#Path of Exile II | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

spiriteddreams · 5 months ago

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in exile, seeing you out

Hiraeth: (n.) a homesickness for a home you can't return to, or that never was notes: sunday x reader — angst with a hopeful ending, lots of feelings wc: 2.2k

i. The story begins before his fall. It starts with the comforting warmth of lovers who do not notice the cracks that begin to snake beneath both of your feet. You are bathed in golden light, a product of the star-filled dream he has worked to build and sustain for the two of you to stand beneath now, to impress you, to show you what he can offer you in this world. The sun does not rise in this sweet dream beneath the stars so neither of you will burn if you get too close. But this story of Icarus starts with the falters in your relationship, the missed signs and the words that you couldn't translate for one another.

"Sunday, are you alright?" you don't fully address him by his name often, but the rise in his sleepless nights and his days spent out longer at work have raised your concerns.

"It's nothing you need to worry about, my dear,” he doesn’t look up from his work. This isn’t the first time you’ve approached him out of worry, but it comes to a point when you wonder when it will be the last.

You sigh and try your luck again. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself, you need to rest—“

“Well if it's not me to take on this mantle then who?” his pen stops scratching against the paper. It is silent now that Sunday looks up at you, holding your gaze with something swimming in his eyes, something you can’t quite decipher. He looks exhausted, wings drooping behind him, hand clutching his pen so tightly as if it is the only thing tethering him to this place.

“What mantle? Sunday, what are you talking about?” you scoff. “You’ve been speaking cryptically for weeks, can you please tell me what’s going on or how I can help you?” He refuses to divulge anymore than he already has. With the Charmony Festival just around the corner and esteemed guests arriving to join in the festivities, you feel as if Sunday is closing himself away from everyone in sweet dream. And what is the opposite of the sweet dream but the harshness of the sun?

“Nothing. It's nothing you need to concern yourself with,” he sighs sharply then takes a deep breath. In a more gentle tone he continues, “Now if you would, please, I need to finish this. I'll join you for dinner, I promise.”

He joins you, just as he said and apologizes for his harsh words. He brings you home and his hands do not stray far. After all, at the end of the day you are both just lovers, with tangled hands and swollen lips, sweet nothings breathed onto skin. But even then, you can still trace the lines of tension etched across his face, the tightness to his words, the slight pulling away that you are unable to prevent the more times this pattern repeats. He locks himself up in work, snaps for your exit, then whispers bittersweet apologies later.

You think you’ve seen this film before. In a movie perhaps, one with Penaconian stars whose faces are plastered on billboards, a teaser of two tragic lovers whose paths ultimately diverge. You don’t quite like the ending to that, and yet you wonder if that was a warning, some sort of ridiculous sign you should have read into.

Another instance passes and he refuses to hear you out. You exit this narrative before Sunday has the chance to bring you down with him.

ii. He’s not quite sure what hurts more: the train that barrels into him or the sting he feels at the sight of both you and Robin standing with the Astral Express. The sight of your horrified expression doesn’t suit you, and yet you are still standing there, hand wrapped around your own weapon as if you would not hesitate to strike. If you and Robin stand on the opposite end of all that he has built, he can’t help but wonder, in this split second of grace that he can afford, what is he defending now?

The train hurts more, physically of course. But with how fast everything has happened, he can’t quite piece things together, this scheme that had bloomed behind his back. The last time you both had spoken, it was a quiet and cold exchange of words with one another, fueled by both his and your exhaustion and frustration. Sunday hadn’t quite realized just how distant you had grown until you were packing up the last of your things, reclaiming the bits and pieces of your life that you had left in his care. It felt like only five minutes had passed after you both had quieted down and you had left, leaving him alone at the end of the hall.

But this feels like a betrayal in his eyes. Amidst the fighting his head spins, reeling between separate conversations with Robin and Gopher Wood. One urges him to lay down to rest, while the other sneers at him to continue this fight he is so rapidly losing. He tries to recall the signs, if there were any, that he may have missed that have led to this point.

“Love, don’t you think you should take a break, you’ve been working for hours non-stop.” He's not sure why this conversation has surfaced but he indulges in the memory for just a moment. A break sounds nice right now. And when was the last time you used such a term of endearment when addressing him? This memory of you is blurred, both by the heat of the fight and the distance in time but he hears himself saying, “There’s no need for you to worry, this is only a menial task I need to take care of. I’ll join you shortly.”

You open your mouth, hesitate, then close it. Sunday waits for what you have to say, but he can feel the paper at his fingertips begging for his attention. When you say nothing he looks back down. Even with his Halovian abilities, he’s no mind reader, but he figures that if you had something to say, you would’ve come out to say it.

(When does concern turn to unease?)

Now, he can’t bring himself to meet your eyes. He knew that you and Robin were close, but he’s not quite sure how you ended up in this position. Yet he doesn’t have the grace of time to consider how and why you now know his secrets. But if anything, it gives him the drive to win, to craft this sweet dream within a dream for you and ensure that you will never have to see something like this again, with golden blood pouring down and a scorching sun that threatens to melt away all that he has built.

All of a sudden everything around him feels like it’s burning. He can feel the wind rushing against his back as he reaches skyward for something, he’s not sure what this time.

“Brother,” Robin’s soft voice surrounds him. “The dream is over.”

He rests his eyes and pretends that he falls into your embrace.

iii. He can’t turn things around anymore, time never favors the fallen. But there are always other factors, unknown variables who enter the playing field, bargaining for his freedom. And when Sunday returns in search of a farewell, he realizes that his self exile from penacony is also an exile from you.

He chooses to watch from a distance as you pick up the pieces he left behind for himself. He knows he has left his mark and that his time with you is far too ingrained for it to be washed away like all else. You are not Robin, so he can't find it in him to face you, even in this disguise.

So he doesn't quite understand your fleeting movements, never staying in place for long until he learns that you have been spending more time with the Nameless. You’re retracing his steps, he realizes, and that’s what leads you to stand next to Dan Heng. Jealousy bubbles in his chest from where he stands, within your field of view but still, he thinks, hidden in the shadows.

From this distance, he can't hear the words you exchange with Dan Heng, nor is he familiar with this expression on your face (he is, but he chooses to read it differently). You look excited, thrilled even, and Sunday wonders what could make you smile so brightly right now. He scoffs at the thought that you might continue to seek out this Nameless again, that you’re planning to move on. Would you hear him out, one last time?

He’s so caught up in his own thoughts that he misses the way you catch him staring, his disguise long gone, alter ego for once, quiet. You find it almost endearing that Sunday doesn’t feel the need to be in disguise around you, but that feeling is washed away by the reminder that he can’t even find the courage to face you. Robin’s told you of the little time she was able to spend with him, even if it was in disguise. What makes it so different for you?

Exile is a cruel word. It carries the weight of one’s memories, a haunted past that can eat one alive if they do not find it in themselves to seek out that closure. But Dan Heng reminds you that exile is not a word that can stretch out longer than time itself.

“We all find our way back, one way or another,” he says. “The Express will remain here for a bit longer, you’re always a welcome guest so do visit. If I cannot convince you of that, I’ll have to send March after you.”

“Then when you leave for your next destination, I’ll bid you all farewell,” you promise.

Sunday feels like he’s been hit by the Astral Express again. You stand in front of him and for a second he thinks he must be dreaming, because all this time, he thought he had done a good job at hiding his disguised return from everyone.

“Sunday,” you greet him curtly. His mind races, trying to decipher the tone that you use. He’s speechless and it hits him that the rest of the crew have so conveniently decided to make their exit. It is just you and him and the two ends of a rope that each of you hold.

He swallows thickly. “You’re here. I… I wasn’t expecting this.”

“I can go if you want—”

“No! Please don’t,” his words come out more rushed than he intended. You look thoroughly unimpressed and he can only wonder what could possibly be going through your head for you to be so composed and he be the one grasping at air.

“I’m sorry,” he isn’t sure where to start. Now isn’t the time for him to be picking his words carefully but the anxiety in him festers because he worries nothing he says will be enough.

“Do you know what you’re sorry for?” As gentle as you say it, they still sting. He can hear the hurt that’s etched into the words and that’s enough for him to give in. Sunday has never been one to let his composure fall, but if the last few months have proven anything, it’s that he’s exhausted. So he lets his resolve crumble, in only a way that one might in front of a lover. And while that’s not the term he can rightfully use anymore, he still feels it when you pull him in and let him sink into your embrace.

He doesn’t hide his words as well as he thinks he does, but you still let him, even though it hurts that he still can’t find it in him to be completely honest. The Sunday in front of you is the same man, though scarred. His mannerisms still give away his festing anxiety and you’re not a fool to the way he subtly tries to reach for you. But he can’t stay, you know that.

When you both finally have a proper conversation, Sunday feels lighter. Exile no longer feels like a curse. Perhaps a ‘see you soon,’ in a twisted sort of manner.

“I’m surprised you’ve chosen to journey with the Express, even if it’s just temporary,” you hum. The two of you stand side by side, staring out one of the Express windows. Your hands curl around the window sill and Sunday has half a mind to wrap your hand with his.

You continue. “I think this will be good for you. Look beyond the stars, at least try to.”

“And how about you and I?” Sunday asks. “Are we going to try again?”

You hesitate. The two of you know that with the Nameless, it's the stars that lead the way.

“It’s time for you to go, I’m sure we’ll meet someday soon,” you avoid the question. Sunday smiles to himself, you’re just as hesitant as he is. It’s just the truth that he must learn to confront if, no, when you meet again.

“Wait for me?” he asks.

“I will.”

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! <3 note: not rly content with the ending but i was listening to hadestown and this is what came of it

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #sunday x reader #hsr x reader #sunday #sunday hsr #hsr angst #spiriteddreams writing

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dragaorpg · 9 months ago

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Path of Exile II será lançado em Acesso Antecipado em 15 de novembro

O RPG de ação gratuito Path of Exile II será lançado em Acesso Antecipado para PlayStation 5, Xbox Series e PC via Steam e Epic Games Store em 15 de novembro, anunciou a desenvolvedora Grinding Gear Games durante a gamescom Opening Night Live. Acesso Antecipado de Path of Exile II Anunciado Path of Exile sempre foi um jogo que funciona muito bem com seus amigos, mas, até agora, você precisava…

#Grinding Gear Games #Path of Exile II

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sirenedusud · 8 months ago

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once more to see you (adar x elf!reader)

decades at a time, you find yourself crossing paths with the Uruk.

AN: hey guys i was listening to mitski and for some reason (yeah sure) i was filled with yearning for adar. he intrigues me so. i need help like mentally or something.

AN II: at some point the horny evaporated from my body and i was feeling something different, this ended up being like 30% adar lmao, BUT ALAS I WRITE FOR MY OWN PLEASURE AND I CANNOT HELP IT. enjoy.

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Dawn swept across the great delta, the pools of seawater and grains of sand glistened like stars as the sunlight dappled through the clouds. Eärendil's plea had been answered by the Valar, and so a host of your fellow elves from Valinor arrived upon the shores of Beleriand. You followed the call with haste as you wished to be reunited with your dearest friends in exile, but now your stomach turned at the sight ahead. A looming shadow crept over the mountain range, threatening to overtake what remained of Middle Earth's western shores.

Your company had concluded setting up camp the day before. Now only battle preparations were being rehearsed repeatedly, for no one could predict when the fight would erupt. You spent the entire morning doing drills you could have done as easily in your sleep and so decided to slip away from the encampment for a moment away. The forest gave you no comfort though, darkness lingered everywhere, muffling your hyperaware senses. Still you wandered, bow clamped tightly in one fist. Minutes later, you stumbled upon a clearing in the woods, but someone was already there. Their presence made your blood run cold; you notched an arrow for good measure.

It was too late though, the figure turned swiftly, looking directly at your frozen figure behind a tree. He did not draw his sword, nor did you release your arrow. You found yourself completely transfixed on him. He seemed to be an elf, with his long, pointed ears and tresses of midnight black hair.

Whatever danger oozed from him ceased now as his own eyes captured every inch of you. You noticed tear stains on his hollow cheeks, had he been crying before you came? You stepped out of the tree's shadow without hesitation, allowing the sunlight to pour down on you, illuminating your pale blue attire and long, woven hair. He only continued to gaze at you, as if he was studying the magnificent night sky etched with constellations.

“What is something so fair doing wandering on this dark path?” he asked calmly. Your cheeks flushed, but before you could open your mouth a horn blared in the distance and you pointed your arrow in its direction, then back at the elf. He was gone. This couldn't mean well. You ran back to the encampment as fast as you could to find elves running back and forth, your commander yelling at soldiers and captains alike. The war began.

***

The black blood mucked onto your armor would not budge regardless of how much pressure you rubbed at it with. With a sigh of defeat you dropped the filthy rag and laid your head on the boulder behind you. Decades had passed and the war continued. In this moment of stillness between the two fronts, you and Galadriel had led the injured away from the desolate northern regions. Your mind wandered on the events of the past years: the countless orcs you had slain, the mountains and plains which had been ravaged, the elves and men that fell to their death beside you, and the glimpses of the dark elf from the woods passing by you on the battlefield yet never crossing your path.

"What troubles you?" Galadriel's soft voice stirred your attention. She stood before you, glorious even through the weariness of war.

"Nothing. Nothing besides the stench of those rotting Orcs," you replied without a look to her, guilt creeping into your heart. She crouched down before you and took your hands into her own without another word.

A deafening roar split through the air suddenly, snapping everyone awake. Upon the northern horizon, winged serpentine beasts flew in your direction. Men and elves alike shouted at the sight in an uproar of confusion.

"What treacherous hole have those beasts crept out of?" one man cried out, looking to his own equally mortified commanders.

"So this is Morgoth's desperate assault," your tall commander pondered, before speaking loudly for all to hear, "his forces have been expended. Do not give into fear. Do not fear!" In a blur, you part from Galadriel and fall into line with the remaining soldiers charging back into the heat of battle. The dragons devastated the front line, scalding skin off of bone, melting armor and sword, snapping arrows like twigs. As one dragon swooped down to rake through soldiers, you shot a large arrow into the beast's eye, causing it to roar in pain, but too quickly it recovered to charge straight at you. In that moment, fear paralyzed you. The cloud of flame descending upon you grew hotter by the second, and you closed your eyes. No fear.

That was until a cold metal hand yanked you by the nape of your armor, dragging you away from the now burning spot. You opened your eyes to see a black-haired figure pulling you further and further away from the fields and into a dark ravine. The ground was bloodied, black trees stood completely charred here. The air hung thickly; perhaps it was from the dragon fire, perhaps it was only something between you and the elf. He finally stopped to release you, causing you to catch yourself from face-planting into the rocky ground. He paced a little ways further, keeping his back to you. The sounds of clashing metal and roaring dragons continued in the background, yet grew faint as you focused solely on your savior.

"Who are you?" you asked warily, a hand resting upon the slender blade on your hip, yet rather pathetically you wished nothing more than for him to gaze at you like in your last meeting. He does turn eventually, and his eyes do find yours, but they were filled with anguish so strong it drew a worried expression from your own face.

"I am..." he began, "I thought I was fighting for my children’s place in this world, but it seems I led them all to death..." Children? What children did he speak of? You knew he served Morgoth, alongside other monsters and tormented souls twisted into Morgoth's "creations,” but no children were on that battlefield. You stood up slowly, trying to navigate the elf's mood as he looked down at the ground. His scarred hand grasped his black sword tightly, but you crept closer. He looked up again, stopping you in your tracks as electricity crackled between the two of you.

His pale face was scarred so severely that you winced at the thought of what it looked like when they were fresh, but he was beautiful nonetheless. His melancholic grey-blue eyes shone upon a set of high-cut cheekbones. His thin lips parted to speak again, but his gaze dropped down to the black blood staining your armor. Suddenly, his eyes darkened and he grew angry, stepping away from you. You panicked at this change in temper and unsheathed your blade.

"Forgive me," he muttered before striking you across the head with the butt of his sword. The power of his hit threw you unconscious and you crumpled to the floor. For a moment he regretted his action, but the shrieks of the dragons snapped him back into reality. He pulled you behind some large rocks, out of sight from any dangerous passerby, and returned to the battle which costed him his kin. The battle which he knew Morgoth was losing.

***

The golden forest welcomed you with a gentle breeze as you walked down the rows of trees carved into figures of martyred elves. You stood before the familiar faces, ebbs of grief resurfacing in your heart. Decades had passed since the War of Wrath ended and now you remained in Middle-Earth with numerous other elves. Sometimes you longed for the light of Valinor, yet other times a dark desire only found in this foreign land kept you chained to Middle-Earth. Now, you simply resided in the elven kingdom of Lindon.

"There you are," Gil-galad's voice called to you gently. You turned to greet him, his eyes softened at the sight of your weary face. Your heart, on the other hand, leapt after taking in the sight of the golden king. Moments like this passed between the two of you before, a connection that yearned to blossom during these peaceful years spent together in Lindon, but you said nothing of it and neither did he with all his power in the world. He stepped closer to you, taking your hand into his larger, warmer ones before speaking.

"I know this look. I know you regret not joining Galadriel on her...search," he began, his golden rings dazzling in the sunlight, "but I have a task for you which I hope proves to be a distraction because I do not wish to see you mourn the past, wandering here in these woods alone." His voice grew firmer towards the end. He was right, long had you spent idly in solitude, spiraling in dark memories yet also refusing to return to Aman.

"What is your command?" you asked aloofly. Gil-galad let out a sigh and patted the back of your hand, guiding you back out of the forest and towards his halls.

"I want you to go see Celebrimbor. See what he is conjuring in that workshop that keeps him so occupied," Gil-galad continued, "I'm afraid our friend is not replying to my envoys as swiftly as I would like, and thought perhaps a more familiar face would get things out of him sooner." A stronger breeze passed through the exit of the woods, causing your eyelids to flutter shut and you to inhale deeply. You opened your eyes to find Gil-galad studying your face, then looking away shyly. Before entering the main hall, he turned to you, gently clasping his hands upon your shoulders.

"Go now. Take two with you," he instructed, "and allow that foul battlefield to leave your mind.”

***

The road to Eregion was short. Your companions became immersed in the citadel's magnificence upon arrival, and so you made your way to Celebrimbor alone. Sure enough, you found him in his workshop, chipping away at a slender blade handle made of polished marble.

"Celebrimbor-"

"Oh!" he shouted in surprise, the blade snapping off of the handle before him, "Ohhh." He turned to you with a frown, but immediately lit back up.

"It is a delight to see you my dear friend," Celebrimbor stood up to come closer to you, "such a delight! We must feast and drink on this occasion...for when was the last time you graced my humble workshop,” he rested one hand on your back as he began guiding you towards the doors you had just entered from.

“But you see…right now I'm quite busy." You began to protest with the elf, but he swept you out of the tower quicker than you could repeat Gil-galad's inquiries. With no other way back inside, you headed out of Eregion's main gates and into the woods. You hadn't meant to go wandering again, but your body had grown accustomed to this ritual: to walk deeper into the woods, fall deeper into memories with every step, become blind to what stood before you physically as your mind filled with images of the past.

The sun began to set and you found yourself in a small clearing full of sweet scented flowers and lightning bugs floating about. Images of the dark elf's face flashed before your mind’s eye, causing your heart to stammer. You admitted to yourself that right now more than anything you wanted to see him once more. The softness he spoke to you with, the scars on his pale face, the agony in his burning gaze, the way those same eyes were so captivated by you in the woods; everything about him was intoxicating. It was so pathetic of you, an Eldar, to be emotionally bound to a creature of darkness. There was now an emptiness within you that he had dug, a hollow that tore open even wider when you remembered him. You fell to your knees in a soft bed of moss, grabbing fists of your hair as you begged yourself to forget the enemy.

"This is madness! I've been marked by some ill will. It’s a stain. It's just a trick of the dark forces, not my own mind! Not mine, not mine, not mine." Your hands hammered at your head. You threw your body forward and released a frustrated scream and then, bereft of any more strength, remained in child's pose upon the soft green earth. Crickets began to chirp around you, and the sound of careful footsteps reached your ears as well. You should have looked to see who it was, but you chose to sulk in self-pity. They grew closer, stopping midway as if they had seen something, then began to head towards you before stopping mere feet away.

"Fair creature..." a low voice spoke above you. You whipped your head up to find the darkling standing before you, clad in full black attire. Suddenly, you became aware of your lack of weapons, but then fell distracted by two tears escaping your eyes. It is a strange sensation, unfamiliar to you completely. Two drops of warm water traced down your cheeks and into the crevices of your lips, the taste of salt hitting your tongue, before continuing down your chin. You raised a hand to wipe the salty rivulets away, but a thumb in a black glove found them first. The dark elf knelt before you, looking curious as ever.

"How are you here?" Numerous questions filled your head at once, but time was of the essence with someone as fleeting as this elf.

"I fled in the end with my remaining children, in...someone else's refuge,” he hesitated with his words. He was afraid to reveal too much, yet he yearned to be vulnerable with you because he felt that he could. You caught his hand before it dropped away from your face, and rubbed your thumb against the back of his glove. He fell into a trance again, bewitched by your beauty, the beauty of elves he could no longer recall from his own memory. Your heart beat rapidly in your chest as he kept his hand in yours, your questions now forming quicker in your mind than on your tongue.

"Who are you? You left me in the mountain last we met. Why did you do it? Why not kill me? I killed…so many of yours," you spoke frantically. His eyes grew hurt, but he did not pull away from you.

"For as long as I can remember, I am called Adar," he began slowly, "My kin and I are Uruk. Yes, you killed many of them, yet I do not know why I spared you. I know...I saw something in you that day in the woods. Something that I should have turned away from, but I gave into it in that moment, and then again in the battle." Your face flushed and it was your turn to cease eye contact. Whatever intense desire you felt, he had felt it too, you were sure of this. All the sinners of Middle-Earth could have been pointing and laughing at you in this moment. You grew afraid, so afraid of how relieved you were to be with Adar right now, to know him a little more.

"I know what it is that stopped you from killing me," you tested your words as you were still apprehensive of this servant of Morgoth, "I felt it too." Slowly, you pulled Adar's hand up to your heart. For a moment the two of you remained like this, then he uttered something in a foreign tongue and pushed you away. He marched away from you before turning around.

"Do not ever seek me out," he said hoarsely, "for your own sake."

***

The waves lapped at the edge of the harbor on which you stood upon. You watched as some elves began to slowly board the ship set for Valinor. Galadriel stood beside you, looking increasingly agitated as her time to board came closer. Her company had returned several days ago from their search for Sauron, but the elves refused to carry on, forcing their commander to fall back as well.

You turned to Galadriel and she mirrored you. You gave her a weak smile, knowing full well she did not wish to take this gift of returning to Aman.

“Perhaps you could speak with Gil-galad once, since Elrond was of no use in this,” she said with a hint of hope, but you shook your head.

“If I speak any word of this to him, he’ll put me on that boat too and be rid of the both of us,” you turned to look back as you spoke, catching sight of the king in the distance. He gave you a small nod, perhaps thinking you were having a heartfelt farewell with your friend. Galadriel let out an airy laugh as she glanced at the king as well.

“Well, why aren’t you coming with us?” Galadriel inquired suddenly, curious as to why you had bound yourself to Middle-Earth. You looked at her shyly but simply shrugged; if you told her the truth you knew she would have dragged you onto the ship herself.

“There is still much I want to see. Things not as troubling as well, Sauron,” you responded slowly, taking the last few steps on the dock with Galadriel before she boarded the white ship. She turned back one last time to embrace you, bringing her lips close to your ear.

“I know he is alive,” she whispered.

“I believe you,” you reassured her before releasing her. She muttered a final goodbye before turning to face the front of the ship. You watched as Círdan, Master of the Grey Havens, stepped off the ship before it made its way out of the harbor. Galadriel, nor any of the other elves, turned back. You watched until the ship became a speck on the horizon, until the sun began to set, and until Elrond reached for your arm to guide you away from the harbor.

***

The elves of the Southlands were to return home. Wishing to escape Gil-galad’s ever-watchful eye, you chose to carry this message to the Watchtower of Ostirith. The elves spoke ill of the men in the villages below, who all felt the same way towards the elves even though they were severely defenseless without them. Save Arondir, who had grown fond of one particular woman. Oftentimes you wanted to advise him against it, to say that he would only be hurt if he chose to love a mortal, but you yourself chose worse things to love.

Upon one quiet morning, something had drawn you to the black forest surrounding the tower. The silence of these woods became unnerving though after walking through them for half an hour and you contemplated turning back, but you found yourself lost. You could not sense the way you came from at all. Terror split into your mind as you trekked down the path you were certain you had come from, desperately scanning the forest floor for signs of your own footprints. You were beginning to lose daylight, and prayed the woods were as empty as they sounded.

You suddenly stumbled into a thicket of webs and groaned at the white strands sticking to your hair and clothes.

“Cursed things! Spiders this close to people? Or, perhaps…I am not as close to civilization as I thought I was…” you trailed off into thought as you cut through the webs. The task at hand becoming so distracting that you did not detect one spider crawling up behind you. Your ears had caught the sound of one of its feet slipping though, but before you could turn to parry its attack, you found the arachnid dead with a black arrow through its skull. It fell with a loud thud to your feet, and you stared, dumbstruck, at the archer. Adar stood there, though not as shocked as you. You scrambled out of the webbed mess and straight to him, desperate to catch him before he slipped away again.

“I caught sight of you when you entered the forest. I sensed you were lost and only followed to make sure you returned to Ostirith in one piece–“ Adar began but stopped as you wrapped your arms around him, pressing your cheek into his armored chest.

“Please, please don’t leave! Please stop doing this to me,” you pled. A split second later Adar dropped his bow and clung onto you as well, his one bare hand raking through your long, soft hair. He pressed his face into your smooth forehead, and inhaled your floral scent, absorbing anything and everything he could of you. No guilt or shame reached you now. It was as if no one could see you, not Ostirith, not Gil-galad, nor the Valar.

“What does an Eldar want to have to do with me?” Adar’s question finally broke your peace. You looked at him in confusion, your mind juggling between reality and its possibilities.

“You could be forgiven, you did not know what you were going to be forced to do when Morgoth had twisted you into…none of this has to be your burden,” you rambled, but Adar shook his head.

“I cannot abandon my children. They have every right to be free in Middle-Earth as anybody else.”

“Children? What are these children you keep speaking of?” you sighed as you took a small step back and planted your hands to your hips. Adar smiled down at you, but inwardly he prepared for you to finally be disgusted by him, to finally reject him and free the both of you from this tangled web of emotions.

“The Orcs,” he explained, “they had been abused by Morgoth once, and I cannot allow it to happen again. They deserve to be free, to have their own land, with no ruler above them…I wish to grant them this peace.” You stared at Adar incredulously. What madness could possess someone to pity the vile Orcs?

“The only peace you could grant them is to put an end to their treacherous existence,” you replied harshly. Adar’s eyes grew angry for a moment, but his pent up desire caused him to soften under your stern gaze. You trembled as you began to realize that perhaps he would not join you in this eternal life, the darkness had truly twisted his soul. As if sensing this, Adar grasped your chin with his hand and forced you to look into his eyes.

“I don’t know what to do…” your lip began to quiver.

“For now…be here with me,” the Uruk responded before dipping his head down to capture your lips in his. You immediately melted into his armored body, any flame of despair within you extinguished. You kissed him back fervently, your hands reaching for his neck, lips feeling every inch of his cold ones. He rocked your head gently to the side, giving himself more leeway to devour your lips. You let him slip his tongue into your mouth, a cold metallic taste filling your senses. His hands wandered down your body, slowly squeezing every bit of you from your breasts to your hips. A moan slipped out of you after one of his hands trailed back upward and gave your throat a soft press.

Twigs snap in the distance and you lurched back from Adar. His cold eyes scanned into the dark forest, his body covering yours protectively. After a minute passed, he turned back to you. His own heart, which he once thought long dead, jumped at the sight of you. The moonlight illuminated your flushed cheeks, your lips now glistening from the kiss, and the ardor in your eyes.

“We are not alone, fair creature,” Adar whispered to you between kisses on your cheek then nose then other cheek, “Your kin searches for you. Go to them.” You wanted to protest, but Adar only brushed a hand through your hair once more before stepping back into the forest, fading without a trace.

“There you are,” Arondir’s voice came from behind you. You turned to face the stoic elf with a dazed expression. He did not ask you why you were here, but simply beckoned you to follow him back to the tower. On your way back, you turned the cold taste of Adar on your tongue over and over again.

***

Arondir led you straight back to the tower, but before entering the fortress, he turned on his heel to face you.

“Who was with you out there?” he asked.

“Wh-what?” you stammered as the question caught you by surprise.

“Who was with you in the woods?” Arondir repeated, emphasizing each word. He took a step forward, looking down at you sternly. Your blood ran cold. Did he already know? Could you lie?

“I was lost, I was talking to myself. There wasn’t any–“

“Do not lie!” Arondir’s jaw tightened as he snapped at you. You stood with your mouth agape, feeling as if you were shrinking smaller and smaller under his judgmental gaze.

“Did you not think I could sense the darkness lingering on your flesh?” you shivered as he continued, “and to think…you succumbed to it so easily.”

“You don’t understand! It was nothing of that sort!” you pled but to no avail. Arondir scowled, turning away from you and headed into the tower.

“It is best you leave these lands. For good,” Arondir called over his shoulder before leaving you alone in the dark. You fell to your knees, praying under your breath for the night sky to come down and swallow you up from your spot.

***

When you reached Lindon, two soldiers immediately led you to Gil-galad. As you entered the king’s study, you noticed a crumpled letter on his ivory desk, as if he had read it and crushed it in his palm immediately. The tall elf stood with his back to you for several minutes, sweat began to form at your hairline. Finally, he turned to you with a somber expression.

“Do you know what I just read?” he asked, barely in a whisper.

“Gil-galad…” he raised a trembling hand to stop you regardless of asking you a question. He stepped around his desk and loomed over you. His eyes searched yours for something you could not decipher. He raised a pointing hand as he spoke.

“Tomorrow, at first light, there is a ship leaving for Valinor. You will take it, and you will not have any say in this,” he seethed. Disappointment burned in his eyes, and for once you became afraid of him. Naturally, you did not protest and without another word bowed to Gil-galad before turning to leave the room.

Hot tears streamed down your face as you made your way as far as you could from everyone. You kept your face down in shame, making your way to the edge of the city before bumping into someone. You looked up to see Elrond. His mouth parted in surprise but he quickly swept you into a tight embrace, patting your back as you stifled a sob.

“Surprised he didn’t send you off with Galadriel the first time,” Elrond joked quietly, but his voice remained solemn. He did not ask anything else of what had happened in the Southlands, even though he knew the basis of it.

“I should have left the moment the war ended.”

***

The waves were gentle as they carried your ship closer and closer to the golden rays before you. Warmth hummed within your chest as the clouds parted completely to reveal the brilliance of Aman. The welcoming light grew stronger, infiltrating every bit of your surroundings. Your senses began to buzz entirely. Any despair in your mind melted away, and the hollow in your heart filled with something soft and kind. A song from the Amanyar carried through the breeze; the chorus of silken voices beckoned you home.

#adar #adar x reader #adar fic #the rings of power #lotr #lord of the rings #lotr fic #dark elf #galadriel #gil galad #elrond #middle earth

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the-raven-and-the-tower · 4 months ago

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Viago de Riva; forgotten son with a found family of assassins (a brief but angsty dive)

Born one royal bastard of many to King Fulgeno II of Antiva, Viago was born without a lot of choices, but one very large one;

Exile or the Antivan Crows.

VIago was the only one of all Fulgeno's bastards that chose the Crows, a choice that put him on a path of shadows and blood. Turning his back on the only home he has ever known for the ruthless world of the Crows, Viago had to forge his own house and find his own family, turning his back on a royal lineage that never wanted or acknowledged him.

Viago has walked in both worlds, where betrayal can come from any direction and alliances are often temporary - in either world, his survival has hinged time and time again on his vigilance and natural mistrust of others. More than once, the only thing that has kept him alive was the way he builds tolerance to poisons and insists on testing everything he eats. I have to wonder if Viago has ever truly rested, he's always alert, always keeping one step ahead of all the threats on every side - always in danger, both as a bastard who could be seen as a threat to the legitimate line and as a Crow Talon surrounded by ambitious assassins.

And then there's his relationship with Teia 💜

I love the humanity of Viago's struggle to love and be loved. As a royal bastard, he would have been inherently unwanted and constantly reminded of his illegitimacy - daily reminders to ingrain a perpetual sense of unworthiness and isolation into him. I love the honesty of how he struggles to open up and be vulnerable, even with someone like Teia from within the world of the Crows.

The two of them live in a dangerous world, where personal relationships can become weapons in the wrong hands. Viago has every reason to shy away from Teia (and sometimes does), yet that inherent need for perception and connection drags him out of safety and back into her arms, time and time again.

All of that to say loooooooooooook at this fourth draft of a letter Teia is helping Viago write to send to his dad about the situation in Treviso with the Butcher.

King's Draft: Action on Behalf of Antiva

As Seventh Talon, I give notice that the Antivan Crows have drawn a contract against the enemies of Treviso, the Antaam. (Teia)

Teia, the Seventh Talon, is writing to inform of the situation, rather than Viago (Fifth Talon). We don't know if she's stepping up to protect Viago from his asshole father or if Viago doesn't speak to the king often on principle (he does in prior Dragon Age content), or if this is simply how it is done - maybe there's an existing agreement among the Crows to avoid political complications by keeping the king and his son seperate. Any way the cookie crumbled, I like these crumbs.

It is not the Antaam. (Viago)

We aren't required to give His Majesty a point-by-point, but he's your blood, Viago. It is a courtesy to let him know we are going to war. (Teia)

"He's your blood, Viago." I don't know if this is a reminder of his unique ability to bridge two vastly different worlds or if it is just a reminder of political significance, but either way it struck me as significant. Despite his royal blood being a source of personal pain, it provides Viago leverage in ways that other Crow Talons could never wield, not even Caterina.

The occupying Antaam are strong, driven, fanatical. They cannot be reasoned with because reason is just a weapon to be resisted. They can be killed, of course, but removing a leader does not remove their desire to be led. They are a force we must contend with, but they are NOT Treviso's true enemy. (Viago)

A name, Viago. Contracts require a stabber and a stabbee. (Teia)

Teia (child street thief turned Crow) is the pragmatic and operational, focusing on fulfilling the requirements as a formality, while our baby boi Viago the Strategic is firmly honed in on reality and understanding the details. Teia wants to take the next step to move forward, Viago wants to understand the problem before making the next move. They are so different and I love the way their differences lend their relationship strength, rather than pulling it apart.

Teia, you know my doubts. The Butcher took the city too easily, and there is dealing with the gods there that I dread to know. But I fear that the true enemy of Treviso is not known because they ARE known, merely unrevealed. (Viago)

"The Hand That Leashed Treviso." Is that nebulous enough? (Teia)

I like this. Sarcastic, yet she's showing that she's listening to Viago's concerns and hearing them.

Yes, that is a series of someones we can eventually kill. But not something we can send my father. (Viago)

And he acknowledges being heard, but points out the impracticality of presenting such a target to his father. Again, I think it's fucking significant that he refers to Fulgeno as his father and not as the king. Whether he's tying himself verbally to his unique position, subconsciously reacting to his abandonment by the royal family or just responsing to Teia's "he's your blood" earlier, it feels powerful. Like the kick in the gonads I'd like to five Fulgemo.

On to draft five, then. Neri, begin again. (Teia)

It says a lot to me that they're having this entire conversation in front of their scribe. Doubtless someone sworn to secrecy already, it just strikes me as wholesome that they're comfortable having these disagreements in front of Neri. They may not agree yet, but they're committed to it. And their disagreement has no weight on their opinions of each other.

Viago de Riva, Fifth Talon Andarateia Cantori, Seventh Talo Transcribed: Neri de Acutis

#forgotten son of antiva #viago de riva deserves better #sharp and pointy found family #royal bastard turned assassin is always tasty isn't it?#neri’s scribe chronicles: teia the realist vs viago the idealist #crows who care #viago de riva #teia x viago #dragon age viago #house de riva #de riva #teia #teia cantori #dragon age teia #antivan crows #fulgemo the fuckhead

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