FIRE AND FATE¹ ━ legolas greenleaf

𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄, of burns and broken blades

THIS IS HOW IT FEELS TO LOVE A NEBULAE OF STARS: 

Your irises sear, burned to ashes by the blinding heat and light of the fire-born galaxy. A step too close, and your skin comes away scarred and marred by ashes, decaying and blackening, the amber-warm embers scalding your hands. One star glows cobalt blue, icy and cold amidst the abysmal galaxy, an empty pit of chaos. Another glows gold, so bright and fiery that you are blinded by the unrelenting light. 

You can't help but watch them, even when they are darkening and dimming, ash and grey and everything dead. You can't tear your eyes away, as if something magnetic is holding you, a stationary captive of the light.

You reach out to touch the stars; your hand hisses, burnt. And so you become content to watch the stars from afar, basking in their constellations and light and their shine. You kneel before the stars and offer them your soul, your heart — they don't want it, for the stars are your soul, and so you have nothing. 

Instead, you offer them your immortality on a plate.. They discard it. We are gods, the stars whisper. Divine, celestial, borne from the ashes of your ancestors and the cries off your descendants. So you become content with watching the stars, admiring them, resisting the urge to stroll into the center of the inferno, the burning firestorm. You observe. 

You compare the stars to the sun. Comparing their cold, heartless flame to the sun's warmth seems to do a disservice to the beam-shining ball of fire, but despite this, you adore the stars a little more. You want to trap the stars in a tiny jar, like fireflies trapped in amber glass, and keep them forever. Yet you know you cannot. 

This is because the stars are finite. They are not death-defying, like you. They are not immortal, everlasting. They burn bright, and fade away in a brilliant supernova that promises to destroy all you hold dear. And you allow it, because, deep down, you love the stars more than you love life itself. More than you love the evergreen, never-fading trees, or the shining turquoise water. 

You love the stars deeply, so deeply. With every bone in your battle-worn body, every fibre of your woven soul. Your crimson heart beats solely for the stars, and your mind follows them, moths to their flames. You love them with your entire being, the faultless earth of your soul.

You watch with horrified fascination as they plummet toward the earth, dying and falling, falling and dying. 

THIS IS HOW IT FEELS TO LOVE THE STARS: You realise that their destiny is to die, and you learn what it is to mourn the living. 

RAELYN WHITELAW HAS NEVER FELT MORE ALIVE.

There is something about the fresh air of Rivendell exhilarates her every breath. The fresh air seems to caress her skin, carefully gifting her with the kiss of life. Her blood is sparking, electricity flowing through her veins and arteries, begging to be ignited. Her eyes, eerie, wicked green, glowing, like a cat in darkness. Her heart of stars and bones of steel is loving this, pumped for a fight. 

She has three knives; bronze, silver, elven-forged. 

Of the elven forged, she has too many to count, tucked away in various crevices in her pack, hidden in most of her clothes. To think, once, an elven knife would have seemed entirely unattainable for a beggar like her. Now, she is gifted with the very best clothes and silks and weapons, and yet she still isn't satisfied. Will she ever be truly sated? She doubts it; she has an unquenchable thirst for the very best money could buy. Legolas, Aragorn, Arwen — they were all born this way. But Raelyn; she worked her way up from nothing, and so she could never be happy.