#there it is...

PROMPT.

He has eyes filled with sorrow and softness in equal parts; tempered as finely crafted steel shining under moonlight (eyes he can see himself in.) Scars, faded to thin blotches scattered over a weather-worn face, remind him of the blemish left by wind over stone after long years of enduring (his suffering has not made him cruel, but kinder still.) Most proudly his nose stands at the center of his features, a reminder of his heritage, held high in quiet dignity (he is a man of Gondor, through and through.) His lips are pale and prone to severity, yet quick to lift in humor; morbid or otherwise (Frodo recalls the fright and relief of that one mean jest. How he loves him more for all his provocations. Here is a man who acts according to his own heart.) His laugh is like water over rock, an unstoppable force that hails from high mountain to nourish the valley below, or soft as spring rain that kisses dew into each flower. (Frodo has played the part of fool and he would do it again, if only for a chance to hear him laugh.)

Tall and lordly he stands, as any King before, yet humble, rooted as the mountain with its crown of frost. (How can I ever reach him?) He is ancient and very young, and in his hair, the sunlight catches; turning to red and gold or grey under starlight. (Soft. The texture is fine, but less delicate than it seems.) In each hand, he carries kindness and a willingness to do harm, but only at great need, and such has been his need; for he is a protector above all, and his hands must bear the burden of blood if his people are to survive. He knows sacrifice as keenly as he knows his own heart, and does not shy from pain, but seeks its truth. (In his willingness I see myself, and Boromir also. It is courage and love he carries closest to his heart.)

me: oh no

me: please don't