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everything you never dare say to others, say it to the stone. talk to it. it listens to all your secrets. it hears everything. and, one day, the stone shatters. it falls to pieces. and that day, you’re delivered from all your pain. . indie dís of durin’s folk / tolkien legendarium. written by remington.
HISTORY . / loneliness.
she’s a habit of dreaming of that which she once held close. she’s a habit of lingering on the devastation of her loved ones absence. she’s a habit of sitting at the edge of her bed for hours on end, for days on end, alone. unconvincable and inconsoleable. a mind which has seen what hers has can rarely convince the body to move at its whim and will, and the handmaids, guards, politicians, friends, and others who seek her company have come to understand this. they have become accustomed to her mournful behavior and her worn, exhausted appearance.
dís is ashamed.
the dwarrow thinks of her wife and she thinks of her father. her brothers. sons. mother, grandfather, friends. each loss of a loved one is like the loss of a limb. phantom pains wrack her body in their absence. she thinks about the creeks that trickled thin through dark, winding caves in their old home. she thinks of throwing pebbles with her brothers, being caught when a lamp shattered. dis thinks of all of this and she thinks of nothing at all. emptiness is cold, but it is better companionship than the more painful memories, and it is easier to sit and to rot than to walk on this mangled leg. she resigns herself to a hollow, repetitive life. she eats rarely. sleeps with even less frequency. she lies in bed and sits upon the edge of it. at times when forced to by handmaids, a round or two around the grounds will be walked, through private hallways where no strangers will lay eyes upon her. she is ashamed.
it takes three months before she braids her hair again. dis recalls the method her mother taught her after the death of her great-uncle; the braids of mourning. but these are not a true expression of mourning. true mourning is waking up and realizing you must suffer the pain of combing it for it has become such a terrible matted mess that you can no longer tell which strands belong where. hair of mourning is shaving your head because the loss of beauty hurts less than the shame of asking someone to help you. it takes her hours to comb it and to clean it, locking small stones and gold clasps into the dark tresses. the upper layer is left as it is. some knots are too tight, and she must resign herself to trimming them despite the pain, attempting to hide the spots with braids and adornments.
it takes month for her to get fully dressed. she needs help when she does it. slowly, her prosthetic is slid onto her tired, aching thigh, unfamiliar with the contraption which she used to wear every day. she stands in her room and she looks at her reflection until she can no longer bear it. it takes two more days to gain the strength to try a second time, and it takes the companionship of an old friend to make her leave the confines of the royal chambers. dwalin’s calloused, rough hands and big, sad eyes are just what she needs. they wander around and speak of inconsequential things, often sharing comfortable silences. they understand one another. they always have. there is no remaining strength in her to smile at him, but he has little strength of such to speak of either, and they part ways at her door with a gentle squeeze of the hands and an understanding quiet.
everything takes so much time. it all goes by so slowly, each minute an hour and each day a week. once, dís was so patient. now it seems to have drained from her, like sap from a cut in a tree, dead things lingering in the amber. but she pushes onward, still, unwilling to give herself to the stone. her people still need her.
The Patience Stone (2012)
Fire reflected on birds in smoke - fire at Moerdijk, the Netherlands. (©Coen Robben)
Submitted by 7skeletons
Bab’Aziz (Nacer Khemir, 2005)
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reblog and tag appropriately and you will be added to this list.
TIME PASSES THROUGH US, OR WE PASS THROUGH IT / AS GUESTS TO GOD’S WHEAT / JUST LIKE THAT, WE ARE IN NEED OF MYTH / TO BEAR THE BURDEN OF THE DISTANCE BETWEEN TWO DOORS !
« All shall pass. » Her eyes lingered upon the horizon, and though she held herself with the grace of a young queen, the shadow of age crept up on her on occasion. This evening was such an occasion. « And we must accept it. »
❛ but must we do so without resistance? ❜ the dwarrowdam thinks again of her own mother’s words, and how she so boldly compared the elven folk’s souls to be made of river-water and those of dwarves to be made of earth. how clearly this showed in their current attitudes. dís frowns, a scowl cutting deep into her chiseled features. ❛ i don’t enjoy the concept of laying down and passively accepting all that which comes to pass. it seems careless. it seems cold. ❜
Baroque church interior in Szekesfehervar, Hungary (x)
Amber Sparks, from “The Cemetery for Lost Faces,” The Unfinished World: And Other Stories (via lifeinpoetry)
everything you never dare say to others, say it to the stone. talk to it. it listens to all your secrets. it hears everything. and, one day, the stone shatters. it falls to pieces. and that day, you’re delivered from all your pain. . indie dís of durin’s folk / tolkien legendarium. written by remington.
