#laikehend

Boromir did not do well caged. Forced to wait for his own plans? That was fine. He could be patient for his goals, he could accept any sacrifice so long as it was his choice to give it, so long as he was not needed elsewhere. But for all of Rivendell’s beauty and comfort, it might as well have been his prison.

It had been a month since the Council had concluded and the Ranger had vanished without another word. With still no sign of his, or any of the other scouting party’s return, Boromir had been endeavouring to accept that he would be waiting a long time before knowing his next course. He was managing, thus far, wandering the ‘Last Homely House’ to try and keep a clear head. 

      BLOOD CASTS FREELY DOWN his side , marring the forest coloured fabric of his tunic an ugly maroon where the thickest had bled through to the white undershirt there , then further still to stick to the unblemished skin that lay beneath. a fire , burning bright & fierce , had licked up his flank at the stroke that sliced through his defence & cut through his flesh. now it remained a muted sting , a renewed course of strength giving his limbs life enough to fight the last of his opponents.

      FELLING THE FOUL CREATURES that had done him harm , & so to all the cruel beasts encountered , the eyrn edhel had wavered. dropping to his knees with a gush of air , a hand raising up to press heavily against his side. the action eliciting a sharp hiss in remark to the pain revived at his ungentle touch. a moment allowed for show of weakness , when he thought enemies vanquish for a time & he alone , appeared costly in the sounds of movement in the foliage.

      DRAWING HIMSELF UP TO face the next to come , his posture altered to accommodate for the still seeping wound. frame held to shield his weakened side , yet not in expression of the pain he felt. twin knives held in firm , practiced grips at his front. determination permeating from his being. he wasn’t taken by the first , nor those to have attacked before them , thus he wouldn’t be by the ones to follow. but if evil were to snatch his long life from him this day , he wouldn’t let such be taken with any sort of ease.

                        « ➽ »

         ❝ So I have realised , but if you think this has me too weak to return what has been dealt.              It will be one of your last mistakes. ❞

Although Bruce had assumed traveling through the Mirkwood Forest would have caused him to run into an Elf or two, he hadn’t anticipated such an encounter so suddenly! Any Mordor-bred individual would have hissed in a combination of hatred and fear at the individual before him, yet Bruce recalled his old Easterling friend Maliku living peacefully with them for a time as he recorded their culture. Granted, Maliku had been a Man, not an Olog, and those had been the Elves of Lothlórien, not of Mirkwood; but surely that meant other Elves could be peaceful as well? At least, not entirely willing to slice Bruce’s throat before he could explain himself and the reasoning behind his current whereabouts! Hopefully. 

“Well, I don’t plan on makin’ such mistakes, I’ll tell ye that,” Bruce answered, dipping his head with a nod and his lips pulled back to something akin to far-too-toothy smile. Still, he made no motion towards the spiked mace hooked upon his back armor plate. The Olog’s gaze flicked down to the forest floor, littered with several dispatched and dead orcs, and Bruce’s expression changed; his grin faltered before slipping from his face completely and contemplating worry took its place.

Beady blue eyes flicked back up to the Elf before him. “Were they after you? Or did ye ‘appen upon ‘em ‘ere?” 

🎯 my muse has been shot and is dying in your muse’s arms.

“Gwador-”

It is Spring, but Tauriel has never felt colder in her life.  She doesn’t shiver, yet leans into Legolas for what warmth she might get from him.  Mumbled reassurances, frantic attempts to stop the bleeding-- she knows he is trying for nothing.  There is red all around them, too much.  Try as they might, there is not much to be done for the two arrows lodged in her stomach, almost certainly coated with orcish poison.  

“I don’t- I don’t want to go,” she gasps, fear and pain finally making her tremble.  “P- please--”

           “You assume I am questioning your judgment.” Her tone            was calm, hands lacing together in front of her. “I am merely            offering another view.”

‘‘so...... no map?’‘ yeah yeah, one might argue the stars are a map of their own. but not for d’artagnan, he may be skilled in a variety of things but reading stars wasn’t one of them. ‘‘is that an elven thing, or do men and dwarves also have no maps?’‘ there was a lightness to his words, teasing - no real bite. even though a map would be useful, what if he gets seperated from the elf? he’ll be lost before dark in no time. he’ll survive, he’s been through enough to be confident in that. but he’s not a fool . . . reckless, sometimes, but not plain stupid.