Sooo because of Dean Winchester’s behavior behind the wheel, the atmosphere created by the word ‘interstate’ is now my motivation to learn how to drive. Not sure if this makes any sense, but yeah.
The Ocean’s Wrath
"Then the Noldor drew away their white ships and manned their oars as best they might, and rowed them north along the coast. And Olwë called upon Ossë, but he came not, for it was not permitted by the Valar that the fight of the Noldor should be hindered by force. But Uinen wept for the mariners of the Teleri; and the sea rose in wrath against the slayers, so that many of the ships were wrecked and those in them drowned. Of the enslaving at Alqualondë more is told in that lament which is named Noldolantë, the Fall of the Noldor, that Maglor made ere he was lost”
Lightning flashed, and the deck rolled and pitched wildly under his feet, the ocean roaring all around like a living thing.
Macalaurë lost his balance as he stood on the foredeck, grabbing desperately at the gunwhale as the sudden light in the sky momentarily blinded him, lighting the towering waves from behind. The wood was slick under his hands, and he nearly lost his grip, the waves tossing the ship up and down, almost sending it tumbling over and over like a paper boat in the raging torrent of a river.
It must have been by sheer force of will alone that they had clung on, he thought later. At that moment he was thinking little, solid wood and sailcloth, air and icy water that stung like a slap to the skin mingling in turmoil about him where before the different parts of their world had been defined, separate and orderly.
We are being punished. That was all he could think, the simple idea rattling around his head, sending up a clangour in his skull, behind his eyes. It is her, the lady of the seas. He did not know how he knew this, but he did. He recognised her work, her furious song of revenge in his ears. She who was once merciful, who kept even her tempestuous lord in check… have we done so much wrong that we have awakened her wrath?
Yes, said the voice in his head, its tone high and mocking, audible even over the screaming wind. You have done so much wrong that you will go down into the roiling ocean; not even when your body is rotting on the sea bed and your fëa is locked deep within the grey halls, never to sing in the light again, not even then will this blood be cleansed away.
The wooden boards of the deck were slick too, and, Macalaurë thought irrationally, it must surely be the blood of kin beneath his feet. The sea was trying to wash the wood clean.
Even in the roaring, he could hear music, great and terrible, primal as the wrath of the One who had sung the world into being, drawing it and shaping it from the cold ocean before there was anything else. That ocean had been black, black as the night-blindness that seized him in the moments when the lightening did not rip through the sky like a wound.
The world was wounded now, and they were to blame. They had ripped a hole in the order of the One, and they were no match for the raw, crushing power of salt water and the wind and the dark, the power that had been before the world.
“Maybe,” said Elrond, “but let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall.”
“Yet sworn word may strengthen quaking heart,” said Gimli.
“Or break it,” said Elrond. —
J. R. R. Tolkien, Fellowship of the Ring (via thenightilostthewilltofight)
Well Elrond would know, growing up with Maglor.