какая то сразу нужная мглистая атмосфера...
надо пробовать все время что то новое, новые техники, новые материалы, новое время) Финрод мне иногда сниться, а бы нарисовала миниатюру, как его съел волк)
какой-то странный комментарий вышел...
He's either wounded, grief stricken, or exhausted beyond words... all three?
Думаю, вдохновителю понравилось. Спасибо!
Aegnor and Angrod were dead. He remembered them in the days of the innocence and bliss of Aman, running with wooden swords through the halls of his father's palace while he tried to read poetry. He remembered them in Middle-earth after what seemed like ages later, leading the troops to battle, fierce and tall in their shining armour. He remembered the love in Aegnor's eyes when speaking about Andreth. And now they were gone. Dead. He knew he would meet them again in Mandos, but his heart refused to comprehend that. They were dead, and Mandos was far away, in another life and another land.
The loss was still raw, but it seemed he would follow them soon. The Fen of Serech shall be his grave. He was leading the reinforcements from Nargothrond when Morgoth's forces ambushed him there, and cut him off from the rest of his army. The Elves around him were dying on the spears and axes of their enemies. The mud under his feet turned red. He still fought, but his strength was nearly spent. The sword grew heavy in his hand, and his vision darkened around the edges, like looking through a dark tunnel. Still his shield deflected the blows of the enemy, but it was cracking, and his shield-hand was numb from their force.
At the end of the tunnel that was his view of the battlefield, he suddenly saw something unexpected. At the last moment, someone rushed to his rescue. Someone attacked his attackers from behind and tried to cut a way through them. With renewed vigour, Finrod raised his shield and sword, and with the last remnants of his strength he managed to make his way to the reinforcements, meeting them half-way. He recognized the banner of the house of Bëor before he stumbled with weariness. But then a living wall of spears was made around him. The Men in it were falling, taking heavy losses from Morgoth's servants, but the wall held. Finrod wanted to scream at them to not risk their lives for him, but he was barely able to stand on his feet.
And then they were out of the battle, and there were no more enemies around. The cost was heavy. Only a few of the Elves and about two dozen Men remained on their feet. Someone approached Finrod, sitting slumped in the red mud. "Are you hurt, my lord?" he asked.
Finrod looked up slowly, tiredly. "Not badly…" he breathed out. "Without you and your men, I would be dead. Who are you?"
"I'm Barahir from the House of Bëor," the Man introduced himself.
Finrod seemed to recognize the name. "Andreth's nephew…" he murmured.
"Indeed, my lord," the Man nodded. "Shall I call a healer to look at you?" he asked with some concern.
"No," Finrod shook his head firmly. "Let him tend to your own wounded. You paid with too many losses for my rescue. I cannot thank you enough…"
"Not so, my lord," Barahir replied. "Your life is more precious than ours. Where we can lose mere decades, you would lose thousands of years. We are going to die anyways, so why not give our death a meaning?"
"No, Barahir. You risked and gave your lives for me, the precious limited years you have to explore the wonders of Arda. If I die, my spirit will be still bound to it, and maybe returns to walk under its stars one again, but your spirits leave it forever. You gave much more to me today than I can ever repay. But take this ring," he said, taking the ring from his finger, two intertwined serpents with eyes of green jewels. "May it be a sign of eternal friendship between our houses, and an heirloom to your descendants. If you or anyone wearing this ring comes to me in need of aid, I shall not refuse, so I swear to you."
Barahir took the ring reverently, and put it on his finger. "Thank you, my lord," he bowed his head.
"Just Finrod, please…"
(from my story "No Regrets")