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#belen
unteriors · 29 days
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S 10th Street, Belen, New Mexico.
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eilinelsghost · 6 months
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Atanatárissë
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Fic by @eilinelsghost; Art by @anerea-lantiria For @tolkienrsb 2023
Fic Rating: T; Art Rating: G Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Anárion & Elendil, Finrod/Bëor, Hiril/Hathaldir, Hiril & Rían, Hiril & Beleth, Andreth/Aegnor, Andreth & Adanel, Bëor & Belen, Belen & Finrod, Belen & Baran, Bëor & Baran Characters: Anárion, Bëor, Finrod, Silmariën, Hiril, Hathaldir, Rían, Beleth, Andreth, Adanel, Aegnor, Belen, Baran Word Count: 16,914
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In Nargothrond in the First Age, Bëor wrote down the oral tradition of his people to pass on to his younger son, Belen. Throughout the rest of that age and the next, his descendants preserve this book through grief and joy, war and cataclysm, from the highlands of Dorthonion to the fall of Númenor, and reencounter the mythology of their people in the ongoing dance of memory and immortality.
Atanatári: (Quenya) The Fathers of Men Issë: (Quenya) Knowledge, Lore
"Belen [was the] second son of Bëor the Old, to whom the wisdom of Bëor (for Bëor himself had been one of the wise) was chiefly transmitted." - Introductory notes to the "Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth," Morgoth's Ring, page 306
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I am thrilled to finally get to share Atanatárissë with you all! I was so nervous going into TRSB this year - I've never done an event before and am very new both to writing fanfic and to online fandom in general - but this has been one of the most delightful writing experiences I've ever had. I have so much gratitude to @anerea-lantiria for this incredible art and for the amazing encouragement she's given throughout this whole process. It has been such a joy to work together on this project and I'm indebted to you for providing the inspiration that allowed this piece to come to life.
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wgm-beautiful-world · 1 month
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Igreja de Santa Maria de Belém (Mosteiro de Jerônimo) em Lisboa, PORTUGAL
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actual-bill-potts · 11 months
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Thanks @eilinelsghost for enabling me
Balan held on. By his fingernails, somehow, and his teeth if necessary. It was odd, because he was fairly sure most of his teeth had been gone by the time he died, but here they were back, and if they’d help him hold on then by all the gods he’d use them.
You must go, a hooded and cloaked figure had said when he first arrived. You do not belong here. Námo, he had realized with cold shock, the Doomsman of the Valar. He who had cursed Finrod.
Bright rage had flowed through his body then (so frail just a moment ago, and the juxtaposition between memory and feeling near made him fall over before mastering himself). "I will not leave until I see Nóm again."
Who? The tolling voice of Námo sounded almost puzzled, for a moment. Then the air seemed to clear. Oh. Him.
"Yes," Balan spat, "he whom you doomed."
He did that himself, Námo said, voice falling wearily like the pounding of great stones upon the earth.
Balan decided not to argue the point. "I won’t leave," he said. "I promised."
The feeling of a sigh seemed to manifest in the air around him. And what of your first wife, who has gone beyond the veil of Arda?
A pang. Esrid. To see her again, after all this time -
But Finrod had wept. Finrod had begged him not to leave, to stay for but another hour, another minute -
And Balan had left him.
"Esrid is gone indeed, beyond the world," he said, "but Nóm lives still. I will not leave him."
You must, said Námo - but was there hesitation in his voice?
There was.
Balan smiled to himself. "I will not leave," he said. "You do not command my fate. You cannot force me."
Námo inclined his great head. It will hurt, he warned. My halls are not made for mortals.
"I don’t care," Balan said.
The feeling of weariness, of great age, in the air intensified. Very well, Námo said, but neither can I help you.
"I don’t care," Balan had said again; but his heart misgave him. Finrod might live for a thousand years more. A thousand years, alone in the dark. He could not do it. He was not made for it.
Well, might as well try anyway, he told himself, and anyway I made a promise.
It was cold and dark for a long time then, and he was alone. He wandered in dreams, and tried to cling to happy memories: Baran and Belen, laid in his arms. Baran climbing a tree, eyes alight with happiness; Belen sat by the fire, eyes shining and far away.
Balan could see, as if from very far away, the shining motion of spirits through and out of Mandos. He wondered absently if anyone he knew was in that great procession; then decided it was not worth the risk to ask, lest he be swept up with them.
One day (night? He was sitting in an endless dusk) his eldest son approached, spirit blazing as brightly as it ever had within his body. From far away he appeared old and worn, older than Balan had ever seen: but as he approached the years seemed to fall away, until he was again the study youth of twenty-two summers he had been when Balan departed for Nargothrond.
"Father!" he exclaimed, rushing to fling his arms around Balan; and Balan found to his surprise that he was solid enough to be embraced. "Father, it is so good to see you!"
"And it is good to see you," Balan returned, laughing and weeping at once, "my eldest, pride of my heart!"
"What are you doing here?" Baran asked when the embrace ended. "We are all going that way," and he pointed to the endless procession.
"I am waiting," Balan said.
"Oh," Baran said. His face fell. "Father, will you not come with me? I have missed you."
Balan felt as if he were being torn in two; but he had made a promise. He pulled his son close to him again.
"I must wait," he said gently. "I promised. Carry my greetings to your mother, will you? I love you, Baran."
"I will wait with you," Baran offered - but reluctantly.
Balan shook his head. "You have made no vows. My son - O my son! I am so proud of you!" He found himself weeping again. He had not remembered he could weep.
Baran’s tears were wetting his shoulder; but at last his son pulled away. "I must go," Baran said reluctantly.
"I know you must," Balan said. "Be happy, my son. Go and find light."
Baran smiled. "I will!" he said, for he was strong, and merry of heart, and after all very wise.
"Wait -" Balan said, as Baran turned away. "What news of Nóm?"
Baran turned back, briefly. "He visits us often, and plays with the children. But he grieves."
With that he was gone, and Balan was left blinking in the endless dark.
There were more, after him. Belen, soon enough; then his grandchildren, Boron and Baranor and Beldir, grown into old men whose years fell off them as they stepped into Mandos, and who shed their bodies as they stepped out of it. They recognized him, always; and he loved them, always.
"I will stay with you," offered Belen, and Belemir, and Bereg. Their high quick courage swept Balan with pride every time. His children surpassed him at every turn.
Always he shook his head. The years blurred together.
"What news of Nóm?" he asked Belegor, and Bregor, and Gilwen.
Nóm was helping rebuild their great hall, which had been destroyed in a fire that past summer; Nóm was being taught woodworking, and was comically bad at it; Nóm was visiting less, for there was trouble in the North.
He grieves for thee, they said. He grieves for thee. He grieves for thee.
The blink of an eye passed - or was it years? - and a man with Baran’s nose stumbled into view. He was bleeding badly, looking around in shock.
He - wasn’t old.
No.
As the man - Balan guessed he was one of Bregor’s children - approached, his wounds seemed to close, and he stood up straighter. Still he seemed weary and sad.
"Father?" he whispered as he passed by.
"Not your father, nor yet his father," Balan said, who after all had lived with Elves for many a year and furthermore had nothing to do in the endless dusk save amuse himself with riddles.
The man’s eyes widened. "Bëor?"
"Tis I," Balan said, "and what is your name, son?"
"I am - Barahir," the man said, and Balan felt a lurch in his stomach. But Barahir was so young! The youngest of Bregor’s children!
"There was - fire," said Barahir, seeing his look, "fire and death; and our lands are gone. My son -" he broke off. He began to weep.
Balan drew him close. "I am sorry," he breathed, "so sorry. You will see him again."
"I hope he does not suffer too much," Barahir whispered. "O Emeldir! Say not that she too has died in pain!"
"I have not met Emeldir," said Balan, "so she is not dead."
"Little comfort that is, in these times," Barahir said grimly; but his face lightened. "She led our people to safety. She is stronger than I. She will survive."
He began to move away, towards the ever-moving column of light that Balan refused to join; then he stopped as Balan said urgently, "Wait! Is Nóm - has he -"
"Nóm lives," said Barahir. "I saved his life, in fact; and he swore to me a life-debt in return."
Balan stood stunned. A life-debt? Why? They were all of them sworn to protect Nóm, as he was to protect them. Why would he…?
Barahir laughed at his expression. "That’s what I said!" he exclaimed. "But he insisted. I didn’t want to refuse. He was very badly injured. It will all come to nothing, anyway," he added wryly. "The ring he gave me is doubtless in some Orc trophy-hoard by now. More’s the pity. It was beautiful."
There was only one ring Balan had ever seen Finrod wear. "He gave you the ring of his father?" he demanded.
Barahir nodded. "He has not forgotten you," he said quietly. "I did not expect to see you here; but I am glad of it, for there are dark times coming. But my part in the story is done!" he added. "I go to await my wife and son, and see my father. I wish you joy," he added as he left.
In the retreating light of Barahir’s spirit, Balan reeled. He could near picture the scene: Finrod, wounded and tired - his heart bled to think of it - giving Barahir his father’s ring. Of course Finrod would do something foolish like that, he thought fondly, the second one of us did him the slightest favor.
He longed to see Nóm; but he hoped Finrod would survive Morgoth’s onslaught. He did not deserve to die in pain.
Balan settled himself in to wait again. He had mastered waiting by now. He laid his spirit down, gently, and closed the eyes he did not have. Let the stars he could not see wheel behind above his head; felt the soft hand of memory close in his own. There was peace in it, after all this time. But he worried. Was Nóm all right?
Suddenly behind him there came an animal cry, guttural and hoarse. Balan sat up so fast his head - which was more metaphorical than physical - spun. He whipped around as the cry came again and saw a body.
That was…not good. Wasn’t Námo supposed to take care of these things? Not let people suffer?
Balan waited a moment; but the Doomsman did not appear. The Elf - if Elf he was - was now breathing raggedly. The sound tugged at his heartstrings. When Námo still made no appearance, he sighed and approached. Perhaps he could offer comfort, before Námo came from wherever he was hiding and swept this one off to be healed.
The Elf was naked, and so thin and wasted that Balan could count every one of his ribs. His hair fell to his knees, but was so tangled and matted its color could not be seen. He was covered in blood: so much blood, Balan had never seen so much blood on a person!
He knelt beside the Elf and reached out, carefully, to touch his shoulder. "My friend," he said gently, feeling an odd stirring of familiarity and foreboding as he said the words, "can I help?"
A sharp intake of breath: and Balan knew already what he would see as the Elf forced his ruined body to turn and face him. Clear grey eyes opened wide, and Balan looked into the face of Finrod Felagund for the first time in a hundred years.
"Nóm?" he whispered, torn between furious joy and deep heartsickness. "Nóm, what happened?"
"Balan?" Finrod rasped. His eyes were filled with pain and terror. One of them was swollen nearly shut, and the left side of his face tilted oddly: something was broken in his face. "Balan, how came you here?"
"How came I - I died!" Balan said, exasperated. "And you, foolish Elf, were supposed to live! What is wrong?" He did not know what to do. He had nothing with which to bind wounds, and little skill in healing. The sight of Finrod in such pain smote his heart.
But as he continued speaking, Finrod sat up slowly and reached out a hand. It progressed hesitatingly towards Balan, inch by shaking inch; and as it extended the twisted fingers straightened, the bloodied wrist became whole, until the hand that cupped Balan’s cheek was as warm and solid as it had once been in Nargothrond.
"Bëor?" Finrod whispered. "Beyond hope I have passed - is this joy truly mine?"
"I waited for you," Balan said. "I said I wouldn’t leave you. I promised."
A sob; and suddenly Finrod was in Balan’s arms, shining and whole and weeping as if his heart would break.
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anerea-lantiria · 6 months
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"We are the sum of the parts of the world"
The Edain creation myth in Atanatárissë by @eilinelsghost is so inspiring! Here's my rendering of the page she describes from Beor's book of lore, an heirloom handed down through the generations from second child to second child. Do yourself a favour and treat yourself to this fic!
In the beginning of time there was the Dark. Within the Dark dwelt Melishk, the goddess of earth. And within the Dark dwelt Guënid, the god of water. Long they danced in the time ere forms were bound, long they wound together in the shapeless mingling. Each pressed into each, seeking ever to lessen the substance wherein they lay separate from the other, until from their union was wrought clay, there amid the timeless spheres.
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Thence from the clay of their unity were wrought six forms, limbed and visaged in the fashion of Men. Then Melishk said to Guënid, “Now let us call forth our sisters to aid us, now let us summon hence our brothers for succor. Let us make within the dark a habitation, that these figures we have shaped may be filled with our breath and live, that within them we might dwell forever as one. From earth and from water have they been ordered, from earth and from water have they been formed, and within them shall earth and water walk ever in the bond of unity.” Then Melishk set forth hills rising up from the soil, upon its face she smoothed valleys and fields. And Guënid swiftly did follow her there: to the heights where he rushed down in torrents; to the valleys in sluggish, wide calm; to the fields where his tendrils spread through her loam.
At that time Fon rose up from his slumber and fire came forth within the world. He passed over hill and field and vale, till he stood beside the gods of water and earth and looked on the work of their mingling. Heat he gave unto the six waiting figures before him and receiving such, their clay limbs eased into flesh. Then Luftu soared through the timeless spheres and with the wind of her presence she laid breath within them. Iuthap awakened too at the call of her sister and illuminated the bare world about them. She set her lips to the face of each figure and sight came into their eyes. Then she leapt laughing into the firmament to take up once more the gods’ dance in the sky. At the last, Satheweis arose from the silence and his singing followed Iuthap’s dance through the air. He brushed his lips across each waiting mouth and at once speech came forth from their tongues. Thus were our people born from the Darkness, our tale called up from the Silence. Remember its measure and call out its rhythm: We are the sum of the parts of the world. We are the meeting of earth and of water. We are the fire and light. Ours, the song of the Dark.
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viejospellejos · 3 months
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Secuestran al niño Jesús de un Belén de Alicante y piden 2000€ de rescate:
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peter-nautico · 3 months
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Montando el belen en casa de mis padres…
Hacia un montón de años que me tocaba, y me lo estoy pasando en grande.
😋
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thelordofgifs · 10 months
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Obscure Tolkien Blorbo: Round 1
Hareth vs Belen
[entertainingly, if you swap two letters around you get Haleth vs Beren - but these blorbos are rather more obscure than that...]
Hareth:
The daughter of Halmir, the Chieftain of the Haladin. She married Galdor and is the mother of Húrin and Huor.
I created her entire personality and I love her
Belen:
Younger son of Bëor the Old. An ancestor of Beren.
Bëor passed all his wisdom down to the 2nd son. So he's the imaginative, brainy one who would also be fascinated by the random Elf who showed up and probably lived in Nargothrond for a bit if Bëor had a chance to teach him all his wisdom and lore, since Belen was only 18 when Bëor peaced out for Nargothrond.
Round 1 masterpost
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that-angry-noldo · 7 months
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a small illustration for @eilinelsghost Atandil! i have absolutely fallen in love with the series and would recommend it to everyone. hope you don't mind :3
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folklorin · 1 year
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//the atlas paradox spoilers//
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i was robbed of a libby rhodes and milf belen reunion. i refuse to believe that the latter's dead. bring her back, olivie.
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Video
Lonley Landscape
flickr
Lonely Landscape
Two Santa Fe "Baby Boats" head silently east out of Belen, New Mexico.
February 1992
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eilinelsghost · 6 days
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Finally got my act together and bought a frame for @anerea-lantiria's gorgeous additional art piece from Atanatárissë and it makes my heart so happy having this up where I can see it every day! 🥹
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aryburn-trains · 1 year
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AT&SF locomotive, engine number 2929, engine type 4-8-4 Train #1, The Scout; 17 cars, 40 MPH. Photographed: east of Belen, N.M., June 30, 1948.
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actual-bill-potts · 8 months
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A tiny little vignette for @eilinelsghost - I hope you enjoy beloved <3
Belen was - there was no other word for it - hovering.
Anxiety for one’s children, Finrod could well understand. Though he had none of his own, he had helped to care for all four of his siblings, and met with awe the few babies who had been born in Nargothrond. They were so small, so fragile, little fingers curled, enormous eyes taking in the world around them.
But Balan had raised two sons to manhood, and today he would have Finrod’s help, and it was only for an afternoon: so it was a little insulting that Belen seemed so nervous.
“You’re absolutely sure this is alright?” Belen was asking. “And you’ll remember their bedtime, if we’re late? We should only be gone a few hours -”
Finrod gave him his most reassuring smile, the one he had honed the first few years in Nargothrond, the one that said, I am listening, and we will find a solution to whatever troubles you. “We will remember,” he said.
Belen did not seem reassured; if anything he seemed more anxious. “You’re sure you don’t mind?” he said. “I know you must be busy…”
“Belen,” interrupted Balan firmly, “Go. Take your lady wife on a tour of Nargothrond, and enjoy a nice dinner after if you so desire. We’ll take good care of your children.”
Belen sighed. “Very well. I know I’m being ridiculous, it’s just - they’ve never been away from home before. But - alright. Thank you.”
If Beldir was unnerved by the newness of Nargothrond, he made no sign of it; he had wandered away several minutes before to poke at Balan’s possessions, and was currently running his hands over the soft coverlet of his bed, seeming mesmerized. Belwen, though, was clinging to her father’s hand.
Finrod crouched before her. “Hello, winicë,” he said. “Would you like to come and play with your brother?”
Belwen did not release her grip; but she did extend her other hand and touch Finrod’s hair. “Pretty,” she said softly.
“Thank you!” said Finrod, flattered. He touched her hair in turn. “Your hair is lovely too.”
At this Belwen hid her face behind her father’s hand; but Belen gently disentangled himself. “I will be back soon, my little one,” he said. “Be good for your grandfathers.”
He began to walk towards the door. As he opened it Belwen let out a wail that seemed far too loud for her small throat and made as if to follow him. Belen froze.
Finrod hastily caught her up. “Shh, shh,” he murmured. “Your ada will be back soon. Shh, do not cry.”
Balan beside him said, “Go on, Belen, she’ll be all right.”
With a last agonized look behind him, Belen muttered, “Thank you,” and slipped out the door. Balan let out a sigh of relief, barely audible over Belwen’s cries. “I thought he’d stay in that doorway forever,” he said.
Finrod laughed, then winced as Belwen shrieked again, far too close to his ear. “Ada,” she wept, “Ada.”
“He will return, I promise,” said Finrod, stroking her back.
“Show her your combs,” Balan suggested, “I’ve never met a child yet who could resist that kind of sparkle - oh dear. Beldir!” He hurried over to his grandson, who had moved on from the coverlet and was busily engaged in pulling every book he could reach from the bookshelf.
Finrod returned his attention to Belwen. He shifted her to his hip and walked over to the dresser and his collection of combs. Balan teased him mercilessly for his vanity, but it was - a small indulgence. And they were beautiful in the sunlight, flashing between Balan’s fingers in the morning.
He picked one up, inlaid with emeralds, and offered it to Belwen. “Look,” he said, “see how it shines!”
He tilted it so that it caught the light, and Belwen abruptly quieted. “Green?” she said tentatively. She sniffled, and Finrod fumbled about for a handkerchief. He finally found one, and wiped her face gently.
Behind him, Balan was trying to convince Beldir that putting the books back on the bookshelf would be just as entertaining as taking them off, and not succeeding in the slightest. Finrod tried not to laugh as he turned his attention back to Belwen.
“We could brush your hair, if you like,” he said. “You can choose your favorite comb. I will give it to you!”
Spoiling her already, Balan grumbled affectionately in the privacy of their minds. Finrod ignored him loftily.
Belwen’s eyes widened, and her small hand closed on the comb. “Mine?”
“Yes, yours if you like!” Finrod said. He brought her over to the bed and settled beside her. “Shall we brush your hair?”
Belwen shook her head firmly. She took one of Finrod’s braids in her sticky fingers and tugged. “Yours!”
“You wish to brush my hair?” asked Finrod, with only a little trepidation.
She nodded firmly.
“Well…” Finrod trailed off. His braids had taken hours.
Belwen’s nose crinkled alarmingly. Her eyes began to water.
“Very well,” Finrod said hastily. He smiled at her. “Would you like to help take my hair down?”
Belwen’s eyes lit up. “Down!” she said, and he guided her small hand to the first of the fastenings.
Finrod! Balan exclaimed, you needn’t give her all she asks for.
It’s only hair, Finrod returned, and she is very small.
He received a wave of fondness in return, and smiled to himself as his hair came down around him.
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carolinareyestorres · 3 months
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Esta Navidad con Gaza en nuestros corazones
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anerea-lantiria · 7 months
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You know how sometimes you want to write a fic just because it's the fic you'd really like to read but nobody's written it yet, and yet you also know you wouldn't be able to write it to your satisfaction? Well, without knowing this, Frankie picked my TRSB art and wrote that fic. Only way way WAAAY better than I could ever have hoped for, and with soooo much more marvellous worldbuiling than I could have ever dreamed of!! I'm simultaneously blown away and soooo happy, and extremely honoured and simply fucking delighted!
*anérea does yet another happy dance* Here, have another snippet from Atanatárissë by @eilinelsghost, this time in the wake of the Sudden Flame:
Hiril drew the girl in against her, stroking the hair back from her forehead as her mother would have done. Rían still held the little holly sprig clenched in one hand and was tracing the leaves with the fingers of the other as her tears gradually eased. There had been a border of holly drawn about the pages of this story, Hiril recalled, its tendrils wrapping around the writing so that it encircled the tale within its guard. Outside the holly lay a menace of creatures, maws gaping and teeth reaching toward the twisting leaves.
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