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sunnyrosewritesstuff · 3 years

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12. All About Bilbo from the POV of...Thorin

And FINALLY I’m done. Thank you guys so much for all the notes/comments/reblogs/etc. I appreciate each and every one of you. If you haven’t been keeping up and want to see all 12 POVs, you can click on the masterlist here or I may just go ahead and post them to AO3. Please enjoy the long awaited Bagginshield conclusion. 😉

***

Thorin knew after the battle, after laying in that healing camp, after finally being free to have thoughts not consumed by his treasury, there was only one edict he could make as his first one as king: the hobbit had to stay in Erebor. An advisor, a cook, a gardener, he did not care what occupation he took. He would invent a position if he needed to! He just needed Bilbo by his side if he were to be of any use to the mountain. Of course, convincing the hobbit of this was easier said than done.

In all fairness, Thorin could have gone about it a lot better than all but demanding he stay. The hobbit ranted and raved, he seemed on the verge of lashing out physically (which Thorin would reluctantly admit he would have deserved), and he spent several long agonizing nights in Dale. Finally, Bilbo came back to inform Thorin that he would be returning to the Shire, he would be allowed six months to make his choice, and Thorin would respect it. Balin had to remind Thorin it would be within his best interest to accept. Thorin couldn’t argue with that. In fact, he needed Bilbo to know just how much he appreciated him before he left.

It was their first real conversation since the Battle. Thorin made his apologies and explained just how much the hobbit’s unconventional wisdom was needed both in his kingdom and to the king personally. In return, Bilbo expressed his fears during Thorin’s goldsickness and why exactly he turned over the Arkenstone. It was far from fixed, but it did go a long way towards regaining their former friendship. The hobbit would cite it as what finally convinced him to come back just under two years later. It should have been the happy ending Thorin had been waiting for. He never would have guessed just how wrong he was.

“I’m going to kill him.” Thorin growled.

“You’ve said that before.” Balin reminded patiently.

“This time, I’m really going to kill him. Whose idea was it to make him ambassador to the elves anyways?”

“I believe that would be...yours, Your Majesty.”

Thorin had no energy to deal with Balin’s misplaced amusement as he marched towards the hobbit’s room. He pounded on the door making sure this time that the sneaky burglar couldn’t claim not to hear him.

“I’m not answering if you’re going to be in a mood, Thorin Oakenshield.” Came the muffled response.

“You approved further negotiations after I told you I would not go to that despairing Mirkwood if my life depended on it!”

“Yes, I remember the conversation vividly.” Bilbo sighed.

“Then why…!”

“Your Majesty, if I may?” Balin interrupted. “Perhaps the hall is not the appropriate setting for this discussion.”

Thorin glared at his friend and advisor before turning that look onto the door before him.

“Let me in.” He ordered.

“Only on your word that you will quit raising your voice to me.” The hobbit conditioned.

“I will raise my voice if I please! I AM KING!”

“And with that winning attitude, who could forget?!”

“By Mahal.” Balin swore softly, closing his eyes and shaking his head.

Thorin silently fumed as he glared at the stone before him. Any that claimed dwarves were the most stubborn creatures on Arda clearly have not met Bilbo Baggins. Thorin took a deep breath to center himself before trying again.

“Master Baggins, will you please let me in so we can discuss this in private?” He all but hissed.

It was silent for a moment before the door swung open to reveal the curly haired hobbit who was currently sitting as the bane of Thorin’s very existence.

“There, was that so hard?” Bilbo answered snidely.

Thorin’s fists clenched at his side, and Balin rolled his eyes before turning to go the other way.

“I’m done with the two of you. Fetch me when you’ve figured it out or someone’s dead.”

Thorin gladly slammed the door on the traitor, leaving him and Bilbo alone. However, now that he had the hobbit before him, he found himself unfortunately speechless. He loathed that. As if his mere presence could steal all Thorin’s words away. His rather impromptu first words upon their meeting came to mind. Clearly, he was wrong about this burglar of senses.

“I’m not apologizing.” Bilbo began, crossing his arms. “They asked for a show of good faith from Erebor, and frankly I couldn’t see a reason to fault them.”

“You couldn’t?” Thorin raised a mocking eyebrow. “Clearly you remember our last stay in their wooded halls differently from me.”

Bilbo’s eyebrows furrowed with a scowl. “See! That’s exactly what I’m talking about. If you want this alliance to work, you’re going to have to bury past slights. Goodness, I couldn’t even imagine what the Shire would be if we held onto grudges the way dwarves do.”

“And I can’t imagine the state of my kingdom if I allow flippant hobbits to not hold people accountable for their actions!”

Bilbo pointed a finger at him. “You’re shouting.”

“A'lâju Mahal (Shame of Mahal)! You are...irritating!” Thorin bit back.

“So you’re saying people shouldn’t be forgiven?”

Just like that, the fire that had been steadily building in his breast was snuffed out. Still, Thorin Oakenshield did not bend completely.

“I believe there is a difference when that forgiveness is desired.”

“And I think Thranduil fits the bill...in his own way.” Bilbo shrugged under Thorin’s disbelieving look. “He’s let his son go, he’s lost Tauriel to Dale due to his actions, he’s gotten back the gems he’s been denied. I think he’s ready to make amends. I’m not saying we have to pretend he’s not hurt us. I’m just saying, it would be a good show of...neighborly airs to meet with him and see what he has to offer.”

There was logic in the hobbit’s words, even if Thorin did not want to hear them. And that simple thought probably was the single summary of all their hard feelings as of late. He turned to leave before he had to accept any more difficult truths.

“Fine. Have it your way.” He spat.

The long disappointed sigh that followed him cut quicker than any blade.

***

The journey to Esgaroth where they would spend the night before continuing into the dreaded woods the next day was...tense to say the least. Even Dwalin was uncomfortable, and that was saying something. The inn was a welcome sight if only to get an ale and free Thorin of the abrasive atmosphere surrounding the hobbit. The man who owned the inn was tripping over himself to welcome the King of Erebor, and when Thorin was finally allowed peace in his own room, he was reluctant to leave. However, that ale was calling his name, and he waited long enough that surely the hobbit’s final meal was complete to avoid any awkwardness.

That was too little credit to the brilliant burglar. He waited until Thorin was sat down at the bar halfway through his ale before he appeared at Thorin’s elbow as if out of thin air.

“Why are you avoiding me?” Bilbo demanded. “In fact, what possible excuse could you have to be angry at me if you are in fact angry?”

Thorin was choking on the amber liquid that had rushed down the wrong pipe.

“Well, you see…” He edged around his persistent cough.

“Need I remind you, I’m only doing the job you gave me. Going back further than that, I’m only here in Erebor because you insisted I be.”

“If you would just let me…” Thorin growled only to be interrupted again.

“Is this some sort of punishment for taking the Arkenstone? You lure me back with words of forgiveness and then argue with every single decision I make when I’m only trying to help…”

“IT’S BECAUSE I LOVE YOU! You confounded creature!”

Thorin nearly sighed in relief to finally see the hobbit’s mouth had stopped moving. It was as he took in the widened eyes and nervous stance that his words were able to catch up to him. His hands shook as his eyes darted around the significantly quieter room.

“You love me?” Bilbo whispered.

Thorin didn’t want to have to deal with this in front of all these men and dwarves, especially Dwalin’s irritating smirk. Grabbing the hobbit’s hand, he led him into the hallway where it was a little more private.

“You love me?” Bilbo repeated once they were alone.

Thorin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. This was one secret he had hoped to hold onto for a little while longer. Not that he was never going to act on his feelings, just he was waiting for a little more time to pass. For the chasm between them to be bridged stably once more. But they hadn’t been able to stop arguing! He certainly didn’t expect Bilbo to accept him right now, but he also would not lie to him.

“Yes.” He answered, holding steady for the ire that was sure to erupt.

Instead, the hobbit all but flung himself at the dwarf king, his mouth immediately meeting Thorin’s. It was abrupt, it was warm, it was wet, and it was wonderful. When Bilbo pulled away it was to utter a phrase he never even allowed himself to hope to hear.

“Thorin, take me to bed. Now.”

The dwarf’s jaw dropped at the invitation and the open lust dilating the hobbit’s pupils.

“Wait. Now?” Thorin repeated, his mind whirling but not connecting.

“Now.” Bilbo asserted as he wrapped his arms around Thorin’s neck to kiss him again.

“Shouldn’t we...discuss...this?” Thorin persisted through their kissing, rather stupidly in his opinion.

One that seemed to be shared by the hobbit if his sigh and impatient glare were anything to go off.

“Discuss what?” Bilbo demanded. “I love you. You love me. I’ve bloody been waiting for you to do something about it for months. Now are we going upstairs...or would you rather we postpone until after our meeting with the elves?”

Thorin all but slung the hobbit in his arms making his way as quickly as he could to his bedroom. The sly, conniving, extremely frustrating hobbit. And finally, finally he would be his.

#follower event #all about bilbo #bagginshield #thilbo #bilbo baggins #thorin oakenshield

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wrenhyperfixates · 4 years

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It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

Pairing: Loki x reader Summary: It’s the Christmas season and Loki still has much to learn. Thankfully, he has his favorite little mortal to teach him all about it. Warnings: just straight fluff A/N: Alright, it’s December, and you know what that means: time for Christmas fics! Hope you enjoy my first installment for the holiday season. Happy reading folks :)

Tag List: @lucywrites02 @frostedgiant @lunarmoon8 @twhiddlestonsstuff @lokistan @thelokiimaginechroniclesficrecs

Disclaimer: Gif not mine

It was bizarre, thought Loki, how seemingly overnight the world was lit up with red and green everything. Lights, wreaths, trees, inflatable decorations; you name it, and Loki could spot it from any corner in NYC. Everyone he passed seemed to be filled with joy, ready to start singing at any second. It was disconcerting, to say the least. Normally, people would give him the side-eye, but lately they passed by with a quick nod or wave. Loki doubted it had little to do with him and much more to do with the Christmas spirit floating in the air.

Ah, Christmas. He knew a decent amount about it, but had never paid too much mind to it. After all, it wasn’t like he ever really planned on living on Midgard. It was just the way things worked out. Now he wished he’d taken a bit more of an interest, for this fat, bearded, old man in a red suit made very little sense to him. And yet, he was everywhere this time of year. Though he could have asked any one of the Avengers about it, he refused to risk being teased. It should be easy enough to learn about if he truly desired to.

Loki marveled at the world in a sort of confused awe as he walked back to the Tower. This time of the year on Midgard, while so disagreeable to many, was perfectly fine with him. The bitter cold of the city at wintertime barely even felt like a summer breeze to him. One of the perks of being a perpetually cold frost giant, he supposed, was that you didn’t notice the freezing temperatures. As for those who did, well, he didn’t get why those silly little mortals didn’t just go somewhere warmer. You’d explained to him, once, that not everyone could afford to just pack up and move as they could on Asgard. A terrible shame, he thought, and he wished that he could do something to help, not that he would ever admit it. Feeling particularly generous, he dropped a one hundred-dollar bill in one of those collection bins that always popped up this time of year. It was guarded by yet another one of those strange, bearded men ringing a bell.

Hugging his so dark-green-it-was-almost-black peacoat to him, he rounded the final corner to get back home. Much like his gloves, it was more for style than anything else. Besides, no need to draw more attention to himself by dressing too lightly in the winter weather. Taking one last glance at the world around him, Loki pushed through the doors of the Avengers Tower.

“What in the Nine?” he sputtered as he was hit with a mouthful of glitter.

“Sorry, Mr. Loki,” Peter apologized. “We’re just decorating for Christmas.”

“By throwing glitter around?”

“Yeah. Why not? It’s Christmas, everything is glittery,” he said with a shrug.

“That, I can tell you,” Loki replied, patting Peter’s shoulder as he passed, “is absolutely true.”

All his other teammates seemed to be as excited about decorating as Peter was, though no one else was just haphazardly throwing that infernal sparkly dust. No, they were all using their special talents to hang garlands up from high balconies and banisters. Large ornaments and snowflakes were hanging from the ceiling. Every floor that Loki walked to was filled with merriment and yet more Christmas adornments. How they were put up so fast, the trickster god had no idea.

The common room was, much to his surprise, the least decorated place in the Tower so far. The team must have been saving this room for last, perhaps to do all together. Loki would have been upset that he wasn’t invited, but he was sure it was mentioned in one of those email blasts he always ignored. Now that he thought of it, he did remember seeing it in something that he skimmed. Regardless, this was a nice break from the hubbub in the rest of his home at the moment. In this room, there was only a tree put up and his angel working on prepping it. You.

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” you sang to the music you had blasting through the room, unaware of Loki’s presence. “Everywhere you go.”

He watched in wonder as you twirled about the floor, taking out ornaments and other assorted trimmings for the tree. You grabbed a silver and gold garland and began the tedious process of wrapping it around the artificial branches, still belting your heart out. Though Loki was unfamiliar with the words, he caught on to the tune and began humming along, startling you ever so slightly. He walked up to you and grabbed your hand, joining in your spinning and dancing. Prancing around the room with you, Loki was filled with unbridled joy, and he thought he might be beginning to understand the reason for all the joy the season brings.

As you sang the final notes, you and the God of Mischief collapsed onto the couch amidst the boxes of Christmas knick-knacks, laughing your heads off. When you tried to get up, Loki pulled you back down to him, starting another fit of giggles.

“And how is my little mortal today?” he asked, playfully ticking you a little.

“I’d be a lot better if you let me finish decorating,” you teased, poking his chest.

He sighed and relinquished you back to your duties, watching you walk back toward the tree. If only he had the courage to tell you how he feels, rather than just admiring you from afar. You were best friends, sure, but he longed for more. Much more.

“Loki,” you called in a sing-song voice, batting your eyes. “Can you help me, please?”

“Of course, little one.”

He helped you string the garland the rest of the way around the tree, using his magic to get even the highest boughs. You squealed in delight as you admired your work so far, throwing your arms around Loki to thank him for his help.

Soon, the rest of the team joined you and began to hang the ornaments. No one particularly cared about where they were put, just that everyone was having fun. Loki tried to stay on the outskirts of the activity, but everyone kept pulling him back in. It made him happier than he cared to admit that they all concerned themselves with him participating. That they wanted him to participate.

“What do you think, Mr. Loki? Here?” Peter questioned as he held up an ornament in a prospective spot. “Or here?”

“The first spot, I suppose.”

“No,” Thor chimed in, making Peter worried he was going to start one of their infamous sibling battles. “The second spot, for certain.”

“I guess. I still do not understand most of this ‘Christmas’ stuff, to be quite honest.”

“Well, why did you not say so, brother?”

“Yeah, we can teach you all about it,” you added, showing up beside them. Then you snapped your fingers, getting an idea. “The tree lighting is tonight! At Rockefeller Center. We should go to that!”

“That’s a perfect idea,” Peter agreed. “So it’s set then. A crash course, then a field trip to see the tree lighting!”

Loki smiled at his friends as they bustled around him, planning the rest of the day. He couldn’t wait for later, and it made the rest of the time spent decorating even more enjoyable. Between the constant singing and cracking of jokes, there was not a dull moment to be found. While it would have usually drained Loki, he felt as lively as ever. Maybe there truly was something special about the season, after all.

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

Hours later, Loki stood with his teammates as incognito as possible in Rockefeller Center. It had been agreed that they just wanted to be normal people for one, not celebrities. To keep your group warm, Loki had cast a heating enchantment that they were all more than grateful for as they waited for the tree to light. In the last minutes before it was set to shine through the night, you summarized your lessons on the holiday.

“So,” you began, “I guess it’s basically a time for love, showing others how much they mean to you. And sure, there’s all the commercial stuff about candy canes and elves and trees and Santa Claus, which is nice and all, but that’s not the real meaning. It’s about being with those you care about and spreading goodwill to all.”

Loki thought back to all the times he’d needed a little charity or a helping hand, or really just to be shown he was loved. There were certainly a plethora of scenarios to pick from in his life. A whole season to spread cheer and show everyone things are not as hopeless as they seem sounded like a splendid idea indeed.

“I quite like the sound of that,” he said with a smile. As you looked back at him, an equally warm glow adorning your features, Loki realized there was one person he loved more than anyone else. With a sudden burst of confidence, he went to tell you exactly how he felt. “I must say this now, I-”

He was cut off as the crowd began the countdown. You gave him an apologetic smile as the both of you joined in. Upon reaching the last number, the tree lit up, filling Loki with a warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest. That was only accentuated when you grabbed his hand, bursting with excitement and awe. Once the cheering went down, and your group began to depart, you remembered Loki had been about to say something to you.

“What was it that you wanted to tell me before?” you asked. “Before the countdown.”

“Oh,” he said, clearing his throat. He’d already lost his nerve. “It was nothing urgent. I hardly even remember now. Another time, perhaps.”

“Well, that’s ok,” you replied, though you sounded a little disappointed. “Whenever you remember is fine.”

Back at the Tower, everyone said goodnight and parted ways to go to bed, exhausted from the busy day. In the hall between your rooms, you and Loki stopped to say goodnight one final time. You paused mid-sentence, spying something green hanging from the ceiling above you. Loki followed your gaze upward and immediately went a shade of red that put Rudolph’s nose to shame. Even before all your lessons from the day, he knew mistletoe when he saw it. And, of course, the tradition that went with it.

He heard snickering from around the corner and spotted Peter and Thor waiting for one of you to make your move. Undoubtedly, they'd fabricated the situation to try to get you together faster than you were going by yourselves. To be fair, at said pace, you’d never be together.

“Just kiss already!” Thor shouted before ducking away to give you some privacy.

“Pardon my brother,” Loki said self-consciously. “If you do not wish to, there is no law saying-”

He was cut off for the second time that night. This time, however, it was by something much more pleasurable. You had stood up on your tip toes and placed a kiss to his cheek, too sheepish to do much else.

“Night, Loki,” you said to the still stunned god. “Talk tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow indeed, my little mortal,” he said, pulling you in for another kiss, this time on the lips.

Oh yes, it was decided. This season was magical.

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fortisfiliae · 4 years

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Promised Part 6 - Tom Riddle x reader

Summary: In this story, Tom didn’t grow up as an orphan, but with his grandfather and uncle. Reader’s sister got very sick and the Gaunts offer their help. But not without asking for something in return.

Disclaimer: Please be aware that I don’t condone any of this in real life.

Warnings: Arranged marriage

Word count: 2k

Part 6 - Of Vows and Wrangles

Winter came suddenly this year, and so did Christmas. With all the schoolwork you had been doing for the upcoming N.E.W.T.s in June, the weeks had passed by as quickly as a snitch on the Quidditch field. The holidays were a much-needed break and to see your family again was an even bigger delight.

Elsie did great. She looked like nothing had ever happened to her. No curse, no illness that had almost cost her life. She ran around the house like the years before, excited for the big day to finally come. The house-elves seemed glad to have her and all her shenanigans back as well. Much to your parent’s dismay, but they let most of it slide. They were thankful their daughter was healthy enough to fool around again. And so were you.

Christmas day was as cosy and joyful as ever. You spent the whole day with Elsie and your parents, exchanged gifts and played together. Elsie got her first broom and started her first attempt at flying, which resulted in a knocked over vase, that split into a million pieces, and a crash landing into the fireplace. Some tears were shed and dried again, and a “no flying inside” rule was established, which resulted in another crying fit. Oh, how you had missed it all.

Your mother had waited until the late evening to tell you that the Gaunts would come to visit for lunch the next day. She must have known that you would pepper her with questions again. It was necessary and polite, she said, to invite the future family and show them your interest.

There was certainly no interest to be given to Tom’s grandfather and uncle, but now that you thought of Tom, you had to admit that you missed him. How he had held your hand, how surprisingly cautious and gentle he had been. This memory was embedded in your brain. You would have expected anything but this from him. Anything but that soft and coy demeanour. Those minutes of proximity had told you more about him than seven years of school had. And still, it made you nervous thinking about meeting him along with his family again. They were the ones that must have made him so cold. So you fell asleep, anticipation and tension crawling through your every vein.

The Gaunts arrived in a rush and brought in a whiff of cold air that not even the fire in the chimney could drown out. Tom acknowledged you this time though. Not like months before when they had come to your house. You could have sworn that there was even a hint of a smile on his lips when he laid his eyes upon you. A smile that you reciprocated, rather faintly as well.

Lunch was alright. A lot of forced formalities and small talk, some tired attempts of getting to know the future family. Tom was quiet, as usual, only talked when someone asked him something directly, while Morfin and Marvolo ate so voraciously, the house-elves had trouble filling up their plates in time.

The Christmas spirit was spoiled when presents were brought up. Marvolo asked about Elsie’s new broom and why on Merlin’s green earth your parents would gift such a thing to a girl. He held back his laughter and shook his head when Elsie explained so excitedly that she couldn’t wait to learn how to fly in Hogwarts. Bastard.

Marvolo noticed the look you gave him and seemed to take it as a challenge, so he stared back at you, his filthy grin still in place. His head leant sideways as he waited for you to say something, his eyes squinted as if to tell you to go on and tell him what bothered you. How you would have loved to smash his face against the table or curse him into oblivion. Your teeth hurt from how hard you clenched your jaw. You couldn’t. You wanted to tell him so badly what an awful, disgusting, obsolete excuse for a man he was. But you mustn’t. He still had Elsie’s life in his hands. So you stayed silent when he whispered, “That’s what I thought.”

“Anyway,” your Father said in an attempt to ease the tension. “What are your plans for the remaining holidays?”

“There’s not a lot to do these days, is there?” Marvolo answered. “But now that you bring it up, we had something special planned for today.”

Morfin grinned as he shoved the last spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

“And what is that?” Father asked.

“Well now that your little one is doing much better, which I assume you’re very thankful for,” he paused to wait for your parents to agree. “We decided to accept your invitation for today, to bring our mutual pact to the next stage.”

Your Mother quickly told the elves to take Elsie upstairs, while you looked over at Tom questioningly, but he shrugged and shook his head, letting you know he didn’t know what was going on either.

“The next stage?” Father asked. “What do you mean by that?”

“Since we’ve done our part of the agreement already, exceedingly fast and precise might I add, and the wedding is still months away, we want to make sure we will get what we asked for. You see, I respect you and your family of course, but one can never be sure enough. We don’t want to be tricked or exploited. So we’re asking for an unbreakable vow. Between Tom and your daughter.”

“A vow?” Mother was appalled. “What for?”

“For the marriage of course,” Marvolo said. “A promise that the marriage will be solemnised, that cannot be withdrawn from either side.”

Your breath got stuck in your throat. First the marriage and now this? If you agreed, the Gaunts would have both Elsie and you under their control. Infringing an unbreakable vow resulted in death and they would never stop asking for things if you agreed to this.

“Marvolo,” Father began and sighed. “Don’t you think it’s enough? That we agreed to do this for the sake of my youngest child? You haven’t broken her curse entirely so you can use her as leverage. And now you expect me to bring my second child in mortal danger as well?”

“There’s no danger if the plan proceeds as we agreed,” Marvolo answered. “The vow can’t harm her if she plays by the rules.”

“She played by the rules,” Mother said. “She still does. Everyone’s been playing by your rules, so why do you want to add the vow?”

“As I said, I don’t want to be tricked. It’s merely a way to protect my family. And with all due respect, your reaction makes it seem like you’re up to no good already. Who knows? Perhaps you’ve changed your minds.”

Protect his family… He would sell both Tom and Morfin for a Galleon and a half if he could. He was paranoid. You were still lost for words and didn’t want to speak, even though a million thoughts rushed through your mind. You knew every word that could possibly leave your mouth right now would be filthy and full of anger, and Marlovo was waiting for you to burst.

He turned to you. “What do you say, child? Don’t you want to prove your loyalty?”

You sucked in a breath and were about to answer when Tom suddenly stood up. “Enough! I want a word.”

“You want a word?” Marvolo laughed disparagingly.

“Now,” Tom turned to your parents. “Is there a room we can go to?”

“The reading room, right across the corridor,” Mother said and showed them the way.

You followed the three men and your Mother, and watched them enter the reading room. Mother turned towards you.

“Don’t eavesdrop, darling,” she said. “Give them some privacy.”

“Do you really think Marvolo deserves privacy?”

“No. He’s an awful man.”

“He is,” Father said as he joined you.

“We’re not going to let him do this to you,” Mother promised. “You’ve already done enough. Marvolo is out of his mind.”

“He’s greedy,” Father added. “Insatiable.”

You leant your head against the door to the reading room and pressed your ear onto it, trying to hear what they were talking about. Mother motioned for you to stop, but didn’t prevent you from listening.

First, you heard nothing. Silence, then footsteps tipping across the room. Mumbled words that were so washed out you could barely understand what they meant.

Tom’s voice echoed from the walls. “You can’t be serious. Why would you ask for more? And why didn’t you tell me?”

Marvolo answered quietly. You could only guess what he was saying. Something like “Why would I?”

Mother appeared next to you. You grinned but didn’t say anything, knowing you had gotten your curiosity from her. She flicked her wand silently and cast a spell that diminished the sound barrier, so you could hear every word that was spoken inside the room.

“I’m not going to let you go through with this,” Tom said.

Marvolo snickered. “And you think I care what you’re allowing me to do?”

“I know you don’t,” Tom answered. “But I won’t comply. You can’t force anyone to make an unbreakable vow. Not even with the Imperius curse. And you know that.”

“What are you doing this for?” Morfin suddenly participated. “For the girl? You know things will only get worse if you refuse.”

A moment of silence occurred.

“Oh, would you look at that,” Morfin chuckled. “You do like her, don’t you? Well, at least Father’s letter wasn’t in vain then.”

Tom didn’t answer.

“And her? How will you make her fall for you?” Morfin asked. “If you need a little love potion, I can provide that.”

“How dare you bring that up,” Tom spat. “You know I would never.”

“Well, Father,” Morfin went on. “Looks like Tom thinks he can do it all on his own.”

“Now listen to me, son,” Marvolo said. “If you think you can disobey me like that, without any consequences, you must take me for a fool. To say that I’m disappointed is an understatement. Just know that there will be more to it.”

They scurried around. Marvolo and Morfin seemed to leave through the Floo Network. You assumed Tom would follow them but could hear him roaming around the room for another minute until his steps wandered towards the door. Both you and your mother stepped away quickly. Mother fixed her hair and you tried to come off as innocently as possible.

Tom stood in the door frame, chest heaving slightly and the doorknob in his hand.

“Grandfather and uncle left through the fireplace,” he said. “I’ll go too, I just need a minute, if you’ll allow.”

Mother looked at him like she looked at Elsie when she grazed her knee or hit her head. Her eyes weren’t as stern as you expected them to be, but soft and full of pity.

“Why don’t you stay for a bit, Tom?” she asked. “We still have so much food left from lunch, we could need a bit of help before it goes to waste.”

Tom looked at her and nodded slowly. He must have known that she didn’t invite him to prevent wasting food. But apparently he didn’t care what her reasons were. He just accepted it and you thought that was fair.

“Would you show him around, darling?” Mother asked you. “While I tell the elves to prepare the guest room.”

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roselightfairy · 4 years

Note

On the topic of hurt/comfort fics, do we have any Gimli/Legolas hurt comfort fics where Legolas is the one that needs comforting? Like dealing with his sea-longing and needing snuggles or he's pushing himself too hard and Gimli needs to remind him to sleep/take care of himself because even the tireless have limits, or Legolas crying over anything in general and Gimli coming to the rescue?

All right, so there are a lot more of these out there than the Gimli ones. We as a fandom do love our Legolas whump, and it was tough to cut down this list – but I tried to go for more the emotional side of h/c, which is a favorite of mine for the two of them. (Gimli physically injured; Legolas in emotional distress – that’s where it’s at!) A physical h/c fic or two did slip in, though, so I divided these into three main sections: one that deals with sea-longing, one that deals with war-related trauma, and one “other” category. As a reminder, this is not a catch-all list – again, Legolas might well be the whole fandom’s favorite whumpee – but these are some of the ones that first popped up in my mind at your request.

Sea-longing:

and yet the sea calls (series) by Laura JV (jacquez)

Summaries: [Gimli/Legolas] loves, and yet the sea calls.

…

This is a set of lovely vignettes (two stories, one from Legolas’s perspective and one from Gimli’s) about learning to live and love with the sea-longing between them, and to find comfort in one another as best they can. These stories make me feel so very many feelings and are constant rereads when I want to feel the bittersweet (but mostly sweet!) that is their love.

A Beloved Ballast, an Untethered Soul by katajainen

Summary: Gimli has spent long months on the new gates of Minas Tirith, all the while waiting for Legolas to return to him from the North.

But when he does, it's clear the year has not been altogether kind to his husband.

…

This is one of my favorites of a lot of things – a wonderful, gentle reunion in Minas Tirith after their separation after the war, Legolas worn from sea-longing and finally finding home in his husband’s arm, warm comfort and some very romantic smut. Please read it; you will not regret it.

Everything That Mattered Is Dust by SerStolas

Summary: A decade ago, the One Ring was destroyed. A decade ago, Gimli and Legolas traveled together first to the Glittering Caves and then to Fangorn. A decade ago, both of them failed to admit their deeper emotions for each other. Now they meet again in Minas Tirith during renovations on the city. But not all is well with Legolas.

Inspired by Through the Ghost by Shinedown.

…

This is another lovely story with a similar theme to the previous – but without the established relationship, so we get a very sweet love confession instead. Very gentle and loving and satisfying; this gets me right in the hurt/comfort feelings. <3

Where You Go, I Will Go by UnnamedElement

Summary: Lady Galadriel's message was a riddle too twisted for a Wood-elf and a Dwarf to initially unwind... This is a story of a friendship fraught with mutual ignorance: the concessions a dwarf makes to an elf, and the choices that elf makes for their peculiar friendship. It is how Legolas and Gimli pass through the threat of death to find, together, a better truth. (March 2016 Teitho)

…

Look, I don’t know if this is hurt/comfort as such, but it certainly comforts ME to read. This is a lovely little exploration of the sea-longing and how it changes Legolas and Gimli’s friendship – and in fact brings them closer together. It’s gen, nominally, but it’s so tender you won’t miss the romance (and I feel comfortable saying that because of multiple conversations with @unnamedelement on the subject!).

The Language of Power by Thewriternumber19238478356

Summary: It's the night before the march on the Black Gate. But sea-longing won't let Legolas sleep. Gimli offers him a secret dwarven practice that might just be the solution…

…

This is an underappreciated and really wonderful story, but contains some non-sexual BDSM, so be warned for that. It’s extremely tender and plays with the notion of power in dominance/submission with respect and love for the practice and the characters. It’s archive-locked, so you’ll need an account to read it, but I really do have such love for this story and I highly recommend it.

War-related:

A Night Beclouded by katajainen

Summary: Night falls after the fighting is done on the Pelennor Fields. For those left alive, it should be an hour for respite, for catching one's breath.

But there is the kind of darkness that seeps under one's skin, the kind not born of mere absence of sunlight, and this is not a time to be alone.

…

This is such quiet, atmospheric tenderness – comforting someone after a nightmare is such a wonderful trope, and @katajainen does it with all her usual sensitivity and care. A bit of pre-relationship sweetness and warm comfort – and honestly, it was a struggle to keep it to two fics by katajainen on this list; please go read all her stories!

Shared Spaces by mssileas

Summary: I know you think I'm a little different But I'm still somebody's son.

The night before marching on the Black Gate, neither of them can sleep.

…

Okay, so I adore this fic. I have a soft spot for any fics that focus on how Legolas must feel about Sauron and the origin of orcs, and this is a wonderful fic that deals with those ideas, as well as pre-battle anxiety, and Legolas and Gimli taking comfort in one another. Lots of lovely hand-touching and some very sweet kissing, too. <3

A time and times and half a time by Honesty

Summary: AU. Legolas, imprisoned by Saruman, discovers *exactly* how Orcs were made .... While Gimli keeps a vigil he will never forget.

…

Similar themes as the last one, though taken WAY over the edge past hurt/comfort and into serious hurt territory. Be careful with this one, because there’s a lot of pain for Legolas – warning for physical and psychological torture - but the love between him and Gimli is so powerful and all-consuming, it carries the story and provides the much-needed comfort at the end, though you’ll probably still be aching.

Comfort after Endurance by spinel

Summary: The battle of Helm's Deep takes its toll on Legolas. A stolen moment between the end of the battle at Helm's Deep and riding to Isengard.

…

Pre-relationship sweetness, comfort after battle. This one skirts the lines of physical and emotional hurt/comfort, combining the two with the soothing effect of touch and closeness after great trials. Lots of tender handling of one another – no explicit relationship content, but definitely little hints of more to come here and there. ;)

Other:

inkstains by apricae

Summary: Legolas isn't much good at reading, and an attempt at a learning his letters with Gimli turns into a revelation.

(Or: The one in which Legolas is dyslexic and sad, Gimli is a very good husband, and Dwarves are a lot better than Elves at handling disabilities.)

…

I am very big on neurodivergent Legolas in all its forms, and I love this dyslexic-Legolas headcanon a lot. Emotional distress and childhood trauma – but luckily, Legolas has a very kind, loving dwarf husband to talk him down and help him through.

Tainted Meat by lynndyre

Summary: On the road between Helm's Deep and Isengard, mistakes are made with supplies.

For the BloodyValentine prompt: someone feeds orc food to an elf, making them really sick.

…

This is one of my favorite underappreciated fics out there – I find that it really gets the way Legolas and Gimli are portrayed once they start meeting up with armies and other men: they are a bubble of two, responsible for one another’s comfort and supporting one another without question. In this fic, Legolas (and half the Rohirrim) are struck with food poisoning, and while the men deal with the aftermath, Legolas is so very much Gimli’s charge, and it’s so tender and lovely and wonderful. Gen, nominally, but it gets the particular something between them in canon that I so love. (It also fits with a line Gimli says in Two Towers about refusing to touch any orc supplies!)

Teeth Like Knives by Evandar

Summary: Gimli wasn't expecting to have to stitch Legolas back together after their first attempt at lovemaking, but now that the initial shock has worn off, he can't say that he's surprised.

…

This is part of a larger series that involves half-orc Legolas, and all of it has some very wonderful emotional hurt/comfort. But this is my favorite of the series because of how good and gentle and wonderful Gimli is with Legolas’s existential crises and hurting himself on accident. Please do mind the tags, since this subject matter may not be for everyone, but I adore the sensitivity with which these topics are handled and reread this for comfort. <3

…

As always, if you enjoy any of these fics, please let the author know with a comment if you have capacity! Also, I encourage you to reblog this list so that we can spread the good word. :)

#fic rec #my fic recs #legolas x gimli #hurt/comfort #i actually have a lot of thoughts #on why legolas is our favorite character to hurt #but i will save you those ramblings for now #enjoy the recs!

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honeyrites · 4 years

Text

Welcome Home - Feren

(x reader)

AN: I had planned to post this to Wattpad at first, so the cover/picture might seem a bit strange for tumblr. The reader is Thranduil’s daughter, the princess of Mirkwood. I swear I don’t usually write Feren nearly as submissive as he is here.

WARNINGS: fluff, mentions of war and ptsd

WORD COUNT: 2,081

The trees in the woodland realm are constantly changing structure to ward off any intruders; because of this, the elves are forced to frequently remap the landscape. The elites of the Mirkwood military were scheduled to spend two weeks in the forest to accomplish this task. While this shift in paths typically only occurred every few years, a group of dwarves working to reclaim the Kingdom of Erebor were being particularly aggressive this time. The trees were shifting far more frequently, and with the threat of war growing each and every day, the elves needed a reliable way to track the area. They were forced to accomplish this task in the dead of winter, over a much longer period of time than had been hoped, for the woods had grown afraid, and so had the soldiers.

Commander Feren returned with his troops two months after they were expected to arrive, with perfectly designed maps fit to serve their king. While the men did ache to return home, they spared no expense in accomplishing their goal; they knew the next battle would be soon and it relied on them alone. There was no room for error, and every opportunity for it as well. Despite the fact that they'd met all of Thranduil's relentless and merciless demands, when the commander returned with a positive scouting report and everything that had he asked, all he received was a nod from the king, who accepted his work as adequate. So, the soldiers- tired, frozen, nearly traumatized, and deeply disappointed soldiers- went to drink. Save for old Commander Feren, who was going immediately to bed.

The commander sat close to the fire, staring into the void. He kept a light blanket around his shoulders and his mind clear of any thoughts; the mission was over- he should have been relieved, but still the ellon remained too exhausted to appreciate the moment's sentiment. The room was silent save for all but the crackle of flames, and occasional crunching of snow outside (a sound that would have driven Feren half-mad if he weren't so tired). It was truly a pitiful sight.

The creaking of his bedroom door brought him out his state of half conscious thought. He reacted slowly to the sound, it barely processed in his mind that anyone had entered. Feren turned to look, but he felt the warmth on his face rapidly fleeting, and found he had to turn back to the fire to recover it. A breeze blew in from the recently open door, causing Feren to gasp involuntarily and shake more violently. His mind had completely dismissed the fact that someone had entered, it focused once more on the seemingly impossible task of escaping the cold.

"Starlight?" A soft voice called from the other side of the room. He finally turned to see the princess searching for him. His quick movement caught her eye, she smiled warmly before approaching. Feren saw his love in her usual lilac nightgown, which didn't cover nearly enough skin to keep her warm on such a night. It must be later than I thought... Feren pondered.

The elleth brought a comforter, which was thrown over her forearm and a mug in each hand, one of which she offered to Feren before settling down with him. She straddled his lap, quickly replacing the sad blanket around his shoulders with a thick comforter. She pulled him in for a quick kiss, one of which Feren wished lasted much longer, but was very grateful for her presence nonetheless.

"I missed you," he blurted out, desperate for her attention, despite the fact that he had it in its entirety. YN smiled and pressed their foreheads together.

"I missed you, too." She kissed him softly. "But, before we talk, you must first drink your hot chocolate," she commanded of him. Feren did as told, but cringed at the unexpectedly strong taste of liquor. YN laughed at his reaction and commented, "Galion made this, what were you expecting?". Feren was overwhelmed with joy and he showed it proudly, what a nice surprise it was for an angel to offer him comfort from the cage he'd been trapped in for months. The dark, unforgiving winter that had overtaken Feren's being had become a part of him he thought he could never rid of, but YN chased it away in a matter of seconds.

She set her cup down next to them, "So, tell me about the trip. How did it go?" Her voice was eager and her smile was kind, she wanted to understand his troubles and somehow open up the boy. Feren's small smile fell. He shrugged slightly and looked away, attempting to avoid her gaze, but she quickly followed. He found he didn't have the words to respond to that question, despite his best efforts. Feren opened his mouth to offer an explanation, but closed it again once he felt tears well in his eyes. Feren had kept it together for ten weeks, he'd valiantly led his hopeless soldiers for months on end without wavering (externally). He thought his worries were over when the mission ended. He certainly didn't think the mere mention of the situation would bring him straight to tears, but he was glad it was in front of his lady when it did.

The ellon wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face in her neck. "I don't know..." were the only words he could quietly let escape between sobs. He felt the weakest he had in his life, like a child crying to his mother. He wanted desperately to stop breaking down, but YN knew it would only get worse if he fought it. She ran her fingers through his hair slowly and soothingly, gaining control of every nerve in his body as she did so. YN kissed her meleth's forehead, she knew he was ashamed of himself and had no reason to be. "I'm sorry, my angel, I'm sorry you were out there for so long..." she whispered, knowing all the commander needed was somebody to empathize with him. There were no casualties reported or any major incidents; on paper it looked as though all was well, but the princess knew her ellon must have suffered greatly to have returned with such fantastic results. "It's over now, I promise... hey, starlight?" She lifted his chin so she could look him seriously in his eyes. Feren looked back at her like a scared puppy, but he couldn't tear his eyes away. She leaned in close and spoke quietly on his lips, "I love you," while wiping the tears from his eyes. Feren smiled, finally done with feeling lost. "I love you," he whispered, voice breaking slightly.

YN peppered soft, gentle kisses all over the soldier's face. He inhaled a shaky breath, feeling better than he had in ages. He pondered how she could so quickly recover his being, which had been in pain for what seemed like an eternity.

"I can't pretend like I know what it was like to be stuck out there for so long... but, I can say a few things are for certain," she stayed as close as she had before, nose to nose with one arm around Feren's neck and the other still tracing his skull. The male couldn't even blink; he was too lost in the maiden's eyes, voice, and touch. "one, you're here now. With me. Safe from all harm," she pointed to the window, momentarily diverting his attention before continuing, "...two, you see that? That's the world, and it is way - way out there. Far from us," he laughed as she kissed him again. "...three, I love you. And four, I will always be here when you return." The last affirmation, once again brought the male to tears, but for a very different reason than the last.

She pulled the blanket further up on Feren's shoulders, leaning in for another kiss, when the door opened. It was Legolas. Feren's room was the third largest in the kingdom, the pair couldn't easily be spotted from the doorway. "Feren, I-" the prince began as he entered the grand estate. Luckily, the ellon's ears were sharp, he quickly located the two before interrupting himself. "-will come again at a later date!" With that, he turned on his heel and left as quickly as he had come. The soldier and the princess were both sent into an uncontrollable fit of laughter at the prince's reaction.

YN sighed happily, "At least we no longer have to tell him we're together,". Feren took a sip of hot chocolate before responding "but is this really how we wanted him to find out?"

"Ridiculous question, because he knows now regardless of how we planned to tell him." He wanted to respond with a witty retort, but found himself lost again in his lady's eyes. YN chuckled at Feren's severely submissive state, his attention was completely on her, waiting for her next move. They sat in silence for a few moments before either one spoke up, appreciating sounds and smell of the fire, as well as the other's presence.

"Come on," YN stood up before offering a hand to her meleth. Feren did not want to leave. He was content to go to bed, but his mind resisted any movement that would separate him from the state they were just in. Feren's mind, which had known nothing but peril for too long, was not ready to be moved from the only place it deemed safe. Like an animal born in a cage, he was convinced everything beyond their small space was unsafe. Even if they were going to bed, what if the cold returned? Who's to say the fireside with her isn't the only truly safe place on Middle-Earth? Feren cringed at the delusional thoughts that raced through his head; he knew they were hallucinations.

"Bed?" His voice was much gentler than he had intended it to be. The male cleared his throat to distract from that fact.

"No." YN stated clearly before walking off into the darkness. Feren stood, he could still see her pulling at the hem of her dress, but was only a shadow when the fabric hit the floor. "Bath."

"Let me wash your hair, starlight." YN moved so she sat behind Feren.

"Absolutely not!" He joked, and turned around to look at her. "You have spoiled me enough already, you move."

She smiled sweetly at him, knowing the soldier was more likely to follow her instructions if she did. He was going to do as she said anyway, but YN knew he'd feel less guilty doing so if she proved he was no burden to her. Feren rolled his eyes and reluctantly sunk back in the water. Their breaths were slow and relaxed, both partners perfectly content with where they were. The air smelled of sweet vanilla, as the few candles that surrounded the large bath gave off a dim light. YN ran a hairbrush through the soldier's auburn locks slowly. She was determined to enjoy every minute of their time together. She began to massage his scalp once more, earning a quick response. "Stop that." Feren stated plainly, knowing the playful elleth was determined to pamper him, and his words were powerless against her relentless will. He was right, of course, YN giggled quietly. "You know, commander," he opened his eyes slowly, knowing she'd be peering over his laying body. "Hm?" Feren hummed, challenging her. "I think you forget that I am not one of your soldiers. I am the princess- and unfortunately for everyone- I will continue to do as I please. And if what I please is washing your hair with lavender, then that's just what I'll do, regardless of your pointless protests... and I certainly won't hesitate to point out the fact that you look like you're enjoying yourself thoroughly." All the male could do was smile in response. He was soon too lost in the feeling of her hands in his hair and the warm water to care for anything else.

#the hobbit #lord of the rings #feren x reader #feren #mirkwood #thranduil #legolas #the desolation of smaug #botfa

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crowleyellestair · 4 years

Note

This feels like the smallest request ever but I have a mighty need for a Geralt (or Jaskier I'm not picky lol) x elf!reader. Maybe something angsty, she gets attacked or threatened and it gets to her more than usual. I dunno really, you're writing is absolutely amazing so I'm sure whatever you come up with will be perfect!

AN/// Sorry this took so long!! I have been swamped with work and life. As a college kid, you gotta make bank as much as possible. Here it is, angst, and I hope you enjoy <3 I hope it is perfect for you : ) I thank you from the bottom of my heart for those kind words : )

The streets of Novigrad weren’t safe, but the two had decided to galivant through them anyways. It was late, though they thought themselves cautious by traveling through the main roads. Jaskier and Y/n had decided to go out, the She-elf needing to find an anniversary gift for her witcher.

Geralt had met her in his trip to Dol Blathanna, Y/n being his and the bard’s escort out once they had finished their first meeting with Filavandrel. It had been decades ago, the elf starting her travels with them once the witcher had made his way too close to Brokilon looking for work. Elves lead long lives, Geralt sharing a foot of that length with his own unnaturally long span. Elves find love within their own kind, as most others can’t match that time, or they are raised in racist or northern homes. The White Wolf had been dragged unconscious into her life, and sacrificed his neck to worm into her heart. She hadn’t been a Squirrel, but she was a fighter. She was an intermediate guard of the Silver Towers keeper, Filavandrel needing larger guard numbers despite his protests. Y/n had travelled to the forest on mission by the makeshift King to deliver a message to the Dryad Queen. She had recognized the emotion filled grunts, and now she was happy. Well, as happy as she could be in a world where people would spit on herself and her lover just because they exist.

A simple token was all she had wanted, now bigots had her and the bard pinned. Two men had taken each side of Jaskier, continuing their firm grip despite him trying to kick his legs out. He squirmed as much as he could, being a non-violent man putting him at a major disadvantage. Y/n was thrown into an alleyway, three men ducking in behind her. One had taken her satchel, Geralt’s gift and knife in there. One was laughably short for a human, but the other two seemed as though they frequented the fight clubs around the city. Luckily, she couldn’t see any gang indicator, but despite her training, she seemed at a disadvantage as well. The shorter man approached, the elf easily dispatching him.

She slid out of his charging path her hands ghosting the back of his head before placing pressure, and running his head into the wall with all of her strength. Jaskier cheered for her, seemingly just watching along with the two men that held him.

“You lot are messing with the wrong elf! Her ears aren’t the only things that are sharp!” Everyone in the alleyway seemed to stop and turn to look at the man, who rolled his eyes. “It’s not my best, I’ll admit. The point I was trying to show is that she is an amazing fighter, and one should be cautious when approaching.” His tone was smooth and eerie until his chopped end, when the man on his right twisted his arm back painfully to bend him, the only things in his field of vision being the dirt and his legs. The man leaned in, spitting as his voice dripped venom.

“Look a’ faerie here, traipsin’ with ‘e Elf! Lookin’ all high an’ mighty, tryina fit to their ‘higher standards of livin’.” His tone changed to mocking once he started to talk about the stereotype of elves finding themselves higher than man. While it is a true conspiracy, Y/n wasn’t one for superiority. Lives were lives, and she simply wanted to lead hers in peace. The two men on Y/n both started at the elf once more, and hands connected with forearms and faces. She was distracted for a moment when she heard the pained laugh of her good friend.

“Well, it’s certainly better than your company. Have you ever heard of this heavenly thing known as a bath?” The man to his left dropped his arm and kicked his legs out from under him, the other arm that was still being held behind his back stretching painfully as it was still held high. A tight groan left him, and her eyes snapped to him. Rage filled her as the two men started to kick at the bard. She saw red, running at the wall, using leverage to kick off and hit her assailants. It took a moment to take out both, but she soon found her way to the men beating her bard. Y/n quickly brought the first man’s head to her knee, his whole body going into shock as his nose went inward due to the force of the kneeing. The other made his way to her, though she ducked under his arms, kicking out his knee as he passed her. The elf quickly stood, bringing a forceful kick to his eye as he looked back. All the attackers laid on the ground groping one bleeding part or the other.

“Jaskier?! Jaskier, please, speak to me. Are you okay?” Pain and fear enveloped her as she kneeled next to him. Her hand went to brush his hair out of his face as he sat back on his feet. He panted and straightened out his jacket, giving her a tired wink.

“Of course. They got what they deserved and you, my feisty, elvish friend, were marvelous.” Y/n wanted to crack a smile, but guilt clawed at her. She knew how to deal with situations like this, easily making it out unscathed alone. Even with Geralt, things would be okay, knowing that there was light. Geralt was used to being under the microscope as well, but not Jaskier. While he has had a taste just like he had now, he didn’t deserve it. He was a ball of joy- a delight to be around. Simply through association, he was cast out by certain people of his own ilk. Y/n had simply wanted a second opinion on a gift, and in doing so, Jaskier twitched at every breath. It was certain he had bruised ribs, and she tried to help him up as slowly and as gently as possible. The elf grabbed his lute and their bags, throwing them over one shoulder as she threw his arm over her other, helping him back to the inn.

After she had gotten him settled in a hot bath and set up healing ointments, she let herself sit. Geralt had hovered, but didn’t make a sound. Jaskier had breathlessly retold the tale to him, making the elf out as more heroic than the situation had actually brought her to be. The air settled, though it was a tense aura this filled the space. Y/n plopped onto the bed, head in her hands as the witcher shifted in front of her. They sat that way for a couple of breaths before he bent down to one knee in front of her. Both of her hands dropped though one slowed to cover her mouth, her eyes closed.

“I am one thing, but they hurt Jaskier. Simply by walking with me they attacked him.” Geralt’s hand reached out, cupping the back of her knee, his thumb brushing circles over the cap. “I asked him to go. I should have known not to bring him in the open here.”

“You shouldn’t be tied to the inn, either.” His tone was soft, matching her whispers.

“I could have thought it through better! I could have brought cloaks or used glamour-.”

“You don’t need to hide anything.”

“Are you sure? Because not doing so got our friend hurt.” Geralt gave a sigh, matching her gaze when her eyes fluttered open. His other hand came up to her hair, brushing down until it landed at the back of her neck.

“People are cruel.” She simply raised a brow at his statement, but he leaned in. His eyes bore into hers, trying to get a point across. His tone was stern, yet light. “Jaskier is safe.”

“What about next time, Geralt?”

“I can’t tell the future. Though, I know he will be fine in the end. He always will be. We can’t get rid of him, but he knows the risks others bring to our lives. It’s not your fault most humans can’t live with us, and he isn’t going to leave because of them.” Y/n conceded, nodding at his words. She knew people would never stop hating her kind, Jaskier would never leave, and she would never not feel guilty despite being proud of who she is. Y/n would never not be proud, and she shouldn’t have to be painful. Most wouldn’t find the witcher’s words comforting, but she did. He understood completely, and his sympathy was real. She knew she wouldn’t have to go through this world alone this far north, having her lover and friend by her side. “We have each other, and we will protect the man.”

A small smile was shown to him, his statement affirming her thoughts. She wasn’t alone, Geralt always ready to be by her side, no matter what faced them. He brought her head down to his shoulder and help her tight, wishing her peace, and swearing to take down anyone that dared to take her smile away.

#witcher x reader #witcher imagine #geralt x reader #geralt imagine #jaskier imagine

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johannestevans · 4 years

Photo

Vizma Riorda, a priest devoted to Oghma, a god of knowledge and truth, meets a young thief who does not lie. 6k.

Art of Buran was a comission from the tremendously talented Marina, @ vermilion_shade on Twitter. They’re open for commissions right now!

The market in the centre of Merryweather was, as ever, bustling. Crowds milled about the stalls in the square, where travelling merchants had set up for the summer festival, and Vizma walked with her head high, her hands loosely gripping one another in front of her belly, neatly clasped in place.

The crowd parted slightly, for any priest, but especially for the High Priest of the Merryweather Oghmian Order, and she scanned the crowd as she came through, looking for traders selling books or scrolls, although most of them knew the area well enough to drop into the Temple of Oghma as they made their way onward.

The temple would usually pay a small stipend to any who brought new books through and allowed the temple to make a copy of the text for its own library, and there were few merchants who wouldn’t take advantage of the opportunity, but not every trader knew everything. Merryweather was just a dot on a trade route to many, and some merchants didn’t pay heed to the signs or leaflets the Oghmians set out.

It was not, in the end, a merchant that drew her attention.

It was a young boy, clad in blue travelling clothes and a cap, making his way through the crowd and examining people as they went by before his gaze settled on her. She could see the curiosity in his face, watching him as she did in the polished glass of the apothecary’s storefront, and she smiled slightly at the expression of concentrated focus he wore, his brows furrowing together.

It was good, to see a youth inquisitive.

She only glanced away for a moment, but the young man disappeared entirely from view, blending in with the crowd. It oughtn’t have been too difficult, with how little the young man was, scarcely coming up to the chest of most of the elves and humans passing him by in the crowd, and yet the speed with which he dissipated entirely from view was…

She wouldn’t have noticed it, she didn’t think, had she not noticed the young man in the crowd, had she not been more alert. Vizma felt the ever so slight difference in the movement behind her, felt the tug on the fabric of her skirts, and her hand whipped out to catch the young man by the skinny wrist, pulling it up hard.

It forced him up onto his tip-toes, his cap falling back, and he stared up at her face, his lips pressed loosely together, his eyes slightly wide. There were freckles scattered all over his face, dusting his cheeks, his jaw, his forehead, the most she’d ever seen on one person’s skin, and the colour of them was almost the same as the dun-brown of his flat, lifeless hair.

She arched an eyebrow, waiting for the young man to say something, to defend himself, but he remained silent, his expression unchanging.

“What are you doing, young man?” Vizma asked, not relaxing her grip on his wrist, but he wasn’t struggling, and nor was he looking wildly about the square for some way to escape, as most children in his position would be.

His brows knitted together, his mouth twisting somewhat. “Picking your pocket,” he said slowly, as though it were a stupid question. “Unsuccessfully.” He spoke Common naturally, his accent a little more northern than Merryweather, but it certainly wasn’t a city accent.

“You understand that most priests don’t carry that much money on them?”

The knitted brow knitted further. “I didn’t want money,” he said. “You have a book in your pocket. I wanted to see what it was.”

Vizma stared down at him, taking this in, and she managed to suppress the smile that threatened to bubble up as she slowly let his wrist down, allowing him back onto the soles of his feet as she reached into her pocket with the other hand. He made no effort to pull away, his focus on the blue-dyed leather of it as she held it out. He hesitated as she let him go, glancing up at her face, but then he took the book out of her hand, examining its cover before parting the pages.

His eyes moved fast over the page, but it wasn’t the scrambling of an illiterate pretending he understood the paper in his hands: the boy could read, and he studied each line of the cover page before reading the first of them… then flipped toward the back, scanning the indices. He was obviously well-accustomed to the handling of books, and she glanced back to the bookseller, searching for some family resemblance between him and the boy, but there was none that she could make out.

His clothes were well-made, and not the overworn, obviously secondhand clothes of a beggar or an urchin, but they weren’t well-tailored to his body, and there was something uncertain about his wearing a blouse too large for him and a cardigan that was obviously too small. His trousers fit him, but the boots seemed a little too large as well, and the leather of the latter seemed to be of a much higher quality than the rest of his clothes.

“You’re a priest of— Ooghma, then?”

“Oghma,” Vizma corrected. “Rhymes with dogma.”

“Oghma,” the boy repeated, not looking up at her face and remaining concentrated on the pages of the prayer book. It was a collection of prayers and blessings, as well as a few excerpts from the holy texts, and without context or previous study, no doubt they seemed as if they branched across a maddening array of topics, but if the boy found them confusing, it didn’t show in his face. He glanced up from the text, his thumb pressed loosely to the symbol printed upon the page, and to the silver amulet she wore over her breast: a carved scroll, Oghma’s symbol.

“Most young men wouldn’t admit to thievery, even when caught,” Vizma said.

“I don’t lie,” the young man said. “Do you need this? Surely as a priest, you would have all this memorised from rote use alone?”

“Perhaps so,” Vizma said. “But that book is not for my use alone. If someone asks me a question, what help will it be if I just recite a passage? Better to sit down with the questioner and allow them to see it written on the page. What’s your name?”

“Buran Highfield.”

“Is that your real name?”

“Yes.”

“Your family are merchants?”

“They sell things, sometimes,” Buran said, paging through the text and examining in detail a prayer of thanks to Oghma – it was the prayer most devotees said before going to bed, and it was one of the most worn page in the book, undoubtedly. “But no, they’re thieves.”

“And they let you wander strange towns?”

“Not let me, no,” Buran said. “That’s my father over there, the frantic looking man in the blue travelling clothes. He doesn’t want to start calling for me because it’s too suspicious, but I’m not wearing the clothes I was wearing this morning, so he’s struggling to find me in the crowd. It helps that I’m talking to you, of course.”

Vizma took this in, once more struggling not to laugh, and she looked toward the man Buran had nodded to. He was a broad man, somewhat shorter than Vizma herself, with the same dun hair as his son, and she could see the panic on his features as he searched the crowd from the top of the square’s steps.

“It doesn’t bother you that he’s so worried?” Vizma asked.

“He’s always worried,” Buran said. “One becomes inured.”

Vizma put her hand over her mouth, turning her face away, and then she raised her hand, waving toward him. The broad man looked from her to the little figure beside her, and he began to rush forward through the crowd. He went very pale as he approached, the natural ruddiness leaving his cheeks, and it made his freckles stand out all the more.

“Mr Highfield,” Vizma said.

“Buran,” he said, catching the boy by the shoulders, and Buran looked up at him, still holding the prayer book neatly in his hands. Expectantly, he raised his chin, and he didn’t look at all surprised as his father tilted it slightly further up to look at his face, then leaned one way and then the other, apparently examining his son for signs of injury.

“We told you not to wander off,” Highfield said, desperately.

“I didn’t wander,” Buran said. “I moved with purpose.”

“And to meet us at midday if you did.”

Buran shrugged. “I was busy.”

Highfield looked anxiously at Vizma, and his hand squeezed Buran’s shoulder a little bit more tightly, although judging by the boy’s expression, it wasn’t tight enough to really bother him. “And what have you been speaking with this priest about?”

“Mr Highfield,” Vizma said again, and put out her hand to shake. Highfield took it, his palm dry but his grip a little bit too tight to be relaxed. “You’re passing through Merryweather as part of the merchant train, I take it?”

Highfield opened his mouth, glanced down at his son still buried in the prayerbook, and then met Vizma’s gaze.

“We’re moving toward Planton, to the east,” he said, sounding as though he were measuring the words very carefully. “We’ve been selling furs along the way, but I’m a bard, so I’ve been playing music along the way too, of course.”

“Big family?”

“No, no,” Highfield said, and Buran raised his head, frowning at his father.

“How many brothers and sisters do you have, Buran?” Vizma asked.

“Ten travelling with us,” Buran said. “Seventeen overall. I’m the youngest.”

“A family we need to go back to,” Highfield said, and now as he squeezed Buran’s shoulder, the boy noticed, and frowned pointedly at his father’s hand. “Thanks very much, Mother, very nice to meet you, I’m sure, but we have to go—”

“Mr Highfield,” Vizma said as Highfield moved to pull his son away, “I would like to speak with you about your son.”

“Look, I don’t know what he told you,” he said, and she didn’t miss the way he glanced behind her and about the market, pin-pointing where the guards were stationed at the square’s main entrances, “but my son tells people all sorts of things, often gets taken away with silly flights of fancy.”

“I do not—”

“Hush, Buran,” Highfield said, with desperation.

“I would like to speak with you and Buran’s mother,” Vizma said. “This isn’t about your thievery.”

Highfield set his jaw, just slightly, and Vizma took a step forward, smiling slightly. “Why don’t I walk with you, Mr Highfield?”

“Yes,” he said, resigned. “Why don’t you?”

---

The caravan was set apart from most of the others in the merchant train. It was two fairly big roofed carts, each of them very well taken care of, the wood painted all over with complicated murals and little portraits, with curtains hanging over the doors and opened windows. A few other tents were neatly set about the clearing, and over the fire bubbled a pot of stew, a few more cast iron pots set into the fire itself. Four horses were grazing alongside, a few chickens pecking about the fire, and she did see a few children rushing back and forth.

Buran couldn’t be older then nine or ten, and these children were around the same age, four of them running and tumbling in the grass. It was plain they’d been taught acrobatics: they leapt over one another and did complicated cartwheels, walking on their hands as well as they did their feet, and their laughter rang out over the clearing.

Others were milling about the fire, two young women who looked to be about sixteen playing a complicated game of strings she couldn’t follow, their hands were moving so fast. Now that she looked at them more carefully, she could see that some of the children had the elvish features, their eyes larger, their colouring darker and richer, their ears pointed, but that others looked more human, as Buran and his father did.

This was explained by the two women who moved back and forth in the camp, one of them a tall, strong-shouldered human with plum-coloured cheeks, and the other a shorter elven woman, a wood elf. When they saw the three of them approaching, both of them immediately abandoned their work by the fire and rushed over, the elven woman dropping to a crouch in front of Buran and putting her hands on his hips to look at him, the human putting her hand in his hair and pulling his head back to look at him.

Buran obediently moved his head one way and the next, raising his arms upon being prompted, and then showing each of his palms to the elven woman when she pressed at his hands.

“Are you hurt? At all?” she asked, and the boy sighed long-sufferingly.

“Not to my awareness,” he said.

The elven woman swore under her breath, taking him by the hand, and Buran went along as she led, complaining in fluent Elvish the whole of the time, that he didn’t need to be checked over, that he was perfectly well.

He never let loose his grip on the prayer book in his hand, and finally the other woman turned to Vizma, seeing her for the first time. The glance to her husband was subtle, and although Vizma didn’t quite catch the movement of the man’s hand, she was aware that non-verbal signals were being passed between them.

“My name is Vizma Riorda,” Vizma said, putting out her hand. “I’m the High Priest of the Oghmian Temple here in Merryweather. I was speaking with your son back in the marketplace.”

“My name is Rena,” she said slowly, “and you’ve met my husband, Wendell. Our wife, Eline…” She gestured after the elf as she led Buran up into the caravan, and Vizma watched two more elves come out from the caravan, young, lanky boys who looked to be about sixteen or seventeen, talking at length with another adult man. He didn’t look like the others, his hair pure black, his skin seeming opalescent in its pallor compared to the other elves about the camp.

“You seem so convinced that your son is hurt,” Vizma said. “You think he would lie?”

“He wouldn’t lie,” Rena said. “But he… He doesn’t always notice, when he hurts himself. Why are you here?”

“I wanted to speak with the three of you about your son,” Vizma murmured. “He tells me he doesn’t lie.”

“He makes things up,” Rena said immediately. “Very strong sense of imagination.”

Vizma smiled, drawing herself up to her full height, her hands still neatly clasped before her. She didn’t allow her expression to change, retaining the slight quirk of her lips, and both Rena and Wendell drew back slightly.

“He picked my pocket,” she said mildly. “Said that he came from a family of—”

“Listen,” Rena said sharply, pointing into Vizma’s face, “my son—”

“If I wished for any of you arrested, Mrs Highfield, I would have called for the guards to join me, or perhaps to look into the papers for the furs you’ve been trading in town, to search your caravans for stolen goods.”

Once more, Wendell’s skin had gone very pale, and Rena kept Vizma’s gaze, a challenge in her eyes. “I suppose you could have,” she said tightly. “But we are not thieves, we are not—”

“I don’t mind if you are,” Vizma said, interrupting cleanly. “I am not interested in your crimes, Mrs Highfield. I’m interested in your son’s potential.”

“Potential?” Wendell repeated, and Vizma watched the young man come out from the caravan. The other adult elf caught him by the shoulder, speaking to him seriously, and Buran nodded at whatever it was he was saying. He tried to pull away, but the elf caught him by the chin this time, gripping him by the jaw and making Buran look up at his face, not letting him break eye contact or get away.

“Why don’t we sit down?” Vizma suggested.

The inside of the caravan was surprisingly spacious. Bedrolls were very neatly set against one wall, beneath the bench that made up one side of the caravan’s wall, and Vizma sat upon one of the chairs that was set neatly in place, alongside Eline.

She was a full-blooded wood elf, it was plain to see, as she lacked the softened features of her children, and she kept glancing toward Buran, who sat on the bench between Rena and Wendell, still focused on the book under the hanging lantern that lit up the caravan. Vizma could see the resemblance between him and his parents either side of him.

The other elf had stepped inside, and stood against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, his lips loosely set, his gaze focused on Vizma.

“Seventeen children between you,” Vizma said. “It’s a lot to keep track of. Even with, what, seven, having grown up and left to pursue their own lives?”

“You told her that?” Rena asked.

“She asked,” Buran said.

“For the love of—” Rena muttered, pressing her fingers tightly to her mouth as if to prevent herself from saying more, and Buran rolled his eyes.

“Compulsive honesty in a family of charlatans,” Vizma said softly. “Where does that come from, do you think?”

“Is there a point to this interrogation?” asked the other elf. His voice was low and silken, and Vizma looked from his face to Buran’s. For the first time, the young man looked genuinely uncomfortable, his grip a bit more tight on the prayer book.

“The boy is intelligent, capable, he reads well. He’s a skilled pickpocket, it seems, and stealthy enough to avoid the entirety of his family when he chooses, but if he won’t lie, I imagine that’s difficult for you. I imagine compulsive honesty can prove dangerous, if your son is questioned by the wrong person.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Buran muttered.

“He’s our son,” Eline said sharply. “What business is it of yours whether he’s dangerous or not?”

“I should like to take the boy into our order as a novice,” Vizma said. Silence rang out in the little wooden caravan, and she saw Rena’s hand curl in Buran’s hair, pulling the boy to her breast. Buran grit his teeth, letting his mother pull him closer, but then he softened, just slightly, reaching up and touching the back of her hand with his fingers.

“No,” Rena said.

“Listen to what she has to say,” Eline said slowly.

“Eline—”

“Are you thinking about Buran, or our lives without him?” Eline asked, raising her chin slightly, and Rena gripped more tightly at the boy. Buran’s expression was one of shame more than anything else, and he was staring at the book in his hands before looking to Vizma.

“What does a novice of Oghma do?” he asked slowly.

“Read,” Vizma said. “We expect our postulants to be able to move about our libraries with ease, to be able to read fluently in at least three languages, and ideally to be able to play an instrument, or have some skill with specialist tools. We would prepare you for that potentiality – you would learn alongside the other novices, primed with as many skills as you were able to learn. The worship of Oghma is the worship of knowledge, and in its acquisition; equally, it is in the spreading of that knowledge to others: our treatment of our novices reflects that.”

“I wouldn’t have to lie to anybody?” Buran asked.

“No,” Vizma said. “In fact, our order values honesty above many other values, although most of us lack your dedication to it, I’m sure.”

“Do you lie?”

“Frequently.”

“Why?”

“Different reasons. At times, lying is advantageous, for myself and my order; at others, it’s simply kinder, where the truth will do more harm than good. Sometimes one deceives merely by being silent when the question is asked.”

“I am familiar with the premise,” Buran said icily.

“The boy sustained some spell damage when he was a young child,” said the male elf, with more condescension than sympathy. “It has rather deadened his nerves, thus why he doesn’t always notice when he injures himself. No doubt deception is beyond his capabilities.”

Buran set his jaw, even as Eline shot the other elf a dark look, and Wendell aimed a hand gesture at him that Vizma guessed was an unpleasant one.

“You want us to abandon our son here?” Rena asked.

“I want you to give your son the opportunity to pursue a vocation he seems tailor-made for. It’s a short life for a thief who will steal from you and then tell you what he’s done, when pressed. It seems plain to me it isn’t lack of ability that prevents you from lying, Buran, but lack of desire.”

“He’s only ten,” Wendell said. “He can learn—”

“I don’t wish to,” Buran said.

“You’d rather we leave you here so you can become a priest?” Wendell asked, sounding pained. Buran’s expression was unchanging.

“I’d rather not be asked to lie all the time,” Buran said. “The priesthood doesn’t bother me.”

“You don’t care about us, then?” Rena demanded. “You don’t want to stay with your parents, your brothers and sisters? You care so little about us that you’d choose life in a dusty old library over spending time with us?”

“I don’t see why I can’t care for you from the library in question,” Buran said. “What does proximity have to do with it?”

Vizma felt for Rena and Wendell. Both of them looked hurt in their own ways: Rena flinched, then stiffened; Wendell reached up to rub at his eyes, which looked just slightly red. Eline’s expression changed more subtly, her lips down turning at their edges, but she reached for Buran rather than leaning away from him.

The boy allowed himself to be pulled up to his feet, letting her press her lips to the side of his temple. “I would be permitted to write to you, I presume,” he muttered. “I don’t see why it’s any different to Helena and Alex, or Eloise, or—”

“The difference is that they’re all adults,” Rena said. “Men and women in their own right.”

“No,” Wendell said. “We’re not abandoning you to a priesthood.”

“Very well,” Vizma said, standing to her feet. “I’ve made my proposition, but I appreciate that your boy is yet young. Family is important to you, I see that.”

Resignedly, Buran held up the prayer book, half-read, and she shook her head.

“You keep it,” she said. “Perhaps one day you’ll come back to us.”

Every other child was gathered outside of the door of the caravan when Vizma stepped out, and she looked between them all, the contrast between the paler, human children and the darker-skinned half-elves, all of them with cold, solemn expressions, their mouths scowling.

They parted to let her go, and he felt their stares on her back as she went.

---

It was a week later that Keel Howe, one of their initiates, knocked on her office door, and brought in a somewhat disheveled boy with a cut on the side of his neck and grazes all over his hands. His shoulder was held stiffly at one side, and Vizma gestured for him to sit down in front of her desk.

“Will you get one of the healers in here for me, Keel?” Vizma asked, and he nodded his head, stepping out. “You realize you’re injured?”

“I landed on my shoulder when I climbed under the border wall with the next kingdom over,” Buran said. “Fell down a ditch.”

“Do your family know where you are?”

“I told them I would come back when I first had opportunity. I had opportunity. So, unless they’re idiots—”

“And when they come back for you?”

“They can’t, for a while,” Buran said. “There was difficulty at the wall with our papers, and Uncle Soren managed to smooth it over, but they wouldn’t be able to come back through for at least a few months without it raising additional suspicion. They’d have to go all the way around to come back through, and they want to make the summer festival in Constantown. So, unless one of your priests wants to drag me over the border…”

“Gods above,” said Brother Chestra as he entered the room, and Buran stood up from the chair, allowing himself to be looked over. “What happened to you, lad?”

“Fell down a ditch. Walked quite far. You’re a cleric?”

“I’m a wizard,” Chestra said.

“But you’re a dwarf.”

“That I am. Palms up. You’re familiar with healing magic?”

“Yes. My uncle is a wizard.”

“He any good?”

“His main focus is in illusory magics, but he’s healed me of a lot of ills.”

“What about you?”

“I don’t do magic.”

“You want to?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like how it feels, and I’m not good at it.”

“You don’t want to get good at it?”

“I’d rather read.”

“Quick tongue, haven’t you?”

“I suppose.” He let out a low noise as Chestra drew magic over the cuts on his palms, his neck, and his face, healing them up neatly before he reached for the young man’s shoulder.

“That hurts?”

“Feels odd.”

“It shouldn’t do.”

“I’m sensitive to magic.”

“Spell damage?”

“Yes.”

“What from?”

“My brother accidentally hit me in the back with a lightning arrow when I was five.”

“Where’d he hit you?”

Buran moved his other hand to the small of his back, and Chestra whistled under his breath.

“It’s a miracle you can walk, lad. You sure it was an accident?”

“He cried quite a lot after, so, yes.”

“He cry more than you did?”

“Yes.”

Chestra laughed, which Buran seemed genuinely surprised by, leaning back, and he looked at Vizma for help, but Chestra was focused on fixing his shoulder, now, pressing on the strained muscle until it settled smoothly back into its place.

“You joining us as a novice?”

“Yes.”

“You have any questions for me?”

“How long have you been here? Were you always a healer? What drew you to Oghma? What—”

“One at a time, maybe?” Chestra asked, smiling slightly, and Buran looked as disarmed as before, his lips pressed together, but then he nodded. “I’ve been here in Merryweather sixteen years, been a sworn brother for a hundred-and-forty-four. Used to be an adventurer, got the call, took up healing instead of offensive magic.”

“The call?”

“Went into a dungeon, got to the end, picked up a scroll, thought it was a spell. It was an Oghmian scroll – compelled me to return it to the temple it had come from. Trekked about six hundred miles… liked the look of the place once I got there.”

“That seems deceptively simple.”

Chestra glanced at Vizma, arching his bushy eyebrows, and Vizma could only shrug in response before Chestra said to the boy, more sagely than was really in his character, “Matters of faith often are.”

The boy took this with grave focus on his face, nodding his head.

“Where did you get this boy?” Chestra asked.

Vizma opened her mouth, but Buran was already answering. His explanation was curt, delivered without unnecessary trim, and he seemed all but incognizant of the expressions that crossed Chestra’s face in the face of it.

“Should I take him to the head of novices, or…?”

“First, he can write a letter to his parents,” Vizma murmured. “But— Ask Roland to clear a space for him, would you?”

Chestra nodded, clapping Buran hard on his now-healed shoulder. Buran looked at him blankly in retort, and once more Chestra did his best to hide his laugh as he left the room.

“Your parents are going to be very hurt,” Vizma said.

“They would hurt more if I got them killed,” Buran said bluntly. “I don’t like to lie. I don’t want to do it. If someone asks me a question, I answer it. It’s better for them, if I’m here. They will see that.”

“Why choose such a devotion to truth, if it’s at odds with your family’s safety?”

Buran hesitated, opening his mouth, closing it. His eyes searched the air between them, as if trying to grasp hold of an answer. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I won’t lie.”

“Can you?”

“I expect so.”

“You mean to tell me you’ve never tried?”

“I’ve withheld answers. Not often. I’ve avoided people who I know will ask questions I don’t wish to answer.”

“But you couldn’t, for example, tell me a ball was blue when it was orange?”

“Why would I?”

“Very well, if your brother was hiding from a guardsman and you knew where, would you tell him where he was?”

“Yes.”

“Even if that meant putting your brother in harm’s way?”

Buran fidgeted, but then he nodded.

“You’ve done that before?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“I stabbed the guard through the ribs, punctured his lung.”

Vizma stared at him.

“From the back,” Buran added, as if this was the missing point of clarification that made it acceptable.

“You wouldn’t say that that was some deception? Hiding from him that you were going to kill him?”

“He soon found out,” Buran said.

“The god Oghma,” Vizma said, “does not ask of us to be morally good, or morally bad. There is no specific behaviour he asks of us except to value knowledge in all its forms. With that said, I would ask that you not murder anybody in the foreseeable future.”

“I will endeavour not to,” Buran said seriously, and Vizma once more pressed her lips tightly together, swallowing the laugh that threatened to make itself known.

“Let’s look at that letter to your parents,” she murmured, and reached for some parchment from her desk.

Buran’s handwriting was messier than she would have expected, printed in block script rather than in cursive, but his spelling was good. The former would only improve with time.

---

It was seven years later, at the age of seventeen, that Buran swore his vows as a brother.

The ceremony had been done in the morning, and Buran had stepped from the bounds of the temple to meditate for a time elsewhere. He had written to his family, Vizma knew, because several wrapped pages of barely passable handwriting had gone out with the rest of the outgoing post.

If she asked him, he would tell her where he’d been, and what he’d been doing.

She wouldn’t ask today.

“Come sit with me, Brother,” Vizma said, and Buran glanced up at her, but nodded his head, ascending the stairs toward her. He looked well in his vestments, well-suited to them, to the black cloth and the silver ropes about their waist, the silver scroll he wore around his neck. In his pocket, Vizma knew, was the same prayer book he’d taken from her so many years before.

She poured port for the both of them, and he took his glass, but didn’t drink from it right away. He didn’t care much for concentrated alcohol, and rarely drank any, but this was as good a time to celebrate as any.

“What now?” Vizma asked,

“I still have a few crates of the books from the Chapel estate to go through,” Buran said. “The vast majority of them are copies of books we already have, but there are a number of rare edi—”

“Buran,” Vizma said, and Buran stopped. “I meant in a broader sense than work here in the temple. You’re a sworn brother, now – you could travel to other temples, to any of the monasteries… There’s nothing exciting you’d like to do?”

“Exciting,” Buran repeated, as though it were a foreign word to him.

“I have been waiting for you to commit to the priesthood,” Vizma said. “You’ve noticed the Oghmian order has a mix of races, a broad mix of different sorts of people. Artisans, scholars, bards, ex-adventurers – all sorts contribute to the ranks of our acolytes.”

“Yes,” Buran said. He said nothing else, staring at her in that disconcerting way of his, not yet sipping from his drink.

Seven years as a novice and then a postulant had done little to improve his capacity for conversation. On matters of technicality, he came alive – he would ask a hundred thousand questions in succession, if it were about some sort of device or mechanism, history or story, but general talk did nothing for him, and he made no effort to appear it did.

Buran lacked the penmanship to be a suitable scribe, whether it was to recopy old volumes (some crumbled and were difficult to read, and needed to be rewritten for the sake of legibility) or to take down oral tradition. He had a tremendous capacity for learning music, but although dexterous with his viol, he played woodenly, without feeling. He was… difficult for others to interact with.

He answered questions, certainly. He answered them curtly, in neat detail, and rarely shared extraneous details if they weren’t asked for. It was mostly the librarians and the clerks who did the best with him, and the more straightforward clerics treated him like a reference book, which Vizma was fairly certain he preferred to being treated like a person.

But he was rude, and standoffish, and did not enjoy it when people talked to him about morality, or emotion. He preferred to be given a task and then complete it, ideally with as little interaction with others. It was not to say that he didn’t like to exert himself physically – he was one of the more acrobatic members of the priesthood, and he had fast reflexes, enjoyed using his tools, enjoyed playing music.

He didn’t like to play games. Very occasionally, he could be drawn into a complicated game, if one of the right people needled him into it – he mostly enjoyed card games with several hundred arcane rules to them, or multi-level chess games – but he mostly preferred to observe the behaviour of others, ideally from afar.

Sometimes, Vizma thought, he wanted to get closer. There was something in the way he leaned forward, very subtly, in the way he studied certain people when they spoke, and seemed at a loss once he’d run out of questions to ask.

“Buran, you’re a thief,” Vizma said.

“Yes,” Buran agreed.

“You’re proficient with a wide array of thieves’ tools, a craftsman with a set of lockpicks. You’re stealthy, you’re an admirable pickpocket, you’re a great safecracker.”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t thought about using those skills to acquire books for the order?”

A flicker of light showed in Buran’s eyes, and after a moment’s pause, his lips curved ever so slightly at their edges. It was a small smile, a gentle curve of the lips – she had never yet seen Buran show his teeth when he smiled, and for that matter, had never heard him laugh – but on Buran’s face, it made the constellations of freckles shift on his cheeks, made him look all but alight with his enthusiasm.

“I would like to,” he said quietly.

“Good,” Vizma murmured, and held out her glass. Buran stared at it, uncomprehending, before he glanced to his own glass, and then – the motion unnatural and awkward, as though it needed rehearsing – he clinked their glasses together, and sipped at his port when Vizma drained hers.

“Vizma,” Buran said quietly.

“Yes, Buran?”

“Thank you,” he said. “Very much.”

Vizma smiled. “It’s always a good thing,” she murmured, “to have a brother acquisitive.”

---

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#as defined by dictionary #original fiction #original fantasy #rogues #thieves #buran highfield

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mists-of-hithlum · 4 years

Text

A late piece for finwëan ladies week day 6. I went with the textual ghost approach, so have an overly long story about Fingon’s and Curufin’s wife in Mandos’ halls. Warnings for reference to death and torture (Celebrimbor is not having a fun time) but nothing too graphic. Also, this is unbeta’d, so if you catch any mistakes, just tell me.

The truth is that Mandos` halls are supremely boring.

Ranië lost track long ago how much time she has spent here. She came here after the Nirnaeth, how they called the last great battle of the elves and men against Morgoth. She is not sad about dying, exactly. Endor was a dangerous place and death lurked around every corner. Especially after the Dagor Bragollach, they all knew Morgoth`s beasts could attack at any moment.

She does not grieve for herself but she does mourn. She mourns for all who fell beside her, the time with her son she will never have, and for her husband`s death, too, even if there had never been love between them. Respect, of course, but never love. Her son was the result of practicality. She had wanted a child. He needed an heir. But Findecano had been a good man and a good king and so she mourns for him even if she will never mourn him like a proper elven lady would mourn her husband.

It is quiet in the halls. Fëar are everywhere and they talk but no sound carries here if they don’t want it. The halls are endless and a younger Ranië would have squealed completely unladylike if she would have been allowed to explore this place. But the truth of it is that exploration here is no fun. All the walls and the chambers and the ceilings look the same. The only thing that changes are the tapestries on the walls.

They are gorgeous. Ranië knew that she wasn’t the best needleworker of the Noldor – that honor would always belong to the first queen, the famous Miriël Serindë – but even she could say that those tapestries were the work of someone who knew everything about her craft. Vairë most likely made them, or one of her many Maiar.

The ways of the Valar are strange and the tapestries were no exception. In the long time Ranië had spent exploring the halls, she had found hundreds upon hundreds of tapestries. They showed a long gone past, the present and rumors said, even the future. She had always hoped to never encounter one of those rumored tapestries and until now, her luck had always held. It made her still shudder, the knowledge that the Valar knew exactly, what was going to happen. That knowledge must be a terrible burden.

But even tapestries greater than anything she had ever seen before lost their appeal sometime. Every time she looked at them, her hands itched for thread and wool. She missed her crochet hook, the knitting supplies and the little workshop she had put together in Endor. There was just nothing to create in the halls of Mandos and it made the Noldor restless. So they did the only thing they still could: Talk.

Celumenna smiled as she felt Ranië`s fëa come near.

“Back so soon?” she greeted her friend and frequent companion.

“There is just nothing to do.” Ranië`s fëa flickered unhappily. The darker strike over her breast was the only part that didn’t change color. When a balrog had struck at her with his fiery whip, it had melted straight through her armour and left a permanent mark on her fëa. “I needed company.”

“Then I am glad you came.”

Ranië was even more restless lately than usual.

“Something does not feel right,” her friend says. “I fear a new storm is coming over middle earth.”

Celumënna has long since stopped questioning other elves when they say things like this with an air of conviction. Too many people of her folk have at least flashes of foresight and it is always better to treat such things as the truth.

“It feels like it did before the battle.”

Ranië rarely talks about her death. Celumënna was already in the halls of Mandos when her friend and her husband died. Technically the two of them are related by marriage but both Celumenna and Ranië do their hardest to not think about how many kings and murderers (or sometimes both) are related to them. The only thing Lalwen ever said about the battle she had fought and died for on the side of the wife of her nephew – except for curses against Morgoth and the traitors and comments about military strategy – was: “At least it was a quick death.” It gives Celumenna a pained expression to think about the fact that she is glad as well but they had learned in Endor the hard way that sometimes a quick death was the best outcome.

“At least we can’t die again.”

Relief floods Celumenna when Ranië snorts. She doesn’t like it when her friend is so quiet and thoughtful. It just doesn’t seem to fit with Ranië`s tendency to listen to instructions and then do her own thing anyway because it was better and instructions were stupid anyway. Hotheaded and stubborn. A proper Noldo.

They were in one of the halls the furthest in the back – if something could even be in the back when this place had no end and every corridor would lead you everywhere – when they heard the commotion. One look at Ranië`s face confirmed that it was most likely important. So they left their fascinating discussion about the proper way to build a defense wall for a city – Celumenna was adamant it should be able to be easily reconstructed in case the enemy broke through but Ranië insisted the enemy was not supposed to break through in the first place – and went for the entrance hall.

If a fëa had knees Celumenna would have fallen to the floor the instant she entered the room. Instead, she screams.

Fire rushes through her fëa, burning everything in its path. There is blood, everywhere, and a new pain pops up every time she tries to move. She can’t focus. Everything is pain, pain, pain….

“...enna? Celumenna!”

It takes great strength for her to focus on the voice in her mind. It is not spoken loud but a product of the faint bond Ranië and her have formed in their time in the halls of Mandos.

“Ranië?”

“Stay here. Stay with me. Don’t you dare…”

The rest of Ranië`s frantic commands are lost as a new wave of pain breaks the connection.

This time, she recognizes it as the vision it is. Those hands with missing fingers aren’t her own. The fire wracking her body is not really in the halls of Mandos. It makes it no bit better.

“Please,” she hears when she snaps out of it the next time. “Please. Help her.” It`s not only Ranië now. She can feel the presences of her family around her. Her husband lies at her side and from the bond they still – again – share, she can tell he is in similar pain. She vaguely recognizes Lalwen grimly holding on to her fëa together with Ranië – “Don’t you dare let go now” – and Fingon, who has a concentrated expression on his face. Curufin is busy speaking with his brother mind to mind when they both get yanked away again.

This time, Celumenna only starts screaming after the vision has let them go. Curufin has an expression like a warrior after his first kill. Completely gone in shock. “No,” he whispers, again and again.

Celumenna is not capable of forming words. Not Tyelpë, her fëa and mind scream as one. Not our son! She can feel the same despair and grief and hopelessness and anger and rage from her husband as well.

“He… was innocent,” she manages to choke out. “He was innocent!” She screams it until the pain takes her away again.

This time, she gets back with the image of fiery red hair, blood spots on a pale face and a cruel grin. A grin they all know all too well.

“Gorthaur,” Curufin half whispers, half hisses to her side. About half of the people in attendance flinch. This is also the moment where Celumenna recognizes who has joined them as well.

It’s Namo. Of course is it Namo. And the bloody fool stands there like there was nothing to do for the two fëar he was meant to guard. Typical Valar. The rage in her fëa begins to boil. She will never know if it was her, Curvo or both of them, but suddenly she is on her feet again and tries to get to Namo. If she can do nothing for her son now, only endure his suffering like he does, she will bloody well make sure that the ones responsible will suffer as well. Namo and his justice can go burn in the void for all she cares right now. But if he lets her son at the mercy of one of them – again! Just like they always did to their house – she will see if Valar bleed as red as Tyelpë does. It takes the combined might of Lalwen, Ranië and Fingon to hold her back. The only reason her husband is only spitting curses against the Valar in an increasingly frantic voice is that all of his brothers have united to stop him from honoring the family tradition of trying to fight the Ainur. They cannot do anything for their child, nephew, cousin, grandchild. But they will not let him suffer alone, and they will not forget his sacrifice. If they can only watch, they will at least do that. So the House of Finwë settles down in Mandos` Halls, completely ignoring everything and everyone around them, and watch, so they are there to pick up the pieces when stubborn, brilliant little Tyelpë will finally give up and come home.

It takes centuries for something like this to happen again and Ranië would have given a lot for it to never happen again. Tyelperinquar – or Celebrimbor, like he insists to be called – has settled into the halls of Mandos as well as one could expect for one tortured to death by Sauron of all people. He is still frightened of unknown fëar but talking to his uncle Maedhros has certainly helped. Celumenna`s husband had alse proposed Finrod, but he had already been out of the Halls since before Ranië even left her body back in Endor and Celebrimbor was by far not ready yet to leave the Halls. Lalwen leaves, some centuries after Celebrimbor`s arrival, quoting she didn`t want her sister alone any longer. Fingolfin takes longer than his sister, but he too left some time ago. But Fingon stays stubbornly, insisting he won’t leave without Maedhros. Ranië suspects he too wants to know about their son, now the longest reigning High King of the Noldor since Finwë himself. And even if they don’t get a lot of news here in the Halls, some information is still better than none. Not that she can blame him, when she too is waiting for a dear friend and her son. They had known about Sauron, of course. Even disregarding the rather dramatic way Sauron`s resurgence had manifested itself in form of Celebrimbor`s death here in the halls, the elves who died from his invasion and the war that followed would have given them more than enough news. The knowledge that Gil-galad`s alliance – how far their child had come – with the men under a distant descendant of Turgon was winning the war against the biggest blight of Endor save for Morgoth himself had rekindled hope in the fëar of many children of the House of Finwë. Even Celegorm had looked viciously pleased.

So when Ranië dropped with a pain she had not felt since her death nearly an age prior, it came as a surprise to everybody. The only saving grace she had later was that at least she didn’t need to suffer for as long as Celumenna had. Her son`s death at the hand of Sauron was merciless and brutal, but at least quick.

She reunites with everybody else in the arrival hall. Findecano`s fëa flickers with still lingering pain and grief and the others feel muted too, but not distant. Grief had always been excellent in bringing them together.

It does not take long for Gil-galad to arrive. His fëa still wears an armour he must have worn at his death but at least she cannot see the wounds Sauron had left on his body like the tears and gashes that had marred Celebrimbor`s fëa. Her son stands before the judge and in that moment looks so much like his father it hurts. The next moment, she realises exactly why her son was here and feels a lot more sympathy towards Celumenna when she tried to tear Namo apart after her son`s death.

As if she sensed Ranië`s thoughts, Celumenna reaches through their bond. “Stay with me, please.” She can see Maedhros do something similar to Fingon on her side, and she searches comfort in her family around her. They might be crazy sometimes, but they all understand loss far better than anybody else.

Seeing her son stand in Mandos` Halls when he was meant to live a long life in Endor, free from the shadow, makes her heart hurt. The grief from everybody around her certainly does not help. Gil-galad was nearly the last of their house still left. Now it is only little Elrond and of course Artanis who still dwell in Endor.

Children of Finwë don’t get a happy ending.

She is not sure if it was her or Fingon who said it, but it is true. Nobody in their house had the life in paradise the Valar had once promised them. Ranië would not have been sad if she had to never experience the loss, the pain, the grief, the hopelessness they endured in Endor.

But they did, another voice in her fëa whispers. We did. And we survived. And maybe we do not get a happy ending, but who says the story ends here?

So she straightens her back and walks towards the fëa still kneeling before Namo.

“Gil-galad? It has been a long time since we last met.”

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jane-ways · 5 years

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Of Things Made to be Destroyed, Ch 1

Read it on AO3 and SWG!

Title and description from Fuckmylife666 by Against Me!

In fairy stories, the kind he used to tell his nephew, the handsome prince sees the beautiful princess and falls instantly in love. She is radiant, and he, burning with passion, strides purposefully towards her, mind made up to ask for her hand in marriage. They dance, because they are at a ball (these sorts of things always seem to happen at balls), they kiss, and then they are married, and live happily ever after. (“What happens in the happily ever after?” Celebrimbor had once asked. Caranthir, stuttering, had told him to ask his father.)

This was not a fairy story. The first time he saw her, she was little more than a blur covered in blood and filth as he swept past her on horseback. In the back of his mind, Caranthir registered that she appeared to be the person in charge, and after his initial assault drove the attacking orcs back, he turned his horse, searching her out amongst the rabble. She fought close to the front lines, screaming orders to her soldiers above the din of the wind and rain, voice raw with the kind of fury that most often masks fear. (Something in the ragged edges of her words caught his notice, and he heard in them first his father and then himself.) He made to catch her eye and saw he had already caught hers. (Well, Caranthir reasoned, trying not to make too much of it, he was a mighty Elven lord on horseback who had just swept in from the rear with half his cavalry. Eru knew what he seemed like to this mortal woman.) Riding up to meet her, he spared no time for pleasantries and cut straight to the point, shouting the first words of his message even before he had quite reached her. Belatedly, it occurred to him that she might not speak Sindarin. He prayed that by some miracle these people had encountered friendly Avari who might have passed on Thingol’s language.

Luck, it would appear, was on his side. Slashing at an orc who had broken through the defensive line, she shouted back her reply over the howling of the wind. Battle plans thus agreed on, she returned her attentions to the orc as Caranthir charged forward to his soldiers once more, surging into the fray.

By the time the battle was over, the storm had subsided to a drizzle, no less damp and miserable but at least less noisy. Picking his way through the uneven ground, Caranthir guided his horse around the bodies of the dead and injured. Mannish and Elvish soldiers alike scoured the battlefield for fallen comrades, either to tend or to bury. The orcs they left. The woman stood a ways off, surrounded by a contingent of other Men, whom he guessed to also be women by the obvious swells of their hips and chests. (He wondered if perhaps that was why Men seemed to take so much stock of whether one was male or female—those being the only two options, as he understood it, although in truth he found Mannish sexual dimorphism, and the extent to which it seemed to govern their genders, their societies, and their daily lives, utterly mystifying.) With Elves he would not have so easily known, but then, with Elves it would not have mattered. Perhaps these women were considered more suitable counselors or bodyguards for a female leader? Or perhaps this was a society governed by women? Had Findaráto or the twins mentioned any tribes of the Edain with matriarchal systems of leadership?

His thoughts thus occupied, Caranthir did not notice when his horse failed to stop completely as he dismounted. Tripping ahead with the forward momentum, his leather riding boots slipped in the wet mud, and he stumbled with an “oomf” directly into the woman’s outstretched arms. Peering down at him, she blinked. For the first time, he could see her face clearly, and he found himself preeminently occupied with the sheen of sweat and rain on her skin, and how it seemed to glimmer as it rose in thin wisps of steam into the cold air.

She coughed politely and he realized with embarrassment that he had been staring. “You, ah,” he stuttered, “you fight well.” Regaining his composure, Caranthir righted himself awkwardly, all the while praying silently he would not slip again. “Thank you.”

“I am Haleth, daughter of Haldad, by right of succession chieftain of the Haladin.” She gave him a once over, flicking her eyes from head to toe and back up. Without thinking, he felt himself stand up straighter. “Who are you?”

“I am Morifinwë Carnistir, called Caranthir in the tongue of Elu Thingol; Prince of Thargelion, fourth son of the First House of the Noldor. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady,” he replied in what he hoped was the correct mixture of grandeur, magnanimity, and pleasantness. First contact protocol was an inexact science at the best of times, and he had met few Edain before—certainly not as the ranking prince in his side of the exchange. And certainly not having just tripped into their arms. Gazing at her again, he noticed the same intensity he had first seen on the battlefield, a veneer of authority with its foundation in insecurity. By right of succession, she had said. Even though her Sindarin wasn’t perfect, that much had come across clearly. So her parent had likely died in this battle, or at least recently enough that she had not been formally recognized as leader in her own right. Dimly, Caranthir recalled the name Haldad from the depths of his memory: a man’s name, he thought, so not a matriarchy—another reason for her overcompensation. Haldad—wasn’t he the one who had united the Haladin? Not a long or well-established line of leadership either, then. A wave of sympathy swept over Caranthir. Poor woman. At least his father, in all the blustering and recklessness of his last years, had been secure in his right of succession by birth and the strength of his line.

All these thoughts came and passed in the blink of an eye. Haleth, too, had been making her own mental review, and now she spoke. “Thank you for your aid, Lord,” she said carefully, picking at each syllable, although whether to better her pronunciation or bide for more time to think, he was unsure. “You have been generous in your help today, and in letting us settle your southern lands,” she continued. Caranthir saw that she aimed to go on, but he interjected, hoping to reassure her (and spare himself further effusive comments, which he found embarrassing—he had had enough embarrassment for one day).

“It is well enough to me that you should be settled there, Lady. My people make little use of these lands and your presence discourages more aggressive invasions from—” In the background, he heard the snarl of a wounded orc who had regained consciousness. There was shouting, more snarling, the clashing of metal, and then all fell silent again. “…More unsavory peoples than yourselves,” he finished pointedly. “In fact,” he found himself saying, in one of those all-too-common moments where he could feel his lips moving faster than his mind, with apparently no ability to control the words coming out of his own mouth, “it would not displease me if you were to remain here.”

“It would not displease you?” Haleth’s tone was unreadable but decidedly lacking in enthusiasm.

“With your own fiefdom, of course,” he added hurriedly. Why am I like this? he wondered mournfully. It’s like dropping something and just watching it fall. “You would be free to rule your people and live as you see fit, with as much or as little involvement in my affairs as you wish. I believe it would continue to be mutually beneficial for us both.”

“My Lord,” Haleth spoke deliberately, choosing her words carefully but firmly. “My Lord, is that not already what we have been doing? Living as we pleased, with as much as involvement in the affairs of Elves as we desired?” That is, Caranthir surmised unhappily, none at all.

Caranthir felt a surge of—annoyance? disappointment?—rise up in his throat. “Yeeess,” he answered slowly, drawing out each sound in an attempt to calm down. “To a degree. But as you have been living on my lands without leave—that is,” he caught himself as anger flashed across Haleth’s face—“without formal, legal documentation, you have also been denying yourselves access to certain special protections, public works and improvements projects, tax benefits, etcetera…” As he felt himself slip into what his brothers called “Accountant Mode,” he stopped and took a deep breath. He did not have the time or patience to teach this woman the finer details of administration. Either she had learned what she needed from observing her father, or she would now have to learn the hard way. And he would be damned if he begged a Man to stay on the lands she had already been illegally squatting on. (Even if that squatting had substantially kept the orcs at bay. And resulted in the land being cultivated and cleared of unwanted flora and fauna. And thus increased its real estate value.) Caranthir took another deep breath and settled himself.

Haleth gazed at him silently, considering her options. He guessed that she was not foolish enough to say aloud that she didn’t need him, and he certainly wasn’t foolish enough to insist aloud that she clearly did. One did not get to be as rich as Caranthir by being that stupid. So, what would it be, then?

“My people need time to recover before we can begin making plans for the future,” she said at last. A non-answer, then. Wise decision, he thought. It would give her time to consider her options while receiving more goodwill aid from his people. He would have helped her anyway, of course—he wasn’t a monster, despite what his tempter and his actions at Alqualondë might prompt some to say—but it was clever maneuvering not make that assumption. Perhaps she had learned more than he had first assumed.

He bowed and took his leave, remounting his horse and guiding it over to his lieutenant. There was a tightness in his chest that he couldn’t explain, and for some reason he couldn’t pinpoint, his mind was filled with the fairy stories he had once told his nephew, and how when his father had first seen his mother, she had been covered in the soot of the forge.

#caranthir #haleth #caranthir/haleth #tolkien #silmarillion #silm fic #My fic

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halethkickass · 5 years

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Too Long a Winter (reposted with permission from Clotho)

I found this wonderful fic on http://clotho123.tripod.com/mainlist1/winter.htm and the author kindly gave me permission to share it here on Tumblr. The story is phenomenally well-written and the characterization is excellent. I especially appreciate the dynamic between Maedhros and Maglor, which is far less sentimental and much more in line with how I tend to head-canon them than that of most fics I have read. The story is told from the perspective of a human warrior dwelling in Himring, which lends an interesting viewpoint to the elves we are used to seeing through the eyes of a somewhat removed historian.

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Himring is not a good place for old men. Often I think of riding south again, to the Estolad where there are fewer cold winds to piece my aching bones and no long stone stairs to climb. Yet to leave would mean never again to see the morning sun on silver stone, or turn a corner at night to see a solitary lamp shine on the carved street before me, or watch the magic the Strangers work as they coax flowers to grow on rock itself.

It does help me having lodgings in the summit halls. Himring is steep: in the town that lies beneath the peak a paved courtyard will prove to be the roof of the house below, nor is it rare to walk down long stairs and find yourself upon a deep balcony. All space is used for dwellings, although all dwellings will be filled only at the height of siege. Himring was built as a place of refuge as well as a stronghold; it has been full enough these last years. It is fortunate my duties can be discharged with goodwill on the summit where the High Hall rises in the silver rock. My mind goes often to the past now, recalling more clearly than for many years, the wonder I felt to see how so much if the city had been cut from the rock as it stood, the very contours of the stone summit kept alive. Yet Himring is no hidden city, it stands proud as an eagle upon a crag, keeping watch on the lands below.

The Midwinter festival would have been well attended even in the better times before the peace was broken; now the High Hall will be full indeed. It is one thing they have learned from us, the great feast of fire at the year’s darkest point, and they celebrate it much as we do, even if some of the older ones like to recall the days when there were no seasons. We have no tales even of that time, so such stories mark more deeply how much they differ.

The green boughs are another of traditions they have borrowed although I recall from my gathering days that they practice it differently, each bough chosen with care, seldom more than two from one tree or bush and from some none at all. “Trees,” one said to me once, “ can spare a limb if chosen right, indeed are often the better for it, but why would anyone wish to leave a tree limbless?” The gathered braches look strangely fitting in the High Hall, for the rock-cut columns are carved as tree trunks, not all alike but trees of all kinds: oak and birch, beech, ash and pine. With the evergreen boughs in place it will be a strange kind of forest in which we sit to feast.

As I turned to leave the half-prepared hall I heard my name spoken sharply. A little too sharply in truth, my sight is thankfully still good enough, but not so my hearing and I guessed I must have failed to hear at least one call. That is not fortunate with this speaker.

“Lord Makalaurë,” I greeted him. He insists on being addressed by the High form of his name, although everyone calls him Maglor outside his hearing.

“Headman Hallach.” I still hold the title of Headman for the Edain of Himring although Berach my nephew leads them in war. He was out of the citadel of course; with fighting so constant he is rarely here. “We have had word my brothers in the south will not be joining us for the feasting,” Lord Maglor continued, “so that will lessen the amount of accommodation that you will need to find.”

“We could have housed them,” I said, “but it is better to know beforehand.” Our word ‘inhuman’ is an old one, from the times before we came to these lands, it carries a meaning of something that is uncanny, disturbing. It is held impolite to use it of Elves but it is seldom far from my mind when speaking to this one. Like most of his kind he is handsome with black hair and winged brows that highlight the mobility of his features; still he is unsettling, even to one like myself who has lived amongst the Strangers for most of my life. I cannot put it better than to say it is as though he is constantly listening to a tune that only he can hear, and thinks the less of others for being deaf to it. In fairness, these days I unsettle him too, for he is one of those who are disturbed to the point of disgust by mortal aging although he would feel it beneath him to lessen his courtesy.

“Do you know when my brother is expected back?” he asked.

“No more than you, although I am sure he will be in time for the feasting.”

“Of course,” he said. “But I would wish to see him earlier. Erestor does not know when he will return either. It is inconsiderate.” It was an unfair complaint, as he must have known. A survey of territories, half visit, half scouting expedition, could not be completed to set times and his brother never dawdled not even with snow falling every day upon the hills. We would always vary those chosen to ride with the lord of Himring, for no-one was expect to make two such exhausting rides in succession. Knowing it unlikely that Lord Maglor’s temper would improve during the feasting time I found myself regretting we would not be joined by the twin lords who would have provided some leavening. The absence of Lord Caranthir was less regrettable as no-one would count on his presence to prevent family arguments.

We parted politely. With so much else lost it is petty to regret that the great reverse has led to Lord Maglor being permanently at Himring, but it does nothing to make the mood easier.

~~~

The Feast was much needed. Enough time has passed since the great reverse that the remembrance is no longer a dark cloud on the spirits, at least for mortals; but still the presence of war seems nearer, the mood at Himring darker, than in the days when I first came here from the south. Perhaps that is only an old man talking, but certainly both peoples thronged to the gathering, eager to forget the wars awhile.

The Strangers are masters of light, although I have never known one who feared the dark, and the light in the High Hall was rich and golden. Mead and wines from the south flowed freely, although some of my kindred preferred their ale, and there was no shortage of meat and pastry. Their feasts, however, are not for the belly alone; there was much song and music, dancing, laughter and re-telling of tales. A hall full Elves singing in harmony is not to be forgotten, it almost makes me understand that odd tale that the world was created by a song. By long custom the songs and tales at the Midwinter feast are of good cheer, it is a time to look forward and to hope.

It was the third evening when Lord Maglor took the harp. No, in fact he had taken it on the first two evenings also, but only for a brief light song, the third evening was the time that mattered. I had heard him sing many times, and what they say of him is not too great praise, indeed it falls short as all words must. A singer to draw the stars from the skies and turn back the moon in its course, a singer to make stones dance and streams stand still, despair laugh for joy and gladness weep like rain. Not that he unleashed his full power every time he sang, that third night was the first time that Midwinter.

He sang in the High Tongue, as he always does which makes his power to move Men the more remarkable. Few of us have mastered more of that tongue than a few words and commonly used phrases, such as war cries, and in that I am no different. Yet what he sang was a lament as plainly as the night is dark. The grief wailed in the strings and wept in words beyond my understanding, and through my tears I saw the whole hall was weeping, Men and Elves alike, weeping silently, some with faces hidden by a cloak fold, or buried in their hands or arms. Erestor, the castellan, seemed completely overwhelmed, nor was he the only one among the elf kind. Recalling the scene now it seems to me that the ones we call Flame-eyed, who have dwelt in the West, made up the greatest part of those who had abandoned themselves completely to grief, yet in light of how deeply moved my own senses were I cannot swear my memory is true.

After the song ended, as the nameless mourning at last released its spell, my eyes cleared enough to see the only one who seemed unmoved. Maedhros sat upright and tearless in his accustomed place at the high table, only his face was locked in an intense stillness which showed to one who had dwelt in Himring many years how hard he had bitten down to hide all feeling. He sat with his right elbow resting on the table, forearm upraised so the light fell on the marvellously worked copper sheath that covered it almost entirely. With the copper circlet on his russet hair he looked every bit the King of the West March his followers call him.

“Remarkable as always,” he said in the cool even tone that spoke of steel control. “Could do with a little taughtening in the central section still, you are capable of better rhythms.”

Maglor’s expression hardened and as they met each other’s eyes it seemed the winter outside entered the room. In that moment they looked very much alike, and no fool would have mistaken either of them for young.

“You take a pride in it, brother, do you not,” Maglor said at last in a tone smooth as gold. “You think you are the better that old loyalties, true duties, have been ripped from you and burned to cinders.”

Maedhros’s voice was cold as snow upon the high peaks, “If to spellcraft tears at time of festival is loyalty, Maglor, then I will not disagree.” Spellcraft was close to being insult, the word was not used of things natural. “Well, tears it must be for this night. Bron, give us a song of your people.”

The young harper thus commanded was one of the followers of Bor only lately taken service with Lord Maglor. It seemed to me hard to give him such a command and I wondered if he would be able to obey, but it seemed he took it with pride, as a young brave might accept the most dangerous post in battle. I doubt if any in the hall paid much heed to his song though.

The next day I cornered Castellan Erestor. Although he is one of the Flame-eyed who have dwelt in the West he seems less far removed from our kind than many Elves.

“What,” I said “was that about? What was that song?”

“The song?” said Erestor. He seemed to consider for a long time. I waited. Elves cannot be rushed. “The song was a lament for their father. For Fëanor.”

“For Fëanor?” I had heard tales, but only fragments. Fëanor was dead before the first Men came to Beleriand from the east. Maedhros speaks of him very rarely, and then in the calm tone he might use for a passing acquaintance, dead long ago. “A lament was a poor choice for a feast, but is that all?”

“No,” said Erestor. “The lament praised his skill, and his courage against the creatures of Morgoth, but it praised also his steadfastness in upholding what was due to him, his intolerance of weakness or those that followed with half a heart.”

“I begin to see, I think. That could seem reproach to his brother, for letting the kingship pass from their house.” I knew that much of their history.

“It was a more than reproach, and not for the first time. Lord Maglor has seldom agreed with his brother’s choices.”

“Yet he remains at Himring.”

“Whilst Lothlann is in enemy hands he will remain, I think.” A mortal would probably have sighed at this point. “You do not need to be told it makes matters difficult, Hallach. At least when all the brothers are present Maglor and Celegorm spend half their time quarrelling with one another.”

After we had parted I spent some time thinking over this, and all the other things known of the king and his next brother. I had come to Himring, following the tradition of my house, with a head full of tales. Not all were reliable, or true at all, and of those which were true I knew only a small part. But I had heard truly that Maglor the Singer was of all the East lords the most likely to be found riding or fighting with his brother Maedhros Left-hand. I had thought that meant they must be close friends; it is more like the old saying ‘keep your enemy close in sight.’

True, that is not entirely fair, but the years have shown me Elves are not as unlike us as the first meetings make all Men think, so it should not have surprised me that where brothers are closest in age the divisions are bitterest. So it is with myself and my nearest brother, although we are brothers still and would not hesitate to unite against any outside challenge. How far this ran true with the Elf lords is hard to say, certainly the divisions between them made my own with my brother seem nothing at all. I knew at least that Lord Maglor did not spend time with his brother Maedhros for the pleasure of shared company.

~~~

Two days later they walked in while I was listing the new recruits from my southern kindred in one of the summit chambers, one with walls painted so you seem to look out on scenes of moonlight. It was still being made when I first came here, and I recall my surprise to see the Lord of Himring himself working on one of the painted scenes, completing the figure of an owl with the lightest of brush strokes. He laughed at my expression and told me, “The need to create is never far from any Noldo. I cannot claim my skill is remarkable, but it suffices.”

Between the work and my hardness of hearing I was not aware of their approach until they had already entered. As a young man I would have been abashed and slipped away, but being no longer young stayed at the table. Since they were arguing in the High Tongue it was impossible to tell what they were saying in any case.

Lord Maglor does not shout. Family meetings have been known to make the castle walls shake, but most of the yelling is done by Celegorm and Caranthir, although Maedhros can raise his voice loud enough when he wishes. Maglor makes his arguments with level quiet. It does not do him any good: he never wins. Although there is nothing at all amusing about the lord of Lothlann in his moods of cold attack, he does make me think at times at times of a pair of young dogs I once owned. The smaller of the two would attack the other over and over, without any warning; he never won the battles but he kept it up in the constant hope that one day he would win after all.

Whilst my mind had been running on that as my mind often runs on these days, the quarrel seemed to be reaching some kind of high point. I have seen Maglor in battle and his face as he skewered the orcs of the enemy had not seemed any less pleasant. I could not understand the words he was using, but took their meaning as clearly as the meaning of his lament in the great hall. Maedhros’s answer was short and very ugly. Again I could not understand the words, nor I am sure did Maglor, but that was unneeded.

Elves do not have curse words. The need for them is something they seem to have discovered only in these lands. Most of those who feel that need use words they have learned from us. I have heard Lord Curufin use the dwarf tongue at times, although with that speech it is possible that what sounds like a curse may be merely ‘Good Morning.’ I have never heard Maedhros use mannish curse words, nor have I ever known him lose control. He had not used the Black Speech lightly.

I looked at Maglor and felt sure he had been shaken although he tried to cover it. Maedhros took advantage to follow through with two or three short, cold sentences in the High Tongue. Maglor’s reply was sharp, but he sounded wrong-footed, and after a brief, savage final exchange he flung out of the room.

Maedhros did not attempt to ignore my presence, instead he took a flagon and poured half a cup of wine for me and some into a second cup for himself.

“I would not have chosen for you to hear that, Hallach, but I do not suppose it surprised you.”

“I cannot say I understood what passed, my lord,”

“You may not have known the words, but you understood enough.”

Even Elves, even the Flame-eyed, have been known to speak of something unsettling about the presence of Maedhros of the East March. It is not the same quality possessed by his brother; perhaps it is not so much any quality that differs from others of his kind as that he possesses their qualities more intensely, or that there is in him less of a barrier between the world and the thing Elves call the spirit. There is a force about most of the Flame-eyed like a high wind or a river in spate, but with Maedhros it is like facing into the wind directly instead of being in the lee of a wall, or seeing a flame that is naked rather than one held in a horn lantern.

I have served him most of my life and followed him into battle even when none thought that we could win. And the old, I have learned, do not feel awe easily “He has never forgiven you for yielding the kingdom,” I said.

“That is part of it, although we were not on the most easy of terms before.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “Maglor would not even like to be king. He is like our father in that way, the duties of kingship would take time from the works where his heart truly lies, and he would resent that. No, the injury is to his pride and there is small healing there.”

He drained the cup. “There was a time,” he said, “when fighting with my brothers was invigorating. Like a day’s hard riding or a successful skirmish. Now it grows wearisome, the more so because I fear for them. They may lose us the war yet.”

We are used to thinking of the Strangers as changeless, and as my limbs ache more and more and my hearing fails I cannot but envy them, ever young as they are, forever straight of back and free in movement. It does not do to dwell on the envy, some of my kin have been eaten up with bitterness as they grow older and that does no good to anyone. I have looked at them and have seen only the constants, now for the first time I wondered if there have been changes. Lord Maglor was never on friendly terms with his brother; I could not say if there have been changes beyond what would be expected from his being so continually at Himring. Maedhros the king, has he changed? Am I right to think there are more times of cold control, such as he showed his brother in the hall?

“Perhaps we should retake Lothlann before Thargelion,” I said. The plans for recapture of the lost lands are still in an early stage and known only to a few, it had not been settled which lands to retake first.

Maedhros laughed, with genuine amusement. “No, strategy had better not be determined by which of my brothers is most annoying at present, tempting though it is. Which is taken first must depend on the Naugrim; we will need their aid to retake Thargelion. If I cannot convince them to give it until we can show them victories then we must retake Lothlann first, but it would be easier to take Lothlann if we already have Thargelion.” His voice took on a wry tone as he added, “Whichever we take first Maglor and Caranthir will quarrel violently.”

Whichever we took would be a hard campaign, with Dorthonion in enemy hands. He spoke as if there was no doubt of victory, but it is the task of a leader to show confidence.

“It must be soon, with or without the Naugrim” he went on “We cannot afford to leave Morgoth with the upper hand for long. I will go to Belegost.” Although he still spoke calmly I recalled that we cannot expect Angband to rest quiet now the Siege is broken. Himring is strong, but Angband is stronger and the alliance among the elf-kind is vulnerable. For the first time I was glad of my mortal age, and the thought that I would most likely not see what lay ahead. He would see it.

“I will fetch the latest maps, and Castellan Erestor if he can be found,” I said, “we can work on possible plans for a while.” Inwardly I resigned myself to loss of sleep, no elf ever remembers how much more of it we need.

The maps are kept in a chamber painted as a glade in springtime. I lingered for a while after I had found the ones wanted, and hoped that when spring came indeed it would bring promise of the victories that all within these walls would need.

Endnote: Just to say there is canon evidence (admittedly slight) for Maedhros being styled king, and also for the retaking of Lothlann and Thargelion

Source: http://clotho123.tripod.com/mainlist1/winter.htm

#maedhros #maglor #himring #silmarillion

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sunnyrosewritesstuff · 3 years

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5. About Bilbo from the POV of...Bard

I’ve been looking forward to this one for so long! I didn’t want this POV thing to be solely dwarves (even though they fit almost every category), so I decided a good coworker for Bilbo (especially in an Everybody Lives/Nobody Dies AU) would be Bard.

Reminder: You can make requests on the POVs I have left, and the masterlist can be found here.

***

There had never been a point in Bard’s life where he ever wanted to be king. Yet, here he was, months after the Battle before Erebor, treating with said dwarves as leader of Dale. Of course, he would do almost anything for his people. Eru knows they’ve been through enough. However, five hours into negotiations with dwarves and elves and wizards, and Bard had come to the conclusion that Men were the only sane race left in Middle Earth. Well, almost.

“For the love of Yavanna!” The hobbit swore his head in his hands. “I’ve attended a family dinner where for three hours my cousins argued over whether it was ‘Proudfoots’ or ‘Proudfeet’ and this is still the most ridiculous sit-down of my life.”

“Stand down, Hobbit.” The King Under the Mountain huffed.

“No, I don’t think I will!” He snapped back, rising to his feet. “What are we even arguing about right now? Everyone here, including yourself, knows the men deserve their share of the gold. Just give it to them, and be done with it!”

“And what does Erebor get in return?” Dain Ironfoot grumbled.

Bard thought the hobbit was going to combust right there as his face when red as a tomato.

“Erebor has already gotten aid! TWICE I MIGHT ADD! What exactly do you want from a people who have NOTHING?!”

“I didn’t realize you were a thief and a politician.” Thranduil intervened with a raised eyebrow.

“And I don’t know how the oldest being at this table manages to continuously act like a petulant child, but you seem to prove me wrong there too.”

Bard had to cover his laughter with a cough. The dwarves didn’t attempt the same kindness.

“Master Baggins, a word?” Thorin stepped in as Thranduil looked to be attempting to smite the hobbit with his gaze alone.

Heaving a sigh, Bilbo left the table with Thorin limping along behind. Not far enough to be out of sight, but enough that their conversation would be semi-private. However, from what Bard could see with the animated gestures the hobbit was making, the dwarf king would not be making any headway.

“A feisty fellow for sure.” The wizard huffed around his pipe in amusement.

Feisty was certainly one word to describe the hobbit. Courageous, exceedingly loyal, honorable were others. Bard had to admit that he sorely underestimated the little hobbit upon first meeting. Then he spoke up in the town square for the dwarves, and he became the seal to their doom. It was his accomplishments afterwards where Bard saw him in a new light. To steal the coveted gem from under the nose of his king. To return back to the mountain and own up to his crime. To fight in a war he had no place in being, and still try to inspire hope for better days. And his timely arrival to save the king and his heirs from a gruesome fate. Bard may not have any trust or faith for dwarves. But he would never again doubt a hobbit.

Barely five minutes had passed before the duo returned to the table, and judging by the hobbit’s triumphant grin, Bard could only assume it was good news for him.

“We will pay the men of Dale what they’ve asked for, but in eight payments over the course of two years.” Thorin sighed. “We don’t want to cheat you, but both of our renewed economies could not handle the inflation. Is that agreeable?”

Bard looked from Thorin to Bilbo who was nodding eagerly with a wide grin. The bowman couldn’t help returning the gesture.

“I believe we can make it work.” Bard nodded as he reached out to shake Thorin’s hand.

The dwarf accepted his hand with one sharp pull before turning to Thranduil. He looked as if he tasted something truly foul as he forced each word from his lips.

“And the gems are yours as they’ve always been. Please accept them with our sincerest apologies as well as any repentance we owe for coming to the aid of Erebor.”

The elf gave a satisfied smirk while simultaneously sizing up the hobbit beside the king.

“The Gems of Lasgalen returned home will be more than enough.” Thranduil finally answered. “But the apology is accepted as well. Will that be all or does your mediator intend to continue berating the four kings he is in the presence of?”

Thorin smirked, placing a hand on Bilbo’s arm to placate him as he opened his mouth to respond.

“That will be all.”

With that Thranduil got up and left with Gandalf closely following. Dain looked rather irritated by the conclusion and went off in the other direction muttering under his breath.

“Finally!” Bilbo cried. “I feared we would be here all night. As it is, it’ll be next winter before I’m able to leave.”

Bard froze as a cold stone seemed to drop in his gut. Leave? Where exactly would he go? Thorin watched him stalk back towards the mountain with a fond look and a shake of his head. He figured if anyone would have a clue to the hobbit’s ramblings, it would be the king himself.

“Master Baggins doesn’t truly intend to leave Erebor, does he?”

Thorin frowned, looking up at him with narrowed eyes.

“What business is it of yours?” He growled.

“I will not survive a kingship without him here. You have to convince him to stay.” He blurted, not caring how that sounded.

Thorin continued to scrutinize him with his hard gaze before he let a tiny smirk slip.

“It seems, Your Majesty, that we have finally found a subject we are in complete agreement.”

#follower event #all about bilbo #bilbo baggins #bard

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mimikoflamemaker · 5 years

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Witcher OC Ask Meme – Neve

In the spirit of @oxenfurt-archives January Theme “Something Ends and Something Begins” and introductory ask meme for Neve. Neve is my disaster child and I love her, however it took me literal years to create her – I was fan of the books before the games came out, but it was the Witcher 3 that finally gave me the ground I could work on comfortably. Let’s see what came out of it.

(ask meme by @mollumaukerie)

1. What is your OC’s name? Do they have a fake moniker or a nom de guerre?

Neve. Which means “snow” and pertains to her being born in the depths of the winter. Her mother never bothered to give her a more meaningful name and just chose the first thing that came to mind. Her father was never there to begin with.

Though later, that name came to correspond quite well with her cold and distrustful nature.

Due to her profession she uses plenty of fake name and back stories, sometimes thinking them up on the spot.

2. How old are they, and where do they fit in terms of current events in the Witcher universe? Have they aged naturally or through magical means?

It would be fair to just say that she isn’t sure as her exact birth date was never recorded. The action of the game takes place in 1272 and she is about a hundred years old at the time, which means she was born anywhere between 1172-1175 so around the same time as Yennefer.

Being told from the very young age that she is a product of crossbreeding and therefore not a full blooded elf, she was at the time, a little surprised by her apparent longevity, but after a while the thought faded into the background. Maybe she was just lucky in taking more after her mother. Maybe her mother never told her the truth about the birth father. It didn’t matter - she was busy with the real issues like surviving in the world that hated her for the way she was born.

Visually, she looks anything between twenty five and thirty five depending on who you ask.

3. Where do they come from? Did they grow up wealthy, well-off, or poor?

Neve comes from Blue Mountains – being born into the scoia’tael commando, meant that she moved a lot as soon as she was capable of following her elders. So she doesn’t really know where exactly she comes from, so when asked she usually says, that she is from Ban Ard – when she is feeling safe and honest enough to tell the thing closest to the truth.

Growing up like that meant no permanent place to live and more often than not, hunger. She was quickly thought to fend for herself, because as much as the children were considered precious by the elves and taken care of to the best of their abilities, Neve never tasted a proper, parental love, so she took the matter in her own hands as soon as she could, trying to at least be useful if she couldn’t be loved.

4. Do they have a family? Are they on good or bad terms with them?

Rhoenna – neve’s mother, she was a hunter and a regular fighter in the commando. She doesn’t know who her father is or where he might be now and she really doesn’t care. Her mother certainly never cared about her going as far as telling the girl that she was unwanted and a mistake. As a child, she did feel hurt by such treatment, but she learned to fend for herself on her own. And years had faded that memories to the point of not caring. Why would she care for people that never bothered to care for her? Besides, her mother was dead. And if her father was a human like she claimed he was most certainly dead as well.

5. What kind of personality do they have? How do they handle strong emotions of anger, grief, fear, etc?

Neve keeps a carefully crafted image of herself that she put up for others and molds depending on her needs. Most often given her line of work, she chooses to show confidence and competence, not shying away from showing of her various skills if necessary. She tends to be brash and a bit arrogant at times – a no-nonsense type of person that seen enough of life and doesn’t have the time of people’s bullshit.

That said, she doesn’t handle emotion well, even if it mostly reflects in her mental state. She has so much insecurities she hides from the world fearing that they might give others a way to exploit her, that any instance of feeling any sort of distress could be the tipping point for her. Therefore she tries her hardest to keep her feelings on the leash. But there are cracks if someone bothers to look.

She would often go with anger if she has to let off some steam. Anger is the easiest to handle. Violence can give her the momentary satisfaction, making her feel powerful. It is also the best way to assert dominance in some cases, especially when you are a woman surrounded by men most of the time.

Anger is probably the only emotion she allows to take over – and an emotion that often serves as the replacement for other things she feels.

6. Do they wear their heart on their sleeve or play their cards close to the chest?

She doesn’t really know the meaning of the word “honesty”. Is that even a thing? Neve chooses what she tells to whom, choosing lies over truth most of the time. She lies to get herself a better job, she lies to wiggle herself into the graces of powerful people and she lies to get herself out of trouble. But she also builds bits and pieces of truth into her lies. And she really knows how to lie – she is capable of making anybody believe her – maybe except for those capable of reading minds.

There is really no way of telling when she lies and when she tells the truth, which makes most people wary of her. And causes some problems, because if she decides to actually be honest for once, more often than not people don’t believe her.

7. What is their moral compass like? Do they abide the law, an organizational creed, or their own moral code?

Neve follows her own moral code, which can seem convoluted to the people around her, because she is just as likely to kick the beggar in the teeth as she is to shower them with money. She herself says that she only cares about whatever she wants to do at the moment, but she isn’t a complete chaos. She does abide the law when her safety and survival depends on it. She is ready to fit herself within the rules and regulations of let’s say the army for the same reason. But she is not afraid to toss it all to wind if she feels the need to. Because above all else, she craves her freedom – even if she knows that people like her cannot really be truly free. So she settles for whatever short instances of it she can catch.

8. Are there certain traits they value? Honour, integrity? Or do they feel such things aren’t necessary to live true to oneself?

Neve values adaptability, competence, versatility… the traits of a survivor and traits that can be useful in any way to her or her goal. She doesn’t care much about the personality of the people she surrounds herself with as long as they can get the job done or they are giving her the sense of safety. She isn’t all that fond about so called “higher values” thinking them all either a smoke screen, hiding the more sinister things or an utter bullshit fed to children through tales so they wouldn’t vex their parents.

The instances where those things turned out to somehow be true were just an exception from the general rule and nothing more.

9. What is their presence like? How are they perceived through posture, gait, and demeanour?

Much like with her personality, most things Neve’s appear to be is a carefully crafted image, build for the sake of fooling the world around her. To enforce the personality she wants people so see. So she moves with grace and easy confidence, head held high in spite of her pointy ears. She wears armour and weapon and makes sure that people understand quickly that those are not for show. But is she needs to be flirty, she is going to lean over and unbutton a few buttons more. She becomes what the situation needs her to be – like a chameleon.

10. What drives them? Do they have high ambitions or none at all?

Survival. Survival is what drives her from the early childhood. The will to live. And the desire to show the middle finger to the world that hates her. Does she has any higher ambitions? Not really – she knows that someone for her social standing is worth little more than a dirt. Maybe if she was born a mage, she would be able to forge a different fate for herself. But she was not born a mage.

[Part 1]

#of monsters and men #witcher oc #the witcher oc #oxenfurt-archives #neve #january theme: something ends and something begins

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thewarriorandtheking · 5 years

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The White Fox

For Prompt 14 of the 52-Week Writing Challenge:

“I can’t prove anything, but I would have thought our friendship would have awarded me the courtesy of your trust.”

This prompt did not fit a single thing I wanted to write, but it did make me think of what The Warrior’s response would be...not really a story, just a little scene

I expect I will get zero fucks on this one, but that is how it goes...you can’t hit a home run every time

52-Week Storytelling Challenge MasterList

*****************************************

“I cannot prove anything, but I would have thought our friendship awarded me the courtesy of your trust.”

Kaylea Wolf gave him a skeptical look. “The list of people I trust is a short one,” she said, tossing her drink back. “And we are not friends.” She rose to leave.

“Please stay, my lady,” the prince said quickly, half rising from his seat. “I apologize if I have offended you, though I must say, it wounds me to hear you say we are not friends.”

“I do not know you well enough to call you a friend, your highness,” Kaylea replied gravely. “We have only met a few times.” She looked at the chair as if deciding if she wanted to sit back down. “If you have something to say, speak quickly. I will not listen to you slander the King of Erebor.”

Prince Imrahil took a deep breath, desperate to continue the conversation, if only to look on Kaylea Wolf for a few more minutes. He had loved her from the moment he first set eyes on her, many years ago. She was the fairest woman he had ever seen, even though he had only rarely been in her company he remembered every detail of her finely chiseled features, her hair the color of spun gold, her lean body wrapped in black garments. The prince knew she did not return his affection, though he always hoped to persuade her. It was a rare chance to see her here in Minas Tirith, though there was often word of her travelling the lands of Middle Earth her business rarely brought her to the cities in the south. He wondered why she had reacted so strongly to the mention of King Thorin, then he noticed the Dwarven designs on the beads she wore on the small braids that fell forward from her temples. She was known to associate with Elves and wizards, it seemed she also had dealings with the Dwarves, as unlikely as that sounded.

“I am only relaying what I have heard,” Imrahil said. “I do not know the King Under the Mountain personally, perhaps you know him well enough to speak for his character. In that case, I will defer to your judgement.”

Kaylea put a boot up on the chair, leaning on her knee. “The Dwarves are no allies of the Dark Lord, he has tried before to bend them to his will and failed.”

She glanced quickly around the inn. The midday meal had passed and there were only a few patrons, richly dressed men no doubt waiting for appointments in the Citadel. The White Fox was the closest inn to the tower gates and well known for the quality of its fare. She assumed Prince Imrahil was here to see the Steward, though he certainly did not need to wait on an escort from the guard. The last time she had seen him was many years ago, when she had been riding across his country. Tall and fair-haired, obviously a descendant of the race of Numenor, it surprised her to not see a wedding band on his finger. He would be a fine catch for any noblewoman of the south. She was about to ask the prince about the rumors she had heard concerning Saruman the White when Gloin walked in, with his son Gimli and another Dwarf she did not recognize. His face lit up in surprise when he saw her. Kaylea quickly crossed the room to greet them, the three Dwarves bowed low to her.

“At your service, my lady,” Gloin said, in Khuzdul. “This is quite a surprise! You know my son Gimli, this is Haur.”

“And yours and your family’s,” Kaylea replied politely in the same language, returning their bows. “What brings the Dwarves of the Erebor to Minas Tirith?”

“The appetite of Men for Dwarven steel is nearly limitless, it seems,” the old Dwarf replied. “It is past time for us to negotiate a new contract.”

Kaylea laughed. “You are the right Dwarf for that job! I doubt there is another who could drive a harder bargain!”

Gloin smiled into his beard. “Thank you, my lady.” He looked up at her, as always a bit awestruck by her beauty. “I hope seeing you here means you will soon return to the Lonely Mountain. The King could use some cheering up.”

“When does the King ever not need something to cheer him up?” Kaylea replied. Thorin’s brooding nature was a sort of running joke among the members of his old company. “Yes, after I have finished my business here I will ride to Erebor. I am quite looking forward to seeing the King.”

Prince Imrahil watched the tall warrior woman talking with the Dwarves, astounded. She obviously knew them well, and even spoke their language, which was even more impressive. He remembered suddenly there had been rumors she was at the battle for Erebor, so they were true. Once again, he wished she would give him the opportunity to know her better. The prince found himself very envious of the easy familiarity she seemed to share with the Dwarves. He rose to join them, each Dwarf bowing formally as Kaylea introduced them.

“I am glad to meet the forgers of the steel that has saved me more than once in battle,” Imrahil told them, which resulted in much smiling and nodding from the Dwarves. “It is rare to see your folk in my kingdom of Belfalas.”

Haur frowned. “It is not often we travel to the cities of men, your highness. We prefer our own halls.”

The Dwarves moved to sit at one of the long tables, Gloin motioned to Kaylea to join them, but she shook her head. “I have several people to see today,” she said. “I must be on my way. If your business is swiftly concluded I may see you again in Erebor.”

“I will look forward to it, my lady,” Gloin replied. “Travel safely.”

Before Imarhil could protest, Kaylea nodded to him and went out the door without another word, her black wolf following her. The prince looked after her for a moment, then turned back to the Dwarves. Gloin was studying him closely.

“I would not hitch your hopes to that one, your highness,” he said gravely. “Unless you want to be disappointed.”

“I believe you are right, Master Dwarf,” Imrahil replied with a wry smile. “A woman that beautiful has her choice of suitors, I would be surprised if some nobleman of her own country has not already taken her as wife.”

The Dwarves looked at each other, finally Gimli answered. “She certainly could be married if she wished it.”

The prince felt his heart sink, he looked at the Dwarves wondering what they were not saying. “You seem to know a great deal more about her than I do,” he said. “Who is the man who has captured her heart?”

Gloin shook his head. “If you want to know the answer to that you must ask her yourself. If she has said nothing to you, she must have a reason. Now, let us have something to eat, it is always harder to negotiate on an empty stomach!”

Read the complete adventures of The Warrior and The King on AO3 & FanFiction, links on my homepage. Books I & II also on Wattpad.

@sdavid09 @fizzyxcustard @soradragon

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lokispettigerr · 6 years

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The Accursed’s Assassin (Part 1)- Loki x Malekith’s daughter (Dark elf!OFC)

Fic Summary: Malekith has a daughter whom he raised as an assassin to do his bidding. His daughter learns of her father’s death and decides to set her killing sights on Loki and the remainder of the ruling family of Asgard. While on Svartalfheim she catches Loki’s trail.

Word Count: 2037

Warnings: Violence, Blood, Mentions of child physical and sexual abuse

A/N: This fic takes place post TDW, but before Loki takes the throne of Asgard disguised as Odin.

Note to dearest readers: I am so wary about posting this full fic, but it just needs to be set free. This is my vulnerability showing, but I just feel like maybe something isn’t right, or it isn’t clear, or something is missing. I always want to produce high quality work for you all because I care about you all, and of course I want to continue to learn and improve in my writing. I know that it won’t always be good, but I just felt the need to say something because I don’t want to disappoint you all. None the less, thank you all for supporting me and making this so much fun for me!

Taglist: @malanix @xletmetaste-yoursmilex @loki978

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I knelt down to study an obvious blood stain on the ground, one of my leather-clad knees grazing the dark sand of my home planet-- Svartalfheim. My half gloved fingers reached out and I rubbed the blood soaked sand. The blood was old, but only by a few hours. I was getting closer. I stood, my silver hair blowing around my face, escaping my long braid, whipping softly into my eyes causing them to tear, and stroking my full lips lustfully. Though the wind filled my ears with whistling, I could still hear the soft steps of Sombra, my shadow. The black coated, male wolf my father gave to me as a balm to his harsh treatment. Sombra approached me and prodded the palm of my hand with his wet, wolf snout. I ignored him momentarily, thinking of my next move. I turned my face up to the winds of Svartalfheim for an answer, it caressed me like a proud father rubbing the moon-kissed cheek of his daughter with pride in his pale eyes.

The wind whispered to me with my father’s menacing voice, “Closer still, you almost have him now--so close to our bloody victory.” It was as if I could feel the presence of my dead father, standing too close behind me, resting his cheek next to my ear as our silver hair mingled in the wind-- the strands twisting, fighting for superiority. His sharp talons dug painfully into my skin as he clasped my shoulders, whispering to me, his lips grazing my ear, “Finish him, my child. Finish him for your father, make me proud”. I nodded, turning my head, hoping to hold his gaze again, but only the wind gripped me. You are your father’s rage, it whispered menacingly. I stepped forward knowing Sombra would follow, my footsteps inaudible on the dark sand. We made not a sound, we were but shadow and smoke as we strode toward Loki, the dying Prince of Asgard.

Have you ever watched as the light of life faded from the eyes of your enemy? Have you ever seen it recede as if you had overturned a pitcher of water and the liquid slowly trickled out until the pitcher was empty, and the water was no more? I have seen it, a thousand times over and more, and not once have I not relished in it. Not once have I not been proud as I saw my good work. Not once. My father, Malekith The Accursed trained me so. He taught me that my wolf and my bone blade are my companions, the only ones I can trust. They are both a part of me and extensions of me. Friends betray you, you can count on that. They will always let you down, but not a weapon--not a wolf. We always fulfill our purpose.

I am an assassin, a “shivarotha”, in the language of my people-- the Dark Elves. Men and women would betray my father or would become his enemies, and I was sent to carry out his unforgiving wrath. To watch them night after night, to prey upon them. It wouldn’t take long to approach unbeknownst to them and stick the blade of my bone dagger into their back. And when they fell, and they always fell, I would sit above them, straddling them to ride them out into the night as their body convulsed and they fought for their life beneath me, their throes futile against me. I would take my delicate hands with their unimaginable strength and crush their throat. I always wanted to finish them with my hands, it was more poetic this way-- or so father always said. I did what father said, and I always went where father sent me. His rage followed. I am my father’s rage. How peculiar it is now, to go where my father has not sent me. But how could he? My father is nothing more than a memory of a people that once were-- a glimmer of a dying star that’s light outshines it even after it is gone.

An eye for an eye, is it? Or better yet, a life for a life.

Odin, the King of Asgard, the Allfather. He thinks he is something special-- thinks he knows everything. You know, he gave his right eye for knowledge, but how knowledgeable is he really? I plan to put him to the test. Will he see me coming with his eye that sees without sight? Odin is a vile, corrupt ruler. He is the cancer that eats away furiously at everything it touches. The only thing left in its wake a fetid, rotting corpse.

Then there is his son Thor, the golden prodigy. He is everything he is told to be, that is our one commonality. He might be fire, more like a spark, but I am the ice that destroys all life to where no fire can be created. Thor is the to-be king, and maybe we can make that happen sooner than he thinks. For a time anyway.

Frigga, the motherly one, not much can be said for her because she is dead. Her soul sent to soar into Asgards home eternal-- Valhalla. Her kind heart made her a fool, and too trusting. She was a sorceress, and a powerful one at that, but her pity made her weak. She died by the hand of Algrim. While Algrim dealt the killing blow, her death came from my father as it was his word that forced the deed. In that way too, each of my kills is the glory of my father.

The last, and certainly not least, is Loki the Prince of Asgard. A charmer that one, arguably the most dangerous in the family. His cruelty rivals even that of mine, and his rage matches that of my father. Loki reminds me of my father, in that way. He is the one I must keep my trained eyes on, constantly. I can never be cautious enough with that one. Yet, I know Loki’s truth. He isn’t really Asgardian, not like the others. That is what makes him so dangerous-- an outsider on the inside. But to whom is he more dangerous, his own family, or me? Loki could prove useful, but one should never let a snake with poison dripping from its fangs come too close. Killing is only in their nature. As it is in mine.

Mine, they will all be mine. The ruling family of Asgard, gods said to possess immense and immeasurable power. How powerful can they possibly be when I can smite them all the same?

And who am I to bring such woe to the house of Odin? XAethera is my name. Now, look at the spelling of my name. Is there a word contained within that you may have heard before? Maybe in a dark, candlelit tavern where travelers from all around go for a bit of rest, a warm meal, and talk of the nine realms. There you sat many moons ago, in a corner cloaked in shadow. You were listening, how smart of you, and then you heard it fall from the lips of a grimey looking stranger with missing teeth, talking to his cohort across the table. As the word escaped his lips, a chill traveled down your spine. Aether.

My name rings like a bell in your memory, striking an ominous chord-- that isn’t unintentional. You are a clever one, aren’t you? So, what then is the Aether to my people? What was it that grimey old man said, and why did he stress the one word as if it had monumental black market value? Why would he have whispered it leaning across the creaking wood table, his eyes glinting as he peered at his cohort, praying no soul could hear them? The Aether is the most powerful weapon-- the most hostile that the Dark Elves possessed. The Aether is a living parasitic force of corruption that converts matter into that of dark-matter and can alter reality itself.

If I am to be truly threatening, then that would be a most fitting name. After all, a name means everything. There is power in a name. I must live up to mine, if I am to ever carry out the revenge of Malekith the Accursed.

Sombra’s imprint on my mind alerted me that Loki the God of Lies was just up ahead, on the other side of a steep a hill. I signaled for Sombra to mimic my crouch so we could continue our stealth approach low to the ground. We both crept like silent death to the edge of the incline and peered over-- my pale red eyes scanned the gloom below.

I could see Loki’s heat signals with Sombra’s eyes. The wolves of Svartlafheim had three sets of eyes-- most of the animals that called Svartalfheim home had multiple sets of eyes as our land was shrouded in shadow. Loki was lying still on the black sands of the desert of Svartalfheim, much like a cast out corpse would be-- a corpse that has been so despicable in life that it was undeserving of an honorable burial. If not for Sombra’s vision, I would have believed the body down below was a cold, stiff corpse. While Loki was close to death, that was clear, his chest continued to rise and fall with each drowning, ragged breath.

This was so incredibly easy…I, or Sombra could end his life within a matter of seconds. There would be no tag teaming, no challenge, no scent of fear in the air. If either of us ended him now it would be a kindness.

Did Loki deserve a mercy kill? Did he deserve kindness after what he did to my father with his “brother” puppet? Never. There would be no pride in this kill and no honor. Father would be disgusted in me, and if he were still alive...Upon my return, he would pretend to welcome me with open arms, as soon as I drew in to receive his embrace he would yank me by my silver hair, dragging me down a candle-lit stone hallway full of skulls, cave lichen, stalactites and the like, down into the deepest recesses of home and chain me up to think on my failure and embarrassment to him. He would scold me for how poorly I made him look and he would use his hands like rabid dogs against me. Tearing at my flesh in more ways than one until I was bleeding and unidentifiable-- luckily, Dark Elves have an impressive wound recovery rate.

I gave a growl of frustration, clenching my jaw, and looked over to Sombra who immediately laid his enormous head on his big, wolf paws to adopt a submissive pose.

Assassinating the Prince of Asgard and avenging my father's death would have to come another day.

For now I would go reluctantly to the stranger sprawled upon the sands. I would have to nurse him back to health. He was as good as dead where he lie and if I left him what would my revenge be then? How could I make my father proud then? Once he was better, and even somewhat of a challenge, and he would always be a laughable challenge against me and Sombra at that, I would lay my blade deep into his flesh as Sombra brought him down to the ground and we would both lay waste to his tortured, corrupt soul.

I stood and rolled my shoulders to release my frustration and tension with our present circumstances.

“Knocht,” I ordered to Sombra, stay, and he lifted his head in acknowledgement.

I bounded down the hill and approached Loki-- swiftly kneeling down next to him, quiet as a creeping mist. Slowly, I extended my long fingers, my skin almost glowing in the swimming gloom. Without my permission my hand began to shake, and I placed it lightly on Loki’s chest. At the point of contact a powerful, sharp shock went through my hand, and the green eyes of the dying prince opened suddenly, and he breathed in a great gust as if he was given life for the first time.

****If you would like to be on the general taglist OR the taglist for this fic please leave me an ask in my ask box. I will make it happen and would be happy to do it! You all make me so very happy! If you enjoyed this, please comment, like, and/or reblog. I love hearing from my readers and LOVE reblogs because it helps me out so much! Thanks friends. Until next time!

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Peace,

Loki’s Pet Tiger

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