Narys

Through the mud and the twigs, Dagramir would crawl. A meandering black-clad frame worked its way quietly through the underbrush, clay and muck spattering across his leather gambeson as he slithered through the moss – arcs of rainfall lighting up the blackened world around him in a beautiful chorus.

Click here to listen

It was a dark lullaby. Most lullabies are played for assurance, presence, soothing. This one seemed to assure only a lonely, injust anguish. Sore farewells that never took place. The despairs of being forgotten. 

Lulling the listener into a dangerous slumber to strip it all away.

"Deer in green shadows
Her home, her hearth.
They meet her in front
For to measure her worth

Stalks of grass and flowers alike would have bristled pleasantly to the guiding hand of the early morning breeze. The wind carving its way over the collection of dirt and stone that surrounded Nenuial; where picturesque landscapes had been butchered by the unstoppable ingenuity of man. The river which flowed below an undeterminable King’s feet seemed rather gentle this morn, to Dagramir’s keen eye. The Gondorian stood calm upon the edge of the withering bridge, feet spread evenly to the tune of his shoulders.

*The following piece contains a brief description of self-harm. If this subject matter is something that would trigger you or make you feel uncomfortable, I advise you to proceed no further.*

​​​​​

Blink.

Wooden beams stretched across a floral white expanse of painted framework that lay above Dagramir’s prone body. The contours of the roof hazed its way into his immediate attention as he did his best to return to his mind some form of conscious ability.

Blink.

‘Crack’.

As the winter had set about sweeping its final throes of icy winds across the barren landscape of the Lone-Lands, the withered hills seemed even more desolate than they did usually. Merchants traveling to and fro had allowed their journeys to become more irregular, and, as such, the bandits that would haunt them had returned to their encampments. Those that hadn't were subjected to the cold reality of the passing yuletide.

So, a journal. Ash bought me one. I don’t know why. It’s not as though my thoughts should ever be seen by any. And if they are, I can only hope they read it all, so that they understand.