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dunadaneth · 7 months
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“She just wants the garden to work. She just wants to build a garden and water it and have everything grow and everything stay alive and she does not want to feel besieged.”
— Gabriel Tallent, from My Absolute Darling
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dunadaneth · 1 year
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The berry pickers creed
I will leave unripened berries untouched
A ripe berry need only be negotiated with, not fought
I will reasses my surroundings after every step, for my new perspective could reveal a berry patch previously hidden to me
The plant gets excited and happy when a barry is picked
The bug is not to be feared or killed, but gently celebrated, for it facilitated in the creation of the beloved berrys
I will not allow myself to be bullied by sharp thicket and I will retrieve even the most protected barry
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dunadaneth · 1 year
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In my research for my studies I’ve actually stumbled across a flower that I think would fit very very well, the Trientalis borealis, or the star flower! Starflowers have bright yellow anthers, smooth lance-shaped leaves, and tall stalks.
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Not only is it a seven petaled flower (which, in my mind, the seven pointed star is the symbol of Arnor), it also grows without help- meaning that it would still be growing long after Arnor fell, but the symbol of the land still can be found all around it. It’s endangered in my state (where it grows natively), but I think this would be a very fitting plant native for Evendim.
It’s said that there’s a flower native only to Evendim, and grows amongst the ruins of Annúminas. I have an idea of what the flower is but it’s never specifically listed or mentioned with a description, which means I can really choose any flower I please.
My only issue is that with any flower I choose, means that it doesn’t grow anywhere else, which would be a shame bc flowers are so pretty and the choice is so daunting!! 😭
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dunadaneth · 2 years
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Unknown, Comets from the Augsburg Book of Miraculous Signs, 1552
Later published as The Book of Miracles
Wikimedia
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dunadaneth · 2 years
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Wood Anemones - Anemone Nemorosa
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dunadaneth · 2 years
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Hayley Willaims, Roses/Lotus/Violet/Iris
Pablo Picasso. Fleur: Étude pour Le Chant des Fleuves XVI
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dunadaneth · 2 years
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If one day you see me sitting on the ground in my little vegetable patch, looking very focused on pulling weeds, you should know that this is the tireless internal monologue that accompanies this activity:
Turnip is so good. Definitely superior to navet. Just an excellent word. English names for vegetables often fit much better. Leek! I mean it doesn’t look like a real word, all tiny English words (poke wig work jug dig blurb quirk leek) sound like Klingon to Romance language speakers who enjoy syllables, but leek is the sound of delighted surprise you make the first time you pull one of these out of the ground. Pickle is adorable. Pumpkin has the exact same dorky-cute energy as our citrouille. Spinach is a word that holds me in contempt. Even in my head I can’t pronounce it. I have tried every possible combination of sounds and never chanced upon the right one. Maybe spine and a sad German ach. If I look it up I will just forget again. I also dislike that other word for courgette. It’s a little courge so it’s a courgette! Zucchini is a clown name. Ginger, though! Such a cool, spunky word. I don’t know why we have a suffix that makes it sound like a month. As a kid I really thought gingembre should be a month—Novembre, Décembre, Gingembre. I don’t like asparagus but only because I think anglos should love themselves and shake off Latin suffixes like the rest of us did, since even native speakers seem nervous and apologetic when they have to use their plural form. They sound like they need to triple-google-check it every time, that’s no way to live. We cut our Latin cord and call it an asperge and the plural is pronounced identically so we have time to worry about real problems, like how caper berry is feminine but the word sounds deceptively masculine. Câpre. Or aromatic plants! Aromate—no one wants to hazard a gender for these words so we use the plural form at all times out of cowardice, it disgusts me.
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dunadaneth · 2 years
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i love you green. i love you forests. i love you smell of damp earth. i love you feeling before the storm breaks. i love you moss. i love you rivers. i love you streams. i love you thunderstorms. i love you sunlight shining through leaves.
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dunadaneth · 2 years
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LADYHAWKE 1985 | dir. Richard Donner
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dunadaneth · 2 years
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She loved the rebirth of spring; her beautiful garden; the wild flowers of the fields; butterflies, toads and bees; (…)
Emily Fragos, from Foreword in “Letters Of Emily Dickinson” (via adrasteiax)
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dunadaneth · 2 years
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       Oh! However long they had traveled together, the elven princeling never failed to make her exasperated, even in such moments as these. Though at first it had been irritating, she had grown used to his humor and wit, though it did not stop the occasional groan or sigh at his rebuttals. Now was one of those times.
      Despite the concerning issue of the corpses, he had managed to take her words and twist them to be all too literal, and she could not help the roll of her eyes as she approached, kneeling down beside him.
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       “If you want to be that way, I’ll bring you a nice bouquet of corpses, and you can tell me which is more delightful to see and smell.” No, he wasn’t wrong, but always he danced around the point. Flowers were far more pleasant. “My point still stands, though. Flowers given out of love and affection, however ‘dead’ they might be, is better than being given bodies, like a prize that a cat dragged in.” Alas for the life of a ranger-bodies simply would be far more likely than any gift.
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sentence and symbol starters
@dunadaneth​ said: “Once, just once, I’d like for someone to bring me flowers instead of corpses.”
HAUNCHES WERE FOUND AND SETTLED UPON, the grass scarce bowing neath the ellon’s sparse weight as with FLUID gesture he crouched beside the fallen. Cowl pulled asunder to allow a less SULLIED view, void of cast shadow. An Orc attack mayhap? Nay, these wounds spoke of a different beast….though alas, it seemed this poor soul had fallen prey to one no less foul!
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The ranger’s words coax LEGOLAS, offering escape from morbid postulation. CERULEAN hues address the woman stood beyond them, their sharp, astute gaze so very akin to a parents. Contemplation expunged from fair features to be replace with a rare glimmer of  m i r t h  in the angles of the PRINCELING’S expression. An impish grace in the listing of an elegant jaw. ‘Aye.. yet are bouquets not simply the gathering of unfortunate corpses of plucked flora, mellon nîn? Their end is simply prolonged so that they may be admired for the pleasure their BEAUTY brings to the eye. ’
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dunadaneth · 2 years
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[𝐄𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐧]​:
     Elladan needs only the name to remember, but he does not interrupt her. Créa’s detailing of the man tells him much about her bond with him — or what remains of it. It is a description that fits many of the Dúnedain: bearded, light-eyed, tall and blessed with a head full of curls. The description of how she sees him beyond her memory of his appearance is more telling, in that sense: she cherishes his laughter and his hope. Elladan, too, remembers the boisterousness of Barandir’s laugh. They did not spend much time together, he and this dúnadan, but he remembers enough for the sound to bounce between the walls of his mind as he summons a particular memory.
       He recalls Arathorn with Aragorn as a babe, resting in his father’s arms. With his big eyes squeeze shut in a grimace and his taut, Barandir recognised well what was happening –––– and roared that contagious laugh of his whilst looking over his friend’s shoulder. The babe’s concentration broke and he wept for it, and Elladan chuckled to himself. He does so again even now, decades later. This is not a tale he will share with anyone for fear of shaming him, yet he will not spare himself this sliver of amusement. The apparent gravity of the topic notwithstanding, he can only silence himself after huffing that subdued laugh of his.  ❛  I apologise,  ❜  Elladan is quick to insert,  ❛  I remember him — your father, and his laughter.  ❜
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       He looks down, letting his gaze slide along the joint between two tiles. There, he finds his calm again, and the necessary measure of sensitivity.  ❛  I admittedly did not spend much time with him. I saw him mostly when we were both with Arathorn, the Chieftain at the time — or when Arathorn visited us here, indeed. They seemed thick as thieves.  ❜  A thoughtful pause later, he drops whatever he was doing before and steps closer to Créa. A hand finds her shoulder as he settles beside her.  ❛  What would you like to know of him?  ❜
           It is a strange thing, that despite admitting that not much time was spent together, he still held those memories of him, and could recall him clearly--even moreso than herself, his own daughter. It was not how she expected this visit to Rivendell to go. But an opportunity she had never thought of before now lie in front of her, the search for knowledge of gardening forgotten, and turns to her father instead.
        Though her hopes at first soar at the confirmation, then fall a bit at the admission that they were not often together in the same company, it was better than nothing. For most those who had spent time with him were no longer living, or she had simply not met them yet, scattered as the Rangers are. She did not let the lack of time spent together dampen her spirits, instead glancing upon Elladan with a newfound hope. Why had she never thought to ask sooner?
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       “Anything!” She breathed, her eagerness clear for how quickly she had answered. But she reined herself in, apologizing quietly. “It’s just--” How could she put into words, what sorrow she carried so heavily? Would he even understand the grief that came with forgetting one so dear? “It’s been so long. I was a child when he passed. The memories...they become harder to recall, as the years go by.” She pauses, composing herself in the following silence. What she would give to remember his voice, his face clearly. But it was not to be so.
     Where to start? There were so many things she wanted to know, and she pondered over the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm her. But one came to mind, and with a curious glint in her eye, she turned to him. “Did he ever speak to you of me? When I was a child?” She was only a few years younger than Aragorn, and her father had lived longer than his--surely he might’ve mentioned her? “Or do you have any stories of him, that you can remember?”
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dunadaneth · 2 years
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I wish the Ring had never come to me. I wish none of this had happened.
THE LORD OF THE RINGS: The Fellowship of the Ring (2001) dir. Peter Jackson.
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dunadaneth · 2 years
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feanors-daughter​:
“That is over three thousand years old,” Laurelin did not look up at the woman, instead only flipping to the next page of her book. “Not quite as fragile as its age may imply, but still a precious relic, nonetheless.” Her accent had faded slightly after so many millenia, especially now that there were so few people that spoke her mother tongue, but it still remained distinct and heavy in her voice.
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Finally looking up, Laurelin set her book aside and stood, withdrawing from the shadows that had concealed her from view only a moment ago. She removed a handkerchief from her pocket and offered it to the woman. “If you must touch the shield of the last High King, at least try not to leave it covered in fingerprints.” Laurelin noted the curve of the woman’s ears. A mortal. Perhaps this was another one of the humans that Elrond seemed to enjoy collecting.
She sighed and wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders, crossing her arms as she looked up at the massive painting. “Ereinion Gil-galad,” the Noldo explained in a hushed reverence. “The last High King of the Noldor, son of Orodreth and descendant of Finwë. He was a mighty king, loved and revered by his people and all those who knew him.” Without realizing it, her hand drifted to the two gold wedding bands that hung on a chain around her neck. Pale, thin fingers brushed over the metal, gripping the larger ring tightly as emotion bubbled in her chest.
She fell silent for a moment, swallowing her grief again as she had become so accustomed to doing. “He fell in the Siege of Barad-dûr, long ago.”
       She had nearly jumped at the spoken words that broke the silence, turning swiftly to only now see a figure reclining in a chair not far away. However keen the eyes of the Dúnedain might be, it was not so in low light, and warmth dusted across her cheeks, flustered at the chastising. How had she not noticed?
          Tall the other towered next to her, their reflections bright in the shield that hung before them. She had never seen an elleth- presumably- with such fiery hair before, nor had she seen her in Imladris. Though as with this encounter, she may simply just not have been looking hard enough to see her. One would think she would have to be hiding, to not be noticed before now in these halls, despite the ranger’s many visits.
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      Her gaze followed towards the portrait, so lovingly painted in painstaking detail, visible even in the night. It was rare that any spoke of war, leastwise those who seemed to have lived during it. Pain laced with the words that spilled forth. It seemed the king was loved dearly by all; so great the sorrow that it was rarely spoken.
         “I know so little of the past,” she was not afraid to admit. Young and green as she was, her focus had been the history of the Dúnedain, and not so much that of the elves, unless it intertwined with theirs. Gil-galad she knew some of, fighting and perishing alongside the High-King Elendil. But not much else other than that he was highly revered. “I dared not ask any, in fear of evoking painful memories. No one speaks of the war. Not willingly, anyways.”
        Always she had been curious, ever searching for knowledge and information to fill in her gaps of history in the world so new and unknown to her. It seemed this would be a rare opportunity to do so. But in that moment she remembered her manners, apologizing and dipping her chin. "I am Créa, of the Dúnedain,” a hand settled over her heart in the greeting of the elves, “I didn’t mean to disturb your reading. If I’m intruding...”
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dunadaneth · 2 years
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Egyptian mosaic glass fragmentary bars and inlays, 3rd century BCE-1st century AD
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dunadaneth · 2 years
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has-opinions​:
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    A rare scent had brought him to the ridgeline this night. Ranger. Alone. Bleeding. Foolish. A low growl made his lips curl, revealing sharp canines. Many who would hear such a noise would recognise it only as the sound of an unintelligent and wild beast. But the growl that heaved deep from within Beorn was riddled with warning and weariness. Long had he walked the lands deemed impossible to pass. Long had he kept watch upon all kinds— many of whom saw only the beast.
    Let them talk, he would say in the form of a great, big man. For then they shall leave me be.
    But not this night.
    Golden eyes stared out across the grasses that swayed in the wind, allowing the fog to dance in circles ‘round the night. He could see this ranger— smell the disorientation– perhaps due, in part, to the iron that stung his nose. And if Beorn could smell it, so, too, could things much more foul and fearsome than he. With paws planted to the ground and an ear pricked toward the wind, Beorn stood guard.
    Go on your way. But the Ranger did not. 
    The coarse hair upon his back stood up, heckled in anger not at the Ranger, but for what she had brought forth: Wargs looking for something to kill in the shadow of the foggy night. 
    With a heavy sway, Beorn tumbled ‘round, paws thundering the ground with equal force to the roar that unleashed from his lungs. The wargs answered— two of them— as they sprung from the shadows, teeth snapping wildly at the air. One went straight for Beorn’s neck. He responded with a swipe of his paw, claws tearing into its throat before it could pierce through his own hide. In the meanwhile, the other warg sprinted past, its target set on the Ranger. Beorn barreled through, parting the grasses to make his way. He bridged the gap just enough to leap, teeth snapping the warg’s hind leg before tossing it like it was air. 
    When next he turned, Beorn did not find the Ranger—- only the light of his own home. Panting and pacing, he made his circle once more. No more wargs came. With the threat gone, the bear tumbled down into the grass, and rose as a man.     
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   He could smell her before he saw her. An unwelcome guest taking shelter. Clothing himself in furs, Beorn strode along the path of his garden, face softening only at the sight of the mice that flocked about his feet in greeting. They did not fear him— none did here. Except, perhaps, for the one in his home. Large, calloused hands pushed the door. Feeling a resistance, and grunting in annoyance, Beorn pushed again, and the wooden door cracked open.
   “Is it your way to come into my home and re-arrange the furniture?” Beorn growled, his eyes searching the oasis he created for creatures great and small. Once locating the Ranger, he stood firm, shoulders rolling back to make his otherwise great appearance even more awe-inspiring. He started at her long and hard— as if he were calculating whether she be friend or foe. 
        It seemed her peace was not to last for long. The sound of the door attempting to be opened made her startle like a skittish horse, and frantically she searched for anywhere to hide. It was difficult to see in the low light, and the blood that streamed from her brow near blinded her in one eye, but quickly she threw herself behind a stack of boxes and barrels just before the door opened.
       She dared not move or breathe at the words of displeasure that echoed through the house. Though it seemed her hiding spot was for naught. From behind she heard the nicker of a horse who gave her position away, and not long after he found her. A towering man, looking more beast than human, stood far above her position on the floor as he glowered at her, jaw set, and she could not help but shrink into herself, heart hammering wildly in her chest.
      Her mouth opened, though she could hardly bring herself to speak. She trembled at his piercing gaze, and finally managed, though barely a whisper. “Please--don’t hurt me.” For a moment longer, silence pervaded and she swallowed thickly. “I only--there were wargs, outside.” She no longer heard their baying nor cries, but the memory was only too fresh in her mind, and tears came unbidden, though she blinked them back. “I-I had nowhere else to go.”
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dunadaneth · 2 years
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TOLKIENWEEK 2022 Day 8: Courage
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