I Resist the Muses

It only continues for a time, and eventually the pain is worn away. What remains does not hurt, but it is present inside you.

I can never speak of my first death, for those who killed me. Though I revenged myself for deeds that were evil, it left me ashamed and in torment for reasons I am never going to be able to speak of. I did once, and I cannot again. It is an unbearable agony, to know some of your greatest hurts you cannot speak of, for speaking them, and the truth in them, will only hurt others just as much.



muse: haldir
fandom: tolkien

The memories that feel the most trustworthy, tell me that my mother was of the stone elves, the word used by a writer was Noldor. She was tall with grey eyes and hair as black as the darkness between stars. I don't remember her voice. She smelled like sweetbread. My father was quiet. He worked with wood, knowing how to take from the great trees without killing them, cutting them but leaving them able to regrow and restore themselves. He hated war, but never blamed my mother for it and chose to live with her kin because of her love of them and loyalty. She had come across the Ice I think. Strange when so few women of any clan came across, but it feels as if she did so, that she told me of this as a child or perhaps she was given birth to along the way. I feel as if my father had black eyes, but they must have been only a very dark grey, since I think the Sinda were almost all dark of hair and grey eyed, I cannot think of any of those who never crossed the sea that would have had dark eyes and pale hair, as my memory seems to say he was. But then my memories are only small glimpses, and over time everything can warp and be uncertain.

My second brother was taller than myself, golden hair and fair of face, with a sadness to his eyes that never matched the sunlight of his smile. Our little brother, just as tall, pale with dark hair, like our mother with our fathers dark eyes, more terrible in his vengeance on the Enemy than we ever could be. It was a strange difference, so youthful and innocent, but as cold as starlight when in battle. He was blessed to appear so much like those who had never crossed the sea, for when Quendi were still a power the Enemy loathed and feared, we had many prejudices even among ourselves.

I do not remember having children. I remember not knowing I had brothers until I was sent with others to reinforce or find survivors of my mother's village, and finding them in a burned out watchtower. My nieces and nephews, carrying them around as babes. But no memory of my own children, if I had any. No wife. I have no memory of any family my father might have had, if he had any they must have all been dead or broken with him for wedding one of the Noldor. Of my mother, I remember only tall dark men in armor, tired adults with the smell of smoke and ash, of her helping the Lady of the lands who I think was kin of hers with bread making and the lembas. I recall one who my mother told me was one of her kin, who would come to visit and was the most beautiful of the eldar I would ever remember, but not for fairness of face, his soul seemed to shine through his hroa. He was a genuinely good person, and he was nice to me. His hair was gold, and he used a black wood clasp to hold it back. I do not mean to somehow metaphorically give him a saintly aura, but even among quendi it was not often you found one who was able to easily smile and somehow find a way to make others feel better about everything, as if somehow it would all be alright. I would say he was not perfect, but he was very good at making an effort.


muse: haldir
fandom: silm/lotr

I enjoy cooking very much. It is something that can be very relaxing, and enjoyable when done with many things, the more complicated and longer it takes the more fun I believe it to be. Many people underestimate in my opinion the joys of making full meals, but I do not. I enjoy cooking deer, the process of hunting, taking down the animal, then moving it, skinning and gutting it, removing the offal, burying, moving the meat and what else I need to take back. Curing and storing, and cooking what I will eat. I suspect deer and elk are actually very popular among eldar. Potatoes are good to eat, as well as other ground growing foods, but it was always difficult to get many to agree to growing them, even with eldar there were many things that were symbols of a life we did not want, and they were one.



muse: haldir
fandom: silm/lotr

"Any man who has the guts to sell his soul for love has the power to change the world" -- From Ghost Rider


My entire upbringing was without really saying it outright, a method of reminding me that there was nothing I could do about the way things were, they simply were. Questioning the way of things, was not something ever conceivable. I knew very little about how to be when I was still a child, only that I had better be good, or the King will get angry and it will be your fault. I heard the same in Menegroth, where I was sent and raised like any other Sindarin elf of the Doriathrim. There were others my age, sent to live in the Deep Caves. They were friends, but they are I think not around anymore. The world was harsh and dim, they would be happier in Aman so I only hope they are now there in peace.

I think part of me broke, to realize that the one place I had known kindness in had been destroyed. Nargothrond had been my first home, I think. I remember so little anymore. My uncle was everything to me. Learning of his death, all I could think about for days was that I would never see him smile again, or listen to him on his harp, as he would teach me. I must have had a hard case of hero-worship. I wish I could feel more certain about my memories. I don't believe one person can change the world, because I was raised not to believe something like that.

The last Númenórean king sold his integrity, everything that made him an honorable man, for the love of life, of power. That I think is not actual love, but petty crude reflected light from real love. Yet he did change the shape of the world in his own way.

That willingness to give up everything for love, perhaps what is meant is that a similar strength is needed for the ability to shape the world by your own hands. That same ruthlessness and willingness to do such terrible things to ones own self.

Christian mythology seems to involve the concept of selling ones soul, as if one could actually do such a thing, and fall into a place called Hell. I do not believe in hell. I do not believe that one can sell their soul, but I have seen countless times both men and elves do terrible things for love, or for what they think is love. The strength of will, to give up all honor and integrity, to do evil deeds because of love, a love for another or an object or an idea, that is a powerful strength for either good or evil, but when does it lose sight of anything but the darkness? If one is given the hard choice, perhaps by then they have reached the potential for changing the world by their deeds.




muse: Haldir
words: 560
fandom: silm/lotr

Sometimes, I am not quite sure I know. There are times when I feel completely confident in knowing who I am, then the following morning it is as if it was all somehow a lie, an illusion put over me, and I am too suspicious to believe anymore. At least, until the next day.

Most of my memories up until the last few hundred years are gone, worn away like the rock in the river that can never quite move from the pool at the bottom, slowly the deep water smoothing out the rough edges until the original shape is all but forgotten.

I know sometimes I was happy, sometimes I was sad. I suffered, very much, but then there were times when I did not. I know a long time ago, when the air was thicker and warm, and the sun a slightly different color, I and others went to a place with insects as large as my head, and rats as large as a cat. I was poisoned, and it was one of the most miserable few months I ever experienced in several centuries.

I know I had a mother and a father that I loved. That I had things such as duty and honor. That we were grey cloaked and knew little of men and their minds. I was moved to live as what people today would call a political prisoner, raised under the watchful eyes of a forest-lord to ensure his safety and the safety of the people of my family. It was unpleasant, but sometimes peaceful. They kept track of the children with bells like a dog, they would braid them into our hair and in our clothes, but this only trained us to move silently. We all became the best Rangers.