know I did."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't mock you. I missed you too. It's strange... to have gone thirty years without my good friend, when we lived in one another's pockets for so long on the Ice. At Tol Sirion I kept turning to talk to you, forgetting that you were not there."

Turgon was silent for several moments, and Finrod wondered if he had fallen asleep. Then, finally:

"Come and visit me in Vinyamar. See my city. See my sister and my daughter. We'd all like that."

The evening was not cold, but Finrod felt his chest warm at Turgon's words. "Alright, then. I'd like that, too."

Turgon reached out between the bedrolls and squeezed his hand.

Finrod felt himself drifting into sleep, their fingers still entangled. Around them, the water-spirits whispered through the reeds and the stars glimmered against the surfaces of the pools, creating a vision of unmarred peace and beauty. Held by the safety of the grove and the love of his friend, Finrod's mind gently drifted open, and he began to dream.

#i hope you like this ghosti!!! #my post #my fic #finrod #turgon #could be gen or pre slash tbh

[arofili]

dwarves of middle-earth △ firebeards and broadbeams △ headcanon disclaimer △ @khazadweek day one △ first age // family

          Azaghâl was the King of Belegost during much of the First Age of the Sun. He earned his use-name from his prowess in battle, and proudly wore it all his days, though his decision to take an outer name in Khuzdul was unorthodox. Yet so widely beloved was he by his people that few spoke against this choice, and the Firebeards of Gabilgathol defended him fiercely against the few Broadbeams of Tumunzahar who dared comment on Azaghâl’s name.           The spouse of Azaghâl was Thalor, a lesser prince of Nogrod who gained his name, and great wealth, in his travels in the eastern lands later known as Eriador. Thalor boasted even of having visited Khazad-dûm, though many doubted the truth of this tale in particular. Thalor’s dowry to Azaghâl upon their marriage was a grand helm crafted by none other than Telchar himself, greatest of Nogrod’s smiths, and a friend of his father. Upon this helm was a golden figure of the wyrm Glaurung, symbolizing Azaghâl’s power in combat. Thalor bore Azaghâl two sons, and the pair were deeply affectionate with one another.            Often Azaghâl and Thalor would travel together into Beleriand, trading with Caranthir the dark and Elu Thingol and later the Edain as well. On one such journey along the Dwarf-road Azaghâl’s grandfather had constructed along the River Ascar when their company was assaulted by a legion of orcs. Though Azaghâl and his folk put up a mighty battle, there were simply too many enemies for them to take down, and after a pitched battle through the night, more than half of the dwarves had been slaughtered.           They would all have perished had not Maedhros the tall, Lord of Himring and brother to Caranthir, come suddenly to their rescue. Maedhros’ mounted elves descended upon the orcs, slaying many and sending the rest scattering only to be chased down by the warriors of Himring. Maedhros himself saved Azaghâl’s life by taking a blow meant for the dwarven king, and in deepest gratitude Azaghâl gave to him the Dragon-helm and pledged a life-debt to him.           Thus began a lifelong friendship and alliance between elf and dwarf. Maedhros and his soldiers escorted Azaghâl, Thalor, and the surviving dwarves back to Belegost, and attended the solemn burials of those slain in battle. Afterward, Maedhros and Azaghâl spent many days in conversation, learning much of each others’ peoples and becoming fast friends. It was Maedhros who gave Azaghâl’s sons their use-names, Sacha and Fimli, though these pronunciations were likely an alteration of the original Sindarin words.            When the Sudden Flame descended upon the peoples of Beleriand, Azaghâl left Thalor to fortify Gabilgathol and himself set out into the elven lands seeking battle. His unexpected arrival to Caranthir’s settlement upon the shores of Lake Helevorn allowed the elves there to hold their siege for three more nights, ensuring many of their goods and people could escape southward to Amon Ereb. In the coming years, Azaghâl was one of the first lords and kings to enter into the Union of Maedhros, ever eager to wage war against the Enemy and further prove his skill in battle.            When the fateful Fifth Battle dawned, Azaghâl and his warriors marched with the eastern contingent. As the battle turned ill, he refused to flee, and his stout-hearted soldiers stood with him against the mighty wyrm Glaurung, whose likeness adorned the very helm Azaghâl once bore. As the elves fell back in retreat, the dwarves of Belegost hewed away at the dragon’s scales, for the make of their axes was so sharp and strong that nothing could withstand their blows.            Yet when Glaurung turned the force of his rage upon the dwarven king, Azaghâl was at last struck down and the dragon crawled over his body to defile it. This would turn to the wyrm’s undoing, for with his last breath, Azaghâl drove a knife into Glaurung’s belly and so wounded him that he fled the field with many of the dismayed beasts of Angband following. Thus died Azaghâl, King of Belegost, and his people raised up his body and bore him away with slow steps and dirge of deep voices. Such was the power of dwarven Song that even though they heeded not their foes, none dared attack them, and they did not halt until they returned to Gabilgathol to intern their king in his mountainside tomb.            Sacha, eldest of Azaghâl’s sons, was crowned King in the days following. Thalor his father retreated in grief and lived only a few years longer before he wasted away in sorrow. Blaming his fathers’ deaths on their friendship with the elves, Sacha turned Maedhros away from Belegost in his hour of need and closed the doors of Gabilgathol to any outsiders save their Broadbeam kin in Tumunzahar.            Now Sacha was handsome and lordly, with a beard of flame, and some whispered that he was Linnar come again, the first reincarnation of their Firebeard forefather. Fimli his brother was craft-wed, and happy to throw himself into the forges rather than rule, and so all of Gabilgathol looked to Sacha alone for guidance.            When Gabilgathol received word from Tumunzahar of the theft of the Nauglamír and the slaughter of those who worked upon it, Sacha was eager to answer the summons of his fellow king Naugladur to march to war against the Grey-elves. But Sacha’s rashness betrayed him, for the Firebeards were weary of war and had no quarrel of their own with Thingol’s kin, and the king’s council overruled him. Sacha was furious and swore to embark on this mission alone, if he must, and with three of his closest followers he departed to join Naugladur and the dwarves of Nogrod in their campaign.             With Thingol slain and his Maia queen departed, the dwarves faced no opposition as they stormed into Doriath. Only in Menegroth did they face resistance, and there a great battle was fought before the treasury. Though many dwarves were killed, including Sacha’s three companions, in the end Naugladur’s forces were victorious and claimed the Nauglamír for their own, along with many other treasures.             But the conflict was not yet over, for that very night Sacha was overcome with greed and jealousy, desiring the Nauglamír for himself. He crept to Naugladur’s side with the intent to steal the precious necklace, but even as he struck Naugladur awoke, for the King of Nogrod had feared such treachery and kept a dagger by his side as he slept. Thus was Sacha slain, though Naugladur kept his prize only until the morrow, when he and all his company were killed in battle with Beren Erchamion and his allies among the Green-elves and the Ents.           No dwarves survived that battle, but an advance party sent ahead to prepare for a feast upon the king’s return to Nogrod witnessed the utter destruction of their kindred, and brought word of the whole tale to both Broadbeams and Firebeards. The dwarves of Tumunzahar lived many generations in enmity toward their kin in Gabilgathol, cursing Sacha as a traitor and naming him Bodruith, the vengeful one, and hating those Firebeards who refused their aid as cowards.            But amid his sorrow for his brother’s death, Fimli, now King of Belegost, determined Sacha had lacked the wisdom to truly be a reincarnation of Linnar, and rising to the occasion of leadership he ruled Gabilgathol well for the rest of his days. Though he did not fight in the War of Wrath, he rekindled Azaghâl’s friendship with Maedhros the tall, fostering the peredhil Elrond and Elros for a time. When the Valar’s war against Morgoth drowned Beleriand below the waves, Fimli led his people to the eastern eaves of the Blue Mountains until the stormy seas calmed, whereupon in his old age he returned and began restoration of the great halls of Belegost.

#khazadweek #tolkienedit #oneringnet #silm #silmarillion #belegost #gabilgathol #azaghal #oc thalor #oc sacha #bodruith #oc fimli i #my edit #my writing #edit writing #headcanons #tefain nin #dwarves of middle earth #firebeards #firebeards and broadbeams

[airendis]

And when again thirty years had passed, Turgon son of Fingolfin left Nevrast where he dwelt and sought out Finrod his friend upon the island of Tol Sirion, and they journeyed southward along the river, being weary for a while of the northern mountains; and as they journeyed night came upon them beyond the Meres of Twilight beside the waters of Sirion, and they slept upon his banks beneath the summer stars. But Ulmo coming up the river laid a deep sleep upon them and heavy dreams; and the trouble of the dreams remained after they awoke, but neither said aught to the other, for their memory was not clear, and each believed that Ulmo had sent a message to him alone. But unquiet was upon them ever after, and doubt of what should befall, and they wandered often alone in untrodden lands, seeking far and wide for places of hidden strength; for it seemed to each that he was bidden to prepare for a day of evil, and to establish a retreat, lest Morgoth should burst from Angband and overthrow the armies of the North.

#tolkien #silmarillion #noldor #turgon #finrod #traditional art

[chromatic-lamina]

Heart Pirates Week 2023: Day 8: Hakugan: Broken

AO3 Day 8: Hakugan: Broken

Hakugan's family flew in from the deep north, more than a few islands across, along with the rest of the flock to spend winter in the warmer North Blue temperatures. There were only a few places in the North Blue warmer than the deepest north in winter, although not by much, but at least the geese could crack the ice on the water if they needed to forage, and it didn't always freeze over.

Young snow geese stayed with their parents for a year or two, and some days in the region were sunny, and it was fun for Hakugan to swim with his family in the lakes and along the rivers. Fun to pick at the harvested and unplanted rice fields for insects and grubs when the snow was light on the ground.

Others were hungry too though, and a splash in the water one day caused the flock to rise into the sky and cracks hollowed the air, leaving Hakugan's ears ringing with pain, and one, two, four, six of their members plummeted to the ground, red spreading across their feathers. His mother fell, but into the water. She paddled away.

They nested in a protected area, hunters should be nowhere near. Later he found her sheltered in an inlet, away from the eyes of park-goers and other wildlife. One wing flapped and she hopped across the water to Hakugan. She couldn't lift the other. The bullet had clipped the wing, and the fall had broken its bones.

Before he took up with the Hearts, Hakugan visited her every season. Unable to take to the skies, she waited for the flock's return year in, year out.

@heart-pirates-week.

Day 1 Day 2 Day 3 Day 4 Day 5 Day 6 Day 7 Day 8 Day 9

The English Wikipedia page on Snow geese is a bit misleading, and not necessarily that informative above the distribution of Snow geese (Hakugan).

This is in translation, but from the Japanese Wikipedia: Hakugan is one of these type:

A. c. hyperboreus snow geese It breeds in northern Canada, Alaska , Wrangel Island , and eastern Siberia , and migrates southward to western North America to overwinter in the winter. They fly to Japan on rare occasions to spend the winter (winter birds).

I didn't realise that over-wintering in Japan was so rare. I used to see them often and it was always a delight to witness the flock arriving from their long journey. Therefore, considering Oda is Japanese, I view Hakugan as loosely related to Siberian snow geese that spend the winter in the North Blue/Tohoku/Hokkaido regions.

PS: I also read that the helmsman is traditionally a job held by the newest addition to a submarine crew, at least in the U.S. navy. Jean Bart had the position before (and probably still holds it), but I wonder if Hakugan joined after him.

#one piece #heartpiratesweek2023 #heart pirates #hakugan one piece #hakugan op #national geographic hearts #chromafics #chromafic #chromalami #heartpiratesweek #hakugan #heart pirates week #heart pirates week 2023

[bikepackinguk]

Day Forty-four

The midges were trying to make themselves known last night as the wind died down, but with the tent all setup for a beautiful view I was safe and sound and allowed myself a bit of a lie in after all the work yesterday, and knowing the elevation profile for today!

Up and off, it's a twisty up-and-down road past Loch Shieldag and around the rest of Loch Shieldag before emerging from the trees on to the small bay at Ardheslaig.

It's a stiff climb up from here around the side of some sheer cliffs, with an amazing view over Loch Torridon.

Around the corner of the cliffs, we start on a looping, rolling road along the rest of the north side of the peninsula. I'd been anticipating a lot of hard work here, but the road gifts some lovely cruises downhill and the turns aren't so sharp that the momentum is allowed to be used to charge up the next climbs, making progress quite enjoyable through the moorlands with Lewis and Harris in the distance.

Passing Fearnmore, it's a swing south to be greeted with a lovely view of the islands of Rona and Raasey over the water, with Skye rising up behind them.

Following on the road southward, the end of Raasey is invisible behind a torrential downpour that is heavy enough to be opaque. The wind though, after days of tough headwinds, jas finally turned to a favourable tailwind, and I catch onky a very fine drizzle as I pass it by around Applecross Sands.

Rounding the south corner is a great view across to the rest of the coast and the bay with the river Applecross flowing out from the mountainsides, which is cruised over as we roll into Applecross village, where I get to see a stag grazing by the road not giving a single care about passersby!

Having a good sit whilst cooking dinner yesterday at Shieldag helped provide me with a bit of centering. For much of this adventure, I'd taken a lot of enjoyment in ploughing through the miles, but the constant hills here put a hard limit on that, and I think I had allowed it to subconsciously intrude on the enjoyment of the journey. Which is foolish, and required a slight shift in perspective.

So, given the amount of climbing over the last few days, and with a mighty ascent coming up after Applecross, I've had a good early finish to the day and booked into a cheap campsite here for a couple of nights for a bit of R&R, which the muscles will surely appreciate! And it's with much love to the irreplaceable @annatrekkie for a generous tip for this stay!

I have to say, Applecross Campsite is outstanding considering how affordable it is. After pitching up I've had a lovely steaming hot shower in onenof the best toilet & shower blocks I've encountered in years of camping - they even have grey water reclamation!

It's also the first time in quite a while that I've been able to have a good look at myself in a big mirror, and damn. Six weeks of cycling has certainly had its effects - whilst my hands have been callousing up, I've definitely been getting leaner and even have the top of a six pack starting to emerge. And the legs have never looked better.

I'm currently treating myself to a nice sit by the waterside enjoying a pint of the excellent local ale, and may even go for a good fish & chips before retiring and having a very chill and relaxing day tomorrow.

Back on Sunday!

#bikepacking #bicycle touring

[fedonciadale]

Fedon! If I were to visit Germany on holiday, where are the most interesting places to go? I like art, cool historical places, and castles.

Hi there!

If you like castles you probably should visit the Rhine and travel slowly via train from Koblenz southwards. There are many, many castles left and right and it's all very romantic. It's one of the most beautiful train journeys you can do (just my humble opinion and obviously the weather has to be fine).

If you like baroque palaces you should go to Bavaria or Saxony (Dresden!). There are many baroque "Residenzen" in Southern Germany, in Würzburg, Munich etc. and if you like that opulence you can fill your eyes. The "Residenzen" in the North-East (Potsdam, Berlin) are austere in comparison. lol.

Würzburg and the Main river are also worth a visit. It's a beautiful valley and there are lots of nice cities along the Main.

If you like to visit interesting cities, I would recommend Hamburg. It can be a very glum and rainy city but the "Binnenalster" on a sunny day is a sight to behold.

Almost all the bigger cities in Germany have art museums. There are quite a lot in Munich and Berlin, but also in Hamburg and Cologne. If you like old medieval churches, Cologne is the place to go.

You can also travel to the South West to the sunniest part of Germany and pay a visit to Freiburg. It's super romantic and cute and the "Schwarzwald" (Black forest) is near by.

If you want people to actually be nice to you I would suggest you don't visit Berlin. I know Berlin is the most popular German city but the people there are appallingly rude. Bavarians can also be quite rude, but the people in Munich know that tourists bring money and they are not too bad. Bavarians are pragmatic in that regard.

People in Hamburg will tell you that they are very detached and are not very open, but that is actually not true (don't tell them I said that). They will show you the way and explain things and will be friendly in a general way.

Cologne is the city for queers, and people there will usually be very friendly, overwhelmingly friendly actually, and it can be a bit much, if you are an introvert.

So, hope this helps a bit. Usually you can find nice places everywhere even in the highly industrialized regions. Halle has some nice spots and Essen (around 6,000,000 inhabitants) has wonderful museums, some very old churches and very nice walks. It is often overlooked because it is in the midst of the "Ruhrgebiet", the area where there is one city next to the other and where used to be a lot of industry.

Thanks for the ask!

#anon ask #German Stuff #Germany #Where to travel in Germany

[kemendin]

Breathing Space // Walking Blindly

Some out of context LOTRO writing I dug out of the archives, because Rings of Power has me feeling nostalgic for Kemendin and Grimkur.

He hardly counted the days that fled past him like water to the sea as he made his way northward. The lush cradle of Belfalas felt constricting to him, with the mountains hemming him in on one side and the sea whispering on the other. Deliberately, almost desperately, he pushed upward, longing for cooler air in his throat and a bitter tang on his tongue that did not come from inside. Night and day made little difference to his journey, except perhaps that he moved a little easier by starlight.

Almost skittishly, he avoided contact with Men. Calembel he gave a wide berth, as he did the smaller settlements beyond it, and further north Morlad also. What supplies he needed he drew from the earth itself, on instinct and without thought. Autumn promised an abundance of wild things to sustain him, and cold trickling streams kissed his lips as he drank from their silvered shallows. Rest he neither needed nor desired, for fear that if he paused, some insidious force would ensnare him and drag him southward once again.

His breath only felt easier when he had crossed the mountains, as though a taut line between his heart and Dol Amroth had become firmly secured in their crags, and thus loosened inside him. Still, he did not slow as he continued north across the plains of Rohan, a lone shadow noted only by horses, who flicked their ears and whickered softly at his passing.

Days turned into a week, and then another, and although the horizon remained far distant a weight began to grow in him again. He had promised only a month of his absence, but the further he went the more he came to understand that he could not return so soon. He tried to ignore the soft feelings of betrayal that clawed at him as he coaxed a courier bird from the nearest village and sent it winging southward along his wake, with a message bound for the Ivory Tower.

I will return immediately if you send word. He shook his head at the pitiful attempt to assuage his guilt, and fled onward, for fleeing he surely was.

The leaves grew more sparse and the grass more golden as he ran ever north, chasing the Great River as it bent west towards the mountains. He slipped through Lothlorien without encountering any of his kin, although he could feel their presence nearby, watching him; and he silently thanked the Lady’s permission to come and go as he pleased without incident. Then onward, towards the Gladden Fields, and it was only as he unconsciously turned his steps towards the Misty Mountains that he realised where his feet were taking him. He did not try to dissuade his own mind; but he did wonder, after so many years, what he would find when he arrived.

------

High amidst the crags of the Misty Mountains, Kemendin slowed his steps to glance back the way he had come. It was nearly half a day’s climb from the valley of Imladris to where he now stood. Although in lower lands some of the leaves still clung tenaciously to their branches, here winter was well on its way. Already a thick coverlet of snow had blanketed the rocks several times over, burying the treacherous pits that were so dangerous to the unwary traveller. The pass out of Rivendell was relatively clear, with scouts maintaining it as long as possible, but soon the snow would grow too deep for passage by any except the light-footed Eldar.

Kemendin blinked slowly beneath his crimson hood, grateful that the sun was partially obscured. He had travelled mountains before in bright sunlight, and the reflection off the snow could be dizzying, if not dazzling. But clouds drifted slowly overhead, languidly and without menace. There would be no storm tonight, though with the cold growing deeper with each passing day, the advent of snow was never far away.

He pulled his cloak more tightly around him before turning and resuming his path, and his step was light on the snow despite the heaviness that dragged at him. He felt somewhat better here, as though the clear air had somehow gotten inside him and nudged away the numbing fog over his mind. He drew in large lungfuls of it, and held it deliberately within for several moments before releasing his breath again, and each time he watched the resultant cloud of mist float away into nothing. It did not cure him, but it helped.

The pass widened and flattened out into a small valley between peaks, sharpened by a few grey trees that looked more like stone than wood. Kemendin paused, looking about. His attention was caught by a wisp of smoke angling upward from around a crag to the south, and the sound of hammer and anvil echoing bell-like across the valley. Kemendin tilted his head in consideration, then shifted his mantle over his shoulders, and set off southward.

He found the source of both smoke and noise to be an open-air forge set in one of the more sheltered corners of the valley. There was a rough canopy of animal skin set over most of the equipment to shelter it from snowfall, but otherwise no living quarters to be seen. Bits and pieces of metal lay all about the area, some recognisable as blades, others twisted beyond hope of identity. A stocky figure with posture nearly as contorted as some of his work stood by the anvil, his back to the approaching Elf, hammering viciously at whatever he had in front of him.

Kemendin halted, and stood watching the Dwarf. Not a moment later a loud voice hailed him without ceremony.

“Get away! I hear you creeping there, leaf-ears! I told you to leave me in blasted peace, or else it’ll be blasted pieces for all of you!”

A faint, reluctant smile tugged at Kemendin’s lips, and in spite of the Dwarf’s warning, he moved closer. “Hello, Grimkur,” he said quietly. The words carried through the thin air.

The Dwarf threw down his hammer abruptly. “Right, I’ve had it with your serene little spy visits, this time I’m going to take your willowy neck in my bare hands and -” He turned stumpily to face the Elf, and paused. “You!” he said, after a moment.

Kemendin did not answer, but only stared at the Dwarf’s ravaged face. It was hideously scarred, but worst were the two sunken and empty sockets where bright eyes had once gleamed. A shadow seemed to cross Kemendin’s features as he regarded the awful sight.

“I had thought there was some hope,” he breathed.

Grimkur spat onto the dirty snow around him. “Hope. Hope is for those high-minded leaf-ears down in the valley.”

“They said that there was a chance your eyes would heal,” said Kemendin slowly, unable to avert his own gaze.

“You can see how well that turned out, though, can’t you?” Grimkur retorted harshly. “I know I can’t.” He trudged over. For all his lack of sight, he seemed able to get around well enough. “Thought I’d never see you again, taurûth.” He snorted. “I was right.”

Kemendin shook his head slowly as he looked down at the old Dwarf. “Few have endured what you have and lived,” he said. Grimkur only huffed contemptuously, and cut him off.

“Spare me the speeches. Why have you come to see me, after all this time?”

Kemendin sighed softly, and looked away over the trees. “I knew of no one else who would listen without prejudice, and with understanding.”

Grimkur folded his arms, and would have rolled his eyes had he been able to. “Getting there. Give me specifics, leaf-ears.” The phrase had lost some of the venom of earlier uses.

Letting out another breath, Kemendin pushed back his hood. “After millennia,” he explained quietly, “I finally found myself in love. And now I have lost her through my own foolishness.”

The Dwarf stood there a moment in the silence that followed, then grunted. He beckoned to Kemendin, and tromped over to a rock that had been cleared of snow and ice. Sitting on it, he turned his sightless face towards the Elf.

“Tell me.”

#lotro #lord of the rings online #lotro fanfiction #lotro oc #lotr #lotr fanfic #lord of the rings oc #lord of the rings fanfiction #lotro:kemendin #lotro:grimkur #my oc #kem writes #looking back at this now i'm still like damn i was good at writing an elf

[oklahomahistory]

The Choctaws

The Choctaws

Probably the most populous tribe on the entire continent in the nineteenth century, the talented and powerful Choctaws excelled as farmers, hunters, and diplomats alike. Like some other southeastern tribes such as the Cherokees, the Choctaws increasingly adapted the practices and institutions of Western Christendom, partly to forestall their removal from their ancestral homelands. Around twenty-two thousand Choctaws spread from the middle of the Mississippi River Valley southward to the Gulf of Mexico at the beginning of the 1800s. They traded and conversed effectively with the European powers who frequented the Gulf ports of the area.

The Choctaws organized their country into three regions, each governed by a principal chief, similar to a nation’s president. One chief, Pushmataha, gained renown as a statesman, commercial visionary, and warrior. As shrewd and eloquent as he was rugged and brave, he proved to be the match of American leaders such as James Monroe, Andrew Jackson, and John Calhoun, as well as other tribal leaders such as the Shawnee Tecumseh. He sparred with all of them over matters of supreme importance to both the Choctaws and the United States. A national Choctaw council composed of other leaders from throughout the tribe, similar to a Congress, also carried authority.

The Choctaws-notably Pushmataha-demonstrated their hunting prowess and physical vigor with journeys as far west as present-day Oklahoma, hundreds of miles from their Mississippi homeland. Two developments winnowed out the game population of the Gulf States and forced these long and dangerous treks. One was the multiplying American population in the South, the other the burgeoning fur trade with Europe. In present-day Oklahoma, the Choctaw hunters not only slew great hauls of game, they clashed with Osages, Caddos, and other tribes residing in the area, as well as American merchants who traded with them.

Like the other southeastern “civilized” tribes, the Choctaw advances in Western culture failed to prevent growing pressure from the American people and their government for the tribe’s removal to the west. To the Natives’ surprise, they would face new chapters of oppression even after they made those treks.

PushmatahaFather of the Choctaws (c. 1764-1824) “A little cloud was once seen in the northern sky. It came before a rushing wind, and covered the Choctaw country with darkness. Out of it flew an angry fire. It struck a large oak, and scattered its limbs and its trunk all along the ground, and from that spot sprung forth a warrior fully armed for war. And that man was Pushmataha.”

Read the entire Oklahoma story in John J. Dwyer's The Oklahomans: The Story of Oklahoma and Its People volume 1 of a 2-part series on the 46th state and the people who make this state very special.

#oklahoma #history #dwyer #indian #sooner #oil #tribe #west

[alhijazholidays]

Egypt Tour Packages from Kerala

Embark on a captivating journey through the heart of Egypt with Alhijaz Holidays' meticulously crafted Egypt Tour Packages from Kerala. Begin your adventure in the bustling metropolis of Cairo, where ancient wonders and modern marvels collide in a vibrant tapestry of culture and history. Explore the iconic landmarks of the Egyptian capital, including the awe-inspiring pyramids of Giza and the enigmatic Sphinx, as you unravel the secrets of this ancient civilization.

From Cairo, venture north to the coastal city of Alexandria, where the Mediterranean Sea meets the timeless charm of antiquity. Discover the legendary Library of Alexandria, stroll along the picturesque Corniche, and immerse yourself in the city's rich Greco-Roman heritage. Then, embark on a Nile cruise sailing, tracing the legendary river's path through the heart of Egypt's storied past.

As you journey southward, delve into the timeless wonders of Luxor, the world's largest open-air museum. Explore the magnificent temples of Karnak and Luxor, marvel at the intricate tombs of the Valley of the Kings, and witness the breathtaking beauty of the Colossi of Memnon. Finally, return to Cairo, where your journey comes full circle, and bid farewell to the land of the pharaohs with memories to last a lifetime.

With Alhijaz Holidays, every detail of your Egypt holiday package from Kerala is meticulously planned to ensure an unforgettable experience. From luxurious accommodations to expertly guided tours, we strive to exceed your every expectation, allowing you to relax and immerse yourself in the magic of Egypt's timeless wonders. Book your Egypt Tour Package from Kerala today and embark on the adventure of a lifetime with Alhijaz Holidays.

Our journey through Egypt with Alhijaz Holidays has been nothing short of extraordinary, offering us a glimpse into the wonders of this ancient land and leaving us with memories to last a lifetime. As we return home, we carry with us the spirit of Egypt – a spirit of adventure, discovery, and wonder – and look forward to the day when we can once again return to this timeless land of pharaohs and pyramids.

#tour package #egypt travel #egypt tours

[etbtoursegypt]

Egypt Nile River Cruises

Egypt Nile River Cruises are a timeless adventure that beckons travelers to explore the legendary waterway that has shaped the history and culture of Egypt for millennia. From the bustling streets of Cairo to the serene temples of Upper Egypt, these cruises offer a glimpse into the country's storied past while providing modern comforts and conveniences.

The journey typically begins in Luxor, where travelers board luxurious vessels equipped with spacious cabins, gourmet dining, and panoramic observation decks. As the ship sets sail, passengers are treated to uninterrupted views of the Nile's fertile banks, dotted with palm groves, ancient ruins, and vibrant villages.

One of the highlights of Egypt Nile River Cruises is a visit to the Valley of the Kings, where the tombs of pharaohs such as Tutankhamun and Ramses II lie hidden in the desert cliffs. Guided tours reveal the intricate hieroglyphs and colorful murals that adorn the walls of these ancient burial chambers, offering insight into the beliefs and customs of ancient Egypt.

As the cruise continues southward, travelers have the opportunity to explore the temples of Kom Ombo and Edfu, dedicated to the gods Sobek and Horus respectively. These well-preserved monuments provide a window into Egypt's religious practices and architectural achievements, with towering pylons, towering columns, and elaborately decorated sanctuaries.

In Aswan, the southernmost point of many Egypt Nile River Cruises, passengers can marvel at the engineering marvel of the High Dam and the tranquil beauty of the Temple of Philae, which was relocated to its current location to save it from the rising waters of Lake Nasser. Optional excursions may also include visits to the Nubian villages, where travelers can learn about the unique culture and traditions of this ancient civilization.

In conclusion, Egypt Nile River Cruises offer an unforgettable journey through the heart of Egypt, where history, culture, and natural beauty converge along the banks of the legendary Nile. Whether exploring ancient temples, cruising past rural landscapes, or simply relaxing on deck as the timeless river unfolds before them, passengers are sure to cherish the memories of their Nile cruise for years to come.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Silmarillion Daily!

Turgon son of Fingolfin left Nevrast where he dwelt and sought out Finrod his friend upon the isle of Tol Sirion, and they journeyed southward along the river, being weary for a while of the northern mountains; and as they journeyed night came upon them beyond the Meres of Twilight beside the waters of Sirion, and they slept upon his banks beneath the summer stars. But Ulmo coming up the river laid a deep sleep upon them and heavy dreams; and the trouble of the dreams remained after they woke, but neither said aught to the other, for their memory was not clear, and each believed that Ulmo had sent a message to him alone. But unquiet was upon them ever after, and doubt of what should befall, and they wandered often alone in untrodden lands, seeking far and wide for places of hidden strength; for it seemed to each that he was bidden to prepare for a day of evil, and to establish a retreat, lest Morgoth should burst from Angband and overthrow the armies of the North.

Turgon and Finrod’s friendship is seriously underplayed in fandom and fic, both in the early Beleriand era and postcanon. There’s a lot that could be done with them postcanon in particular.

It’s interesting to think about why Ulmo chose these two for the warning to build hidden kingdoms; my own headcanon is that it’s because they were the two most senior members of the House of Finwë who weren’t kinslayers, but it’s also possible (from some of Tolkien’s notes in HoME) that they had some particular rapport with Ulmo during their time in Valinor.

The two of them have, in the long run, a greater positive impact on Middle-earth than any others of the grandchildren on Finwë, due to both playing key roles in enabling the two elf-human couples of the First Age (Beren and Lúthien and Tuor and Idril) which, in Eärendil and Elwing, enable the remnants of Elves and Men in Beleriand to be saved by the Valar.

The important thing about these kingdoms is that they’re intended as temporary refuges, not permanent installations; they won’t last forever, but they’ll keep some people safe for a while, and be able to accomplish meaningful things during that time. If they hadn’t existed at all, no one would have survived. If they’d been abandoned earlier, a lot more people would be alive.

#the silmarillion #silmarillion daily #silmarillion spoilers #tolkien #finrod #turgon

[marcopolo1254]

Journey Southward through the Eastern Provinces of Cathay and Manzi

According to Masefield, 2011. During this journey, Marco Polo encountered the busy cities of Cacanfu and Changlu, the vibrant city of Chinangli, and the historic city of Sinjumatu. I traversed through the lively streets of Linju and Piju. He ventured to the enchanting city of Siju, situated along the banks of the great river Caramoran. This path led him to the thriving city of Coiganju, where the energy of trade filled the air, and to the bustling markets of Paukin and Cayu. Continuing Marco Polo's voyage, He passed through the cities of Tiju, Tinju, and Yanju, each offering its unique charm and allure. He explored the ancient city of Nanghin, steeped in history and tradition. He marveled at the majesty of Saianfu and the splendor of Caiju. Venturing further, He was captivated by the bustling cities of Chinghianfu, Chinginju, Suju, and Kinsay, each pulsating with life and activity. His journey also took him through the cities of Tanpiju and Fuju, leading him to the majestic kingdom of Fuju and the bustling haven of Zayton, where the sights and sounds of trade filled the bustling streets.

[egyptatours]

5 Days Cairo & Aswan and Abu Simbel

Embark on a thrilling adventure with EgyptaTours as you dive headfirst into the mesmerizing wonders of ancient Egypt through their 5 Days Cairo & Aswan and Abu Simbel Tour! Brace yourself for an exhilarating journey that will transport you to a world filled with awe-inspiring temples, majestic pyramids, and fascinating historical sites. Begin your expedition in bustling Cairo, where the vibrant streets teem with energy and captivating tales of pharaohs come alive. Marvel at the grandeur of the Giza Plateau, feeling a rush of excitement as you gaze upon the legendary Great Sphinx and behemoth Pyramids of Khufu, Khafre, and Menkaure. Immerse yourself in the rich history that permeates every corner of this ancient city as you explore its iconic landmarks like the Egyptian Museum, home to countless treasures from Tutankhamun's tomb.

But hold onto your hats because it's not just Cairo that awaits! Your adventure continues as you fly southward to Aswan – a haven nestled along the mighty Nile River. Here lies Philae Temple which beckons visitors with its ethereal charm; feel your heart skip a beat as you step foot inside this magnificent sanctuary dedicated to goddess Isis. The Nubian Village is another highlight not to be missed - soak up its vibrant colors and immerse yourself in traditional Nubian culture through warm interactions with locals.

#egypt #egyptian #travelegypt #cairoegypt #egypte #travel #ancientegypt #visitegypt #vacation #Aswan