The Dawn Kingdom Falls
The Dawn Kingdom Falls
She smiled at the sky, raindrops falling on her face through the dying rays of dusk. They rolled across her skin, soaking the tattered and bloodstained clothes she wore, hitting the dusty ground beneath her feet.
The cloven crown in her hands bled red, cracked and filthy. It's weight against her fingers was one of the few sensations she could feel, hours of furious battle having rendered them numb.
Her smile twisted, salty raindrops mixing with the others on her lashes. Everything around her was silent and unmoving, the sound of her breathing was like bells in her ears.
The sun shone brightly through the clouds pouring down on her, attempting to wash away the pain and sorrow drowning the young princess. Somehow, through it all, she could feel the warmth.
They'd said she would fail, that her kingdom was doomed to fall at his feet. She challenged them, made clear her intention to fight to the last. What is death, the princess told them, oh so passionately, compared to a life in chains?
Now, only she did not become acquainted with the welcoming hands of death. Around her, all the men and women who followed her so valiantly were lying, broken and slaughtered.
Through the dust she could see him, the one who brought everything down. His eyes glinted, the sword at his side gleaming silver. The line of red dripping from it's edge left a river in his wake.
The young warrior princess knew how this ended. It happened to her father, her mother, her brother, now her. It stung she could not have died alongside her soldiers, rather than left until last. Even in death, separated from her people.
She stared determinedly at the sky, watching the light fade. The darker it became, the harder the rain fell. Soon, she was drenched, still clutching her shattered crown.
"I suppose it's true, what they say," he said calmly, raising the point of his blade, "some legends, they turn to gold; others, they turn to dust. Can you guess which one you shall be, Princess?"
His words dug deep, but in the gathering darkness, on a battlefield of destruction and death, the laughter of a girl rang out loud and clear.
With eyes of sparking blue, she looked him in the face, grinning and unafraid. "You are a fool, if you believe you will be dressed in gold in the words of history."
"I am the conqueror, the dragonheart, I am unstoppable! Your kingdom has crumbled, like all the others," he snarled, his thin face flushing red beneath the black helmet, "they will remember me for centuries!"
The princess laughed again, standing up from her place on the ground. "They will. But that gold will tarnish, it will fade and be forgotten. The legacy you have made for yourself is bloody and savage; when they tell the story of today, we will be the victors."
Now, he laughed. The sound used to make her smile, like no one else could. The prince she had loved died long ago, and this shell would not ruin her memories of that boy.
"Your kingdom is mine, your people are dead, and you are going to die in the dirt," he shouted, his voice echoing across the battlefield.
She grit her teeth, letting the golden crown hit the ground. Dust rose from it, pooling around her ankles. "Like I said, death is kinder than a life in chains. You may have defeated my armies, but you never defeated our spirit. We have fallen with hearts full of love for this land, in defiance of all you stand for. One day, when our story is told, they will sing of our valour! They will know how we spat in your face! They will know how your downfall started at the doorstep of our kingdom."
The blade fell before she could blink, just as the last light of the sun sank below the horizon, and her land was plunged into darkness. But she died with a smile on her face, a smile for a secret only she knew.
The Prince of Night would fall, and the architect of his demise was hidden away, far over the mountains. Her hair, like raven's wings, and her eyes, like sapphires. She wore a crown of golden thorns, and someday her father would feel it's bite.
More Posts from Amonrawya and Others
A character concept that I'm actually surprised I haven't seen more, now that I think about it:
A character with a tragic past who's beautiful in an unthreatening, pitiful sort of way, who goes "wait hold on, people think I'm cute?" and immediately goes drunk with power. Having a whole villain arc getting corrupted by the power of being just so tragic and pathetic that people can't be mad at them. Someone who's been accustomed to always being the one who's blamed and punished no matter whose fault the problem was suddenly discovering that actually they could get away with murder by being so big-eyed and sad.
And once they figure out that they can just Poor Little Meow Meow their way out of anything, they do. Going from being genuinely skittish and timid into pretending to do so merely as an act, manipulating the shit out of everyone and avoiding all suspicion because Look How Sad And Wet And Pathetic I Am, of course they couldn't do any harm to anyone ever.
And if one person finally does see right through that act and puts puzzle pieces together of how there's been just too many suspicious coincidences and accidents that only one person would actually benefit from, they confront the Tragic Little Act directly, one-to-one, to say "I'm fucking onto you and your shit"
And suddenly they completely snap out of their timid, pathetic presentation to give a big, wide, sickening smile like "no-one's ever going to believe you."
A landscape I did a few (several?) months ago. I have such a backlog of paintings that will never see the light of day or of the computer screen.
"I asked Chat GPT"...yeah well I asked Sam Gamgee and he told me that the shadow is only a passing thing, that there is light and high beauty forever beyond its reach. đ
"I asked Chat GPT"...yeah well I asked Ăowyn and she told me that women of this country learned long ago that those without swords can still die upon them. That she fears neither pain nor death.
"I asked Chat GPT"...yeah well I asked Aragorn and he said "I BID YOU STAND, MEN OF THE WEST!"
"I asked Chat GPT"...yeah well I asked Faramir and he said that Shire must be a great realm, where gardeners are held in high esteem.
"I asked Chat GPT"...yeah well I asked Legolas and he had some exposition for us.
I could definitely go on, but that's good for now đ
Bernard Hill - ThĂŠoden King.
Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.
Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning, Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?
4th of October: Crown / An Ceathramh Latha dhen DĂ mhair: CrĂšn
English Translation:
Unlike his forebears, Thorin wore no crown. The people of Erebor placed their trust in him and he would not lead them astray, but when they came with a crown - forged in the halls they built in the west - as a way to honour his leadership, he refused them.
As a king in exile, Thorin would not bear any crown until he sat upon the throne of his fathers'. In the same way he kept his beard short, in memory of those lost to the dragon's fire, he remained unadorned in the traditional garb of his royal line.
Not until the mountain was theirs once more and the loss of their past washed out would he do so. Thorin took the crown made for him and placed it above the seat, hewn from the strong mountain rock, where he spoke to his people.
"Let it there rest," he said, "and every day I will work to reach its honour."
For in his heart, Thorin felt less than worthy to wear any crown, beggar-prince that he had been.
Scottish Gaelic Translation:
Aocoltach ris a sinnsearan, cha robh crĂšn air Thòrin. Chuir an t-sluaigh Erebor earbs air agus cha robh e âs gun cuireadh e iad air seachran. Ach nuair a thĂ inig iad le crĂšn, air dèanamh san tallachan a thogadh anns an Iar, mar onarachadh dha, cha ghabh e e.
Mar rĂŹgh fògraich, cha robh Thòrin airson crĂšn a bhith air mus do sheas e air an rĂŹgh-chathair nan athraichean. Anns an aon dòigh gun robh e aâ cumail na fheòsag goirid, cha bhiodh na aodaich rĂŹoghail traidiseanta air mar chuimhneachan de dhaoine a chaidh a losgadh san teine an nathair-sgiathaich. Cha dèanadh e gus a bha aâ bheinn aca a-rithist.
Chuir Thòrin an crĂšn a bha air cruthachadh dha agus shuidhe e e air os chionn an rĂŹgh-cathair a rinn an t-sluaigh Ă s na clachan. An Ă ite far am biodh e aâ bhruidhinn riutha.
âLeig an sin e,â thuirt e, âagus gach latha, obraich mi gus an urrainn dhomh an urram sin aâ ruigse.â
Air sgĂ th, anns a chridhe, cha robh Thòrin aâ faireachdainn gun robh e airidh air crĂšn sam bithâprionnsa dhĂŹol-dèirce a bha e uaireigin.
WOAH BIRTHDAY MAN!! HAPPY BIRTH!! đđ
Obsessed with Merlin's main defense against getting caught as a warlock is that everyone else thinks he's incompetent
Happy birthday, women!! đđđ
all of tumblr tomorrow, march 15th:
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"NamĂĄriĂŤ! Nai hiruvalyĂŤ Valimar!" // "...seanchas anns aâ GhĂ idhlig, sâ i aâ chainnt nas mĂŹlse leinn; an cĂ nan thug ar mĂ thair dhuinn nuair a bha sinn òg nar cloinnâ..."
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