#everyone was really into long tunics and mantles

[fantastic-nonsense]

Wasn’t it Alfred who’d made Damian Robin in Battle for the Cowl? Dick must have agreed after the fact, but Alfred was the one who set it in motion.

Nominally yes, in the sense that Alfred is the person who first put the cape in Damian's hands:

"You can't keep me here." "I'll do no such thing. But understand that you've been injured. Severely so." ......."What the hell are you pulling here, Al?" "It's time to earn your keep. If you're up for it." "So long as I'm not wasting any more time in here, whatever." -Battle for the Cowl #3

However, the reality is "not really." Three things to note about this:

One: no one in the story who actually knows what Damian's gotten up to while Dick was tracking down Tim and fighting Jason actually treats Damian as Robin. For the purposes of the narrative and everyone in it, Tim is still Robin, as Squire points out:

"I'm sure Nightwing could use a hand finding Robin. This way, then." -Battle for the Cowl #3

We don't really see anyone else's reaction to Damian wearing the cape in BftC. Even when Damian saves Tim while wearing the symbol, Tim has no actual reaction besides a single exclamation of Damian's name, and he seems more bewildered that Damian is there at all than he is about Damian wearing the Robin tunic. But the people we do see? Don't treat him as Robin. They treat him as an ally who happens to be wearing the Robin tunic for convenience.

Two: within the bounds of BftC, Damian is explicitly framed as being "Dick's responsibility" with Bruce gone. After Jason shoots Damian, Dick has the same conversation with Alfred that Bruce often did whenever one of his Robins was hurt, framed in a way that made it obvious where things were heading:

"Damian...this child...I could have gotten him killed tonight. I have a responsibility to him now. I let him down, Alfred." "Bruce also said the same of you...and Master Timothy, many times over the years." "And of Jason Todd." "Him as well." -Battle for the Cowl #2

Dick has already implicitly accepted Damian as his Robin at this point. And though Dick and Tim have not explicitly discussed it (as we see via their argument in Red Robin #1), it was also fairly clear that Tim would not be Dick's Robin based on how Dick thought of Tim by that point (as his brother, as his equal, as someone who should not be taking orders from him full-time). Tim had already spent time as the Robin to Dick's Batman back in Prodigal, and both boys had come a long way since then. Once Dick decided to take up the cowl at the end of BftC #2, it was inevitable that Damian would be his Robin rather than Tim (for a whole host of reasons I won't get into here). Alfred just hastened that inevitability.

Three: simply wearing the cape does not make you Robin. You are Robin if and only if two things happen: you have been explicitly accepted by Batman as his partner and Dick Grayson has given his blessing. You are a potential Robin. You are an ally wearing a Robin costume. But you are not Robin until those things happen.

Tim was not Robin in A Lonely Place of Dying even though he stole the costume with Alfred's help to save Bruce and Dick. Tim did not become Robin until after both Bruce and Dick had accepted him as such and he went through a training period (he was known as "Little Bat" until then, btw). The same is true of Damian, who wore the Robin tunic at least three times prior to actually becoming Robin (Bruce briefly took him out while wearing it in Batman and Son and he famously wore it during the events of Resurrection of Ra's al Ghul); he was no more Robin then than he was in BtfC.

The costume isn't what makes you Robin. Batman saying you're Robin and Dick giving the blessing of his parents' legacy to you makes you Robin (which. I will freely admit that's a loaded, complicated topic given the history of how the Robin mantle has been passed down over the years. but it generally holds true). Damian properly becoming Robin after BftC was clearly Dick's choice; Alfred can't "make" anyone Robin if Batman doesn't agree.

The core conceptual problem with Battle for the Cowl (well. there's about 5000 problems with BtfC. but you know what I mean) is that it tries to deal with about fifty different things at once, most of which all ordinarily would have gotten their own dedicated space across multiple books or tie-in comics to deal with. Instead, all of these things are smushed into a single massive threeshot event comic with awful characterization and a near-incomprehensible chain of events. In a perfect world, we would have gotten the same kind of build-up and transition between Tim and Damian that we did in the 90s when Tim became Robin after Jason's death. Unfortunately that's not what we got, so we're left to fill in the gaps ourselves.

But textually, Alfred did not make Damian Robin. Alfred handed an ally to the cause a Robin tunic during a crisis specifically for the purpose of rescuing Robin. After that crisis was over, Batman chose to make that same ally his Robin for reasons entirely unrelated to his wearing the symbol during that specific crisis. Dick chose Damian to be his Robin, and that choice should not be looked over just because removing it conveniently lifts some of the hurt feelings and messiness of that transition off of Dick's shoulders.

Dick handled his own legacy, as he should have. And while he did not handle it with as much communication and grace as he should have or probably would have liked to, it was his mantle and legacy to handle at the end of the day. For once, he had complete agency over choosing a successor to his heroing legacy (and his parents' legacy), not Bruce or Alfred or anyone who self-appointed themselves as a successor, and we should acknowledge and respect that.

He didn't pick Damian because Alfred unilaterally gave him a battlefield promotion; he picked Damian because he thought Tim was grown and independent enough to thrive without taking his orders every day and believed Damian needed his direct oversight and the growth opportunity being Robin would provide more than Tim did. Allow Dick the dignity of his choices instead of acting like he had no input or say in the matter of who his Robin was going to be.

[redbootsindoriath]

My current headcanons for Third Age elven clothing styles

I’ve been saying I was going to do this since the first time I posted a drawing of Legolas on this blog.  It’s definitely time to make good on that promise.

Come the Third Age, elves seem to be a little bit less spread-out than they were in the First Age.  Of course there are some groups of them here and there who are just kind of doing their own thing, but for the sake of not dragging this post out for forever, I’m mostly going to stick to the main three elven kingdoms that we hear about in The Hobbit and LOTR.  Sorry I don’t have drawings to accompany the descriptions right now.  Maybe eventually I will.

To get this out of the way, disclaimers etc., these are almost exclusively my own headcanons rather than things Tolkien himself said.  Also they are general styles rather than all-encompassing rules that I consistently follow to the exact detail so don’t come at me like “Oh but Tarva what about so-and-so which you drew whenever-it-was, if this character is from Lothlórien why did they look like they’re from Rivendell that one time” or whatever, individual characters have individual styles, I keep changing everything anyway, etc etc.

Mirkwood Mirkwood has possibly the most odd style, due to them being secluded and not caring what anybody thinks because the only people they do business with pften is Laketown and who cares what they say.  Travel clothing materials are tough so you can snag them on underbrush and not have to worry about them tearing.  Their tunics usually are very short, leaving the waist bare, for greater range of motion (since they live in the forest they’re always up and down trees and stuff).  These “crop top” tunics also mean that they pack lighter for travel.  Since Mirkwood is farther north and more hostile than many other forests, shoes are pretty much a requirement, but they’re generally very light shoes that can be taken off and attached to a belt or something if you’re going to be climbing a particularly tricksy tree and will need better mobility and grip.  Mirkwood elves often wear leaves in their hair, both for camouflage and for aesthetic.  On occasion they’ll put spots of pale paint on their bodies and faces to imitate the dapples on a deer’s flanks because they think it looks nice.  Of the three best-known elf kingdoms, they’re the one with the most feral vibe.

Lothlórien Lothlorien elves wear grey and silver clothes and love shinies and stuff so their jewelry is all gems and stars and sparkly and chains as thin as spider webs; anyone who’s not royalty (or in direct and specialized service of royalty) has pads on the insides of their legs from the knees to the ankles for protection as they climb trees, and everything is made for climbing and disappearing in the shifting light and shadows.  Lothlorien is where ethereal reigns supreme.  By moonlight everyone looks like they’re made of mist and dew and spider silk and like they will evaporate when the sun rises; by day they look like shadows on water over a stony stream bed.

Rivendell Rivendell elves have long, sweeping clothes for maximum drama since they don’t really have to do a lot of fighting compared to the elves east of the Misty Mountains (and they’re also dramatic and have so many Ñoldor and those guys are Just Like That™). The jewelry is exquisite and the clothes are covered in rich embroidery: it’s clear that they’ve gathered the wisdom and skill of every race from every age of the world.  Long capes and long robes and long hair for everyone.  The people themselves look as rare and beautiful as the clothes they wear.  This is the elven kingdom where you are most likely to find deep, rich colors; as soon as you walk into Rivendell you get the sense of being surrounded by wisdom and history and tradition, but simultaneously it feels unreal; everyone has a personal history thousands of years old but is still a child in their wonder of the world.  Elves are climbing trees in floor-length satin mantles without getting caught on the branches, and singing nonsense songs on gem-encrusted harps that were brought from across the sea before the first sunrise.  But somehow they’re still the least unnerving lot of elves in Middle Earth because at least they live in actual buildings instead of tree houses or caves and they probably won’t kill you on sight if you accidentally stumble upon their hideout.

TLDR: If you see a Mirkwood elf run past in the woods, you ask yourself “What the heck was that?” and now you’re on edge wondering what strange forest spirit you just disturbed. If you see a Lothlorien elf run past in the woods, you assume the light is just playing tricks with your eyes because “that was a strange shadow, I could have sworn it moved.” If you see a Rivendell elf run past in the woods, you’re awestruck and you begin wondering if reality really was what you always thought it was...for the rest of your life you keep wondering if you’ll see them again...

[emyn-arnens]

OOH OOH OOH! lotro ask game!!! 2, 4, 9, 20, 35, 42? <3

Thanks for the ask!! <3

2. Do you have a favorite Epic quest?

I love, love, love the session play quests. My favorite tho has to be the ever-iconic Boromir POV session play during vol 3 book 7. I’m sure he does canonically know everyone’s names in the fellowship, but the names he gives them in the game are too hilarious.

4. Do you have a favorite side quest?

I really love the lore-based side quests in Lothlorien that talk about the tale of Amroth and Nimrodel, as well as the ones where you explore or reflect in different areas. The slower pace and encouragement to take in the scenery were a breath of fresh air after spending so much time hacking at things in Moria.

I also love the side quests in Rohan that mention how Eowyn has inspired other girls and women, and the relationships that she has with the various female thanes and reeves. LOTRO has always been pretty good about its depiction of women imo, but it seemed like around Rohan it really started stepping into portraying relationships between women, which I appreciated.

9. Do you have any favorite character(s)?

Corudan, my beloved. **spoilers if you haven’t reached Helm’s Deep** I still can’t believe I just waved goodbye to him and sent him on his way at Helm’s Deep without realizing I wouldn’t see him again. ;-; The devs better pick up his storyline again and let us know what happened to him—and he’d better be alive—or I’ll riot.

And since we’re fresh off the Harvest Festival, I love Ivy Redsmith. She’s such a good friend ;-;

20. Do you spend a lot of time on cosmetics- outfits, weapons, housing, pets? Do you have any favorites?

I’ve spent WAY too much time on cosmetic outfits. I spent most of my time collecting cosmetics/cool armor and creating outfits when I first started playing, and it’s the reason why I’m perpetually running out of inventory, vault, and housing space because I have too many beloved pieces I’m not willing to part with. (On the upside tho, my new alts never have to run around in their janky beginner armor for very long because I always have something from the stash that I can share with them lol.) Most of my screenshots of the outfits I made were on my old computer so I don’t have access to them (rip), but I modeled a lot of the ones I made after the outfits I saw on blogs like Cosmetic LOTRO, Starry Mantle, Material Middle-earth, and Wandering Around Arda.

As for favorite pieces, some of my favorites include the Tunic and Trousers of the Autumn Traveller (Harvest Festival), the bee wings (Harvest Festival), the Swan Cloak and Cloak of the Dove (store items), Gwir-palvais (Isengard instance), all of the Dunland quest reward armor (that was when I really did my inventory in lol), and the High Elf starter armor.

35. Are there any quotes you like?

Rodwen and her group of failing adventurers (in Parth Galen/the East Wall in East Rohan) have a lot of choice dialogue, with my favorite being, “We lost Cuilinn not long after leaving Cair Andros; he was a minstrel, and did not understand the need for silence at a crucial moment.”

And I love every sassy comment Corudan makes about third wheeling with Horn and Nona. :D

42. Are there any fun easter eggs you’ve found that you enjoy?

According to the devs it’s not an official easter egg (and wasn’t a connection on their radar at all), but I read on the forums that the Ivy Redsmith/Halson Cleary story line coincidentally mirrors Connie Willis’ short story, “A Letter from the Clearys.” I've never read the story, but I thought that was cool, even if it was unintentional.

My favorite official easter egg is the hidden deed for climbing to the highest point of the Hollin Ridge, which bestows the “Ridge-racer” title upon completion. My main bore the title proudly for a long time. :D

[lotro asks]

[artpies]

A Visit from the Divine Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Meeting 

In a distant place far away from civilization under the bright sun, the howls of the wind can be heard far and wide above the white glittering snow from the ground. A piglin hybrid walks through the snow full of battle scars while wearing a royal fluffy mantle with a long sleeved white tunic underneath. His pink long braided hair and emerald earring flow through the cold breeze of the vast tundra. He wore a golden crown with multiple colored jewels that shines from the casted sunlight above, while the cold snow begins to fall from the heavens. 

The piglin held his head high with crimson eyes determined to come back home before the blizzard arrives. His snout huffs from the cold leaving a trail of white mist “I should've brought Carl with me, looks this is gonna take a while.” he said to himself but in reality he was talking to the voices that only he can hear. It started when he was a young piglin with only a few voices whispering his name “Technoblade.” Unfortunately their numbers grew with their thirst for blood and violence. 

With every snowflake that continued to fall the sky began to darken, ears twitching Techno heard grotesque grunts and moans, as well as rattling bones all around him. As the sound of a bow being drawn was heard Techno held his weapon with one hand in an iron grip, an axe that was gifted to him by his half-enderman hybrid ally named Ranboo. He shrugs “Free loot I guess.” 

Techno observed his foes, four zombies, two skeletons and one creeper. Hmm, that amount of mobs shouldn’t spawn that fast, strange. He thought to himself as the voices began chanting “Blood for The Blood God.” Techno sprinted to one of the zombies kicking it on the stomach forcing the zombie to collide with one of the skeletons at the back, he then raised his axe in one fell swoop beheading two of the mobs at the same time. Quickly turning around with his body weight giving a powerful swipe from his axe, he was able to kill a zombie while dodging an arrow at the same time.

 “That’s three down.” he said under his breath grabbing the dead corpse he threw it at the approaching creeper causing the green creature to stumble, while the skeleton fired arrows from the distance. Jumping out of the way, Techno loads his crossbow, shooting the skeleton on the head killing it as he swiftly slices the creeper from behind him leaving gunpowder on the ground mixing with the snow. Sighing he slices the final zombie in half for he is the winner in this fight “I feel like this is gonna be a long day.” he said as the voices cheered while more mobs began to spawn behind him. 

 Inside a cave there is a humble abode that Grian built and is currently residing within, while wearing a warm smooth red cloak and taking shelter from the raging snow outside. Grian found this cave a week ago, deciding to make it his base for the meantime inside XD’s server. Although far away from civilization it’s perfect to keep the members of the server oblivious to what exactly he is, it’s also to avoid panic and conflict. Grian remembered XD’s warnings that the residents aren’t really good people and could take advantage of him one way or the other. Knowing that he wasn’t really too keen in meeting the server members just yet, from his observations mostly everyone had sides it would make things difficult to ask for cooperation. Grian went to the kitchen to brew himself some tea. “Good thing the other hermits gave me extra supplies before I left.” he said to himself while waiting for the hot water to boil. 

Suddenly he hears an explosion and a loud thud outside his house along with multiple gurglings of zombies. Peeking outside his window he saw someone fighting multiple dozens of zombies, Grian couldn't tell because of the blizzard. Shocked and confused but also curious, multiple thoughts ran in his mind. Who is that? Wait, there in trouble should I let them in? But they could be dangerous. Then he heard another loud explosion with that Grian had made his decision, grabbing a lamp as he quickly opened the door and yelled “HEY YOU GET IN!” The stranger was at first surprised not expecting anyone, they couldn’t see well because of the blizzard but they were able to see the light from the lamp. Laying down their options they decided to run to the light thinking to themself Whoever you are please don’t be an orphan, if I get helped by one chat will make fun of me. 

[ladysternchen]

Yet Were Its Making Good, For This- Part Two- Reunited

“Oh come on, love. You’re tired, and the only thing to do about that is sleep.”

Mablung savoured each word, unable to keep himself from grinning broadly. He had been forced to watch Elu’s quirks quietly for thousands of years and thus hugely enjoyed being able to openly tease him about them now. And -more importantly- look after him properly. 

Elu didn’t react at once but after a while said quietly:

“I miss my cloak.”

“I know. Let us share mine for now. The night is balmy, we shall not be cold, and then tomorrow we’ll see what we can do to give the Greycloak back his mantle.”

Elu smiled a little, and then pulled his tunic over his head at last. As he bared his torso Mablung’s breath caught in his chest.

“You bear your scars still.” he whispered. 

He had not heard of that before, safe in Maedhros, whose right wrist was still encircled with a fine scar, reminiscent of a silver-white bracelet. That scar, he claimed, meant something to him, for it had been Fingon who had cut off his hand out of love and so he bore it even in his new body. Mablung had until now put that off as something weird the Fëanorians would do, who could after all not deny to be Finwë’s descendants. Apparently, he had been mistaken about that. Apparently, bearing one’s scars was not only some Finwëan antic. 

He caught himself quickly, holding his arm out in invitation, and Elu complied by crawling over to him and lying down in the soft grass as well, arms crossed behind his head. Mablung could not keep his eyes from hungrily roaming his body, inwardly longing to just bend over him and cover every inch of his skin with kisses. He was so lost in thought that he almost started when Elu spoke once more, having apparently just coming out of his own line of thoughts. 

“Yes, I carry the marks of my death. I am not whole, not how I should be. That is, I think, also why I remember the time in the Halls when everyone else doesn’t.”

“That does make sense, yes. But I shall love you regardless. You can be the oddest elf there is, and the most marked, it doesn’t matter to me. I’ll love you on the good days and the bad ones. You know that.”

“I do.” Elu said simply. 

They lay side by side quietly for a while as night properly fell around them, then Mablung sighed.

“I could never forgive the Dwarves of Nogrod that. My own death, yes, but never what they did to you.” he said, pressing a gentle kiss to Elu’s upper arm.

“I insulted them, Mablung.” Elu stated quietly. “I behaved like the very worst possible version of myself…”

“No insult rectifies murder. You were alone and unarmed. Whatever it was you said, killing you there and then was never just, under no law within Arda safe perhaps that of the orcs.”

Mablung could not keep the heat out of his tone, as much as he tried to. 

“They might have declared war on Doriath, I’ll admit to that, but not kill its king.”

“I never said that they were in the right. But I had my hand in my own murder, there is no way denying that.”

Mablung knew that Elu was right, had in his mind scolded him many times for it, yet still he could not bring himself to agree now. Not now that Elu was so openly admitting to his own faults.

“You were ill then, Elu. Quite ill. You were not yourself.”

That, too, was no lie, and Elu sighed, nodding slightly.

“True. But put your anger to rest now, Mablung, at least that part of your anger that you feel on my behalf. They killed me swiftly, it was all over in a matter of moments. And they… I cannot be sure of this, but… I think they actually let me look into the Silmaril’s light. Which is strange, for they could in truth not have known what unspeakable comfort that meant to me, but they did not take it away, nor cover it before I was dead. So even in their wrath they showed me that act of mercy. 

So really, I bear no grudge against them and I never did. Well, no, that’s not true, I was -and am- quite angry about being robbed, about what they did to my people and my city afterwards, and most importantly about what they did to you and Elmo. But they paid heavily for that, and if their belief is true and they reside in Aulë’s keeping after their deaths, I am sure that Aulë will have dealt with those specific crimes. Or is still dealing with them, for I cannot imagine Dwarves being any less headstrong in death than they are in life.”

He laughed a little and Mablung grudgingly smiled, too.

“But after all, it was the Dwarves who built me Menegroth, and wrought me my sword and shield and armour that saved my life and realm in battle. I am loathe to being the one who sparked so much hatred between our peoples. Melian says that this was ever designed so by Ilúvatar, but I hate to be an instrument of his will in just such a way. That’s almost worse than all that strife being caused by my own temper after all. Or rather my failure to keep it.”

“That strife is settled now, though, at least in parts. Galadriel played a huge role in that, but most of all the grandson of Oropher. He is called Legolas and did great deeds during the defeat of Sauron. He even smuggled his dwarven best friend to the undying lands, believe it or not. Gimli son of Gloin was well beloved in Tol Eressëa until his passing and is mourned there still.”

Some of the tension seemed to leave Elu’s body at those words, and he shifted his position a little to smile gladly at Mablung.

“That is beautiful to hear.” he said quietly. “I should have liked to make Master Gimli’s acquaintance.”

Mablung chuckled.

“Oh, I don’t know. Legolas is bold for sure, but I think having to introduce his smuggled best friend to the legendary elf his father ever idolised… I think that might have been too much for the poor chap.”

Both again laughed, and the laughter drove out the last bit of shock at seeing Elu so scarred. Now Mablung dared, and carefully traced the scar that ran from Elu’s sternum down beyond his navel, feeling him shiver at the touch. Instantly Mablung made to redraw his hand, humming apologetically, but Elu quickly seized his hand, holding it steady on his skin.

“Don’t stop. Never not touch me, Mablung.”

Mablung stopped trying to pull away and allowed his fingers to relax, and after a moment started to caress Elu again, who closed his eyes for a moment to of relish.

“Alright.” Mablung whispered. “If you promise me to never not kiss me when my memories overwhelm me.”

“Promised.” Elu breathed.

They could no longer deny their longing for each other now, and Mablung spread his cloak over both of them, drawing even closer to his companion as he did so.

“Do you remember our first kiss?” he asked hoarsely.

“Of course I do. You took my virginity that day in more than one way, so how could I not remember? I cherished that memory throughout the Ages, both in Beleriand and Mandos.”

Mablung smiled.

“A part of me rued the fact, then, that it was not the first time for me as well. But then, had it been, I could not have pretended not to bond.”

“Aye, and it was clumsy enough with me having no clue. Imagine us both… nah, I’d rather not. I was so overwhelmed. Nobody had ever touched me, never before had I been at someone’s mercy. I felt so vulnerable then, but you… you were so gentle.”

“I wonder if it will feel like that again. Like the first time. After all, our bodies are not the same bodies that… well.”

Elu took a moment to answer, but then said:

“It is different, and yet the first time again. I… Melian and I could not keep off each other after I was re-embodied. It surprised even us, the longing we felt when we held each other again, as that was never the most important part of our relationship.”

“No…” Mablung smirked “… you cuddled. All the time. I guessed after a while that not every touch could lead to more, not given the amount of time you spent in court.”

Elu snorted, pushing himself away from Mablung a little so that he could look him in the face.

“Mablung, what exactly… have you been pondering my love life the whole time?”

He sounded both amused and indignant, which made Mablung laugh.

“What else should I have done when standing guard behind you? Why do you think I was so keen to take on the post as the King’s guard whenever I was off my hunter’s duty? Because then it was actually my job to watch you, and I could do so without it seeming odd.”

“And being horny that entire time?”

“Mh, maybe not the entire time, but often enough. But then, tonight, the tables shall truly be turned. I have not been intimate with anyone since Mandos, not even Beleg. This time, in this body, my first time shall be with you.”

“I’m honoured” Elu said softly, and then he pulled Mablung a real kiss at last. 

For all Mablung knew as they lay beneath the stars, loving each other, they might have been the only beings in the fathomless Void, for it would surly not have felt any different. Nothing was real anymore for Mablung safe Elu alone, and their entwined bodies, and touching him and being touched. He knew Elu thanked him for his love and patience with every tender caress, every kiss, every careful movement within him, and Mablung gave himself to his companion wholly, having never before known his pleasure to reach such heights. 

Only when he thought he would not be able to hold back another moment did he open his eyes again, cupping Elu’s face with a trembling hand. Elu, too, was shaking with his arousal, and by his ragged breathing Mablung knew that he could not be in any other state than he himself.

“I’m close now.” Mablung breathed huskily “And I want us to come together. I need us to come together.”

“Oh Mablung…” Elu panted, hiding his face for a moment in the crook of Mablung’s neck, until he had somewhat steadied his breathing. Then he looked up again, reached very deliberately for Mablung’s hand and interlocked their fingers.

“Eru be our witness, then.” he said hoarsely.

“Eru be our witness.” Mablung repeated, before he again lost himself in Elu’s embrace. 

He  knew that this was a life-changing moment, but just then he could not have cared less. He only cared about Elu moving within him, and his hands between Mablung's legs, and the words he whispered into his ear:

“You’re mine.”

Only once they had come down from their climax and somewhat steadied their breathing did Elu add:

“That is, if you want to be mine.”

Mablung laughed and kissed Elu passionately. This small double-take was so endearingly familiar to him that he could not help it.

“That is so you. Everyone else would have just left it there. I have always been yours, Elu. Since I could walk and talk, I have been yours. I admired you, I trusted you, I wanted to be close to you. Only my childish self did not recognise that feeling as love then. And I will remain yours forevermore. I love you.”

Elu smiled, sniffing a little.

“I love you, too. But now I am going to cry you know? As you said, the tables are turned. You cried our first first time, I cry this second first time.”

“You noticed? Then?”

Mablung was both touched and embarrassed. He had thought that Elu had remained oblivious to his tears back then, but apparently he had been mistaken. 

“Have I noticed… of course I noticed. Honestly, Mablung, how could I not notice? Do you think I haven’t watched you just as much as you watched me? It touched me so deeply to know what this first time meant to you. I cannot say how much I admired your strength, because I knew what you put yourself into. I’m so sorry that I could not give you what you needed.”

“No. No, love, you gave me what I needed. And we have each other now. Thanks to Melian, and I will never stop thanking her for that.”

A loving smile swept over Elu’s face as he nodded.

“I still cannot believe that I will truly have you both with me. And oh, I look forward to see you and Melian just… be together. She always put all her trust in you, and I love to see how that friendship will grow now that she is no longer your queen.”

For a moment Mablung just looked at Elu, then he laughed. Of course, he could know nothing of the relationship that had grown between him and Melian over the past millennia. Mablung chose not to mention that now, though. Elu would soon find out himself.

A content sleepiness came over them both now, and Elu had already turned back onto his back, lying with his eyes closed, strands of hair having come loose from his braid after their love-making. Mablung gazed at him raptly, marvelling at his beauty, yet also reminded painfully of Elu lying dead, and as much as he tried to calm himself, he couldn’t keep a small noise of dismay escaping his throat. Elu opened his eyes again in concern, and Mablung hastened to reassure him.

“Sleep. I’m sorry. It is just that seeing you like this… it brings back memories.”

Elu, to Mablung’s great surprise, smiled wryly and sighed.

“You’re like Elmo when he was a child. He could never bear to see me sleep, unless he lay with his ear over my heart. Come here then.”

Mablung wanted to protest, to tell Elu that he was not to be compared to the frightened little elfling Elmo had been at Cuiviénen, but snuggled into Elu’s arms nonetheless.

“I’m not your brother.” he grumbled, and felt Elu chuckle. 

“Of course not, my love. Otherwise I would hardly have bedded you.”

Mablung really wanted to argue some more, to tell Elu that unlike little Elmo, whose fear for Elu had been borne of the assault on their parents he had witnessed as an infant, his pain came from an entirely different experience. He had been the one to slide Elu’s eyes shut so that neither Melian nor Elmo had to go through that experience, had seen Elu lie in state, had stood hours and hours by his body in grief so profound that it was true physical pain. He wanted to tell Elu that it was for these memories that watching him sleep was painful, but Mablung found he was really too tired to talk anymore. The last thing he felt was Elu lay his hand on his head and stroke his hair tenderly and within moments he was sound asleep. 

[iregreteverything19]

*kinda* more accurate merlin era fashion

[gossip-girl-of-middleearth]

She’s the Man (Fellowship x Disguised as Boy! Reader)

Requested by anon

Warnings: mentions of domestic/sexual assault, nudity, awkward public bathing. Might trigger a gender identity crisis in some of you folks, but don’t worry, join the club—we’re getting jackets made.

Synopsis: after having run away from your noble family and horrid husband, you cut your hair short and start dressing like a boy, presenting yourself as one throughout all of Middle-earth. This becomes hard, though, as you start travelling with the Fellowship, where they start to suspect something is up with their young “boy” comrade.

Restrictions, restrictions, restrictions—that’s all you’ve ever known. You first noticed the tight chains on your soul when you were five, when your mother forbade you from playing with the local stable-hands.

You next noticed it when you were ten, being forced to wear tight corsets to shape your body before it even began blooming.

The final nail in the coffin, however, was when you turned fifteen, and were married off to a local, and quite old tradesman.

Though he dealt in silken fabrics, he was anything but smooth or soft. The night of your wedding was painful in all regards, for at fifteen you weren’t even sure if you were allowed to remove the tight corset during the act.

Five years more of total misery accompanied you, as you were forced to attend noble banquets and celebrations.

You encountered a wide range of people, from the likes of Denethor and his two sons, to the sickly Rohan King. Of course, they did not encounter you, for you were not allowed to speak unless spoken to, which was rare.

The two sons of Denethor and King Théoden’s own son, Théodred, as well as his two cousins, Eowyn and Eomer, were the only ones to initiate conversation with you.

You quickly realized they were better-spirited than their parents, but didn’t have the chance to explore more. A tight grip on your wrist from your husband silenced you, as he tore you away from the circle of new acquaintances quickly.

That night, life in your guestroom with your husband was a living hell, as he reminded you whom exactly you belonged to.

That was the night you snapped.

Bruised and sore, you wept into your sheets. Your husband had long-gone to drink more wine at the party, leaving his young wife alone in a state of mess.

It was around the third hour of crying that you studied the tapestry on the wall above your bed. With hair wettened by your tears clinging to your puffy cheeks, you ran your reddened eyes along the art.

It depicted a strong soldier atop a horse, riding into battle. A sword was drawn, and his short hair flowing in the wind behind him.

Subconsciously, you reached up to your own hair, long in length—your husband’s desire—and pulled on it.

As mounted in every room, two swords crossed each other over a shield, making a pretty decoration above the mantle.

Looking between the bruises inside your thighs, the tapestry and the sword, your jaw quickly set. Your eyes hardened, as you threw the sheets off your frame and stalked towards the mantle.

Glancing over your shoulder, you ensured no one was entering your room. With an emotional mind made up, you removed both swords from the shield.

Hastily, you used one to bar the door shut, and walked to the centre of the room with the other. With no candlelight around, you knelt on the fur rug under a square beam of moonlight, which poured in through the bedroom windows.

You looked at your reflection in the sword, and studied the state of your misery. Despising your parents, your husband and your life, you quickly put the sword to your hair.

With only a second to build the courage, you sliced all long locks from your head, springing forward a boyish look—instantly freeing yourself from your lifelong chains.

Breathing heavily in shock, you looked at the clump of hair on the floor, and picked it up. One hand ran through your now very short locks, and the other fingered the cut clump.

However, shocked breaths soon turned into joyous laughter, as your chest swelled with pride and your eyes watered.

Standing up swiftly, you ran towards the bathroom and opened the drawers. Finding a pair of scissors, you got to work and began styling your hair further.

Soon, you were left looking like a boy, by Middle-earth’s human standards. Your hair barely scraped the nape of your neck at the back, and in front, you had a fringe swooping to one side.

Grinning brightly, and now on a roll, you ran back to the mantle. Opening your husband’s drawers, you quickly discarded your nightgown and slipped his tunic on.

Shrugging the loose fit over your form, you secured it with a thick brown belt, trousers and used your own boots.

Studying yourself in the mirror, you realized this must be how you would’ve looked if born a boy, and you were surprised within yourself over liking it.

Throwing your clump of cut hair into the fire, you soon began tying sheets together. That night, you escaped down the window and fled the city atop a stolen horse, riding towards your new life.

Five years passed by, and you had been on the run ever since. Life was never easy for you, but at least now you were calling the shots.

You had taken to your new life as a boy, like a duck to water, presenting yourself as the rather quiet and distant “Arlo”.

You kept your head down and worked hard wherever you went, whether as a blacksmith’s apprentice, baker’s boy or stablehand.

Your most favourite part of the road, however, was learning to use a sword. With a book stolen from a library and five years’ worth of nights to practice, you had become quite skilled. The spite drove you forward.

You vowed no one would ever best you in combat again, pushing you harder every day. Your best friend and only companion was your horse, Paxton, and together the two of you explored Middle-earth to its very ends.

Along your travels, you had taken to competing in swordfight competitions, where you earned most of your cash. Swindling them, you presented yourself as a weak and frail boy, but in the end ultimately beat them all.

You gained a reputation quickly, and were slightly infamous for your swordsman skills, despite being so small.

It was this reputation that led you to Elrond’s secret council in Rivendell.

Your eyes had gone wide in alarm upon entering the petal-strewn area—where the council was set to be held—for Boromir, one of Denethor’s sons, was there.

You almost turned and ran, but he caught your eye quickly. You didn’t know whether or not to avoid his gaze, but that would bring about suspicion.

He instead smiled warmly at you, and thought nothing of your appearance. You nodded back tightly, and took your seat far away from him.

You ended up sitting next to an elf, for you knew their gender worked differently from yours. He himself looked a little girlish, so you believed he’d think nothing of your appearance.

He studied you with a side-glance as you sat down, and nodded curtly. You clenched your jaw and nodded back, moving your eyes forwards again.

You discreetly let out a sigh of relief, as you found the coast to be clear. No one figured you to be a girl.

Soon, Elrond joined the council. You felt your breath hitch in your throat, as you realized his puzzled eyes lingered on you a little too long.

Worried he’d rat you out, you looked away. Knitting his brows, Elrond slowly tore his eyes away from you, and began the council.

Long story-short, you had been invited to participate on a dangerous quest, all food and expenses paid for. Unable to pass up such a good opportunity for you and your horse, you reluctantly agreed, offering your sword to the hobbit sworn to carrying Sauron’s ring.

The first few nights you kept to yourself, as an awkward air befell the Fellowship—none really knowing each other nor knowing how to interact.

Very quickly, cliques formed.

The hobbits kept to each other in a pack, Gandalf joining them. Aragorn and Legolas joined forces, and Boromir, Gimli and yourself found ranks in solitude.

However, this was not to last forever.

Boromir had attempted many times to strike up conversation with you, as besides Aragorn, you were the only other “man” there.

You kept it short and courteous, but made it apparent very quickly to everyone there that you were in no position to begin friendships. This was a job to you—nothing more, nothing less.

That still did not stop anyone from trying, though. After Boromir, Gimli was next. The topic of the night around the campfire was “women”, as they all discussed their perfect partner.

The conversation divided the group in half, over those choosing to go more physical in nature a direction, and the other half preferring emotions.

Gimli laughed heartily and elbowed you in the shoulder. “Forget this lot, eh? I bet you and I are exactly alike, laddie! Thick thighs and body hair all over! Am I right?”

Laughing nervously, you rubbed at the back of your neck. “Uh…not really…”

He blinked up at you in surprise for a moment, before shrugging his shoulders and pressing on in the conversation. Legolas studied you from across the fire, and made a mental note of your words.

Later on, when you were all setting up your rugs, Legolas approached you. He crouched down by your side and began helping to unroll your pack.

You recoiled from him slightly, and stared up in alarm. He looked back down at you briefly with a tight-lipped smile, and spoke.

“I agree with you from earlier,” he said. “I believe partnership should be about romance and emotions, not physical acts. How about you, mellon nin? Have a lady waiting back at home for you?”

You sputtered up at the prince, before averting your eyes and rolling your pack out faster. “No, I…uh, that’s not really my area…”

Legolas knitted his brows for a moment in confusion, before his lips parted in sudden understanding.

“Oh. Oh! Well, um…do you have a gentleman waiting back at home for you, then?”

Snapping your eyes up at him once more, you flushed.

“No! No! I, look—I’m really kinda tired.” You made a show of yawning loudly. “And I think I just wanna get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning, though…brother?”

Legolas blinked down at you a few times, before speaking and rising to his legs. “Oh! Uh, sure…that’s no hassle. Rest well…brother?”

“Will do,” you drew out, laying down.

He threw a glance over his shoulder at you, before walking away. He caught Aragorn’s eye as he walked past, with the ranger sat there puffing away on his pipe.

They both tightened their lips, looked away and raised their brows, figuring you were just a moody boy.

The most awkward situation of all, however, came a few weeks later. Having managed to sneak away from the Fellowship, you found a nice river, of which you could bathe in.

Paxton followed suit, keeping your towel wrapped over his saddle. He snorted in worry as you began to undress, revealing your body to the running river.

“It’s fine,” you laughed, girlishly. Your voice had returned to its normal pitch, for the first time in a long time. “Just because I’m pretending to be a boy as I travel with them, doesn’t mean I have to smell like one!”

Paxton snorted, and you knew he was telling you to hurry.

“All right, all right,” you laughed again, stepping into the water. You hugged your chest as you dipped below, submerging yourself fully.

Rising again, you exhaled a sigh of relief, and began washing the grime from your hair and face.

You were only in there for so long, however, for soon boyish laughter came from up the forested incline.

“Out of the way!” Pippin called, stripping off his clothes.

“No! You move!” Merry shouted back, also stripping down.

Behind them both, was the rest of the entire Fellowship, save for Gandalf.

Your eyes grew wide in alarm, as you watched them all meet the river’s bank. They then began undressing—Aragorn, Boromir, Gimli, Legolas and the hobbits included.

Soon, they each all jumped into the water, splashing one another and laughing loudly. You found a large boulder within the river nearby, and swam behind it.

Peeking out from the side, you watched them all swim closer in a group to where you were. They began cleaning themselves, and soon just started to wade around—relishing in the cool feeling.

However, as you tried to swim away discreetly, Legolas’ elven ears caught you. He narrowed his eyes, and began swimming over to your rock.

Knowing you would be caught if you tried to flee, you pressed your back firm against the rock, lapping up against it.

Legolas was now upon you, and looked around the corner to find what was behind it. Once he saw it was only you, he beamed brightly.

Rising up out of the water, he folded his arms over the rock and leaned over, looking down at you.

You tried to not let your eyes drift or slip, as you stared back up at him. However, mistakes were made (but clearly not on his parents’ behalf).

“Hello, Arlo!” he announced merrily. “We didn’t know you were also in here.”

Upon hearing your name, the rest of the Fellowship waved you over, asking you to join them.

You chuckled nervously and began swimming backwards and away, speaking as you did so. “Oh, no…that’s quite all right! I, uh…just remembered I actually have something to do—”

“Oh, no! Don’t be like that!” Boromir chastised. He grabbed your wrist gently and reeled you back in towards him and Legolas.

Your shoulders went rigid, as you nearly brushed up against their bare bodies.

Soon, the hobbits, Gimli and Aragorn swam over to you, and you were more thankful now for the darkness of night than you had ever been.

Though, with one slither of moonlight in the right spot, you’d soon be exposed.

“Please don’t leave on our behalf, Arlo,” Aragorn encouraged, placing a hand on your wet shoulder. “It is good for team morale to bond like this. Besides, we’re all men here.”

“Some more than others!” Gimli announced. You looked up in the direction of his voice, and immediately covered your eyes.  

Gimli was stood with his hands on his hips, proudly naked atop your boulder.

“I am the king of this rock!” he announced. “Any competitors who’d like to have a go at pushing me off?”

“Please,” Legolas rolled his eyes, before he, too, swam over to the boulder and climbed atop it. “This will be the easiest fight of my life.”

Catching more than you wanted to see, you made a squeal of rejection, before forcibly pushing your way through the group and heading towards the bank.

Paxton met you quickly, and you swiftly wrapped the towel over your shoulders like a cloak, as to not make it obvious what you were covering, but doing so nonetheless.

“I’m sorry,” you said to them, “but I truly do have something else to do…literally anything else. I’ll see you all back at camp.”

They watched as you left in a hurry, and shared glances with one another. Thinking nothing of it, besides your usual mood, they shrugged and returned to what they were doing.

This continued on for quite some time, throughout the entire Fellowship journey. Though, you never again attempted to bathe with them all around.

Fortunately, your travels soon took you out of the woods, and into the cities. Many fights had passed your small group, smaller now than before, by.

The most recent of battles saw many great feats—the “Battle of the Pelennor Fields” it was called.

In this battle, you had fought formidably. However, the true victory for women that day went to Eowyn. She had removed her helmet in the middle of the fight, pronounced she was “not a man”, like you had wanted to do so many times, and slayed the Witch-king of Angmar.

You were inspired greatly, but also so furious at yourself. You were also slightly jealous over the attention she got.

“What a brave woman,” Gimli would say.

“I’ve never met a woman so bold,” Merry added on.

“Truly remarkable,” Legolas agreed.

The six of you were sat in a stone courtyard together, camping out in the aftermath of the fight. Your jaw was rigid with fury, as you listened to them praise Eowyn over something you had been doing for the past few months.

Rolling your eyes, and making a show of turning over in your sleeping bag harshly, you quickly gained the Fellowship’s attention.

“Oh, and what is your problem, laddie?” Gimli snarked.

“Upset you were outshined by a girl?” Legolas taunted as well.

“You’re not that misogynistic, are you?” Merry chortled.

Aragorn glanced between your turned back and the laughing boys, before taking his own turn at scolding you.

“Arlo, Eowyn was a great asset today, and we are guests in her company. I will not see you sulking towards her remarkable feats.”

You glared at him over your shoulder, before huffing and returning to sleeping on your side. Your arms were folded over your chest, and your body burning in jealous rage.

“Gosh, what is the matter with you?” Legolas asked next, truly fed up with your attitude. “Why are you always in a bad mood?”

“Wouldn’t have taken you for a misogynist either,” Gimli remarked, smacking his gums as he ate a chicken leg.

You stayed on your side with your back turned to them for a few moments, glaring at the wall. However, the rage in your chest soon gave way to a lump in your throat, as you soon felt your secret burst within you.

“I’m not a misogynist…” you spoke up.

“Poppycock,” Gimli called you out.

Sighing, you sat up and looked at them to your side. “I’m not a misogynist, because…I’m not even a boy.”

Silence echoed around the courtyard, as your travel companions blinked back at you.

“What?” Pippin asked, squinting his eyes. “What do you mean you’re ‘not a boy’?”

Groaning through another sigh, and rolling your head, you pressed on. “I mean I’m NOT a boy! I’m a girl, for Eru’s sake…I’ve just been…presenting myself as one, for…reasons.”

“What reason could you possibly have to lie about something like that?” Legolas asked, not entirely believing you.

Feeling the urge to cry rising within you, you inhaled a deep breath and answered. “Nothing you men would understand.”

“I’m sorry,” Merry laughed, “but I don’t believe you at all. There’s no way you’re a girl.”

Glaring at him, you knew his words to be true. Knowing how to prove you were indeed a girl, you reached into your loose tunic, and began unwrapping the bind around your chest.

Pulling it out, you threw it down in front of the now gaping group. Without a shred of chivalry, still disbelieving you to be a girl at all, they glanced between the fabric and your chest, which indeed proved your gender.

“I don’t believe it…” Pippin whispered, staring with wide eyes.

In fact, they all did. With six pairs of male eyes on your chest, you felt very vulnerable and covered yourself.

This seemed to jolt them back to their senses, as they coughed uncomfortably and looked away.

The only one still looking into your eyes, was Aragorn. “Why did you feel the need to lie, my lady?”

Being called a “lady” for the first time in five years opened up a floodgate of emotions, as you wept into your hand.

“Yep, definitely a girl,” Merry rolled his eyes. A swift punched to his arm from Legolas silenced him.

Now knowing exactly how to deal with you, Aragorn stood up and crouched before you. He placed a tentative hand on your shoulder, and encouraged the other boys to come forwards, until they were sat all around you in a comforting circle.

“What is your real name, young maiden?” Aragorn asked softly.

Still sniffling into your hand, and bearing a downcast head, you spoke up in a barely audible voice.

“Y/n…” you revealed.

“What a beautiful name, Y/n,” he smiled warmly.

Like a turn of the tides, the boys all around took you under their wing, as if you were their own little sister. Everything about you now made sense, and they felt at ease with you instantly.

And, surprisingly, you found the same about them, regarding yourself. You didn’t at all feel threatened by their presence, but instead protected.

“I’m sorry,” you wept, shaking your head. “I had no choice, they made me marry him, and I-I couldn’t stay there, and then I had to make money so I ran with the lie and—”

They shushed your incoherent crying quickly, and rubbed at both your knees, back and shoulders comfortingly.  

They gained more information about your previous life in those few seconds than they had before in the last few months. They didn’t need to know anymore, nor wanted to, from the sounds of it all.

“Please don’t kick me out of the Fellowship…” you sniffled.

“Why would we do that?” Gimli laughed. “We now have TWO remarkable women in our ranks! Eowyn AND Y/n!

“A great win for us, indeed!” Legolas agreed brightly.

A smile broke through your tears, as they shook you softly and commended your swordswoman skills excitedly.

This carried on for a few moments, before you spoke up again, now smiling around at them through almost dried tears.

“So…you don’t mind about me lying? Or being a…woman?”

They shook their heads and returned your smile. “Not at all, lassie.”

Before the conversation could progress, however, Legolas suddenly recalled something.

“WAIT!” he gasped loudly, thinking back to the river. “THAT MEANS YOU SAW ALL OUR—”

“Let’s agree to never speak of it again, okay?”

“Aye, never again…sister.”

[bookishbarnowl]

A Night Masked With Changes: Chapter 1

Once a month, the town held a Masquerade Ball. Ostensibly, it was a chance to catch up with your neighbors and enjoy a night of carefree revelry. In reality, it was paradise for anyone who wanted to get away from who they were during the day. Not everyone hid their identities, but most did, and they came from all walks of life.

Clay's finally ready to attend the Ball himself, determined to explore the world beyond the castle. Romance is not something he accounted for. Whoops.

Warnings: None

Relationships: Dream & Technoblade (twins), Dream/George, Dream & Wilbur, Dream & Sapnap, Dream & Fundy, Phil/Kristen

Word Count: 1,929

Ao3 Link: Here

Chapters: 1 (here) 2 3 …

The clock in the Great Hall had just sounded twice, and the castle was silent. Guards were just beginning to nod at their posts, servants had long since retired to bed, and the royal family should have been asleep in their beds. The young crown prince was defying expectations.

Clay carefully shut the door of his bedroom with a quiet click, his usual extravagant attire exchanged for a simplistic suit of forest green and a dark cloak. He’d spent the last few nights working on his mask, a blank white disc carefully fitted to his face and painted with a plain black smile. It was embellished with stylized ferns and edged with painstakingly painted daisies. He was proud of it, perhaps embarrassingly so. Art was not one of his strong points.

He spared a quick glance towards the door a few rooms down from his own, knowing his twin, Technoblade, was asleep inside. He’d seriously considered dragging him along on this little excursion he had planned, but ultimately decided he couldn’t risk it. His brother could carry a secret to his grave if he wanted to, but he was a serious stick in the mud about rule breaking. Clay’s general rule of thumb with his brother was that if it could get him in trouble, he kept it to himself, and he really didn’t want his dad to find out about this. This was most definitely in that category, so tonight he was alone.

The other person he’d desperately wanted to confide in was George, his best friend. Technically, he was Clay’s valet and manservant, but over the years their relationship had evolved into something much deeper than that. They spent most of the day together and their friendship had gone from tentative giggling at jokes the other made to raucous late night gossiping sessions and sharing practically everything with each other. George had been the first person brave enough to make fun of him (besides Techno- he didn’t count) and Dream found that he actually liked being the butt of a joke when he could laugh with the person and snap back with some witty retort. George wasn’t afraid of him, and when one was the crown prince, unprejudiced companionship was a valuable commodity.

His friend was currently asleep in the servants quarters far below him in the depths of the castle, sharing a bedroom with fellow servant Floris. After a lot of troubled consideration, he’d decided that he would keep this escapade a secret, at least for now. The worst that could happen to him was he’d be grounded or punished by his dad, but George could lose his job or even worse if he was discovered helping Clay sneak out of the castle. His father wouldn’t care whose idea it had been, only that they were both involved. He was not willing to put that on the line, so no matter how guilty it made him feel, he was going to do this by himself. Besides, Floris was a light sleeper. It would be hard to avoid waking him up.

He slipped down the hall and crept down the stairs on cat feet, tying the strings of the mask behind his head as he went. Getting out of the castle was a simple matter, he’d long ago discovered a window that was loose in its casing and large enough to fit through while being light enough to lift by himself. He could slot it back into place from either side of the wall, which made it the perfect escape route.

The outer wall was a bit more of a challenge, but there was a reason he’d waited until this exact moment. There were only twenty minutes until the next change of the guard, so they would be tired and bleary from four hours of alertness. If he was careful, he could sneak up to a parapet and let himself down with a rope, which is exactly what he did.

He landed on the ground with a soft thud, tying his rope to a nearby tree so that it couldn’t be pulled back up without a hassle. He checked that his mask was secure on his face, then darted off into the night, bound for the brightly lit village in the distance.

Once a month, the town held a Masquerade Ball. Ostensibly, it was a chance to catch up with your neighbors and enjoy a night of carefree revelry. In reality, it was paradise for anyone who wanted to get away from who they were during the day. Not everyone hid their identities, but most did, and they came from all walks of life. Some came in shoddily patched linen with burlap sacks over their faces and some came in fine silk with embroidered bandanas hiding the countenances of high profile officials, but all were treated with the same welcoming spirit. One’s real name was a well-respected secret, and unmasking someone was the ultimate act of cowardice. Anyone who broke that trust would be punished without remorse.

Clay had known about the event for quite some time now, having heard a few details from George, and had finally worked up the courage to attend himself. He was sick and tired of everyone looking at him and seeing someone to be impressed and flattered. He wanted to meet someone as himself for once. Tonight, he wasn’t the crown prince. With the mask and costume on, he became Dream, his idealized self.

He snuck into the town square through an inconspicuous alleyway, ducking into the crowd and hoping he hadn’t been noticed by too many people. He wasn’t looking to draw attention yet. He got a few looks, but most people were content to return to their own conversations and pay him no mind. He was about to sigh in relief, glad to have made it in unscathed, when someone touched his shoulder. He jumped and rapidly turned to face them.

It was a man in a pale tunic and dark pants, the bottom half of his face covered with a cream-colored bandana and sparkling black eyes winking mischievously at him from the upper half.

“Welcome to the Ball,” he offered cheerfully. “You seem like you haven’t been here before.”

Clay nodded, not trusting himself to speak yet without giving himself away.

“Well, if you’d like a dance partner, I would be honored to make your acquaintance.” The man bowed cheekily, extending his hand in invitation.

Clay couldn’t think of a good reason to refuse. He was Dream now, and Dream took risks. Dream could afford to dance with strangers without fear of judgement. He nodded again and took the man’s hand. He was promptly whisked off to the center of the square, where about a dozen couples were dancing to the lively music.

He was grateful for the years of rigorous lessons he had to fall back on as the masked man swept him into the forms of the dance with confident ease. His new friend was leading, but he found he didn’t care much and excitement thrilled in his heart as the man swung him into a dip with a brilliant smile that was obvious even with his mouth obscured.

He felt so alive he could fly, grinning like a madman as the two of them twirled across the square in perfect step. His cape swirled behind him in effortless elegance when he spun, the lightweight fabric echoing his thoughts as he realized he could never happily go back to the heavy woolen mantle he wore to formal events. He’d never danced like this outside of the privacy of his lessons, and it was exhilarating.

The last measure of the song sounded with a triumphant zing, moving into a more sedate melody. His dance partner bowed once again, breathing hard and eyes wild with delight. Clay, equally tired and elated, bowed low in return.

“May I steal you for one more?” the man asked, nodding towards the other couples, who had transitioned to a stately waltz.

In response, Clay caught his arm and took the lead, placing a firm hand on his waist and gently guiding them into the first steps of the dance. They were the epitome of grace, well-matched in skill and dexterity as they flowed through the figures of the waltz. He started to notice a few people staring, growing aware that compared to most of the other attendees this level of expertise was unusual. He decided he didn’t mind the eyes on him as much as he usually did.

With the relaxed pace of the slower song, he was free to fully take in the man in front of him. He was a couple inches shorter than Clay himself and had a shock of dark hair that stuck up in all directions, his skin a few shades shy of olive. The hand clasped in his was callused around the fingers but not the palms, so he probably wasn’t a manual laborer, but he was still well-muscled. His costume was simple but the fabric was a far cry from the coarse cotton of many people here.

Clay estimated he was somewhere in the upper middle class, but he had no idea who was standing in front of him. He felt sure he would’ve remembered those impish eyes if he’d seen them before.

He wondered how he himself looked. He knew his height and fitness weren’t anything to scoff at, and compliments on his appearance were common, but what impression did he make without his famous face? He felt mysterious and intriguing, and certainly something about him had attracted this man’s attention. It felt good, knowing that he was interesting enough to seek out even without his title. He was sure his joy must be showing on his face, and he wished he didn’t need to hide it.

“So,” his partner began, interrupting his thoughts, “do you speak, masked man? I would love to know the voice that matches such exquisite dance skills.”

Clay cleared his throat, pitching his voice a few tones higher than usual. “My ability is no greater than yours,” he said appreciatively.

The bright eye-smile was back. “It’s rare I find such a well-trained dance partner, good sir. Do you have something I can call you?”

“Dream,” he answered warmly. “And what can I call you?”

“Sapnap,” he replied. “And what are you seeking tonight?”

He thought for a moment. He obviously couldn’t say he was escaping royal responsibilities. “An unbiased eye,” he admitted after a brief hesitation. “Why are you here?”

“Why, to dance!” Sapnap laughed. “It’s a Ball, after all. You’re the best partner I’ve seen since the Blood God, and I’ve been coming every month for ten years.”

“Who’s the Blood God? Are they a regular attendee?” he questioned, interest piqued. The name itself evoked fear and awe, but a certain majesty tempered it. And they were apparently a dancer as well.

“He comes most times. He’s here tonight, actually. He keeps to himself, but I finally convinced him to favor me with a dance a few months ago. He’s a very strong performer. He’s dressed in a red cloak and a pig mask, if you’d like to find him later.” He glanced over Clay’s shoulder and his eyes widened. “Or you can meet him now. He’s coming this way.” His expression switched into something more nervous. “To be quite frank, he intimidates me. Act cool.”

Clay laughed lightly and finished the waltz, bowing to Sapnap one more time before turning around to meet the Blood God. His jaw dropped as he saw who was pushing his way through the crowd, suddenly very glad indeed that his face was covered.

[ashleyswrittenwords]

Correlation Doesn’t Imply Causation

Another Zelink Oneshot

Commissioned by @truffeart :)

Post-BOTW fluff with needless angst mixed in

--------------------

It took time for the people of Hateno to warm up to the presence of the Princess with the blood of the goddess. They were folks of the countryside where the strangest occurrences had been the occasional Goron traveller or the time a youngster swore up and down that one of the cattle could speak. Miffed hadn’t covered their wonder when the mysterious young man who had brought the decaying house by the cliffs brought home a wide-eyed blonde who suspiciously met the description of the fabled princess. 

The man had only stayed in the house for short periods of time, typically buying out Pruce’s stock of arrows and visiting the odd scientist at the peak of the village. A wild, insatiable heart for adventure was something to be expected and the older gossip mongers suspected he would bring back a woman from his travels. What they hadn’t expected was his bashful admittance the day after to Ivee and her mother that he was last century’s fallen hero, that Calamity had been vanquished, and that Princess Zelda was resting in his house.

When one person knows something in Hateno, everyone does.

Initially, it was something Zelda worried extensively about. One-hundred years. Would she be out of touch? Even worse, would they see her as a monster? During her excessive ramblings, the latter question made Link do a double take and immediately steer her off the topic. He had been awake for a little over a year and reassured her that the people of Hateno were harmless, but for the first couple weeks he didn’t dispute her flimsy excuses to stay in the home when he went out on short errands.

Actually, he was very supportive of her. Link’s love for cooking had turned into more of a passion and he had easily taken the mantle of the house chef. She could tell he allowed her to do menial tasks like dicing onions so she could feel helpful, and it worked. While out to gather ingredients for meals, he brought back gardening and sewing supplies to supplement her time; even taking her measurements and returning with three colorful Hateno dresses.

And Zelda was thankful, so thankful that after two weeks she let Link introduce her to the people he knew. She had slinked a couple paces behind him, uncomfortable by the stares once they reached the main road. Amira, the wife of the general store owner, had laughed during their brief introduction, “Nack was going around spreading rumors that you glowed in the dark. I don’t suppose that’s true?”

With a wobbly smile, Zelda affirmed that it hadn’t been true. The day got easier after that. People realized they weren’t going to witness anything other than a socially anxious girl and went about their chores as if nothing happened. Of course, she also dissuaded formal titles and told them she wanted to be a normal person for as long as possible before piecing together the kingdom that had already been underway by the Sheikah.

The days went by slow, but the months sped by her. Before she knew it, Link had woken her up to the smell of herbal tea and fruitcake - sweets in the morning had always been her guilty pleasure.

“Happy three months,” Link said with a hum as he set out some plates.

Blearily, she smiled and took a seat at the table to watch him work. “Has it really been that long?”

He barely nodded. “Official this evening.”

She observed him from behind. A soft hum smoothed over their silence and she allowed herself to enjoy this less guarded Link. He talked more often. It seemed to come naturally to him now.

Zelda let herself melt into the wooden chair and thanked herself for making patterned seat cushions. It wasn’t uncommon that she took in her surroundings, comparing what she lost to what she has now. Materially, it was a deficit but never did she feel so complete. There was no real goal other than to just be. 

They ate in a comfortable silence, both still wearing what they slept in.

When noon rolled around, she disappeared upstairs to pull on a deep green dress with sewn in flower patterns and jotted down a list of items to pick up from East Wind. 

“Do you not wish to accompany me?” she asked, tying a rupee pouch to her belt. There wasn't any accusation in her voice, merely simple curiosity due to his affinity to keeping by her side. And, admittedly, she did enjoy his company.

“As much as I do,” he grumbled shortly as he tapped the Sheikah slate repeatedly. “Impa sent a letter last week that travelling merchants were having bokoblin issues in the mountain pass.”

Link wore his riding trousers and a simple Hylian tunic. Without words, they had both understood that she had claimed his Champion tunic to sleep in after days of mending. Her heart sank, it meant the shrines weren’t working today and he would need to ride horseback.

He seemed to read her mind, reaching to thread his fingers passed her ear and through her shortened locks. A commonality after she decided thigh-length hair wasn’t practical anymore.

“I should be back at nightfall. Will… you be okay?”

It was a question born of genuine concern despite the knowledge that she was fully capable of cooking and caring for herself, but he needed that affirmation for himself and she was fully willing to allow him that. When she nodded, he pulled away and she mourned the loss of warmth. Zelda forced the corners of her lips upward. The sight reassured him.

“Be careful,” she chided once he packed a small bag and swung onto his horse. Link looked down at her, grinning as if he knew something she did not. “I mean it. Don’t do anything rash.”

“I know,” he breathily said, “I won’t.”

The manner in the way he spoke sounded like her nagging had caused him great exhaustion, which elicited a playful swat at his leg. 

“Tonight?” she said, sounding more like a statement than a question.

Unwavering cobalt eyes fixated on her. A chaste nod. They didn’t say much more by the time he secured the reins in one hand and urged the horse into a slight trot. Soon he was over the bridge and down the road. By the time she retrieved her basket, he had long disappeared into the Hateno woods.

Autumn made herself known in the tree leaves that were displaced by Zelda’s steps and the chill that bit her cheeks. She fell in love with the season all over again. Ivee’s voice was clear as day once she stepped on the village road. Two people on horseback road passed her towards the inn up ahead. They politely nodded to the woman as she shouted out today’s discounts and carried on their way.

Ivee grimaced at their backs and stiffened at Zelda’s footsteps. Suddenly, with a bright smile, she twisted around to ring out a warm invitation.

Zelda offered a weak wave when the greeter’s face fell. “Sorry.”

The store owner’s daughter waved her apology away with a sigh and continued sweeping away fallen leaves from the doorstep. “Don’t be. Dad’s been on me more about getting newcomers in before the first snow.”

“Is business bad?” she asked, taking a glance about the area. There were more people than usual. 

“Quite the opposite, it’s our busiest season,” Ivee pursed her lips in thought before gesturing towards the door with a scowl. “He’s always like this. Thinkin’ we’re missing out on customers if I don’t lose my voice by sunset.”

Zelda’s shoulders bounced with silent laughter as Ivee leaned back on her heels to wipe sweat from her brow.

“I saw Link leave not too long ago,” the brunette raised her brow. “Seemed to be in a hurry.”

A shrug was Zelda’s answer as she said, “I suppose Kakariko is having a monster problem and, well, you know how he is.”

She grinned wryly, “Can’t ignore a damsel in distress?”

The basket swung with Zelda’s idle swaying and she rolled her eyes. “Oh, no,” she considered, then remembered why she came by. “Have the truffles been restocked?”

“I’m afraid not,” Ivee pouted, “I tried to save some yesterday before they sold out again, but Dad nearly lost his head.”

“I appreciate the thought, Ivee,” Zelda hummed in contemplation. She’d have to do something else for dinner.

The woman looked down, then hazel eyes shot up to hers with an idea.

“Nikki’s daughters go truffle hunting down in the lower forest. Such troublemakers, those girls,” Ivee mumbled the latter notion under her breath. “But now that moblins aren’t as much of an issue, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if you tagged along.”

“I’d love to, but Link has still been wary about me straying too far from the village. I’d rather not give him a heart attack.” And Zelda wasn’t too keen on wandering far without him; the Yiga were still active on the roads outside the village. Until now, they were careful to keep a low profile.

Ivee sighed and leaned on her broom. Wistfully, she smiled, “I wish I had a protective husband like you. You would think I could find a respectable man already, but everyone our age in this town has the maturity of a child.”

The basket in Zelda’s hands froze mid-sway. “I beg your pardon?”

She didn’t seem to notice the change in the blonde’s body language and went on to stare off, “Link is so protective of you. Zelda, you’re lucky to have snatched up a man like that early on. I’m starting to think I’m either horribly unlucky or Calamity Ganon made them extinct.”

Surely her ears weren’t mistaken. 

Husband?

Snatched up?

The woven wood splints of the basket handle dug into her palm, but she carefully guarded her expression - a testament to her upbringing. 

“There’s plenty of agreeable men in the village garrison,” she said, trying to shrug off the odd feeling. “I can make Link put in a good word for you.”

Ivee quirked her lips to the side, “I don’t know, Zee… but honestly I have nothing to lose. Will being into soldier types make me as smart as you?”

They laughed it off and Zelda politely excused herself with a slight stiffness. From East Wind, she picked up grains and milk while making sure to leave a good report to Pruce of Ivee’s behalf. On her way out, Pruce chuckled.

“Send my regards to your better half!”

Her brows scraped the highest reaches of her forehead, but Zelda quickly reeled herself in and sent a bright smile behind her. As she walked down the road with the sales shouting of Ivee behind her, she felt the shock of their assumptions settle into a stark warmth against the chill air.

There were several variables that insinuated… a very misconstrued aspect of her relationship with Link. The tips of Zelda’s ears flared. But, no, she was a scientist and understood that correlation did not mean causation. It could simply be an assumption drawn from Amira and Pruce’s household only. 

“Zelda!” 

She jumped at the hiss, spinning towards its direction and coming face to face with Nikki. The woman gripped her wrist and dragged her around the corner of a house. Then, Amira popped up from behind a barrel.

“You’re good!” she loudly whispered. “He didn’t notice.”

“Who didn’t notice?” Zelda said, making Nikki momentarily panic when her voice was too loud for her liking. The antics of the two women were fairly normal, but this situation was entirely new.

Amira, who was glaring around the bend, appeared again with shifty eyes. “There’s a man going around asking nearly every woman on a date.”

Nikki puffed out her chest victoriously. “You’re lucky. He got distracted by the innkeeper’s daughter. He kept going on about boots. His boots this, his boots that. My goodness, he’s fortunate he didn’t pull that on me. My Nacky would have let him have it.”

“O-Oh,” Zelda exchanged glances between the two of them. “Thank you.”

“Absolutely, darling,” Amira proudly declared. “We wouldn’t want Link running around trying to find the man who wanted to steal you from him, now would we? It’d be bad for business.”

Before Zelda knew it, she was nodding vehemently. “Yes, I know what you mean.”

She most certainly did not know what they meant. At all. Quickly, she bid them a good day and began her way up the slopes to the Sheikah lab. Despite Amira and Nikki’s warning, the boot man never appeared to steal her away.

Purah’s squeaky voice was heard above the ticking of gears as Zelda pushed open the doors. Calculating brown eyes met hers, “I was wondering if you’d ever visit me.”

“I was here yesterday.”

She still appeared to be a child, but Zelda noticed she was taller than the prior day. From her stool, she squinted down into the cavernous body of a small guardian. It had long been deactivated by Link before he defeated Calamity Ganon, and Zelda was set to use it for a better purpose than rotting in a junkyard. 

The Sheikah waved her off, “Did your potion make only my mind older because I distinctly remember Symin being the only one here.”

Symin barely looked up from a diagram, “She was here for four hours, Purah.”

All the scientist did was hum a tune. Zelda helped herself to the desk space she had occupied a day before. Scattered across it were miscellaneous notes in Zelda and Purah’s handwriting. Small illustrations were more prevalent in Purah’s more recent studies. At least her physical form was growing older and the blonde was quick to scribble down her observations. 

Beyond that, however, Zelda grew relentlessly distracted. Any progress was dashed when she remembered how they referred to Link. Three desperate attempts to read through the same paragraph were thwarted by the time she slammed the book shut, unable to get the notion of being married out of her head.

Husband. Husband? That would make her his wife, logically. But what wasn’t logical would be the ability to fathom this idea in the first place.

“Symin,” she suddenly said, catching the larger man’s attention. He swiveled a bit in his stool to face her.

“Do you need another reference?” He was referring to the Guardian mandible in his lap.

Zelda shook her head before choosing her words carefully. 

“What are your thoughts on marriage?”

“Um,” Symin wrinkled his nose and gazed up at the ceiling above. “Uh, I have very little on the subject. Why ask me?”

“Don’t hit on my assistant, Zelly,” Purah’s voice echoed from within the Guardian body she was dismantling. “I’ll tell on you to Linky.”

That made Zelda place her hands on the table and partially stand. The metal parts lying on her skirt clattered to the ground. 

 “So, you think we’re married too?” She was louder than she usually was with a tone of finality. 

Symin nearly gawked, “You aren’t?”

“No!”

“You aren’t?” Purah echoed, popping her white head of hair out of the sea of wheels and cogs.

“Purah you should know this!”

“Zelly, you must know old women don’t poke their noses into other people’s business! Consider it an educated guess.”

Zelda groaned, falling back into her seat with her head in her hands.

The researcher’s assistant beside her shifted awkwardly in his seat.

“Well,” he started, then stopping and starting again. “It must have been another dramatization when the story began spreading across Hyrule.”

“What’s the story say then?” she said, defeat in her stature and embarrassment on her cheeks. “I might as well know how it was told.”

Purah had fully reemerged now, her clothes stained from oil. She wriggled onto the table. “Something something, before the Princess’s birthday,” she sang, “the goddesses something something and under the watchful eye of Hylia they eloped or whatever.”

“We eloped?”

“I don’t know!” Purah threw up her short arms. “That’s what the bird said!”

“Look,” Symin steered her away from his mentor. “Maybe it’d be best if you got home and explained it to Link before he hears it from someone else.”

She considered it. He was right. Zelda should rip the bandaid off early on, then the awkwardness could pass faster.

Right? 

“I will say, I was hurt that I wasn’t invited,” Purah pouted, handing Zelda her basket. “But remember that when there’s a real wedding.”

She didn’t have the emotional energy to argue at that point.

It had been hours since she had ascended the cliff and now the impending sunset brought dropping temperatures. The clouds over the sea hadn’t lightened her mood either.

By the time Zelda returned home, night had fallen outside and it caused her to assume that Link was wise enough to spend it in Kakariko. He knew she didn’t like the thought of him riding past dusk.

She waited until small bubbles manifested over the sea of oil and melted the butter for her mind to wander. It wasn’t… imposterous to make inferences based on their interactions. After all, they had known one another for over one-hundred years (with all minor happenstances abiding). Perhaps it was only natural that they developed their familiar bond.

Zelda had difficulties with darkness and he, with sleep, so it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence that she made herself a space amongst his makeshift pallets by the hearth, nor him in her bed in the loft. How many times has that happened?

Many times. Most nights.

The heat on her face was quickly blamed on the simmering risotto base. Gradually, she stirred in the rice and spices, copying the movements she’s seen Link do before. 

Besides, sleeping together - no, merely sharing the same proximity - was born of necessity. There were plenty of activities a married couple performed that they didn’t. Nikki and Nack called one another the most egregious nicknames. Zelda nodded to herself, stirring the contents of the pan with fervor. That was something they never did.

They were comfortable roommates. Who slept together on the occasion.

And who shared lingering touches when words didn’t suffice. 

She was wary to confess the feelings she harbored for those small moments when he’d brush the side of her cheek and down the length of her hair; the only times she regretted her dubious haircut. And maybe she did enjoy the opportunities to remind him to shave by cupping his cheek in her hand. Thrill wedged itself in her heart when he leaned further into her touch.

Discomfort sat at the bottom of her stomach. Zelda frowned deeply. The familiar sensation of impending disappointment ebbed at her.

The door at the head of the room clambered open, revealing the sheets of rain falling from the heavens. Boots stomped a couple steps on the hard-wood and the door shut more gently than it opened. 

“I’m sorry,” a chilled, but deeply familiar voice said. “I’m late.”

Zelda sat back on her haunches, taking Link in as he peeled off his sopping cloak. His shoulders shook as the rain had long set into his clothes.

“Link,” she whined. “Hylia above, what have I told  you about riding in the rain? Especially in this weather!”

“I know,” he grinned wryly at her from across the room. “And I nearly rented a room, but then goddesses told me you were cooking tonight.”

She would have chastised him further and ran to grab him an extra change of clothes, but her previous thoughts pounded in the back of her brain and the steady bubbling of risotto kept her in her place.

“You’re too much for me,” she huffed, barely looking at him. “Can you check to see if this is done?”

Suddenly, his breath was right next to her ear. “I’ll move out anytime you want me to.” 

A pause.

“It’s perfect, Zel.”

Her hand stilled in its stirring. There went the nickname criteria.

Zelda caught his eye and his amused expression deflated slightly. She blinked, “This is your house.” 

A small crease formed between is brow. “And?”

“And,” she emphasized, “you’re going to catch a chill in your own home if you don’t change.”

Link didn’t move immediately and she could feel his stare, but eventually he relented to her nagging. She could hardly hear him shuffle about the room once his boots were removed. When Zelda pulled the pan from the fire, he was descending down the loft in a simple cloth shirt and trousers.

“Did I do something?” he said, idling by the foot of the stairs.

That had made her brow furrow and her frown to deepen. 

“No,” she nonchalantly answered, throwing down a potholder on the table with more force than needed.

He eyed her from the cabinet and pulled out a couple plates.

“I am fine,” she copied his stare and could tell the question was on the tip of his tongue. Still, he held her gaze from across the room. Zelda pressed the appropriate silverware onto the placemats.

“Link, stop that. I’m fine.”

When he closed the distance to put the appropriate plates on their mats, he hadn’t yielded to her reassurances and took note on the way she stepped away to give him extra room.

Annoyance wormed into Zelda’s chest and she dimly noticed that this manner of interrogation was used before.

“Have I done anything?” Link asked again, genuinely this time. “Because I’m sorry if I worried you.”

It was a wonder how this was the same man who could take on three lynels at once. She only knew because she’s seen it. The fire was there when he stared down Ganon after a year of waking up from a century of slumber, it hadn’t stifled the flame in his eyes. But now, he was careful with her. The blue of his eyes was soft, gentle and fully willing to apologize when there was nothing he did wrong.

“No,” she said, forcing herself to match his demeanor because it wasn’t fair for her own troubles to affect him. “No, you haven’t.”

His follow up question didn’t need a voice.

“I heard something in town and,” she stopped to let her stiff shoulders sag. “I don’t think you’ll like it.”

Gods, she sounded like she was a child about to admit to breaking something. As she said the words, she realized that the idea itself hadn’t bothered her. What had bothered her was his potential reaction. 

Zelda could say they were friends, even close friends, but lovers? Spouses? The pull of her heart at the thought scared her.

Disappointment. There would be disappointment in his eyes that would leave her  to hurt.

“They think,” she paused. He tried to take her fidgeting hands in his, but she pulled away and left him dumbfounded. Zelda didn’t like that expression at all on him, only making her more flustered in what to do. 

“Who?” His tone was gentle, like calming a spooked horse.

Zelda breathed in a large breath, “This morning. Ivee and- and Pruce and… Nikki and Nack...”

She trailed off, searching the floor and Link for words.

“The townspeople?” 

Tentatively, she nodded, not quite able to spit out what she needed to say.

Now, he was fully confused. “What do they think? Zelda, I promise you they don’t judge you for what had happened.”

The Calamity. Of course he would be thinking she was worried about that with how aloof her mannerisms suddenly were. Assuming he guessed right, his small frown upticked to sympathy.

“They’d never pin that on you. If anything, they warmed up to you more than they did to me.”

He began to tell her about the odd stares he got when he began reconstruction of the house. All the stories that would typically make her laugh, but all she could do with stare at their feet.

“They think we’re married!”

The words that flew from her were unequivocally hers yet her ears could hardly believe it. Link’s lips fell into a small “o” as he took a step back. Shock barely registered on his features, and it made her regret saying anything at all. She hated the way his eyes left hers.

Unsure of what to do, she watched him pace to the opposite wall and back. Never did he meet her gaze in turn for the rafters above. A hand brushed through his damp hair.

He swallowed the remnants of his tales, more softer with a certain disbelief, “Married, huh?”

Her quiet response affirmed him.

If this had been any other situation, she would have poked fun at the way he was behaving. Nothing about him exuded the certain confidence he so often employed in front of her. Lucky was a word she would have used if she managed to confound him like this.

“Ivee was the first to mention it in passing,” Zelda placated. “I thought it was a simple misunderstanding until Pruce then Nikki then Amira until…”

“Until it wasn’t so simple,” he finished for her. She smoothed a piece of hair behind her ear with a nod.

They fell back into a quietness. Some of Link’s shock gave way for, what she assumed, a reluctant acceptance.

The risotto was growing cold and neither had the stomach to point it out.

Zelda wasn’t ignorant about her feelings. However, she knew she was a coward. Before the Calamity, she had an understanding of why his name suddenly filled up the pages of her diary. Back then, Link had a silent charm to him that let her be herself for a short moment. It enraptured her. But she also had an excuse to never admit it. 

Now, she had nothing to hide behind. No Calamity Ganon was going to drag her away from the man who was obviously embarrassed to be seen as her husband.

“Married?” he asked again, as if she hadn’t confirmed it for the umpteenth time. He was leaning against the table with his hand rubbing his neck.

“Yes, Link,” she was growing frustrated. “They think we’re… you know.”

Then, he looked up. “Is that a bad thing?”

Link’s eyes swept the room at her startled reaction. “Well,” he said with a raised brow and a small shake of his head. “If you’re completely against it then I am too, but-”

Then, to her absolute surprise, he shrugged. “It’s not horrible.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” there was defensiveness in his voice, “that other people assuming I’m married isn’t the worst rumor in the world.”

Now Zelda was thoroughly convinced he had stumbled upon a pub on his way home. “You do realize that it would mean I would be your wife.”

His shrug was more grandiose this time. “And I would be your husband.”

By then, the room was much dimmer. The fire lacked wood and Zelda hadn’t had time to think about lighting candles. She could make out his features, but could hardly read them.

“So, you’re not mad?”

Link wasn’t leaning on the table anymore. The action made her feel closer to him. 

“Why would I be mad at you?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Not at me. The rumor.”

There was hesitation in his movements, but he crossed the little amount of space between them. “Honestly? It makes sense why more people haven’t outwardly hit on you.”

That comment made her let out a short laugh.

“But no,” he said; she could hear his smile. “I’m not mad… not at all.”

Link’s approach was slower than usual, but she opened up to his enticing pulls that evolved into a gentle embrace.

There were many doubts Zelda harbored. Most old, some new. To her, they were indistinguishable. Yet, all were forgotten, if only for a little while when he held her close in his arms.

When she bunched the cloth of his shirt in her hands, she felt him shiver. 

“You’re going to catch a cold,” Zelda muttered.

All he did was hold her closer. 

[urrone]

❛❛ Please just… just hold me. ❜❜

Prompt list is here. Thanks for the prompt!!!

❛❛ Please just… just hold me. ❜❜

Cullen doesn’t ask questions, not yet. He leans back in his chair to make room for her and she drops gratefully into his lap, tucking herself under his chin. Her forehead is chilly against his neck and he wraps his arms around her for a bit, feeling her gradually warm under his hands. 

When he pictures it in his mind, he thinks of a flower opening for the warmth of the sun.

The cold can’t be the problem, she’s always cold. She’s forever slipping her hands under his tunic or standing so close to the fire in the great hall that she singes her breeches. He loves being a source of warmth for her, such an uncomplicated and easy support. 

He expects she’ll talk at some point, but she doesn’t for a while. She doesn’t for so long that eventually, he goes back to reading reports with one hand while he strokes her back with the other. She’s not asleep, there’s too much tension in her body for that, but she doesn’t seem inclined to do more than sit there. 

He’s gotten through a few reports, making awkward annotations in the margins, when there’s a knock on his door. Tomkin, one of his aides, pokes his head inside. “Is everything alright?” he asks quietly. 

Cullen nods. “Is there a problem?”

“It’s just that there’s a storm cloud directly over your tower and not anywhere else in the keep.” 

Elanor twitches just a little, the slightest, barely perceptible startle. 

She’s the obvious source and everyone in the room knows it, but if she’s not ready to talk about it, Cullen’s not going to make her. “It’s fine,” he says. “I’m sure it won’t hurt anything.” 

The look on Tomkin’s face is not quite so sure. Tomkin didn’t grow up around magic or apostates and has little experience with either. He’s a steady aide but his comfort level with magic is still wanting. Tomkin nods and moves to close the door, but pauses when Cullen speaks again. “Oh and please see that we’re not disturbed until it goes away.”  

“Will it hurt anything?” Cullen asks once they’re alone again. It’s his duty to be certain. 

“No,” she says. 

Cullen’s seen her powers in combat, but the deep well of magic she contains still surprises him. That she can keep a storm cloud stirring overhead for hours is new. He runs through the list of things she might need right now and figures food to be at the top of her list. Magic eats through her energy quickly. He reaches for the roll on the plate Tomkin had brought up that morning and hands it to her. 

He waits while she chews through the roll and hands her his goblet as well to wash it down. 

Her ferocity and independence make it easy for him, for all of them really, to forget how young and far from home she is. How unprepared she’d been to take on this mantle of leadership for a god she didn’t believe in, to go against such a formidable foe as Corypheus surrounded by strangers she’d been raised to fear. 

If all she needs him to do in moments like this is give her a quiet place to rest, he’s happy to do so.                                                       

[ask-ethari-anything]

I am BLOWN AWAY that a) no one has asked for and b) you haven't yet told your wedding story. We should fix this. Go! *waits, eagerly, chin on hands*

No no no, don’t ask Runaan, he won’t tell it right. This story takes a while, and I needed to be in the right frame of mind for it, but I’m here now. Sitting comfy? Here we go.

The day dawned bright–for the Silvergrove–and I woke up for a moment, unsure where I was. One of the many Moonshadow wedding traditions is to spend your last night before your wedding in the place that represents what you’ll bring to your marriage. For me, that was my workshop. My gifts had already kept Runaan safe, my skills made him more efficient. I knew that was going to be my role in our union. So I slept on the floor by my forge, nice and toasty. 

Tiadrin was my heartguard all night–she parked herself outside my door and stayed awake with a sword in her hand. Sometimes Moonshadows test the heartguards by trying to sneak up on them to see if they’re actually awake, because what’s a Moonshadow ritual without the occasional sanctioned prank? But Tiadrin chased everyone away and never even woke me up.

She and about a dozen other Moonshadows made me the biggest breakfast I’ve ever seen. Moonberry syrup on everything! And Tiadrin cracking dirty jokes that set everyone giggling, but only when I’d just taken a bite of my breakfast! She did it on purpose that way, I know she did. That evil grin of hers… I don’t usually blush, but she got me very blushy that morning. 

When I was stuffed to the gills, they helped me get all fripped up in my Moonshadow finery. Shimmering white trousers under a floor-length, split-sided white tunic covered in embroidered runes full of love and good fortune. I felt so pretty. And kind of badass. The tailor managed to make my shoulders look even wider than they are–enchantments everywhere, you know–and I got to wear my pretty white slippers for the first time. I got my turquoise hornflowers attached and the mantle hooked into my doublet so I’d look all swoopy walking down the stairs. All the silver rings I’d made, with all their swirlies and gems, winked on my fingers and my ears. Tiadrin even coaxed a few beaded braids into my hair and tucked in a couple of dark lovebird feathers. Lastly, several of them brushed some glittery mothdust on my cheeks so I’d be especially gleamy in the light.

When she was done prettying me up, Tiadrin looked me up and down and teared up a bit. “Runaan’s going to be speechless,” she told me.

“Don’t worry. He always finds other ways to express himself,” I replied.

Apparently saying that on your wedding day is hilarious. Cue more blushing from me!

When the time came, my friends escorted me out and down the long winding staircase, with Tiadrin taking me by the hand and leading the way, and honey, let me tell you, I could hear the gasps from the elves down below. The whole village had crammed itself around the edges of the pool and up above the stone steps across the way, all in their own finery. But I only had eyes for Runaan. 

He stood below by the pool, watching me like a hawk as I came around the curve of the stairs. Dressed very like me, but with darker hints in the embroidery on his tunic, and the hornflowers he wore were deep purple. I couldn’t help it–I blew him a light little kiss from my fingertips. I may have sparked it with a bit of moon magic because I was so excited! The way he reacted, you’d think I was some hero of myth deigning to look his way for the barest second. He practically fangirled! Made me feel very loved.

Tiadrin made sure I didn’t fall off the stairs, and she led me to Runaan, who had his own heartguard in Lain. The two of them joined our hands for us and stepped back, and Runaan and I just stared and stared and smiled and smiled. With Runaan, you can have a whole conversation with silent expressions, and boy did we have one then. He was nervous and excited and relieved and exhausted and so ready to be married to me. I wanted to hold him close and never let go. But our day was just starting.

We promenaded together around the ritual pool three times while the village sang a traditional wedding song for us. Then Lain and Tiadrin wrapped our right wrists with pieces of white ribbon, Once the Binding of the Hands was complete, we led everyone up to the village green where there was a lot more room for the actual ceremony. Runaan squeezed my hand tight as we walked side by side, and his palm was damp and hot. I squeezed back even harder and nudged his shoulder. “I’ve got you, Runaan. Now and always.”

Moon help me, the look on his face. Like he couldn’t quite believe it, but it was exactly what he needed to hear. He hovered somewhere between grinning like an idiot and crying with overwhelming love. “Still up for marrying me, then?” he asked.

“Only because your horns are so cute.”

“I grew them special, just for you.”

“Such dedication! I’ll be sure to admire them thoroughly every morning, along with the rest of you.”

At that, Runaan blushed hard. Wedding days are so much fun.

The village council gathered around us in a circle, holding hands, while Runaan and I held each other’s hands in the middle. They asked us the ritual questions in turn until we’d gone all the way around. I knew my answers, of course. But seeing Runaan stare deeply into my eyes and recite the ways he would care for me for the rest of my life… hoo, that went straight to my soul, and my hands were the ones that got hot. He got a little misty when I answered the question about the ways I’d love Runaan, and my answer went on about putting my gifts in his hands so he could perform his duty and serve his people. I could’ve said lots of things there, but I knew that answer would please him most.

The final question was this, chanted by the whole council at once: “You’ve spoken your intent. Runaan, Ethari, how will you show us that you have chosen each other as your beloved match and bonded your hearts together, forsaking all others and holding to these new-made promises, in life, in death, and in the balance thereof?”

Runaan and I turned to our heartguards then, and Lain and Tiadrin stepped into the circle, each bearing a soft pillow with a pair of horn cuffs on it. Runaan slid his pointy cuffs with the turquoise gems onto my horns, and I slid my swirly cuffs onto his. Moon above, he looked so handsome properly cuffed. I thought my heart was going to beat out of my chest!

And then we kissed. We joined our right hands together, the bindings glowed white, and we totally made out in front of the whole village.

Lain and Tiadrin shouted the loudest, but the whole village lost their minds and tossed handfuls of flower petals around us. In the middle of a blue-and-white floral rain, I got to pull my husband into my arms and kiss him for the very first time. I know I was happycrying first, but Runaan let his feelings pool in his eyes, too.

And way before we were ready to let go of each other, the big drums started across the green. Lain and Tiadrin dragged us over for dancing, and we stood in the center of several concentric rings of elven pairs and danced our first wedding dance together. It’s still one of my favorite things to do with Runaan, that exact dance.

We danced the morning away, ate lunch, and danced some more. I danced with just about everyone in the Silvergrove! So did Runaan, but he vastly preferred to dance with me instead. After lunch, the games and stories came out, and everyone relaxed for a while on the grass. Lain gave a long and rambling speech about how Runaan had been too flustered to tell me how much he loved me and needed some friendly assistance. Tiadrin’s speech was far more, ah, direct, and her comments on the speed and content of our courtship left Runaan moonberry red amid teasing laughter. I held his hand tightly and whispered, “Don’t worry. I’ll fix you right up tonight and we’ll really give them something to talk about.”

Well, that didn’t help with his blushing, but he looked me right in the eye and said, “We’d better leave the window open so they can quote me properly.”

We giggled so hard, with our foreheads pressed together and our fingers interlaced, stealing kisses like the lovestruck fools we were. I told you wedding days are fun.

The sun set and the full Moon finally rose, and we danced and danced some more. Things get pretty wild when everyone shifts into full Moonshadow form and dances after a few glasses of moonberry wine. Flowers and bracelets and shoes tossed everywhere. Some of the couples disappeared into the shadows. Runaan and I tossed our mantles aside and really upped our dancing game. His hair came loose and swirled around us, and I lost my hornflowers to a spiraling dip that left me dizzy and gasping in Runaan’s arms.

There’s a fun tradition where the wedded couple tries their best to sneak away from their own wedding at the end without getting spotted. It’s very Moonshadow, and it hardly ever works. But Runaan was determined to get away with it, and he enlisted Lain and Tiadrin to help us. Around midnight, everyone paused for refreshments and stood chatting excitedly. Runaan and I stood together in plain sight and murmured to each other, seeming like we weren’t going anywhere, until people stopped watching us to see if we were sneaking off. Then Lain and Tiadrin picked up our mantles–and my hornflowers–from the other side of the green, put them on, and darted along the treeline just long enough to catch someone’s eye. The moment the cry went up that the newlyweds were trying to slip off together, Runaan and I held hands and dashed in the other direction. I was trying not to giggle, but Runaan was very focused and didn’t make a single sound.

We got away clean, of course. Runaan’s plans never fail. Once we reached the tree house, I pulled off my white slippers, and Runaan’s–totally stained green with dancing on the grass–and set them carefully aside. Wedding slippers are a sign of good luck if they’ve been well danced in.

And then we started a different dance. We did leave the window open, and I helped Runaan with some very memorable quotes for anyone listening in. Couldn’t let the village wonder if we’d made it home safely together, could I?

Because we were home. Together. And we always will be. Runaan is my home and my heart. I knew that, way before my wedding day. But I loved, so much, sharing the moment when I changed my life to let Runaan into it, fully and completely. Moonshadow weddings are an absolute delight, and mine is one of my favorite memories of all.

[lostinfantasies38]

14 Days of DA Lover’s - Day 10 Surprise Kiss

@scharoux @14daysofdalovers

Pairing: Cullen/Alistair

Locus Amoenus

[def Latin - “pleasant place,” usually a charming field or a walled garden]

Strolling the quiet fortress in the evening was a favored pastime. He noticed many things that others might overlook. Dorian and Varric discussing history in the library. Cassandra and Josephine swapping romance novels with excited giggles.  Lels and Vivienne plotting on the mage’s terrace or maybe discussing their mutual love of fashion, but since they spoke in Orlesian, he wasn’t sure which it was. Since teaming up with the Inquisitor, Alistair began to see the various companions as family and the castle his home. Surprising, indeed, since the last time he lived in a castle it had certainly not felt homey.

Of course, his feelings had absolutely nothing to do with the enigmatic Commander who also lived and breathed and, Maker’s breath, prowled the halls like a caged lion. Alistair sighed heavily. He’d pined for Cullen since he was old enough to realize his brotherly affection for him wasn’t quite so… brotherly.

Leliana was right… again. Damn that maddening woman! He should have spoken to Cullen about things face-to-face before he left. Then, he wouldn’t have spent 16 days, 9 hours, and 27 minutes stressing about his reaction. If he had simply told him, instead of leaving a furtive note and running away, he could have spent the time away either celebrating…or more likely, patching up his battered heart away from prying eyes. Now, he had to walk blindly into a mess of his own making - well, he would if he hadn’t been avoiding every opportunity to speak to him over the last two days.

Andraste’s flaming sword!

Entering the garden, Alistair found it blissfully empty and quickly located his favorite spot at the far end of the cultivated square. Closing his eyes, he leaned against a column hidden by riotous purple blooms and tried to muster the courage to do what he needed to do. Everyone is at dinner and I’m sulking behind the wisteria, hiding from my problems - like usual.

“I thought I might find you here.”

The rich baritone startled him and he wrapped his arms around the cool marble in shock. Swallowing hard, his hazel eyes landed on the man casually leaning on the wall across from him, noting the twinkle in his amber eyes, and his surprising lack of armor.

His attire was the same as his own, except his tunic was red instead of cream, and Alistair’s lips twitched.  Of course, he would wear red – it was practically his signature color. Not that he was complaining, because the shade definitely suited him and without his mantle Alistair could appreciate how Cullen’s muscular legs filled out his breeches.

Clearing his throat, Alistair stammered. “Cullen… I, ah… shit. I’m really sorry about the letter… and everything. I shouldn’t have just thrown it in your lap and disappeared like I did. I –“

Cullen’s warm chuckle interrupted his rambling. “I hope you aren’t sorry about the letter, because I’m not.”

Alistair sucked in a ragged breath as his lips curled into that infuriatingly gorgeous smirk that made him weak in the knees. Producing a red rose from behind his back, he twirled it with careless finesse. He nearly collapsed; his heart pounding so hard he thought it would surely burst. A strangled wheeze tumbled from his mouth without his permission, rudely exposing his absolute astonishment to the man who never had so much as a single hair out of place.

In three quick strides, Cullen stood before him, one hand cupping his face with a tenderness that Alistair dreamed of for almost twenty years. Cullen’s gaze flicked to his lips and closed the two inches that separated them, scattering all rational thought from his mind as he allowed himself to be swept away, fantasy at last made real.

Full lips moved against his own, the scar surprisingly smooth, and Alistair swore he could hear Andraste singing. When they deepened the kiss, brandy and mint danced on his tongue, setting his blood aflame. The moans ripped jointly from their lungs proved he was not alone in this maelstrom of emotion. The arm hooked around his waist might well have been steel, holding him captive as their sweet kiss rapidly gave way to something more primal, insistent, demanding. He needed more; he needed all of Cullen, everything he thought he could never have, yet hoped for since his youth.

Separating with a gasp as his brain asserted the need for oxygen, Alistair stared at Cullen in awe. The blond was just as dazed, swallowing hard before he rasped, “Is that answer enough for you?”

Alistair blinked in residual astonishment while scrambling for a response. “W-why...did you never say anything?”

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced in embarrassment. “I’m sure for the same reason you didn’t. I was… afraid that I would lose your friendship and… I –“

“Would rather have that than nothing, at all.” Alistair finished and they smiled shyly at one another. “When did you know?”

The blond cleared his throat, features pinking slightly with his admission. “Ahh, when you poured that bucket of dish water over my head and instead of making me angry, it made me laugh. Surprised the hell out of you, if I recall.”

Alistair snorted. “Surprised the hell out of all of us, actually, but Maker’s breath, Cullen! I’d already been in love with you for a year at that point!” Recognizing the enormity of his words, Alistair clammed up and stepped aside to flee. Yet Cullen always anticipated when he would retreat and snagged his arm to return him to his original position.

His eyes shone like polished bronze in the fading light of the garden and Alistair was lost in them. Cullen’s breathing increased along with his and he hoped, he prayed, that he had not stuck his foot so far in his mouth that he couldn’t dig his way out, if needed. A strong arm snaked around his back, deliberately pulling him closer until they were intimately flush. Uncertain what he should do with his arms, he settled for wrapping them around the blond which must have been the correct choice as the other man visibly relaxed in his hold.

Alistair was the taller of the two, but in this moment, he felt small and vulnerable. Cullen also seemed unsure, but certainly more confident than Alistair after his slip. Brushing a hand across Alistair’s cheek, Cullen whispered hoarsely, “I love you, too, Alistair. I have for… far too long without being able to tell you. I-I want this… you… us. If… you’ll have me, that is. I know that I am not… whole anymore.”

“Don’t say that!” Alistair’s wide eyes pleaded, gripping him firmly, mimicking the tightness in his chest. “No one can ever understand what you’ve been through, Cullen, not even me. But you are not broken. You are a survivor and I have so much damned respect for you. Giving up lyrium? Leaving the Templars? Commanding an army?” Alistair thumbed his stubbled jaw. “You’re an inspiration.”

Cullen scoffed softly, glancing at the ground as color flared up his neck and face. Alistair smiled and lifted his chin, stating adamantly, “Yes, Cullen, you are. You’re an inspiration to me.” Tears briefly welled in his golden gaze, but he blinked them away with a small quirk of his lips, relaxing in his gentle hold.

Alistair glanced at the rose in Cullen’s other hand. “Is that the one I gave you,” he whispered reverently, melting at the tenderness with which Cullen cradled the bloom in his large hand, a fond smile decorating his face as he admired the flower.

Cullen nodded slowly as though lost in thought, his thumb delicately rubbing the velvety petals. “I… ahem… asked Dorian to enchant it – preserve it, so it won’t die.”

Alistair rocked on his heels in shock. After a heartbeat, he gasped breathlessly, “You told Dorian?”

His brow furrowed with uncertainty, fear beginning to swirl in his amber eyes. “Yes… only because I needed his help. Should I not have? I was hoping you wouldn’t mind.”

In response, Alistair captured his lover’s mouth again, pouring his heart and soul into the kiss. A few moments later, he rested his forehead to Cullen’s, choking back tears when he spoke. “Of course, I don’t mind, you chivalrous knight! You told someone about me… us.”

Cullen cupped the nape of Alistair’s neck, affectionately circling his soft skin with battle-worn fingers, the clouds of anxiety now banished in favor of understanding. “Of course I told someone. You’re not a dirty little secret, Alistair. I love you. I am in love with you and I have been for half my life. I never expected you to feel the same way, but I am not ashamed of you or us… as a couple.”

Alistair’s tongue was thick with emotion when he replied, “I love you, too. I’m in love with you, Cullen.” Brushing their lips lightly together, he then pressed a chaste kiss against the scar he loved, but knew made Cullen self-conscious. The blond’s breath caught at the action – so much said in that one touch. A lifetime of kisses and acceptance in one and neither of them ever felt so full.

“Come with me,” Alistair whispered, afraid to speak any louder and potentially break the spell in the quiet garden. Cullen nodded mutely, eyes suspiciously bright as he clung to Alistair’s hand, gingerly holding the enchanted rose as they stole up the stairs to the battlements and Cullen’s tower.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Flower symbolism:

Red Rose: the lover’s rose

Wisteria: this vine has multiple meanings, but I used it in this scene for this particular one “serious devotion, whether it’s to a cause or another person”

[laurelsofhighever]

Chapter Rating: Mature Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War AU - No Blight, Romance, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Cousland Feels, Hurt/Comfort Summary: Alistair and Rosslyn end up somewhere they don’t expect.

-------------------------------------------------------

She sat tall in her saddle at the head of the column of riders, the salt breeze stirring against her face, tugging at her hair and the deep blue cloak arrayed over her horse’s quarters, while the jingle of harness rang like the clamour of Satinalia bells in her ears. She didn’t need to look behind her to see the array of the knights who followed her banner raising dust along the length of the Cullodhne Road, gleaming so brightly in their armour they seemed less flesh and blood than a trail of sapphires led on a silver string, like something out of legend.

On her right hand, Highever was laid out under the cloudless Kingsway sky, industrious as a beehive. Boats bobbed on the incoming tide, flashing signals to one another and to the dock workers to communicate their cargo, and further into the city itself smoke rose from the smithies, the bakeries, from the eternal fires lit in the various chantries scattered through the streets. The Orlesians had left it a wreck, blockaded as it had been during the Rebellion by Clayne pirates and abandoned by all but beggars and the most stalwart fisherfolk, but her father’s careful investment had mixed well with the forthright determination of his people, and bit by bit, like a kennelmaster nursing a starved whelp, the city had returned to prosperity. Now it sat, the third jewel in the crown of Ferelden’s northern coastlands, sleek on the riches brought south from all over the world.

And her gaze stretched beyond it, to the basalt cliffs that hid ribbed flats of silver sand and sparkling rock pools beneath their skirts, and as far again in the other direction, until the blue haze of distance stole all detail and blurred land and sky against the horizon. Stubbled wheat fields and rolling pastures dotted with livestock gave way to deep forest that fluffed like discarded bobbles of felting with the distance, but which grew tall with ash and oak and sheltered dense populations of game under their eaves.

A thought itched in Rosslyn’s mind, despite the beauty of the day, like there was something she had misplaced. The gates of Castle Cousland stood ahead, another hour’s ride away at the end of the road, the keep couched above the town like a lioness watching over her tumbling cubs. Squinting against the glare, she scanned the walls, though for what she did not know.

“Is it good to be home?”

She turned to Alistair, on her left on a great bay charger. “I can’t quite believe it yet.”

He reached across the space between their mounts to take her hand. His oak-bronze eyes softened with his smile, lending her strength and maybe taking some for himself too. Surely she should be allowed a little pride at having caught him, all handsome lines and wind-ruffled hair and laughter, a fierce warrior and a good man and hers.

“I love you,” she said, and he beamed.

They reached the castle gates to the clarion notes of a fanfare. People lined each side of the road, waving strips of brightly coloured cloth like pennants as they strewed wildflowers beneath the horses’ hooves. As the delicate stems were crushed, their sweet, herby scent rose as a greeting and Rosslyn sat a little straighter, determined to match the grandeur of the celebration. Her horse tossed its head. She had to let go of Alistair’s hand to manage it. They passed into the shadow of the barbican, clattering over the hollow boards of the wolf-pit to reach the second portcullis, and emerged again into the airy, gravelled space of the bailey. The Laurels flew from every pole, from the battlements and the towers and the tips of the standard-bearers’ pikes, framing the straight path to the keep in an undulating sea of blue silk.

Her parents waited for her at the top of the steps. For some reason her eyes darted to the western gate, but the shiver passed as her horse pranced sideways against the bit, and she dug her heels into its flank to keep it grounded.

A third figure waited behind her parents. As she dismounted, he stayed far enough back that all she saw of him was a shock of feathery white hair and beard blown over rich furs, but she turned to hand the reins to the groom that had emerged from the throng and thought no more about the details of his face. Alistair stepped closer to her, using their horses as a shield. With soft eyes, he leaned in and brushed his hand along her elbow, briefly enough to look like he was steadying her, lightly enough that she wished all the layers of her armour gone.

“I know there are people watching, but I really want to kiss you right now,” he murmured.

“Save it,” she teased, with a playful glance to his mouth. “Give me two kisses later.”

“Only two?”

Side by side they climbed the steps, Rosslyn with her stomach churning and the relief of home settling over her shoulders like a mantle. Feeling too hot, she tugged her gauntlets off her fingers and twisted them through her hands. Bryce and Eleanor came forward before she even reached the top, and smiled as they enveloped her in a hug, armour and all, holding close for a tight, desperate moment before they pulled back to welcome Alistair as well.

Her father bowed. “Your Highness, I am honoured to meet you at last.”

Alistair flushed to the roots of his hair. “And you – I mean, the honour is mine, Your Lordship,” he stammered, slinking into himself as he always did when his lack of confidence overcame him. For a moment he stumbled, caught off-guard by the two benign expressions, but when he glanced sideways Rosslyn lent him an encouraging nod, and the happiness clear in her eyes allowed his shyness to melt away.  

He cleared his throat. “Highever Is just as beautiful as I imagined it,” he said, and earned another proud smile from Rosslyn. “I’ve been told so much about it.”

“No doubt,” Eleanor replied on her husband’s arm. “But we must thank you for the help you have given our daughter.”

“Who, me? I mostly just cheered from the sidelines.”

“Alistair –”

Bryce laughed. “Handsome and modest to boot! Looks like you were right when you told Fergus you didn’t need any help to find a husband, Pup.”

“Bryce!”

“Hus–?” Rosslyn froze. “No, he’s – we’re not –”  

“Talk for another day, I see,” her father allowed, rubbing the spot on his arm where Eleanor had swatted him. “Well, no rush, as long as all stays fair. In any case, there’s someone else here who wishes to see you.”

He turned with an expansive gesture to the man waiting behind them. In the breath of space it left them, Rosslyn passed a squirming look at Alistair, expecting to see relief in his features now that her father’s scrutiny had been directed elsewhere. It was there, in the quirk of a brow and the tilt of his jaw, but it warred with a curious lift to his mouth that she didn’t know how to interpret. Before she could ask him what was on his mind, however, the expression disappeared in a shock of recognition as the old man finally stepped into their circle.

“King Maric!”

Startled, Rosslyn hurried to mirror Alistair’s bow, but the king made a noise of displeasure and waved the gesture away, as if such formality were out of place. The movement unsettled the mantle of wolf furs that bundled him against the chill of the autumn air, exposing the rich, embroidered cuff of his tunic. Up close, the white of his hair still retained a golden sheen, weak as winter sunlight, framing a pale face with the same square jaw and straight nose as both of his sons. A pair of washed-out, tired blue eyes regarded them from beneath a stern brow, but the moment eased and the frown melted into a kind smile as the old man reached out and laid his hands on Alistair’s shoulders. There was barely an inch of height to separate them.

“My son,” the king said in a quiet voice.

Rosslyn looked away, not wanting to intrude.

Maric’s smile faltered when Alistair remained too stunned to reply, but he seemed to share Cailan’s implacable nature, and recovered well. “Let me look at you, all grown – you’ve surpassed all my hopes for you, you know. Ferelden owes you a great debt, and your name – both your names – will be spoken for ages to come.”

“Father…” The word tripped from Alistair’s tongue, unfamiliar, guarded against all the things he did not say.

“You should be proud of the man you have become,” Maric told him. “As I am – especially given your excellent taste in companions. Will you introduce me?”

Startled into manners, the younger man stood back and brought Rosslyn forward with a gesture, remembering to let her bow before giving her name. Behind them, her parents’ attention was turned by the arrival of a servant, who whispered in Bryce’s ear before scurrying away again.

“Your Highness,” Eleanor called, “forgive the intrusion, but preparations are being made for this evening’s feast. since it isn’t for a few hours yet, would you like to get settled first?”

“Everyone is eager to see you,” her husband added next to her. “The two Heroes of Ferelden given a proper homecoming at last.”

“Your rooms have been prepared, if you would all follow…”

The brightness of the day gave over to the dim interior of the castle’s entrance hall, with its familiar gold-threaded tapestries and the view out onto the courtyard garden brimming with colour. Guards stood at attention in their alcoves. As Rosslyn lagged behind with her father and Alistair, rich, savoury smells wafted up from below, like in every celebration of her childhood, and without anything particular to take her attention, she drifted into memory. When she had last been here, garlands of holly and ivy had arched above doorways, twined with red glass beads and baubles enchanted to glitter like stars.  

The image made her uneasy, the same anxious flutter beneath her ribs that she had first felt… When? She knew it well, as the fire that sang through every nerve before a battle, but the details escaped, slipping through her mind like grains of sand through her fingers. Her disquiet must have shown on her face, because a hand brushed against hers, too casual to be noticed by anyone else, but deliberate enough that Alistair’s fingers didn’t move away when she returned the gesture.

Her father had pulled ahead slightly, lost in the castle’s rambling history, and didn’t notice them falling behind. It was a well-worn speech, the same one offered to all new visitors, though some bore it with more grace than others; Oriana’s parents had made it three hours and four ages back before the dainty Lady Ophelia had ‘twisted her ankle’ and begged them both out of climbing the tower. And yet, the comfort of the familiar words could not drown out the doubt in her mind that pricked at her like hailstones, drawing her in all directions like the echo of a shout across a foggy heath.

“What did we do?” she asked, when the wrongness finally clicked.

“What’s that, Pup?”

Her mother had turned, too, already five steps up the central staircase with the king.

“His Majesty said Ferelden owed us a debt,” she clarified, with an uneasy glance at Alistair. “But for what? I have no memory of it.”

Maric tutted. “No memory of routing the last of the rebel forces and saving us all? You are too modest, my lady. My son, surely you haven’t forgotten your victory?” He smiled, but the expression looked hollow as new ice, and the gap in her memory glared wider, insistent.

“There was the war…” Alistair tried. He scratched his head.

“The war is won,” Eleanor told him. She looked imperious, standing at the top of the stairs, her face backlit in sharp angles by the windows, her hair pulled back in neat braids except where loose strands fell around her face…

Rosslyn tasted bile. “You died.” Months of nightmares, the revulsion crawling across her skin, those last cold, desolate moments atop Harrowhill with the weight of the Cousland sword on her hip. “Howe killed you and put your heads above the western gate.”

“The men who told you were mistaken, Pup,” her father replied, laying a hand on her arm. “Howe got what he deserved, thanks to you, and you should be proud of that, but you’ve been too long in battle. You have forgotten the feel of peace, that’s all this worry is.”

She shook him off. “What men who told me?”

The challenge hung in the air. Her eyes, locked with her father’s, stared him down, waiting for a crack, a flinch, anything that might reveal what was really going on. A hand twitched towards the sword still buckled at her side.

“Come now,” Maric chuffed, catching the movement. “What manners are these? Is it not enough that we are all here, whole and well, and ready to celebrate?”

“King Maric died at sea.” Alistair spoke quietly, but he had shifted his weight further behind Rosslyn, and his hand, too, had reached for his sword.

“Shipwrecked, and a long time coming back to my rightful place,” came the reply. “You know this. I don’t understand why you’re both being so stubborn.”

“Pup, it’s time for you to rest,” Bryce said, and turned to Alistair. “You know she pushes herself too hard, doesn’t give herself the credit she deserves.”

“Yes…” He shook his head. “I mean, she does – you do – but this isn’t right.”

“Howe is still out there,” she insisted. “The war isn’t over.”

“Nonsense,” Eleanor snapped. “You are safe. There is no war, and you should be proud of your role in ending it.”

But Alistair was frowning. “We were in the tower, at the Circle. The last thing I remember was… Uldred – we were fighting him to save the mages.”

A flash blinked in Rosslyn’s mind, an image of dark stone and a looming monster, shards of black energy scattering across the floor. But a fog closed around it, cutting it off like a dream. Her father once more touched her arm, his smile kindly, his eyes soft.

“That’s not your concern,” he told her. “All we want is for you to stay here, and take your rightful places as –”

“You’re not real,” Alistair interrupted. “None of this is.”

Rosslyn stepped back, out of reach, sword drawn. “My father would never say such a thing, not while there was still fighting left to be done.”

An instant passed in which it seemed her father would try cajoling again, but they stood firm, side by side, and as he looked from one to the other his face collapsed into a snarl too twisted to be human. Ambient sound dropped like the sudden cease of a storm. Behind the demon, the castle blurred and shimmered, its details and those of the other players dissolving without the need to hold onto the illusion. Only the floor beneath their feet remained steadfast, solid enough to ground her as she drew her sword.

“You couldn’t just be happy, could you?” the Not-Bryce growled at her. “I would have given you everything you wanted, let you live the dream of everything you ever hoped coming true.” It circled them. “What fools you are – you delight in struggle, and wriggling like little hooked worms instead of the hawks you might have been. Even you, Lady Falcon.”

It made to lunge, starting forward with a hiss, and its hands curled into claws, but pulled up short before it reached them, head cocked as if listening to something.

“No – no,” it muttered. “They are mine. They are mine. You won’t interfere.” It shook itself, growing sinister and stretched out even as it kept Bryce Cousland’s form. Its words echoed with a second voice beneath the one it had borrowed. “You bring this on yourselves. If you will not give me your pride, I will take your pain, and such exquisite pain it shall be.”

Two guards leapt from nothingness and grabbed for Alistair. He cried out, but before Rosslyn could reach for him the blurred world dissolved into black, swallowing him with it. She stumbled, whirled, found the demon smirking at her turmoil.

“Yes,” It sneered. “I feel your pride. Fight me, give it to me, give me strength…”

She raised her sword. “You do not get to wear my father’s face.”

--  

The doors of the harrowing chamber burst open. Almost before the first abominations could turn, arrows took them in the throat. Soldiers roared, demons squealed, and in the confusion of the clash of metal and bone, Cailan stormed through, a war cry on his lips, resplendent despite the ichor staining his golden armour. His greatsword cleaved through everything that rose in his path as he wielded grace and violence in equal parts, and in moments the ragged line that had managed to form against him collapsed. He faced the thing that had once been Uldred. Only the barest traces of humanity were left in its face, in the carapace just barely clinging to its old proportions and the grin that stretched too wide with too many teeth. Energy crackled between its claws as it turned towards him, dark tendrils that coiled down and wrapped around the two motionless figures at its feet.

“Do you worry for your friends, little king?” it boomed when it saw the direction of its gaze. “Do you think to save them? Your pride will undo you.”

Cailan laughed at it. “I’ve roasted larger game than you, piglet! Come taste my blade and die on it!”

He charged, roaring, but the headlong rush was more controlled than the demon believed. As it swiped for him he dodged, rolled, came up under its guard and neatly sliced through the soft skin behind its knee. The demon howled, crashing to the floor as its hamstring was severed. Fade being it might be, but it had trapped itself in a mortal body, in the limitations and the pain of the physical world, and its grip on that reality seemed to be weakening. Unfocused, it lashed out, catching the templar on Cailan’s left, and one of its own kind as it tried again. The king parried the blow as he ducked out of the way again, and this time – there, beneath the arm. He sprang like a cat, thrusting his entire weight behind the point of his sword, straight into the exposed inch of flesh beneath the monster’s arm. The steel pierced deep, first through muscle and bone and then into the cavity of the chest. The roar became a gurgle, then a rattle of air. Blackish blood surged over Cailan’s greaves, into his boots, making him slip as he darted out of reach of the still-flailing arms, but as he swung to face his next opponent, he found the last abomination falling to his captain’s sword.  

Across the other side of the room, one of the templars was loosening the bonds on the remaining mages, and another had taken charge of the warrior who had accompanied Rosslyn and Alistair into the tower. All around, the carnage of the battle was being settled, picked through with the grim efficiency of soldiers practiced in war. Seeing himself not needed for the time being, Cailan wiped his sword clean on his cloak and sheathed it, shucking the confines of his helmet before turning to the two figures on which the demon had been feeding. Alistair was already awake, but Rosslyn still lay sprawled upon the stone, her face exposed and pale, all but unresponsive to the sound of her name or the hand on her cheek.

Slowly, she stirred, groaned, pushed herself onto her elbows and rolled upright, pressing her fingers to her temple. Alistair’s voice came low and soothing in her ear, his arm a support around her shoulders that she leaned into him like a small creature huddling from the cold, bringing their heads so close they seemed to shut out the whole world.

“… And I killed him,” she said. “I killed him. My hands – the blood –”

“It wasn’t real.” His hand covered hers. “We were in the Fade, and it was toying with us.”

“I - Your Majesty!”

They parted like scolded children, and Cailan, like a worried parent, found his hands going to his hips.

“You both seem determined to age me prematurely,” he huffed. “Not content with a failed assassination, you decide to storm a tower full to the brim with demons! It was well done with the rest of the brutes, but it seems lucky I decided not to wait – that last one nearly had you.”

Rosslyn frowned. “We would have defeated it.”

“You’ve been missing for two days.”

“Two –?”

“I had to threaten Greagoir with exile before he would let me help.”

Alistair sat up straighter. “Did he force the Annulment?”

The king shook his head. “Luckily for you, Val Royeaux is a long way off, and your heroics managed to give first Enchanter Irving a chance to slip away and explain the situation.”

But Rosslyn was still frowning. “How were we lost for two days? It was still afternoon when… Where is Enchanter Amell – and lieutenant Cullen?”

“They’re being seen to,” came the reply. “You’ll all be weak after so long without food, hold on – you there! Fetch water and some tack from the stores.”

With Cailan’s attention diverted, Rosslyn let herself sway against Alistair once again. “Two days…”

He traced a thumb along her cheek. “We were trapped in the Fade,” he reasoned. “Maybe time is distorted there? But we survived it, and that’s what matters. The Circle is safe and now Greagoir has no reason to allow the Annulment.”

A wet chuckle interrupted them. Uldred’s body twitched, its form shrunk back to moderate size now that the demon had been slain both here and in the Fade, but the transformation had left sagging folds of flesh poking through the ruined clothes like loose sails. As they watched, he hauled himself onto his front, head lolling, his breath a harsh rattle in his throat.

“You think it so – so easy?” he babbled. Blood trickled between his lips. “You have – only delayed the inevitable.”

“I see no victory for you,” Rosslyn snapped. “Your army lies dead, and the mages and templars still live. You failed.”

The mage’s eyes rolled back in his head, his words seemingly more for himself than his audience. “Loghain will come for you – all of you. And you will not – be able to – you won’t stop him. He can’t be stopped.”

“Loghain told you to turn yourself into an abomination and go on a murderous rampage, did he?” Alistair scoffed.

Cailan returned, his eyes narrowed and his mouth set in a grim line. “He is just a man,” he said. “Even if he did orchestrate this tragedy.”

“Another one to add to the list.”

“He promised us an end!” Uldred cried. “To fear – a life free of the Chantry’s leash – and I – would have gladly served. But you don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

The chamber rang with the harshness of the mage’s laugh. “You pretend you have no fear, but it knows you – all of you, what you cry out into the night, and – you will fail.”

“What knows us?” Rosslyn demanded, struggling to her knees.

“I am not the only one to seek help in the Fade.” Sightless eyes turned on her. “His ally is more ancient and powerful than anything – you can imagine. He will use it to burn you to ash, and I –”

“I’ve heard enough of this.”

There was a bright swipe through the air, and a wet thud as Uldred’s head was separated from his body and rolled away across the floor. Cailan stood over him, sword still raised, staring down at the corpse with nothing but revulsion in his face. After a moment, he shook himself, sighed, and crossed to kneel beside Rosslyn, taking a waterskin from his belt that he pushed into her hands. She took it without a word.

“It is over,” he said. “Brother, can I trust you to watch her? I must organise the relief and get word to Knight-Commander Greagoir.”

Alistair barely spared the king a glance. He nodded, already helping Rosslyn to her feet, ignoring his own dizziness and the weakness of his legs as he led her to a chunk of fallen rubble at the edge of the room. She stared at the floor as he knelt in front of her and shed his gloves, and only reacted when he pulled hers off too and chafed his palms over her fingers to warm them up.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry it took their faces.”

She blinked, softening as she caught up to what he was saying. “That’s not what… It tricked you, too.”

“It’s not the same for me,” he replied, still with her hand in his. “It’s not like Maric and I were close.”

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”

He offered her a weak smile, a huff of laughter and a cautious look to see if they might be overheard. “My lady is too wise for me.”

“That cannot be,” she answered, leaning closer, “because my prince is not a fool.”

“Only a fool in love.” But he stopped short before he could kiss her.

Around them, the remaining mages helped to the lower levels by members of the royal guard, Amell was channelling a glow of healing energy into Cullen’s unconscious form, and the ichorous stain where Uldred had fallen had been scattered with sand from a bucket in the corner. Her eyes fixed on it, the levity of the past few moments falling away into a frown.

“A demon. He’s in thrall to a demon.”

Alistair followed her gaze. “If a demon’s manipulating Loghain, it explains why he’s dealing with Tevinter, maybe even why he started the war,” he reasoned.

“You don’t understand.” A muscle ticked in her jaw. She sighed to steady herself. “I… I almost gave him Highever.”

“What?”

“When I was escorting Baudrillard to the border, I drafted letters in case he betrayed us, declaring a turn of allegiance if – in case I was killed.”

His eyes went wide. “But that’s –”

“Treason. I know. I thought it would be the lesser of two evils in the face of an invasion from Orlais, but… now? A demon?” She sank her head into her arms. “I can’t believe I was so stupid.”

Gently taking her hand again, Alistair eased down next to her. Around them, the clearing of bodies continued without talk. Most of the dead were mages who had refused to yield to Uldred and his abominations, and they had been discarded for far longer than a mere two days, though with the pressure of magic in the air, the corpses had been preserved. The templars’ blank faceplates betrayed no emotion as they worked in pairs to lift each one to the lower floors, but they were focussed on the work.

“You couldn’t have known,” Alistair murmured, once the nearest templar was out of earshot. “What happened to the letters?”

“Burned. Gideon saw to it.”

He nodded, relieved. “Can you stand?”

“I may even be able to walk,” she replied, nudging against his shoulder. “Good thing too – it looks like we’re about to get our marching orders.”

Cailan appeared at the top of the stairs, his sombre mood already stuffed behind his usual joviality, his steps picking around the rubble still left on the floor.  

“They’re going to house us in the barracks, Travers here is going to show you where it is,” he told them. “I can take care of the rest for now.”  

“Did we thank you for rescuing us yet? Because we’re really grateful.”

The pair staggered to their feet, using each other for balance, their armour as much a support as a hindrance for exhausted limbs. Hunger gnawed at Alistair’s belly almost worse than the cramp in his muscles. He stretched, as far as his plate allowed, and tried to hide the purse of his lips when Cailan offered Rosslyn his arm.  

He wants to marry you, actually, he had said, with a serpent of jealousy coiling black in his gut. As if she hadn’t already woken up beside him and confessed that she loved him. He put the feeling to the back of his mind, along with the realisation that they might have discussed telling Cailan, but they hadn’t expected to meet him so soon. How would they broach the subject? What would they say? The answer could wait for morning. For now, he was content to follow, and leave the nightmare behind.

[pazvizslaplasmathrower]

Fallen Angel! Chapter Six

Read here or on AO3

Chapter 6: Epiphany

Chapter Summary: Poe Dameron has finally made contact with one of his greatest friends, and is planning on leaving as soon as he can. While you would like be present in whatever time he has left, someone goes missing at a most unfortunate moment.

Series Summary: A Jedi planet with a cursed history. The hot shot rebel pilot with an attraction to danger. His strange arrival certainly alters your life forever.

Notes: So sorry this took so long! I had writers block, finals, and there were four hate crimes at my school so I was organizing with friends. Now that break is here I should be updating with more frequency.

Word Count: 2885

Warnings: Reader has a panic attack

xxx*xxx*xxx*xxx

“Well, that is a very, uh, weighted question, Poe Dameron.” You smiled awkwardly, noticing how he shifted in your arms. 

“Pft, I take it you don’t get that many visitors, huh, Y/N?” 

“Is it that obvious?” Gazing off wistfully, you continued, “The newest in the village is the newborn in the home a few down from me.”

    The rebel pilot gaped at you. “The newest living person on this planet is a kriffing baby?”

You shrugged, “Well, it sounds far stranger when you say it like that.”

The rest of the journey home was the children hovering around the two of you, asking Poe Dameron about his many travels, giving you a while to think of how to answer his question. While entering the village, the little ones dispersed, their parents nodding their thanks while ushering them away. Exhausted from hauling a whole grown man for over a mile, you were so relieved to finally enter your own home and set Poe Dameron on the bed before collapsing onto the run in front of the fireplace, Ravio coming to lay down on your stomach. 

“So...Are you gonna answer my question?”

It took a moment for you to respond, having relaxed into your dazed position on the floor, truthfully you would have been fine with just sleeping there for the afternoon. Little Ravio kneaded the fabric of your tunic, his claws lightly digging into your skin. You were more than happy to let the silence maintain, having become rather used to a quiet environment, though by the way Poe fiddled with his hands, it was making him quite uncomfortable. 

“That’s a pretty broad question, could ya break it down a bit, yeah?”

The pilot pursed his lips, leaning back on the bed. “Your friend, the rugged one?”

“Claude.”

“Yes,” he continued, “She is the marshal around here, but what about you, what do you do?”

“Ohh.” So it wasn’t as deep of a question as you had thought. “Well,I’ve got a couple roles, I guess. I took on the mantle of the elder who saw this town over in years past. I don’t really do that, the people run council here.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Kark,” you sighed, “A little over ten rotations I think. When his role dissolved, I became the town healer in a sense and er, a diviner of sorts I suppose. There’s a power of sorts, I guess...I have...uh...”

    “Lemme guess, the Force?” 

Immediately, you stopped staring at the ceiling, turning to look at Poe with a raised brow. “You know of it? I thought it was nothing but fairy tales to others…”

Something sparked in his eye and Poe sat up, leaning forward with a great excitement, the sort you had only seen in children before they were to tell you of something truly fantastical. 

“Man! You really don’t get out! Everyone knows how the First Order ended-”

“Wait what?” 

“The First Order.” Poe repeated again. 

You nodded, understanding what was said the first time. “What in the kriffing hell is the First Order?”

His jaw clenched, “They were the oppressive authority that up till recently tried to take over the entire galaxy.”

    Despite Ravio’s protests, you peeld him off of your front to sit up yourself, feeling another headache start. 

“No, the Empire, they are the ruling power.”

“No, they were the ruling power before the New Republic.”

Your eyes narrowed at Poe and he did the same and the both of you simply stared, expecting a clear explanation to solve the confusion. But none came. Poe seemed to know more than you did and suggested you relay all that you knew of the world as best you could. There was not much to draw on, you had grown up in the Empire’s grasp, the bastards had come for Tython early on according to your teacher. There was not much you could remember from the time, only that the village elder would often grow quite afraid on some days and would hide you in the storage shed near the pastures. When asked what had made him so frightened, he only said to not worry your little head. 

    “There were rumors the commander of the Empire frequented the village, but I only know of the one time when he came to raid the Jedi temple. It's when that bastard left i t became almost impossible to leave this planet.”

The rebel pilot regarded you carefully, his eyes often darted away to piece together what information you had given him so freely. “So the last you know of the outside world is the galaxy still being in the hands of the Empire?”

“Yeah?” Even Ravio looked at you expectantly. 

“Wait...Even if you guys are allowed to get off this rock once a year, didn’t anyone tell you anything that happened?” 

Those who were fortunate enough to get off the blasted planet either only went to the most austere of places, as not to accidentally stay longer than the allotted twenty four hours. If anyone knew of the war, they made no effort to inform you. 

Pinching your nose, you tried to wrack your brain for every tidbit of information Claude had given you on on the outings. Your brain was already so preoccupied with the village affairs and your studies of the Force, perhaps some information had slipped past. 

“Maybe Claude mentioned something but when any of us go beyond the atmosphere, keeping up with current events isn’t really the priority.” Laying back down, Ravio reclaimed his spot. 

“Huh. Well, The Empire is long gone, Y/N. There were others who tried to take power, but now the rebels are trying to help with the recovery mission.” The pilot sighed, his own gaze drifting from you to nothing in particular. “I have to get off this planet. My friends need me.”

     “I know. Why don’t you rest for a bit and then you can come to communications, yeah?”

***___***___***___***

“So I had to carry him like a lamb all the way to the Basin!” 

    Emilio nodded, still working his deft fingers on the countless wires of the communication hub station. 

“I was so kriffing scared I’d drop him because he was actually kind of heavy.” Looking at your friend, you wished he would comment on something, anything really. “I don’t get it. I expected to-to be pissed at him for crashing onto the fields.”

    Emilio set his tweezers down. “Wh-What are you trying to get at, Y/N? You wanted to hate him? I thought your Master t-taught you better than that.”

“I never wanted to hate him I guess..I guess I just wished he was the sort I could really be mad at. But then his face and the way he looked after the crash…” 

    Your dead friend adopted a knowing smile, flipping the final switch. Before your eyes, the machine roared to life, a soft blue light illuminating the inside of the dark hangar, it was stronger now than ever before. 

    “Don’t look at me like that, Emilio! What is that smile for?” You kept asking only to have the man brush off your question. 

“O-Oh, look. Your friend is here,” He snickered. “And s-so is Claude.” 

    You felt your throat clench, but tried to do away with suddenly feeling so strangely bashful. Pulling your scarf up further to hide your face, you walked forward to welcome both Poe and Claude. 

    “Thanks,” Your friend smiled in reply, “I’m glad you’re both here. Come, everything is right this way.” 

Claude let the Rebel pilot down from her arms, begrudging helping him lean against the side of the hub station. He could now put only a slight amount of pressure down on his injured leg thanks to the expert care he had under your watch. While Emilio explained the plethora of mechanical problems, you noticed Poe wrap his arms around himself in an effort to warm himself. Kark, you still had to get him new clothes. 

“Here,” you handed him the soft fabric of your scarf which he readily took, “That should help a little.”

Was...Was he smiling? His lips quivered, trying to stretch into a smile, but it just narrowly kept its passive state. 

“I-I worked a bit more on the console this morning, so it should have a strong enough signal to reach anywhere as long as it’s...well, not too far. B-Because actually I don’t know, I don’t have a reference…”

Emilio began flipping switches, the machine starting to shake ever so slightly, if it had not been made by one of your closest friends, the machine would have been doomed for destruction. When everything was set, Poe moved to the control panel, punching in a flurry of numbers, as he finished, the pilot could only eye the center with subdued worry. The idea of peeking into Poe’s mind was quite tempting, though Claude’s sudden presence could clearly be felt and you turned to see her approaching with her brow furrowed, perhaps not too happy that you sensed her right away. You were about to ask what could be bothering her, but the sudden voice that came from the holo communicator stole away your attention. 

“Poe!” 

Turning you could see a young woman, perhaps somewhere around your age, looking extremely relieved to see your new rebel friend. 

“Thank the Force you’re alright! Finn and I have been worried kriffing sick since we lost contact!”

He grinned, you could notice tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “Maker, you don’t know how good it is to see you guys!”

“Where the hell are you?!” 

“Uh,” Poe glanced back at you, and the woman’s eyes followed. Too nervous to think, all you could do was step back out of view. “Tython. I’m on Tython. I crashed here a few days ago, trying to find someplace safe to land, but this kriffing planet has one hell of an atmosphere.”

    From behind you, Claude leaned in close, “Is he finally leaving?” 

Clenching your jaw, you answered, “We’ll see.”

    “Tython?” The young woman mused. “I...I feel like I’ve heard that name before in my readings. It’s a Jedi planet. Stars, how did you get there?”

    “That emergency signal was coming from around this planet,” Poe sighed, “ it turned out to be some kriffing pirates, and I had to make an emergency landing. The ship...yeah, she’s not lookin’ too pretty.”

She smiled, “Well, Finn and I can come pick you up! You’re not hurt, are you?”

    “Actually…” 

With one hand, Poe gripped your wrist, gently pulling you forward to meet his lively friend, 

“(Y/N) here, actually saved me from exploding with the craft, and put me back together.”

Heat rushed to your face, making the rest of your body sway. “H-Hi.”

    “(Y/N!)” Claude’s voice rose far too many octaves for your liking, it’s quality bordering on insanity. “I do believe you’re needed in the village, one of the older children has run off from their home. The parent’s are frantic.”

    “Oh? U-Uh, I guess I’m off then.” 

“I’ll see to it that this rebel pilot’s plans are safely executed.” Your friend stated rather coldly. 

Reluctantly, you moved to pull away from Poe’s grasp, only to have his hold harden as he turned to face you. 

“Really, (Y/N), thank you.” 

The fabric of your scarf just hid his own flustered face. 

“It’s nothing. I’m glad I could be of help to you, Poe Dameron.”

“It’s just, ah, Poe…”

 Looking at him earnestly, you could still see him quiver. “Here. If I don’t get the chance to see you…” Shrugging off your coat, you tossed it around the man’s shoulders, surprised it fit him to some degree.

    “I should be able to-”

“(Y/N)!” Claude insisted.

    In your mind you were trying to throw together something to say, something that hopefully would make you worthwhile in Poe’s memories, but nothing came forward that was really profound. Stealing another look back, you were greatly unaware of how poorly masked your own emotions were. 

    No doubt, Claude was behind your call back to the village, usually when people or animals were in any sort of trouble, she was the one to take control. Though, it was not very often that a young one actually took off on their own accord, making the situation something more sensitive than usual. Truthful, what you desired to do was order Claude to deal with the problem herself, wanting to simply be in Poe’s warm presence just a bit longer. Through the fallout of such a declaration would inevitably result in a physical conflict of some sort. 

    Still engrossed in your wistful thinking, it took several moments for you to take in the gravity of the situation, as you saw a growing crowd in the center of the marketplace. Their once boisterous arguing quieted into a tense and low murmur with your approach. 

    “Oh stars, did Claude send for you?” An older woman hurried to your side, beckoning her spouse forward. “You’re still so young, but maybe that brat will listen to someone that isn’t family…”

    “Please, (Y/N) our young Senno does not know much about the forest and I fear some damned beast will get to them!”

You decided to hold your tongue and not mention the fact that Claude’s fate was more certain than your own when it came to combat. Still, this family must have specifically asked for you, and it was common to summon the elder when problems were most severe. Such a practice had been passed down to you once your teacher had vanished. 

“I will do all I can to bring your child back safely.”

Feeling a sense of apprehension, you rushed to the thick woods, only feeling a slight chill. When the clearing faded into the dense vegetation, whatever warmth provided by the sun was lost, much to your chagrin. While Claude’s connection to the Force allowed her to enhance her strength and vigor, yours was more...malleable and susceptible to emotions. So, it was not hard to feel the great sorrow coming from deeper within. It was a strange sadness, one of loss, though to your knowledge, no one had died in the village, no creature had passed. And the heaviness gave no indication of coming of something material, then what could have been the catalyst for such dark emotions?

As the emotions grew in strength, you dared to call out, prepared if any wild animal decided to cross your path. Your own lightsaber was perfectly crafted to fit in your hand, its vibrant color reflective of the spirit within. However, when it came to technique, it felt a bit unwieldy; other methods were much more preferable. 

“Senno!” You cried, the wind swallowing a good deal of the sound. “Senno! Please!”

Surprisingly, a rattled voice answered back, “Go away! I don’t want to kriffing see anyone!”

    For a moment you stopped, taking in a breath and letting it flow out of you slowly. There was no place for reckless words. You made a silent prayer to the ancestors, for their wisdom and guidance. 

“It’s me! (Y/N)!” Climbing over a fallen tree, you could just see the form of a person a few yards off. “I won’t force you back, but please let me see that you’re okay.”

    “Kriffing hell! I just want to be alone! That’s all I got going for me!”

Keeping your gait soft, you approached holding a small med kit out to prove your intentions. Young Senno looked up at you from where she sat, her dark hair matted and face caked in tears. Those silver eyes had hints of red, most likely due to rubbing far to roughly. 

    “Here,” handing her a water bottle, you could see no signs of physical damage, making this mission a bit easier. 

Senno snatched it from your grasp, popping the cap off and emptying it in a matter of seconds. Glaring at you, she tossed the container somewhere to the side. Oh, youth. 

Sitting with your legs crossed, you faced the girl who once again curled in on herself. 

“It’s impressive you made it this far out. Many your age are too fearful of the Manka Cats, other creatures and the flesh raiders.”

“I’d rather get eaten by a kriffing Maka Cat than live another day on the stupid planet!”

Oh. 

The sentiment was shared, though you could not let that show in the present moment. 

“Would you like to just yell about it?” You offered. “Even if something hears, I can drive them off.”

Senno turned her head to the side, only looking at you with one eye. There was something malicious in the way the girl scrutinized your being. The bit of her lip that showed curled up making the chapped skin split. The feeling of sorrow was replaced with another sensation, it was not anything...terrible, but rather something bright; a new revelation realized. 

“So you really wanna know?” She croaked, unfurling her body. 

No. 

    “I am more than happy to listen, Senno. I know things in this place can be more than one can handle.” Your heart beat faster. 

Moving to her knees, the girl’s wild expression turned grim. Now you recognized her. This was the one that Claude wanted to take under her wing to train as the future Master of Arms. Now that the girl was of age, that training could actually begin, and by looking at her clothing, today must have been her birthday. 

“They’ve been lying to you this whole time, (Y/N).” She started. 

“Wait,” you began, rubbing the sides of your temples, “this is about you. What’s made you so upset that you ran off from your parents and into the kriffing woods?”

    “I’m getting to that!” Senno growled. “That pilot, the one that crashed isn’t it weird that he was able to make it through and land on the planet in one piece?”

    “I mean, yes. I was supposed to have a premonition…”

“But you didn’t. At least not on time.” The girl inched closer. “And when did the need for predicting the Opening of the Skies start?”

“Around the rise of the Empire. When that Sith lord came here for the first time.” Rather than a release of anger, this has quickly turned into an interrogation of sorts. 

“Hm. Think (Y/N)! I swear you are somehow the most oblivious idiot!”

“Senno…”

She quickly flustered, grimacing at her own words. “Sorry! I-I just…Well think about it! For your whole kriffing life you’ve been stuck on this cold rock! You’re the only one that’s not allowed to leave the planet when the skies ‘open’!”

Jumping to your feet, you nearly tripped over your feet, that headache worsening with each second. Perhaps the young one had too much celebratory wine. 

“Come, I’ll lead us back to the village.”

In order to entice Senno to follow, you started to slowly walk away, wishing the kid would just stop talking altogether. She was eating up what precious time you had left to hopefully see Poe off on his attempt to leave. 

    “STOP!”

Senno’s shriek was shrill enough to make your ears ring. Turning on the heel of your boot, you were prepared to abandon all the composure you had asked the ancestors for. Those words of reprimanding never came to pass your lips. 

“You could have left any time you wanted! You could have left! You’ve been free this whole kriffing time!”

The trees began to spin rapidly around, swirling, becoming a mixture of rich color. The girl was a subject of focus, but then she too became very hard to discern from the rest of your surroundings as everything came together in one strange, chaotic medley. For a long while all you could do was brace yourself on the forest floor, taking in deep breaths in order to stay conscious. 

[ty-talks-comics]

Best of DC: Week of March 18th, 2020

Best of this Week: Robin 80th Anniversary

All of the Robins are awesome.

Every Bat-fan has their favorite as they usually define the era when they began their love of Batman and comics in general. Older fans love Dick Grayson for being the first and greatest Robin that helped make Batman brighter. Edgy 80s kids and teens both love and hate Jason Todd for being the bad boy that died. Younger fans love Tim Drake for being the one to carry the name in the later seasons of the animated series and being one of the best and smartest Robins. Girls get representation from the spunky Carrie Kelly and the awesome Stephanie Brown. No one like Damian. (I’m kidding, he’s super fun.)

There’s a Robin for everyone and this 100 Page Spectacular celebrates the long history of Batman’s greatest sidekicks (though misses a chance to give Carrie Kelly her own short story) and does an amazing job in displaying each characters personalities by some of the best people to have written them over the years. Because there are so many, I’m only going to talk about the ones I really enjoyed!

The first FOUR stories follow Dick Grayson and some of his best eras.

“A Little Nudge” is written by Marv Wolfman with pencils by Tom Grummett, two parts of the legendary team behind the best years of the New Titans (1989). This story follows Dick Grayson as Batman begins to nudge him in the direction of becoming his own man by being increasingly irritable to his protege. At this point in time, Dick was dealing with the stresses of outgrowing his childhood identity and Batman’s continuing overbearing nature. Where Bruce was all about being cold and methodical, Dick thought with his gut.

Grummett, Scott Hanna on inks and Adriano Lucas on colors illustrate Dick’s frustration through his increasingly sour facial expressions and sudden heroic actions. The costumes are as colorful as those old days with Dick wearing the bright yellow cape, bright red tunic and the elf shoes. In the middle of the dynamic duo’s fight with Natural History Museum thieves, Dick stops fighting when a child gets shot, against Bruce’s orders, and stays with him until the bad guys either get away or get taken down by Batman. 

Later on, Dick tells Batman that he’s outgrown the Boy Wonder name and sets off to become his own man as Nightwing. Wolfman gives readers an excellent inner monologue from Bruce where he owns up to the fact that he was nudging Dick in that direction because he had just turned eighteen and Bruce believed in him. Batman always supports his kids, especially his first and it turns the story of separation into something heartwarming.

“Aftershocks” is a fun story by Chuck Dixon and Scott McDaniel who worked on my favorite Nightwing series in the 1996 - 2005 era of the character. This wasn’t anything major, just Nightwing doing everything he could to save people after an earthquake causes massive damage to a suspended bridge in Bludhaven. This era of Nightwing was characterized by him mostly striking out on his own and becoming a Bludhaven police officer, being inspired by Jim Gordon. 

Dick really came into his own and developed a rogues gallery to himself during this time, not to mention the sweet costume with the blue “wings” running down his arms into his fingers and those big, bulky gauntlets and boots. This era was the epitome of the 90s with big set piece moments, big muscles and Nightwing just being a nice and generally charming guy. After diving off of the bridge to attach a winch to a falling car, the woman inside asks to name her baby after him and he smiles and says, “Robin works, right?”

“The Lesson Plan” is a story from my favorite modern age creators in Tim Seeley, Tom King and Mikel Janin. The Grayson series took place shortly after Dick’s identity was exposed to the world during “Forever Evil” (2013) by the Crime Syndicate. At this time he was acting as a spy for an agency called Spyral while spying on them for Batman. I never think of Tom King as a comedy guy, but this story was almost gut bustingly hilarious. It was just a world trotting adventure where he teaches one of the students of St. Hadrian’s how to be a spy.

Truly this series was Dick at his most handsome, witty and skilled. He jumps out of a helicopter and grabs onto the cords of a cable car before rescuing a woman held hostage by terrorists on walruses. Dick, the student and the hostage ten fight off more terrorists in Tanzania, riding a bus headed for Los Angeles of all places before Dick finds himself in something Dejah Thoris would wear and having a night with the hostage who reveals herself to be a gorilla from Gorilla City. It’s absolutely absurd, but it is immensely fun and welcome since that whole series is well regarded by fans.  

“More Time” by Judd Winick, Dustin Nguyen and John Kalisz is a far more somber tale about Jason Todd potentially a short time after the events of Under the Red Hood. Jason Todd was the second Robin and met his unfortunate end in the 1988 story, A Death in the Family by Jim Starlin and Jim Aparo. Jason eventually returned in the Batman: Under the Hood story where Winick and Doug Mahnke re-envisioned the former Robin as a violent vigilante Jason does have something of a strained relationship with Batman, but it wasn’t always that way as this story illustrates. 

One thing that Dustin Nguyen has always been great at, it’s making kids super adorable and he does so in this story as it flips back and forth between the past and the present as Jason gives Bruce a birthday present in the form of his father’s watch, which Jason sought to fix. Nguyen and Kalisz characterize the past with Jason appearing as a happy, young kid under the dim lights of the Batcave and a twinkle in his eyes. He’s happy to have a home and a father to care for him so he wanted to do something nice for him.

Present Day Jason is characterized by dark backgrounds with bright oranges, smoke and heavy blacks for the shadows. Jason is far more tired, grizzled and angry, but he still finds the time to place the same gift box from all those years ago on the Batmobile for Bruce to find. At this point in time, they may have been at each other throats, but the love between them was still there, buried deep - culminating in two side by side panels of past and present Jason saying, “Happy Birthday, Bruce.”

“Boy Wonders” is a story about Tim Drake by James Tynion IV, Javier Fernandez and David Baron and sees Tim taking advice from all of his brothers. Next to Chuck Dixon and Geoff Johns, James Tynion IV has had one of the longest lasting impacts on the Tim Drake character throughout his run on Detective Comics by emphasizing the power of his mind in comparison to the other Robins and why he could ultimately be the successor to Batman above each of them or eke out a new life for himself.

While taking down the cast of The Warriors on a speeding train with Nightwing, Tim contemplates what his future will be. He looks to Dick as the one who did everything that he’s doing now and Dick tells him that as the smartest Robin, the best thing he could do is use that mind to bring up the next generation of heroes. Jason, the reason he’s even wearing the costume of Robin in the first place, tells him to take everything he’s learned from Batman  to become BETTER than him. Arguably, it’s Damian that gives him the best advice by telling him that he’s the most capable of all of the Robins and that he should choose a path himself instead of relying on the advice of others.

Of course, this story takes place before the events of Detective Comics Rebirth where Tim does chart his own path in making Gotham safer with his Gotham Knights Protocol, but things don’t exactly turn out well for him. For all of the talk about how Tim is the smartest, he unfortunately could never get out of his own way long enough for things to go right...especially now that he’s going by “Drake” in that awful brown costume.

“Fitting In” is a Stephanie Brown story by Amy Wolfram, Damion Scott and Brad Anderson which sees Stephanie trying to live up to the standards of each of the boys that came before her. Stephanie was absolutely the shortest term Robin that Batman took on, as he only allowed her to take up the mantle in an attempt to get Tim back after his real father told him to hang up the cape after discovering his sons identity.

Even still, Stephanie did everything she could to earn Bruce’s respect and Wolfram plays on this and that past story by making it more about Tim than Steph. She has to train in the same costume that Tim did, but she proves more...voluptuous than Tim. Her costume bursts at the seams and Alfred designs the costume that she’s known for. She and Batman then get a call about fire at an amusement park and ride off to take down Firefly.

Unfortunately for her, she gets captured, but being the innovative girl that she is, she manages to free herself and take down Firefly at the same time. Damion Scott’s art is very well suited to the cartoonish action and paints her as a capable sidekick despite initially being a damsel in distress. I honestly wish her run as Robin would have been longer because she honestly fits well in the role as the bubbly Robin in contrast to the hell that Tim was going through at the time.

A point can be made that this story also had some needless sexualization, but given Bruce's lack of respect for Stephanie and him just wanting a replacement Tim at the time, this was well written from that perspective. He never cared for Stephanie and her time as Robin was mostly her trying to live up to Tim's standard which eventually left her to try too hard and "die" because of it. I’ll always take more Stephanie Brown as I can cause even now there’s not enough of her and I’m damn sure not reading Young Justice by Brian Michael Bendis.

“My Best Friend” is the one that makes me the most sad as it revolves around Jon Kent writing an essay on Damian as well...his best friend. I feel like the Super Sons series was also done a dity hand by BMB as he took Jon and aged him up for his Superman story when we could have gotten more fun stories between Damian and Jon. As far as homages to one of the better Rebirth series this one was just fun.

There’s not much to say other than Jon reminisces over a few of their adventures and tells readers about the side of Damian that we don’t often see because the Bat-boy is always a little bit too intense. Jon reminds us that they’ve fought for most of the time they’ve known each other, but when it comes to being heroes, Damian always had his back. It’s heartwarming. Of course there’s the continuity issue of them going to the same school in this story cause Jon was only ten at the time and Damian was thirteen, but honestly I only care about the friendship.

“Bat and Mouse” is a story by Robbie Thompson and Ramon Villalobos which sees Bruce and Damian having separate brooding inner monologues about how neither understands the other anymore and about how they want to open up to each other, but the distance between them has grown too wide. Admittedly, this is a much darker story in the respect that Batman and Robin haven’t really been the same since Damian started his new Titans team and started down a darker path that his father has yet to find out about.

Thompson captures this feeling that Damian is arrogant but scared. He feels like he’s outgrown what Batman has become because he’s willing to get rid of threats almost permanently through erasing their memories and villainous tendencies (see Teen Titans, 2018). At the same time, he’s afraid that maybe what he’s doing isn’t the right path and he so desperately wants to reach out to his father, but feels like he can’t.

Batman is the same way in that he loves his son more than anything and wants to regain the relationship that they had in the past, but doesn’t know how to say the words either. He knows that Damian is hiding something big, but he doesn’t want to accuse the boy and deepen the already cavernous rift. Even as they take down the robotic villain Quietus, they show signs of breaking through their equally cold exteriors, but fail to do so and I get the feeling this will all come to a head soon.

The Robins will always be some of my favorite characters in all of comics. Each of them have distinct personalities and quirks that set them apart from a lot of comic characters, especially when it comes to the trauma that they’ve faced alongside Batman. This special won’t be for everyone, just like each era of Robin isn’t for everyone, but overall, I really enjoyed it and the creators selected to honor these fantastic characters.

[infracti-angelus]

Pale Fire, Chpt 3

PALE FIRE, a Lord of the Rings fanfiction

Pairing:  Éomer and Lothíriel

Summary: Lothíriel wasn’t unacquainted with infatuation; after all, she was nearly twenty-one years old and (by Gondorian standards, at least) well past her prime. But while she was acquainted with infatuation and the whispers of attraction, this was entirely different. And it infuriated her. And when his line of sight but glanced over her, she felt heated from top of her hair to the base of her foot. No, not heated. Burning. Set aflame.  She felt as if she were the swine roasted on the spit for tonight’s dinner.

Rating: M

Click here for Chapter 1

Click here for Chapter 2

Chapter 3: The Coronation

Lothíriel weaved her way through the crowd to join her brothers near the front for the coronation. Maren trailed at her elbow the entire time, commenting on the once again missing Erchirion. Lothíriel had only briefly seen her brother when she arrived to Minas Tirith before he had to take his leave. Lothíriel wondered where he could be during such an important ceremony; surely he wouldn’t miss it, nor not join his siblings in the fray. Maren startled at the trumpet flourish, which quieted the crowd.

The Dúnedain, wearing silver and grey, who had accompanied the new King of Gondor in the procession, had taken their designated place amidst the crowd but towards the front. Unfortunately for Lothíriel, their designated place was right in front of where she and her family had claimed. While Lothíriel was tall (as her entire family was), she had to stand on her toes to glimpse anything. From her spot, she could see the Lord Aragorn was garbed in black mail and belted with silver. A mantle of the purest white flowed over his shoulders, fastened with a large jewel that, even from her position, she could tell was a bright green. His bearing was noble, with an even mixture of pride and humility.

Lothíriel thought she saw a flash of blond hair as well as children (which must be the periain Amrothos had mentioned to her), but before she could further study them, a Dúnedain shifted into her line of view. Lothíriel’s bitterness of not being tall enough was short lived. With this shift, it revealed Mithrandir and two people Lothíriel loved very much. She couldn’t help but embrace the feeling of familial pride she felt as the coronation commenced at the top of Minas Tirith.

Mithrandir stood at the very front with her father, Prince Imrahil, and her cousin, Faramir. Faramir knelt in front of Lord Aragorn and presented a white rod. Words were exchanged that she struggled to hear, though she gathered it was Faramir surrendering his office of Steward of Gondor. Amrothos was grinning and elbowing her in the ribs as Lord Aragorn returned the rod to Faramir, and she could catch the his voice replying “it shall be thine and thy heirs’ as long as my line shall last.”

Then the clear voice of her cousin rang out over the crowd with what surely was a great speech, but to Lothíriel all sound turned murky, like the ocean after a great storm, for another shift of the Dunedain revealed a man.

He was tall. Far more than her father or brothers, but of like height to King Elessar. He was standing near the periain and separated from the crowd so Lothíriel knew he must be important, but besides that he wore a costly tunic of brocaded green that indicated him as upper class. He had broad shoulders, and the garb he wore could not mask the bearing of a warrior.  Nay, nor could the trimmed beard hide the sharpness of his jaw. His golden hair was neatly plaited at the nape of his neck, which was equally golden from the sun. He moved forward at something King Elessar said, and Lothíriel couldn’t believe how a man as large as he could move so gracefully, like a feline. Furthermore, she couldn’t believe how tight his deerskin breeches were. Lothíriel could not drag her eyes from this thoroughly masculine man.

Elphir, holding Alphros, had moved closer to her, and in a low voice that penetrated the fog of her mind, said “That’s the King of Rohan.”

Before she could respond, Faramir cried: “Behold the King!” And in that moment all the trumpets were blown, and Maren was already herding her back to her quarters to change for the festivities.

--

Lothíriel tried to minimize the splashing while she sat in the tub. Lothíriel loved being in the water, as it was normally comforting, but she felt it was unnecessary since she had bathed the previous evening. Taking care to keep her hair dry, she swirled her fingertips between the slices of lemon that floated around her, hoping to find answers in the expanding ripples.

The King of Rohan.          

Lothíriel wasn’t unacquainted with infatuation; after all, she was nearly twenty-one years old and (by Gondorian standards, at least) well past her prime, practically a spinster in the minds of the other courtiers.

Essentially, being unattached at such a ripe age when most girls were married off at fifteen, had led her to experience the beginnings of infatuation, attraction, and, at times, even admiration. In fact, she had shocked some of the older noblewomen by being observed holding hands without a betrothal contract in place. They’d be aghast if they knew at times it went beyond hand holding into the territory of kissing. Both Lothíriel and her paramours knew that the sweet, innocent embraces were but empty and fleeting.

But while she was acquainted with infatuation and the whispers of attraction, this was an entirely different beast. And it infuriated her.

When Lothíriel was sixteen, she’d overheard a conversation between two maids while they were making up a bedroom. They had spoken of matters that were quite improper. One had described in detail the rough joining she’d had with a man twice her age against a wall behind a tavern. The other had responded that she kept herself content with her own hand. These encounters were something Lothíriel had never conceived, for these things were never explained to her. She supposed such behavior was shameful, a notion which had been reinforced with the strict rules of nobility and courting.  And having no mother to explain further, Lothíriel had tried to forget what they said.

               But she vividly remembered this conversation now. Thinking of the one maid’s description and applying it to him caused her nipples to tighten. What would it feel like to be held by him? To feel his lips on hers? Her hand dropped underwater to the juncture of her thighs.

               She’d never really done this before, never had wanted to. None of her past paramours had inspired this unknown aching that occurred in her most intimate of places. The tips of Lothíriel’s fingers tentatively brushed against her sex.

Maren walked in with a drying cloth, startling Lothíriel. Lothíriel’s hand darted to the surface and she flushed a deep red in embarrassment and shame.  Oblivious, Maren motioned for Lothíriel to rise and padded the moisture away. Lothíriel was thankful her flush had abated by the time heated oils scented with saltwater lilies were applied to her skin. Maren helped Lothíriel with her kirtle and squeezed her into the corset.

Maren bemoaned how dark Lothíriel’s skin looked.

“Maren, that’s enough,” Lothíriel snapped, already feeling uncomfortable between the corset and her thoughts.

Maren glared at her. “Everyone will be talking about it,” she said sharply, “it’s absolutely ghastly for a noblewoman.”

“Then let them talk!” Lothíriel replied, heatedly. “They have no right to prattle about me as if I did something wrong. I cannot control what I was born with, nor am I ashamed of it. I shall wear it proudly, as it denotes that I have ventured out of complacency and contributed to the welfare of our people.”

Maren was achingly quiet for a long time, before she smiled apologetically. “I often forget how much alike you are to your mother.” Maren put her hand against Lothíriel’s cheek. “Aye, you are right. They have done naught but sneer at the misfortune around them and concerned themselves with nothing of import. Do not let an old woman’s words trouble you, for you are a daughter of great men, with keen insight and a kind heart. If they are to talk about you, let us give them something to talk about.”

--

Light from the flames of lit torches bounced against the stone. Many of the walls were covered in freshly washed tapestries. Bundles of thyme were hung at intervals on the wall, and long wooden tables with solid benches for dining were decorated with blue lobelia and white camellia.  Lothíriel was pleasantly surprised to see the flowers, as she had thought all that was beautiful had died during the war. She itched to harvest the leaves, which made a very splendid tea. She thought it careless of everyone to use the plants as mere decorations when they could be dried and distributed as rations. Ah, Lothíriel thought bitterly, but the war is over and I’m sure everyone would rather forget rationing.

Several tables were claimed already, each laden with the bounty only a feast could provide. Some long tables were empty, waiting for families to gather and partake in the delights that awaited them.  A few of the long tables were shoved to the side of the hall to make room for dancing, as they were sparsely occupied by those who had already overindulged in the spirits and food.

Lothíriel surely felt the eyes on her when she entered the grand room, searching for her family. Indeed, she couldn’t help but feel self-conscious, but tried to ignore the feeling. She could already hear the tittering of the noblewomen. Within a moment’s time, a few lords had already approached her asking for a dance. Lothíriel had been able to politely refuse, supplying that she had just arrived and was looking for her father. They had walked away rather dejectedly. Though he had not offered himself as a dance partner, Lothíriel could feel Lord Brayan’s gaze track her across the room and it caused the hairs on her arms to stand at up. After nearly having wine spilled on her “accidentally” by Lady Blythe, Lothíriel eventually found the Elphir and Amrothos –where was Erchirion?—lingering near an entryway. Their tall figures in Dol Amroth regalia looked princely and intimidating compared to the other noblemen, ensuring her a perfect reprieve from dance requests.

As she approached, Amrothos opened and closed his mouth repeatedly like a fish. “Lothy,” he exclaimed, “I must demand that you go back and change this instant.”

               Lothíriel daintily rose an eyebrow. Elphir also hesitated, before opening his mouth to speak when he was interrupted with the return of Rosilith carrying Alphros.

               She immediately squealed. “Oh Lothíriel!” she said, shoving the squirming tot into his father’s arms in favor of smoothing the pale pink pleats of her gown, and grasping Lothíriel’s forearm, “you look absolutely splendid!”

               “No she doesn’t!” interjected Amrothos.

               “Oh shush, you,” Rosilith whirled at Amrothos, poking his chest with a rigid finger. “If Lady Elspeth looked like this, you wouldn’t be complaining.”

               “That’s exactly the point,” Elphir said, darkly. “You look like a strumpet.”

               Seeing a flash of emotion on Lothíriel’s face, Rosilith whirled this time at her husband. “Hear me now, hervenn. You have seen bare shoulders plenty of times ‘fore now. I have a mind to turn you over my knee for your insolence. And you, Amrothos. You best remember that she is not only your sister but a member of the royal family deserving of respect, who has been running Dol Amroth by herself with no help from you. She is no longer a child, but a woman, and you should be ashamed of yourself.”

               Lothíriel barely heard the continued tongue-lashing Amrothos received as Rosilith directed him further to the side of the room. Lothíriel looked to the contrite Elphir.

               “Is it…is it really that dreadful?” she asked tentatively.

               Elphir sighed, shifting Alphros from one hip to the other. “Forgive me, Lothíriel. I spoke rashly. You surprised me, is all. Though I daresay your attire is nowhere near court-appropriate for Gondor, it is surely passable in Dol Amroth and not at all deserving of my words.”

               Lothíriel let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I admit, it’s a bit much for me as well, but Maren insisted I wear it.”

               Elphir looked surprised. “I am shocked Maren approved of this, though I don’t blame her. If her aim was to capture the attention of eligible men, it has certainly succeeded. Perhaps too well, as even Lord Rawley is ogling you, much to the despair of his wife.” Elphir’s face darkened. “And Lord Brayan hasn’t taken his eyes off of you since you walked in.”

Lothíriel repressed a shudder. “No, I suspect Maren was trying to atone for harsh words in a quarrel.” She shrugged. “She manages to bring out the warg in me every so often. And it’s not her fault entirely that the gown doesn’t adhere to Gondorian standards. Despite is being a few decades out of season, it would normally be considered fairly decent if I were similar to Naneth’s build. As it is, I’m a bit too…plump, in certain areas, for it to sit rightly on my frame. But Elphir, if you think it best, I would go back and change now.”

“Nay, Rosy is right. You aren’t our little sea urchin any longer.”

Lothíriel scrunched her nose in distaste for her childhood moniker. Rosilith returned to take Alphros who was decidedly squirming and reaching for her. Amrothos followed sullenly behind her, staring at his boots.

“’M sorry, Lothy.” He mumbled, glancing up. Rosilith quirked an eyebrow at him and he flushed. “You look splendid and I’m a deplorable brother with no taste.”

Rosilith nodded in approval, shooting a wink in Lothíriel’s direction.

“Oh, Amrothos,” Lothíriel sighed, grinning. He peeked up and saw all was forgiven and beamed at her.

“Perfect,” Rosilith declared, cutting off the conversation. “We should find your father. I’d like to eat something before the dancing starts.”

“Yes,” Elphir said, looking at his sister. “I suppose your dance card will be full within seconds.”

Lothíriel shifted. “Actually, I’m not planning on dancing tonight.”

“Oh, why ever not! Lothíriel, it’s a celebration, you absolutely must!” Rosilith cried, her bright eyes widened in horror that Lothíriel would dare to skip dancing (it was Rosilith’s favorite part of a party due to the fact she met Elphir while dancing).

“Maybe she doesn’t want anyone getting the wrong ideas,” Amrothos said, dryly. He glared in the direction of Lord Brayan.

“Perhaps…” Elphir said slowly, shooting a sly glance at Lothíriel, “perhaps she’ll change her mind if the King of Rohan asks her.”

Lothíriel flushed.

Elphir nodded his head towards his right, capturing Lothíriel’s attention.

Sitting at one of the long tables was the King of Rohan.

Sindarin Language Guide:

periain - (plural form of perian), Halfings/Hobbits hervenn - husband

Click here for Chapter 4