dear_mun | voice...testing... omg what am I doing

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canon: middle earth

voice...testing... omg what am I doing

Do not take the confidence of others in you to be truth, child, for if you rely on others to determine your worth, your hands will be left empty and your heart hollow when the time comes to prove yourself. There is sure worth in heeding the counsels of those wiser than you are, aye, but trust the hesitation in your heart. Do not make decisions for the sake of fear; you know my tale well enough, and thus the price of such hastiness.

[ A pause, and Isildur cocks his head, a bitter smile on his lips. ]

Child, I will not make your decisions for you. 'Tis true that I have reached the end of my mortal life, yet I find myself conflicted. There are old comrades here I see, and I find words weigh heavy on my tongue that I wish to speak. If you allow me voice, I will take this chance, unasked for as it might be. If you return me to darkness, I will accept it.

My judgment has led to the deaths of all I hold dear. I do not judge it to be any worth whatsoever, and neither should you, child.

[ ooc; Isildur, just post-The Disaster at Gladdens Fields. Have fun. Forgive the PB, guys. I couldn't find someone else who looks enough like Harry Sinclair to pass off as Isildur. ]

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[Wow this reopens some...weird things.

Old guilt. Old sorrow over the loss of a friend and comrade. Old memories of a time he doesn't like remembering but can't quite leave.]

You judge yourself too harshly.

[ Isildur turns, seeing the long fall of golden hair. Elves do not age, but Isildur is a friend of Elves, and he reckons he thinks he can make a guess. There is greater wariness and weariness in Thranduil's eyes, and they are no longer the eyes of a young Prince, but an older warrior, weighed down with the burdens of ruling.

Perhaps Isildur recognises those eyes for they are much like his own, in the days after his father's swift, sudden death. ]

Only as much as I deserve. [ He pauses, and swiftly changes the subject. ]

It seems long years have past, Elvenking.

Many years, and they have been very long indeed. Much has changed, and little. But do not deter my counsel. I said you are too harsh, and say it again. Not all woes you have suffered were of your making; indeed, I cannot think of one you could help. The strong have proved all too weak to the Enemy's chiefest weapon.

[ Thranduil's words surprise him. Not only in their contents, but in the look in the Elvenking's eyes - kindness, sympathy, and all that Isildur does not think he deserves. He turns away from that bright gaze, squeezes his own eyes shut.

From a source he has no name for, he knows the ending of Middle Earth's tale - that it is a perian who saved the land in the end, a Hobbit barely able to lift a sword. He knows Thranduil's words are right, and yet he finds a space in his heart where there should be belief. ]

What strength might I claim, if it falls to the weak to defend the strong? [ He shakes his head, speaking quietly. ] The woes you have suffered in the years I can not see are of my making, Elvenking, and there is naught that might be said to disprove the truth of that.

Of Sauron's making, not yours. Else you might as well blame Elrond and Círdan, for they failed to tip you into the Fire, or myself for that matter. Many of us were there and failed to act in such a way to destroy it, for the sake of petty decorum. How many are you willing to blame?

[His voice goes quieter, the stoneline stoicism honed by thousands of years softened. Some of that old guilt glints in them, a regret that he had been so very close yet too far away to save a friend.]

If you blame yourself for the deaths of your sons, then you must blame me as well.

[ Isildur's eyes widen, and he steps forward at those words. He reaches out, grasping Thranduil's arms tightly, feeling Elven strength beneath his fingers.

(But it's a familiar thing, and Isildur's heart aches, aches for the stench of Mordor, for the simplicity of war, of the comfort of looking forward and seeing his father in front of him, and looking behind to see his sons.

He aches for a time when he did not have to remember the long nights he spent by Anárion's bedside, praying to the Valar he has never seen to spare his brother's life.) ]

Do not say that! [ He hisses the words. ] Do not strip my pride from me, Thranduil! 'Twas my choice to take it; 'twas my lack of foresight that led to the battle. You did all you could; the bodies of my Men and my sons are whole only for your efforts. Do not blame yourself for failing to rescue me from my own folly!

Then blame yourself, and hold it close to you as a bleeding wound and cherish it more than the peace you might have. What did we know of the Ring then, Isildur? You were the first to learn how it draws the creatures of Sauron to it, and could not have foreseen what would happen.

[Isildur is exactly as tall as he remembers, but Thranduil learned how to bear himself as a king in Mordor. Though he must turn his eyes upward to look at Isildur, he does not tilt his face up to him. The effect desired, albeit subconsciously, is to draw Isildur down to his height instead of reaching up for him.]

Edited 2013-07-30 15:38 (UTC)

[ Isildur's eyes fall to his hands, and is unsurprised to find that they shake. Sometimes, at the back of his eyelids, he imagines blood. He did not hear them, but sometimes he fancies he hears Ciryon's dying screams. Aratan's.

Elendur's. (Oh his oldest, most beloved boy! Isildur will never forget the rush of pride he had felt when he held his his child in his arms for the first time, filled with the knowledge that the small body contains the continuation of their proud line.)

He closes his eyes. ]

Do you know why I took It, Elvenking? [ The question is soft, his voice almost tremulous. ] Will you defend me so fervently to myself if you do?

Edited 2013-07-31 08:18 (UTC)

You desired it, I am sure. Is there any king in these times who would not?

[How many times has he wanted one thing to be easy, in all these years of hardship? How much did he yearn for the power never to be powerless again?]

But also it was weregild for your kin.

[ It was not sympathy that Isildur saw in those brilliant blue eyes. It is empathy, and Isildur's breath catches in his throat. His hand raises again, almost to catch Thranduil by the sleeve- but he lets it fall. ]

There were Lords of realms who advised me against taking it. You know this to be true.

'Twas fear that drove me to take it, and in my actions I have become no better than the Oathbreakers I cursed. 'Twas cowardice, Thranduil. [ He glances towards the Elvenking. ]

I do not deserve your kindness.

[ Guilt's hold on his heart is not so easily released. ]

Should kindness be given only to the deserving? [Isildur's talking to the guy who's eventually going to have Gollum for a prisoner. Whose big mistake during that fiasco is allowing too much kindness toward him. Really, Isildur, how bad are you compared to Gollum?] If it is, why should the undeserving ever strive to better themselves? And I cannot say what I would have done, had it come to me, even though I knew which action to be right.

What betterment can I strive for, now? [ Isildur's smile is bitter. ] My road is at its end.

[ He tries to hold onto the bitterness, but his heart is made of something far lighter, brighter. It was he who brought the seed of Nimloth to his father, after all, when Ar-Pharazôn was at the full height of his madness and he knew that he courted death by even attempting. Long has Isildur been proud of his line; of the strength given to him by the blood of Tar-Minyatur and his illustrious forefathers and foremothers before him.

He shakes his head hard, and his lips curve upwards a little more. It is a true, genuine smile. Though still strained. ]

We dwell so long in darkness even now. Tell me, Elvenking: are there bright days ahead? Peaceful days when the trees of the Greenwood are full and rich, where the nights are full of stars and without phantoms? There is suffering ahead, but you and I both know that suffering only sharpens our joys.

Edited 2013-07-31 17:22 (UTC)

I do wish it only did that. But my days and nights will see phantoms till West I go; that my people be merry is all I may ask.

[ Isildur's heart turns cold once more at those words, and he lowers his eyes. Phantoms- phantoms and shadows. Aye, Isildur knows to fight the armies of the Shadow, the orcs and beasts and monsters- yet now he knows that Morgoth and Sauron have far more insidious and dangerous weapons.

What armour might a Man make to shield his own heart, to deafen his ears, to silence his mind? If Isildur had known, perhaps he would not have fallen. ]

Are they? [ Softly. ] Have they still found joy?

Joy within darkness. Such joy, Isildur.

You would think that, having made so many pricey mistakes, one would learn better judgement. ... of course, that seems to be the case less often than perhaps we would hope.

[ Hello, Isildur. Have a tired, ragged Maglor who is very well versed in making mistakes and witnessing the deaths of almost all he holds dear. One of his foster sons is still alive, though... hence the 'almost.' ]

[ The ageless and wearied eyes, the resonant voice... Isildur is one of the Faithful, and he fought beside Elrond himself. He recognises Maglor immediately- and his heart is not so lost in despair that he does not realise that the darkness in Maglor's voice is not an echo of Isildur's, but one of Maglor's own.

Yet. ]

There are few who are given the cruel kindness of making more than one costly mistake, my lord. [ Softly. ]

Edited (i suck re: the elves. sorry!) 2013-07-30 15:22 (UTC)

I have not been lord of anything in a very long time, child of Numenor.

[ He says this gently, seeing in Isildur echoes of Elros and the other Edain he had known once long ago. And although he has kept himself distant, he has not let the goings on of the remainder of his people, their allies and their enemies go entirely unmarked. He knows some of what happened, even if the exact details remain a mystery.

But in in any case, he smiles faintly, bitterly and shakes his head. ]

It happens more often than one might think. One poor decision begets another.

[ Isildur echoes the bitter smile, turning away. Almost involuntarily, his hand lifts towards the strange mists that surrounds this place, clenching his fist as if to try to catch it.

He lets his arms fall, and shakes his head. ]

'Tis no comfort to know the very beginning of one's downfall, not when there is no chance given to change what is already made into history. Nay, we are made into legends; tales of warning for children to learn their lessons.

[ His eyes turn back to Maglor, and Isildur lets out a long, long breath. ]

There has not been a Numenor for years. [ He quirks his lips; a hint of the man who once was. Before Mordor. Before the Ring. Before the Gladdens Field. ] My Lord.

[ Maglor quirks an eyebrow in return, one step shy of rolling his eyes. It is good, though, to see that a hint of humor remains. He would rather not see others who have made poor choices and paid for them sink so deeply into depression and self-castigation as to lose what little of themselves remain. ]

... tales of warning that children rarely take heed of. But strange are the workings of the world, and good things yet come out of poor choices. Meetings occur that might otherwise never have been...

The Dúnedain are said to have foreight, yet none but Eru knows the paths that are sealed by our actions. [ Isildur's good humour fades as quickly as it comes, and he turns wearied again. ]

Do you dwell on such paths? [ I fear they are all that occupy my thoughts, he does not say. He thinks that Maglor hears the unspoken words well enough.]

No. Not anymore. I find little use in pondering what-might-have-beens. The world is what it is, and the choices I made I cannot now unmake. I cannot see another path anymore...

[ And sometimes he is not sure he would wish to. Looking back, now, he can see how terrible choices ultimately begat wonderful things, and although he regrets a great many things, at the same time... without the Silmarils, would Beren and Luthien have come together? Would their granddaughter have ever gone to Sirion and met Earendil? If not for Morgoth's release, would the Noldor even have ever left Valinor? Would Turgon have built his hidden city, and would Tuor have been sent there with a warning and come away with a bride and a son?

Of course, he can also view things with a bard's eye - and what sort of story would there be to tell if everyone only made wise choices and only good things happened?

The sorrow and the guilt weigh heavily upon him, but he has found ways to rationalize things to himself. To come to terms with the world not being what he had once hoped and dreamt of in his youth. To live with himself without going mad. ]

[ Isildur sees the world stretched out in front of him; sees the Kings of Gondor and Arnor, the two Kingdoms sundered when before they were ruled in twain. His heart grieves for the loss of the Northern Kingdom, the land his father ruled chipped away until only Arthedain was left- and then nothing.

The Ring. If it had been destroyed, there would be no Witch-king. There would be no Sauron looming as a dark shadow that blocks out the light of the sun in the latter days of the Third Age. Isildur finds himself nearing despair once more at the thought of it: so much suffering, so many deaths, so many forced to become warriors! His heart grieves most for the loss of Minas Ithil, of Minas Arnor turned into Minas Tirith, the high towers that reach for the sun turned into a guardhouse, filled with people who know little joy in their lives.

And yet. Yet he knows of the great deeds too. Of Men who had the chance to prove themselves due to the darkness of the world. Only in struggles can Men find their truest potential, his father had once said, and mayhap that is true. Mayhap Isildur's fall was necessary for the greats to rise: Cirion and Eorl, Ecthelion, Denethor, Boromir and Faramir- and of course, Aragorn. He who is like Beren of Isildur's own line, marrying in the end Elrond's daughter.

Isildur does not know. The future slips through his fingers, mist-like, and he can only give Maglor a long, heavy sigh. ]

'Tis not for a mortal to judge the balance of goodness and evil that results from our actions, [ he murmurs. ] 'Tis not for anyone to judge.

Edited 2013-08-01 02:51 (UTC)

Save perhaps Eru himself, [ Maglor adds, softly. But then he smiles faintly. It does not reach his eyes. ] I think, however, that if the Song were not intended to go thus, he would not have created us.

[ Does not the refrain of sorrow echoing throughout the Great Music make it all that much more poignant and beautiful? Does it not make the joy that much more glorious in the end?

Perhaps it is only because he himself is a musician that he thinks this way, or perhaps it is only his way of trying to rationalize his own terrible deeds, but Maglor nonetheless believes in the idea of evil things being turned in the end to the greater good. It is a thought he finds greatly comforting. It is not, of course, an excuse to perform evil deeds or cause wanton destruction, but it at least explains to him why it is permitted in the first place. ]

[While it's true that there is an old bitterness that attempted to settle in his heart over Isildur's actions, Elrond has had a very long to come to terms with what happened. He cannot deny that, soon after the battle and Isildur's claiming of the ring, he wondered what had become of his brother's descendants. Where was that will and strength of Tar-Minyatur, of Elros?

Those thoughts had been banished with some prejudice. How could he judge others when he might have fallen to the same temptation? How far would Elrond go to protect his home, his people, his family? It's not a question he would like to answer.

Then Isildur had been killed and he found he only thought of the man with a heavy sorrow.]

Do not judge your own worth, for we are often far too critical of ourselves. [A pause and then:] Your life was cut far too short.

[ Even more than Círdan the Shipwright, it is Elrond that Isildur wishes and dreads most to see. Not only is he Isildur's comrade, the herald of Eirenion Gil-galad himself, but he is the brother of Isildur's forefather. Of Tar-Minyatur, he who founded Númenor itself.

(Isildur remembers Elendil's doubts. How can we declare ourselves a friend of the Eldar, when our gift from our first Halfelven King, the great jewel of Númenor, had been sunk? Could they not have done more to stop Ar-Pharazôn? Could they not have stopped the villain from taking Ar-Zimraphel by force? Could they not have done more?

Ah, that is the burden of the Elendili, it seems. Perhaps of all Men. To know that there is so much time behind them that they did not witness and could not change; to know too that there is so much in front of them left unseen. Blind are Eru's Secondborn, surrounded by darkness at all sides, and though Isildur knows there was naught more he could have done to prevent the sinking of Númenor, he could not help remembering the first time he met Elrond.

He had averted his eyes. Isildur remembers, the memory bright and sharp as Narsil itself, for he is a prideful man still.)

Now he turns away again, looking out towards the soft mists that covers this strange, deathless place. ]

Should I not judge my own worth for I had held it too highly? [ His eyes flicker sideways, and his smile is bitter. ]

During my last moments, my thoughts were of Valandil. I have not thanked you, my lord, for keeping him safe.

[Elrond does not expect Isildur to hold his gaze; there is too much self-loathing in the man for that. He looks out in the direction Isildur is gazing, seeing nothing but memories in sharp relief. He cannot look at Isildur without thinking of those days in Mordor and the losses that came after.]

Others hold it more highly than you. [Did he ever tell you how he sees Elros in you? In Elendil? In Valandil?]

He knew of your love and strength. [Elrond would have done no differently. There is no need thank him for it.]

[ Elrond has not said. Isildur is thankful for it, for it will be an expectation he cannot live up to. He is no Tar-Minyatur, and though the Faithful hold onto their friendship with the Eldar and their worship of the Valar with tight, grasping hands, sometimes Isildur finds it difficult to believe.

No, he is no Elros; not one so beloved by the gods.

He tips his head up, staring at the skies. ]

He will know of my weakness as well, [ softly. ] If not from me, then from the world itself that now mourns for millenia more of suffering due to one Man's folly.

[ Perhaps this is the fault of Men as well - that they carry the world on their shoulders. ]

[Not weakness. No. It was something far more insidious that tempted Isildur. Elrond could see it even in himself: a desire to protect. To live in peace. To give in to what seems the easy path to such a thing.

But he will not argue. Isildur's heart is too bitter to be unburdened in one conversation.]

Would not Middle Earth suffer in other ways as well? Our paths are often dark and our futures uncertain. It is Men that rise up to combat this darkness in the future, I believe. It will not be your folly or your weakness that rallies them. It will be remembered strength.

[So says the elf that can see things. So there.]

[ Strange, how words from Elrond can ease his heart, though Isildur's mind still clamours and refuses to be comforted. Perhaps it is because he fears disappointing Elrond most of all - the Peredhel Lord who is twin brother to his most illustrious forefather. Or perhaps it is because he fears Elrond's foresight.

Still, he cannot help but wish for affirmation. ]

You know this to be true?

To think that I would see you're face before me once again. Nothing can truly lie dead here, can it Isildur?

[ Isildur tips his head up, looking at the monster he had faced- the monster that he had, perhaps, created himself by his refusal to destroy the Ring.

He smiles. ]

The irony of your own words have escaped you, Nameless One.

Alas that the decisions we make in the heat of the moment all too often return to haunt us later [says the elf who has spent too much time brooding on his past].

Aye. [ A pause, and Isildur laughs - a bitter, mirthless thing. ] Yet I judge those who regret only their hasty decisions to be the lucky few.

I would think even the Valar are not exempt from regrets [bitter? Why, whyever would you think that?] As for those like us, well. I suppose our only recourse is to endure the consequences.

Nay. [ Softly. ] For the mortal, there is only darkness until we are called unwilling to live, breathe, and regret once more.

[ Isildur falls into silence for a moment- then he smiles, half-hearted. ]

Strange. The Men of Andúnië fear death, and courted rot as saviour from Mandos's calls. [ He can't help it, really - there's bitterness there, and disdain as well. But he shakes his head. ] Yet I... I find peace within such oblivion, though 'twas not a gift given to me.

[ Unlike most men of Númenor, he did not choose to die. Few of Elendil's line will be given that choice.

And Isildur knows exactly the irony of saying these words to an Immortal. ]

Edited 2013-07-31 11:30 (UTC)

[have a sharp bitter bark of sound that might be a laugh] I envy you that oblivion, Dunedain, for it will never be my lot. Truly it was said that the Eldar would envy the Sons of Men before the end.

[ Isildur pauses, pulls up short at that. He looks at Maglor for a long moment before speaking. ]

Only Eru's Gift is worth admiration; naught else.

[ But there's no conviction in his words. Isildur is quick to condemn himself, but he will never believe in the weakness of Men as a whole. ]

Do not sell yourselves so short. Fortunate are Men! Who may choose their own fate, for good or ill! At the least, your ill choice was but a momentary one, brought on by the Enemy's Weapon. Better that, than mine!

[ Isildur moves suddenly, reaching out and taking Maglor's hands into his own, fingers holding tight onto slim, Elven wrists. He seeks out those dark, despairing eyes, catching them. His gaze burns, and though he knows naught where his passion comes, a fire that burns so hot that it chases away the shadows of his heart, he revels in it. ]

I know there is little my words can do to assuage your grief, but I beg you to not give in to it! The lives of Elves are long: to dwell in grief for all that time is a fate too terrible for any to withstand. Mayhap Men are fortunate, but by our own fortunes we are made weaker in our hearts than the Elves, for your fates allow you to endure the long years we cannot.

[ He lets out a breath. ]

In times of war we - my comrades and me - found joy in the smallest of things. Do you still rejoice at the sight of the sun through the green leaves in spring?

[ Isildur is, in the end, still a commander of Men who survived and brought his warriors through the horrors of Mordor. ]

[ those hands and wrists are deceptively slim - an artist's hands - they tense warningly with the strength of a Kinslayer but he does not pull away. Dark eyes flash with remembered fire for one brief moment before guttering out. ]

So like him. [the murmur is soft and fond] I endure, aye. It is my penance, and my punishment. My grief will never be assuaged, for is it not of my own doing? [the smile is bitter] There is no longer any joy for me in this world.

Do not trouble yourself for the grief of one bitter old Elf. [ one hand tugs free - the one with all the scars - to lift and brush briefly against your face ] You really are like him, you know. What little embers of happiness I hold is this - that not all my choices went ill. Elros' line endures, and you made but one mistake, in the end, and your people endure still. It is enough.

[ Isildur notices the fire, the fear, and he takes a step back, his warrior's instincts still loud and bright in his mind.

He takes a long, shuddering breath. ]

Forgive me. [ Murmured. ] Will you tell me of Tar-Minyatur? I knew him only as a legend, not a man.

[ Oooh, you got him to smile! Even a little chuckle ]

Elros... ah, such fire he had. Stubborn and protective of his brother, even if he was the younger. He was outspoken, bold and absolutely charming. He never left you in any doubt about what he thought about you - if he hated you, he would refuse to even stay in your presence longer than necessary, but if he loved you, he loved you with all his heart, and he would die to defend you. And if he wanted something, then come what may, he would have it.

[ ooc: *headcannons* ]

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[ The sight of her rings something deep within his chest, as if the blood in his veins are crying out in joyful recognition. Isildur's lips parted, and for a long moment he stares at her, eyes caught by the strange light that surrounds her.

And he knows what - and who - she is, without needing to be told. He inclines his head, immediately. ]

My lady. [ Softly. ] Nay, I do not think they spoke out of pity, and yet my heart finds the words, though kind, too slippery to grasp.

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[ The remark is so unexpected that Isildur cannot help but laugh. It's a rich, resounding sound, echoing in the air around them even after he silences himself. ]

'Tis our minds that should counsel us against the heart's speaking. Yet- are our minds wiser?

[ He thinks Anarion would have an answer to that. ]

Sometimes we cannot help the judgement we have to make regarding certain matters within out lives. Death happens without us even wishing it into existence, yet it haunts us still. [How many of his kin had he seen die under his rule as Prince of Erebor? He was but a prince at the battle of Azanulbizar, yet the men followed him as they should.]

Edited 2013-07-31 21:04 (UTC)

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voice...testing... omg what am I doing

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Man I don't even know how this is gonna work but whatever let's do this!

whatev whatev they're from the same legendium it works

xD I was gonna say that the one missing a hand is his brother. But w/e if elf names man

w/e ELVES < MEN, you mean, :3

wow excuse you clearly ents > everything

ents > men > elves, kapish?

nah ents > hobbits > elves > men, obviously

NOPE.

... :C I could have sworn I replied to this! I'm so sorry, Dream.

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eee an isildur!

hello bb :3 :3 :3

have we met? =p

/therangerking

well hello again~ <3

/waves :3

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I agree with your choice of PB.