thecapitol | some legends are told [open]

Entry tags:

some legends are told [open]

WHO| A scruffy lunatic in the park and you
WHAT| A Ranger gets the lay of the land and finds the biggest green space he can.
WHEN| Slightly forward-dated to shortly after Clara's win.
WHERE| The biggest park in the Capitol.
WARNINGS/NOTES| Just a reminder that your character is 100% welcome to have heard of Middle Earth and the things and people in it, but he's pre-canon, so I'd prefer if you kept spoilers to a minimum! Also, he'll be using an obscure alias and won't be recognizable from the movies. If you feel your character would still recognize him, message me!

Strider has never felt so trapped.

It is not that he is unused to cities. As Thorongil he had spent time in Edoras and Minas Tirith and had found it no worse than nights in the Wild, and Rivendell, though it was by no means a city, was where he would call home, were he asked to name it.

Buildings and beds Strider can handle. It is confinement to the city that makes his hair stand on end.

The materials the city is built of do not help this sense of entrapment. The towers of Gondor had been quarried from stone, good plain stone worked for strength. Strider knows not the arts by which the walls of this city were fashioned, but when he puts his hand on the wall of the Tribute Center, it seems to him him unwholesome. The stone is smooth, too smooth, as though it had been liquified and poured into its shape. Even the rough pavement below his feet feels like a poison.

Strider feels cut off from the outside world, locked in a strange cage with folk of strange talk and stranger dress. He has paced the limits of this cage by now, finding the edges of the city beyond which he is not allowed to pass, speaking with few. Finally, in the late afternoon, he returns to the largest stretch of green he has found and walks through it, casting himself on the ground at whiles and listening intently to the earth before rising and pacing once more.

Even if his behavior were less unusual, Strider cuts a strange figure; there is nothing remarkable about his hooded shirt or jeans, but his brown boots come nearly to his knees. He looks too old to be in such clothes: his hair is streaked with gray and his face is weathered, and always he wears a troubled look. Often his left hand strays to his belt, as though checking for something that is not there.

He's probably just mad.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Mine wasn't so um... advanced as this one? I think that's the word. The technology here is way better than what I remember." especially since all technological advancement in her world had come to a screeching halt three years ago. "It's nice to meet you."

It's a strange sounding name but again, it's not unusual to encounter unfamiliar one's here.

"The actual districts do certain things for the Capitol. I think 11 is about agriculture. 6 does transport. For us though it's mostly about where you sleep."

It seems strange to him to have a swath of countryside devoted merely to transport. He supposes the Capitol must have more than horses and carts and ships, but he can scarcely imagine what it might be. Perhaps they harness Eagles and take to the sky. The idea disturbs him.

"This is a strange land," he says. "But I shall learn more about it in time. In the meantime, I would have you tell me of yours, that is like this one and yet unlike it."

Clementine would be able to explain it better if she'd ever seen the districts but she hasn't, only footage of them. She heard once the tributes got to go on a train and visit those other places but it hasn't been done for a long time.

"You're not kidding." she smiles at how Thorongil describes the Capitol.

At being asked about her own home Clementine chews her lip. "It... it used to be pretty nice. We had cities, electricity, cars, nice food." that all of that will mean nothing to him she is unaware of. "But it's not like that anymore."

Electricity and cars he knows not, but he stores the unfamiliar words away, to learn on his own, when he had time.

"What happened to it?" he asks, for that is the question that belongs to this junction of the story. Thorongil is familiar enough with the story of a nice place that falls victim to cataclysm.

Clementine plucks at her sleeve before answering, chews her lip again. It's not that she finds it hard to talk about but more that she dislikes remembering the world that she's escaped, the horror that lies there -- even tis one is not much better, at least the people she cares about don't stay dead.

"It was about three years ago," she starts, "One day dead people... they stopped being so dead. They got up and attacked people, ate them. Then everyone who's died since does the same. We call them Walkers. All that stuff is gone because of them, there's not enough people left anymore to keep it working."

His expression both softens and darkens. What she describes is horrifying: the dead should not walk, but lie quiet.

"I know of creatures akin to your Walkers," says Thorongil gravely. "We call them Barrow-Wights, for they are evil spirits that possess the bodies of those who lie in the Barrow-Downs of the North, and are a great grief to my people. I will say no more of them, for I would not darken your heart further with tales of the unquiet dead, but we of the North are fortunate that they do not leave the Downs, nor can they survive in sunlight. Yet it is perilous to venture into that ancient place after sundown." He settles into a sitting position, making himself more comfortable, since it looks like their talk will not be short.

"I can only imagine what it would be if all who died became Wights. You say you lived in such a world for three years?"

"I wish Walkers couldn't survive in sunlight, there'd be a lot less of them." Someone else who comes from a world with monsters like her own, Clementine will remember that. So far that's Joel and Ellie, Sabriel and now Thorongil who know what she's talking about as something other than a fictional creature in a movie. "I'm sorry you have those."

Or that Walkers would stay in one place and be so much easier to avoid.

Clementine copies him and sits down cross legged on the grass. "I was eight. I'm eleven now." More or less. She wasn't sure of the dates anymore back home. By the calendar in Panem she'd soon be twelve.

Three years of hiding from Walkers, then days, or weeks, or months here. That was much suffering for one so young.

He holds up a hand.

"I will ask no more, for I would not bring back hard memories needlessly. Say nothing you would not tell me freely!" Thorongil would know how a child of but eight years survived in such a harsh world, but he knows that the memories will hurt, so he will not ask. "Would you like to hear about mine instead? For though it is harsh, and there are evil places, it is on the whole less dark. Though that may last but little longer." His eyes turn distant for a moment.

For that Clementine gives him a grateful smile. He talks a little funny, kind of the same way Roland does but not, overall she's starting to find that she likes Thorongil already.

"Yes, please!" she nods eagerly as he offers to share information about his own world with her. So long as Thorongil is willing Clementine is interested to know; so many people come from such varied and strange worlds, she really loves hearing about them.

"Well, well, what shall I tell you? There is much in my world that is good, and I have seen but a small part of its wonders." Thorongil rests his chin on his hand thoughtfully as he runs through his long journeys and his longer memory.

"...I shall tell you of Lothlórien, of the Golden Wood. For I can think of no place in Middle-Earth more beautiful or bright, and there my heart dwells, when it may." The look on his face is soft; he has good memories of this place. "It is a forest, but to call it a forest is like calling a castle a house! The trees are like no other: they grow to great heights, graceful and straight, and their bark is silver-grey. Their leaves are green above and silver below, and turn to gold in the fall. Mallorn-trees do not lose their leave in winter; they do not fall until spring, when fresh new leaves come, and golden flowers grow along the branches. It is like being in a great hall with many pillars: with a roof wrought of silver and a carpet of gold. Yet it is not the trees that are the chief wonder of the Wood."

Middle-Earth sounds like a familiar phrase but she can't quite place it and anyway, Clementine's far too wrapped up in Thorongil's words to really think about it.

Why? Because what he's talking about sounds completely magical, like something out of a dream or a Disney movie. As he continues to speak of this place, Lothlorien, Clementine leans further forward with her arms drapes over her knees, enraptured. "It sounds wonderful, I wish I could go to a place like that." she breathes as he finishes, "Did you go there much? What's better than the tree's?"

She tries to hold back her questions and not ask too many at once of him this time.

It is good to have such a rapt listener, and he is happy to take her thoughts away from her own world.

"I have been there but once," he admits, "many years ago. Yet memories of the Golden Wood do not fade, and I shall remember my time there always." Man, the way he's talking is really fond. There's a giiiirl involved, Clem. "For the chief wonder of Lórien is those who dwell there; it is where High-Elves make their home. Few of the Fair Folk are left now, yet in Lothlórien one may glimpse again the splendor of the Elf-Kingdoms of old. There rules the Lady Galadriel, fair and wise, ever-young, in the tree-city of Caras Galadhon." There is wonder in Thorongil's voice; this place has clearly made a deep impression on him. Elves are fucking amazing, Clem.

"It must be really beautiful if you can remember it that well after only going once." she decides upon hearing that information. Clementine's smile remains, her curiosity only growing as Thorongil keeps talking, the only place she thinks she could talk about like that was her old home before thing went wrong.

"Elves!" her eyes widen with delight at the idea. Clementine knows a few types of elves; the tall graceful pretty kind from one series of movies, the short bearded ones that Santa uses and the ones who get freedom if you give them laundry. Oh, and the kind who make shoes when you're not looking. She thinks the one's Thorongil is talking about sound like the first kind though.

In fact it all sounds kind of familiar that way. "We have movies about elves, but I don't think they're real where I come from."

"They may never have lived," says Thorongil, "or they may have departed long years ago from your shores. For that is how it is during my time: as the Third Age draws to a close, the Elves' time on Middle-Earth is ending, and they sail into the West, never to return." There is sadness in his voice but also acceptance, for this is the way of the world. It reshapes itself, it changes, and nothing is eternal.

"They're not all the same in those movies either." she looks at him when he speaks of the elves going away. It sounds sad, he sounds so sad when he says it. "Why do they have to go? Is someone making them leave?"

"No, they go because they choose to," says Thorongil. "Middle-Earth is not their home. It is but a place they have stayed for a time; Elvenhome lies far to the West. It is a place of beauty, and of peace, and of light. But Men may not venture there. It is perilous to try."

God, is it perilous. Looking at you, Ar-Pharazôn. It sounds like Thorongil has a story to tell about this one, too.

If Thorongil has a story to tell then Clementine has the initiative to ask for it.

"Sounds like it would be a cool place to visit, how come men aren't allowed?" And does he mean men as in guys with that or just men as in people? She's not going to ask that question just yet, maybe not at all. "And if it's not at home why were the elves in Middle-Earth, like a vacation?"

He gives her a slow smile. "The tale you ask for is a long one, for it reaches back into the deeps of time, to before the Sun and the Moon, to when all the world was lit by the two trees of Valinor and the Valar yet walked in Middle-Earth. Would you have the full tale, or shall I shorten it as best I can?" He's willing to tell the long version, but she is a child, and if her attention will wane before the tale is done, he understands.

"Tree's lit the world?" that sounds weird. How did the Sun and Moon happen then? It sounds different enough from the version of creation she knew to want to ask but she figures it's best to only ask one thing of Thorongil at a time. "Tell it how you want to tell it." Clem suggests, "Please."

Which means if he thinks the shortened version would be best he can go ahead and do that.

Well, all right. He'll make it as brief as he can without sacrificing relevant detail. He shifts so that he is leaning forward, elbows resting on his crossed knees, an intent look on his face. This is a man who has told stories before.

"My world was made in song," he begins. "In the very beginning there was only Eru, the One, the Creator, and of himself he made many spirits, like himself in their formlessness and light. He called these the Ainur, and together, they sang a song of making. It was the greatest music ever made, and in this music was Eru's plan for the world. The Ainur sang of Elves and of Men and of all things that would be in the world. So was the world shaped.

"Some of the Ainur chose to enter the new world, and they became the Valar, the Powers, and with their command over earth and water and air they fashioned the world into a new shape. They made two trees to give the world light: their names were Laurelin and Telperion. Great they were, and radiant, for when their leaves were open Laurelin gave forth golden light, and Telperion silver. The Valar lived west of a great sea, and in the shaping of the world they found great joy."

He is skipping a lot: he is skipping the first war, and the lanterns, and the coming of Tulkas. But it is just as well; he does not seek to bore her.

"Yet there was one among them who sought to cause strife, and to turn the creations of the Valar to his own devices. He was called Melkor, the greatest of the Valar, and to this day, he has caused Arda its greatest griefs."

Edited 2014-10-20 22:13 (UTC)

"That sounds kind of familiar, like God and the angels." she muses at the start of the story. One creator and... maybe the Ainur were like angels, actually? The world coming to life through song was an enchanting idea, sounding much more interesting than the cut and dry story she got told in Sunday school.

She's enraptured again already at being told a story, something that hasn't happened in so long. It makes her feel younger, sitting her cross-legged and listening to Thorongil speak. "Is he the reason men can't go where the elves live?"

He smiles and shakes his head. "No; Men were never meant to go to the West. For when an Elf passes from this world, it is never through sickness or age: only wounds or poison, or a grief so profound that it saps the will to live, can kill one of the Elder Race. And even then, they do not pass completely from this world. The spirits of the Eldar pass over the Sea to the halls of Mandos, one of the Valar who dwell in the West, there to wander in lamentation until they are given forms again and sent to rejoin their kin in eternal peace.

"Yet the fate of Men is different. The Elves are bound to the world that was made, and cannot leave it in life or in death. Yet when a mortal Man meets his end, his soul leaves Arda forever. Whither does he go? The Powers do not say. Many Men have cursed this doom, yet a curse it is not: the ability of Man to pass from the world was meant as a gift."

"Where I come from I got told people go to heaven or hell when they die. They get to go to Heaven if they were good, hell if they were bad." She'd never liked the idea of hell because everyone was there forever, even if they only did something like tell a lie. Maybe murderers deserved it but that part hadn't seemed very fair to her at all.

"So elves live forever?"

Heaven and Hell are strange concepts to him. He knows the words, of course, their meanings are clear enough to him, but to divide beings based on their conduct after death is a foreign idea. The Halls of Mandos took all Elves alike, and it was a place of sadness and reflection.

But her question interests him more.

"They do. Blessed are the lands where they make their homes, for they are places of song and of joy, untouched by age or disease. I have spoken with Elves who saw the world's first sunrise, who walked under the eternal stars ere the sun and moon were fashioned, and who followed Oromë the hunter on their long journey West, to Valinor. For it was the Vala Oromë who first found the Elves awake, wandering in starlit lands far to the East.

"Oromë took what Elves were willing to make the journey and led them West. But not all who departed with him came to Valinor across the sea; some did not wish to go, and others turned aside along the way and settled in the green woods and fair valleys on the hither shore. But even they who have never been to the Blessed Realm feel the longing to pass over the Sea when they hear its call: the sounds of the Sea will awaken the desire in even the most contented woodland Elf to sail west and never return.

"Yet not all the Elves who followed Oromë in the First Age remained in Valinor."

Here he pauses: he pauses for effect, and also to make sure she is following. He just dropped a lot of worldbuilding.

"That must be nice." she says after a moment, pulling up her knees now so she can rest her arms across them and pillow her chin on her forearms. "To know you don't ever have to die."

Death was such a constant for her. Death had been in her life for years with barely a day going past without some reminder of how closely it followed. Clementine wondered what it would be like to have the assurance that you could live forever.

She thinks she's following and gives Thorongil a little nod, still wide-eyed and drawn into the story. "Where did they go?"

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