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tanoraqui · 6 months

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Eldamar!Buzzfeed’s Top 5 Maglor Fëanorion Songs

9/26/422 Fo.A

[read on AO3]

The votes are in and the people have spoken! Thanks to our poll last week, Elf!Buzzfeed is excited to present our and your Top 5 Maglor Fëanorion compositions, with commentary from experts—including the infamous Singer himself!

5. First Age Northern Beleriandrin Songs of Warding and Warning

After the sheer number and variety of write-ins, we decided to credit Maglor with the whole genre of Songs of Warding and Warning of Siege-Era Northern Beleriand. Top write-ins included “Campfire Warding Song”, “Wind in the Grass” and “Song of the Gap.”

Expert Opinions:

Eglatarwen Lindambar, a Court Minstrel of Üdoriath: This is an insult to Queen Melian. The Noldor did naught but modify and build upon pre-existing Songs, and all or nearly all the popular Songs of Warding in Beleriand were taught or inspired by Melian, even before she created the Great Girdle. I will concede their effectiveness—against most things pettier than dragons, at least—but to credit him with the genre? So much for journalistic neutrality.

Timpenindë Cuilemë, preeminent bard among the Noldor: Oh, I don’t know if I’m qualified for this one—I was only in Beleriand for a few decades for the War. But I did recognize Maglor’s work when I found it, and we found it in quite a few places. I think he deserves more credit for the endurance of Himring, actually—I saw that immediately. It may be Maedhros’s will sunk deep into those stones, so deep that neither Morgoth not Ulmo could wear them down. But it’s Maglor’s classic Songs, all love and faith and bloody-minded stubbornness, that served as the final mortar.

Maglor: I’m flattered, but I really don’t think I should be taking credit for this. I did compose my first warding-Song entirely organically, to keep annoying younger brothers out of my bedroom. But everything— almost everything in the First Age was collaborative. “Campfire Warding Song” is ancient—I learned it in my youth from my father, who learned it from his, who Sang it in Cuivienen and during the Great Journey. All I did was modify it to be more attuned to the enemies we faced later, as orcs and such were new and rare for our forefathers. “Song of the Gap” is a call-and-response with constant improvisation—I did compose the basic melody and rhythm, but it varies every time it’s Sung! Likewise “Wind in the Grass”, “Lullaby for Foes”, “Tread Thee Not (or Suffer our Wrath Resplendent)”…I’m not saying we didn’t compose some good Music, but it was all very collaborative!

4. Noldolantë (Full)

The complete story of the Fall of the Noldor: the prologue of Finwë’s first visit to Aman, then the tragedy of Miriel, the division of the Noldor and the slaughter of Finwë, the Oath, the First Kinslaying, the Burning of the Ships, the Siege, the Breaking of the Siege, the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Falls of Gondolin and Nargothrond, the Second Kinslaying, the Third Kinslaying, the War of Wrath and final theft of the Silmarils, the suicide of Maedhros and the lone Singer himself wandering remorseful forevermore; with a postscript for the forging of the One Ring, the deaths of Celebrimbor and Gil-Galad, and the Fall of Númenor. It isn’t pure grief—there are bright spots in the Rescue of Maedhros, the Tale of Beren and Lúthien (borrowing melodically and lyrically from the Lay of Leithien), the rise of Gil-Estel. However, its wide range of tragedies is famously able to reduce even the stoniest heart to tears at least once.

Composed in pieces mostly over the course of the First Age, and refined into a single piece over the course of the Second and Third Ages, as the singer wandered alone and repentant on the shores of mortal Arda. Takes six and a half days to sing all the way through, unstopping.

Expert Opinions:

Timpenindë: This is not Maglor’s best work. I don’t even think it’s his fourth-best work, honestly. It is impressive that he maintains the intensity of emotion throughout—deftly waxing and waning, but mostly waxing—and maybe only Maglor could do that for six and a half straight days! But even if it's strong throughout, the whole 'throughout' is just...too much. Even a powerful Singer has to half-kill themselves to perform this, and it's not much more gentle on the audience. Admittedly, I'm not sure what he could possibly cut, but... It is what it is, but it's just not his best work. Also, the lyrics could use work—more poetry in a couple places, less in others, and I know the faltering meter and rhyme represents his descent into madness but... Well, it suffers from the fact that he was genuinely descending into madness.

Finrod Felagund, High Prince of the Noldor, etc etc: I think this might be ranking so high based on name recognition, honestly. I usually start crying within the first hour, and don't stop... But laced through all my grief for...everything...is the question: if Maglor could produce this sustained tidal wave of craft and raw emotion while wandering lost for 6,000 years, what could he have done if he'd been found instead? It makes me dream wistfully of what greater, kinder marvels he could have wrought... Which only ties into the themes of the song, of course—what could the Noldor have been, if we hadn't gone down the roads we did? What could Arda have been? So, all the more credit to the composer for so thoroughly manifesting this masterpiece!

Maglor: I believe this piece speaks for itself, and for myself.

3. Noldolantë (Original/Standard)

Written in the style of a traditional Noldorin history-song, the original Noldolantë is an accounting of the events of the Darkening through the death of Fëanor, with references at the end to early First Age events including the Rescue of Maedhros and the Dagor Aglareb. Focus is primarily on the Kinslaying at Alqualondë, and secondarily on the Burning of the Ships. Though Maglor originally composed it in Quenya during his brief reign as King of the Noldor and added events throughout the First Age (see: "4. Noldolantë (Full)", this translation into Sindarin, first performed publicly in 68 FA, is the version that was widespread and popular throughout First Age Beleriand and thereafter, and remains most identifiable as "Noldolantë."

Major themes include loss of life and loss of innocence; grief, regret and repentance over the same; and determination to take all this hurt, and all the hurt in Arda, and throw it back at the Enemy tenfold, with sword, Song and fire. Takes about four hours to sing in full, though individual sections were often excerpted as marching chants or battle hymns.

Expert Opinions:

Eglatarwen: The Noldolantë is an undeniably impressive work of technical song-craft, engaging and well-paced narrative, heart-wrenching passion...and propaganda. To not treat it as propaganda would be to do it a disservice, because it's also a very impressive work of propaganda! It takes betrayal and atrocity and turns it into...not 'necessity', to be fair, and nor does it shirk the fault of the Noldor—though it certainly blames Morgoth as well. But it takes the irredeemable and almost inexorably turns it redeemable. Horrors and darkness which can and will be moved on from. Terrible mistakes which can and will be learned from. If only that had been true.

Eärwen Olwiel, Princess of the Teleri, High Queen-Consort of the Noldor: Surprisingly factual and earnestly apologetic, I think, for all its spin.

Finrod: I still hum it sometimes. I still hum parts about Alqualondë sometimes. I hate how good at this he is.

Maglor: Of course it's propaganda. It was propaganda just for me, first, when I needed to make some reassuring sense of everything or I would shatter like a wedding glass. Then I sang it to buck up my people, not least my younger brothers, and keep us going through some of the worst years of my life. Then word came of Thingol's Ban and we needed a response of equal—though not directly contradictory, you'll note!—social impact—and, appropriately, I had this piece that only really needed to be translated into Sindarin in order to serve. Though of course I did need to rewrite every single word and note in subtle, crafty ways to accommodate the new language, and sometimes in very obvious ways. I still miss the original recursive arpeggios... Shoutout to Glauriel of the Plains for thrice saving my life: once from an orc arrow, once from dragonfire, and once for not killing me herself when I recruited her to help me with the translations, said I only needed a quick Sindarin-native judgement on a few scattered verses, and then made her help me rewrite the first bridge alone six times in six days.

2. “The Song That Never Ends”

Infamously annoying short tune which loops both lyrically and melodically, sung most often by children. Composed pre-Darkening. No true potency save, it is rumored, as a means of tormenting enemy prisoners.

Expert Opinions:

Eglatarwen: This song is a malicious attack.

Timpenindë: This is in second place? Stars, I can't believe I was ever engaged to that elf.

Finrod: [staring into the unseen distance as one haunted by memories of torment] The Edain learned this, somehow. The thing about the children of Men, you know, is that they're only children for a very short amount of time relative to us... But there are always more of them...

Maglor: I genuinely regret this one. I’m not sure I even remember why I wrote it. I think to annoy my parents, or maybe Nelyo—hey, Nelyo! [to his brother, passing by] Do you remember when or why I came up with that annoying looping song?

Maedhros Fëanorion: [upon further explanation of the question and context] This is in second place? [to Maglor] I should've killed you when I had the chance. When I still did things like that. [upon being told Finrod's comment on the song] 'Mannish children'? Ha! You can give those back to their parents, not like siblings—of which he only had four, I’ll note, and none of them composed this monstrosity. And speaking of Man-ish children, whom you can’t give back to their parents, he should try righteously vengeful, maliciously compliant teenage—

[He cut off as our host, Elrond Peredhel, walked in, whistling a few idle, familiar notes before offering everyone another round of tea. Maglor and Maedhros both winced, though they said nothing save to accept tea.]

1. Ardamirë

Unofficial subtitle: (Father) It's Not Only Ours Anymore

An ode to Gil-Estel—the jewel, the Light, the ship and captain, the Star. Elements composed and gathered over nearly 6,500 years of wandering on mortal shores, including elements of the Noldolantë; arranged into a complete song in the decades after Maglor’s return to Valinor at the start of the Fourth Age. Takes about three hours to sing in full, reducing most listeners to mostly-joyful tears.

Expert Opinions:

Maglor: Good choice, people—this one is the best.

Fëanor Curufinwë, Crafter of the Silmarils: I won't pretend to be as expert in musical composition as my son, in Songs of Power or simply in casual music-craft. However, I'm certain this isn't his best work, technically speaking. Did truly so few people vote for "The Great Journey” or “On the Slopes of Túna"? [shaking his head] The wisdom of the Eldar truly has been diluted... And surely the recency of this composition biases voters in its favor. Are you certain you've balanced your data properly? …But the song is persuasive. And sticks in one's head very effectively. I've been thinking about it.

#maglor #the silmarillion #my fic #ficlet #feanor and feanor’s kin #aman ever after #[soft launches my OC maglor’s (ex-)fiancée]

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lendmyboyfriendahand · 5 months

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Even more in the older kidnap fam fic

At Amon Ereb, accommodations for the twins do get marginally more comfortable.

It is, after all, a proper fortress complete with prison cells. All the Feanorian fortresses have them; for criminals, or captured orcs they want to interrogate, or for the rare occasions the sons of Feanor were aware they needed to be stopped.

The cells have solid stone walls and floor, with metal gratings for doors, so the prisoners can't escape by setting a fire or digging.

Some of the cells are missing doors, where the metal bars were taken down and reforged into armor or weapons, but there are still several in good shape.

And the Feanorians are putting both princes in one cell, anyway. It will be easier to guard one place than two.

Elrond and Elros are very agreeable to sharing a cell, rather than being put at opposite ends of the dungeon, with who knows how many days or weeks before they see each other again. And it's not like they'd have actual privacy with their own cells, there's going to be a guard outside constantly.

They are marched down by a half dozen guards, with their arms tied. Once Elros is untied, he has to stand his facing the wall opposite the door before the guards will bring Elrond forward and untie him.

Elros kind of wants to laugh at how intimidating he and his twin apparently are, to warrant this hassle, but it's not funny with swords inches from his brother.

Still, eventually all the guards leave, except for one who locks the door and stands across the hallway.

The cell has a bed, a chamber pot, a bucket of fresh water, and a bed roll designed for camping. There's room for one person to pace, if the other sits on the bed.

Elrond and Elros can talk to each other. Not unobserved, but without a sharp deadline. Better than since they left Sirion.

After reassuring each other that they have no serious injuries, they compare their experiences of the battle, particularly the end.

Elrond and Elros conclude that Elwing is dead, but the Valar sent an eagle (or perhaps another bird, Elrond is unsure of the species he saw) to retrieve the Silmaril.

The Valar have sent eagles to help the house of Fingolfin twice before, and retrieving Fingolfin's body was a lesser favor than saving Maedhros's life (as evil as he is). It's reasonable that the third aid from eagles would be even smaller, not saving the queen's body but saving only her jewel from her enemies.

Elros and Elrond are still confident that it's better than the Feanorians having the Silmaril, though. Who knows what evil they would be able to accomplish with its light?

They are very sad though that their mother is dead. And it's been over a year since Earendil left on his latest voyage, so he's probably dead too, though Elwing hadn't admitted it where they could hear.

That makes Elros king of Sirion, heir to Gondolin and Doriath. Elrond kisses his brother's hand and pledges his fealty.

In practical terms though, Elros and Elrond aren't sure this changes the situation at all. Sure, Elros is king - of a people he can't reach.

They're still prisoners, and there is no Silmaril to trade them for - though of course they are brave warriors who would rather die than give such a holy object over to the evil Feanorians.

They seem to be just here as hostages, so Gil-Galad doesn't sack Amon Ereb, and because the Feanorians still have enough pretense at honor not to kill enemies who surrendered.

The first of those conditions has no end date, and the second only does if they're unlucky. Elros and Elrond will be prisoners until they learn if peredhel can die of old age.

Meanwhile: Maedhros has commanded the guards to keep a watch on the cell, feed the prisoners from the same food as the soldiers, and stop them from escaping. Preferably non-lethally, but if the prisoners reach the courtyard go ahead and shoot them.

He's taken a report from the seneschal, confirming nothing has changed at the castle in his absence.

Maedhros has made his own report of names of the dead, so their work can be redistributed among the living. He's passed on news of Elwing's escape with the jewel, and the signs of orcs they saw on their way. No one pursued the army from Sirion though, which is good.

Maedhros does all the tasks that need to be done to settle his army back in the castle, or at least all that can't wait a day.

He then locks himself in his room to cry over his dead little brother.

Pretty soon it turns to screaming. Wordless cries of pain, insults to the Valar and Eru, curses to the idiocy of child queens.

It's audible outside his room, but he doesn't care. Let them think him mad, being sane has never won him a battle. (Nirnaeth Doriath Sirion, never achieving his goals, and always those he loves dying for him.)

The soldiers are uneasy, but tell each other loudly that it's just his nightmares. Lord Maedhros is sane while awake, and none of them will judge for troubled sleep. Definitely that.

From the prison cell, all that can be heard is the occasional scream. Elrond and Elros thought they were the only captives, but is someone being tortured?

Maglor sleeps for a day straight on arriving at Amon Ereb. He's the best rider left, and switched between advance scouting and Singing their trail cold as needed for the whole journey. It's not literally true that he hasn't slept since Sirion, but he hasn't been fully rested since they marched out from Amon Ereb.

He's still the first one to approach the twins for conversation though, late the next evening.

He's done diplomacy with Fingolfin after leaving him to die, how much worse can it be?

(Okay, he didn't actually get any concessions out of Fingolfin. And he gave up his entire city. But no one died! And people unassociated with the royal family were exchanging small items and food with each other! He's sure it would have taken less than a century to create an actual formal relationship.)

@tar-thelien asked to be tagged for updates!

#silmarillion #my fic #older kidnap fam #my writing #kidnap dads #silm #older kidnap fam fic #<- sorry that's the tag with the rest of it

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literaryfandomangel · 5 months

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CSI Season 2 Episode 19 --Stalker

CSI Season 2 Episode 19

--Stalker

When we went into work, Nick and I stopped by Gil’s office. We had a discussion last night at his place about doing the right thing – telling the department that we were in a relationship. In my previous place of employment, they would have reprimanded me for seducing a coworker. Then I would have been demoted. Nick reassured me that this wasn’t the case here – that numerous coworker’s had relationships within the department.

Nick had rubbed my back as I tried to calm my breathing. I was worked up just by asking him what if they split us up. Moved us to a different shift, because then we wouldn’t be able to see each other. Nick shook his head, his crooked smile enveloping his face.

“That won’t happen, darlin’,” Nick reassured me, his Texas drawl soothing my frayed nerves at the aspect of telling Grissom that I was involved with one of his best CSI’s. I knew that Nick valued the opinion of Grissom as well, so that was also nerve-wracking.

“But how do you know?” I stressed, looking at him as I bit my lip. Nick laughed, not unkindly, but used his thumb to release my lip from the abuse of my teeth.

“Do you know how many of the lab has been together?” When I shook my head, Nick elaborated on the number of relationships he knew of, as well as how they were treated once it came out.

When we knocked on Gil’s door, he was bent over looking at something through a magnifying glass. He looked intrigued to see us at his door, both requesting an audience at the same time. Gil motioned to the chairs at his desk, wordlessly, and waited to see what we were going to say.

“We’ve been dating,” I blurted out, unable to keep it a secret any longer. Nick gave an awkward chuckle as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“Is that all?” Grissom asked, raising an eyebrow. “I thought someone was confessing to a crime. Needing help with hiding a dead body or something.”

“I didn’t want to be in any type of department violation,” I told Gil who nodded, as Nick was chuckling.

“See, I told you!” Nick pointed out.

“I see no issue with two of my CSI’s dating,” Gil remarked, already losing interest in this conversation and looking down at the bug he was studying. “I will make a note of it for your documents with the Crime Lab.”

“That’s it?” I asked, a little shocked at the handling of a relationship. Nick had validated this point and to see it occurring was honestly a little shocking.

“Yup,” Gil nodded, opening our files and putting something in the documents. “The only issue would be if you two were supervisor and subordinate. Then you wouldn’t be able to do the other’s evaluations.”

“Wow,” I breathed a sigh of relief. “Who knew?”

“I tried to tell you!” Nick smiled at me, as he shook his head, good-naturedly. “You’ve been panicking since our fourth date.”

“Well,” I tried to explain, but finally gave up. Gil gave us both a rare smile.

“Get ready, we have a 419 – it’s going to require all of us to handle the evidence,” Gil said. We both nodded and went to the locker room to get ready.

Once we were finished putting our holsters on, getting the guns loaded, and grabbing our credentials, we both exited the locker room and went to the breakroom where the others were waiting for the assignment of the night. I looked at our coworkers before taking a deep breath.

“Before Ecklie or someone says something – Nick and I are dating,” I told them. They all grinned, Warrick slapping Nick on the back, congratulating him. I rolled my eyes as Gil came into the room.

“We’ve got a 419,” Grissom said. We all got out of our seats and grabbed our gear, along with jackets. Nick had to wear a leather jacket as his clothing wasn’t at the drycleaners the other day. I had laughed at them handing someone else his clothing and told him that was the reason I do my own laundry. I doubled with Nick while Catherine and Gil were in the lead, getting to the scene first. Warrick and Sara were still back at the lab.

“It’s going to be a long night,” I told my boyfriend who nodded his head as we drove to the crime scene. He had grabbed my hand with his, entwined on the console as we listened to music on the way to scene. Once we were on the scene, Catherine and Gil went up to get the preliminary photos. Nick wanted to talk with the detectives on scene.

I grabbed my kit from the trunk and went up to the apartment building. I walked in as Grissom was coming out of the bathroom. I was looking around the apartment and my eyebrows were furrowed.

“So, has anyone seen this dog?” Gil asked, looking around the apartment and listening for any sound of the dog.

“Dog bed, dog bowl, dog food ... no dog,” Catherine remarked as they noticed the dog paraphernalia all over the house.

“Someone killed the dog?” I gasped, staring at the senior members of the team with horror. They both shrugged, not confirming or denying it. “People I get, but a dog?”

“Neighbor lady called 911 because she heard the dog yelping,” Gil stated. I sucked in a breath.

“Are we sure it’s not hiding somewhere? Or that the cops didn’t let the poor animal out when they kicked in the door?” I asked, looking around the apartment. “Here, boy!” I whistled, trying to find the dog.

“Triple locks on all the doors. Every shade drawn. State-of-the-art alarm system,” Catherine looked at the alarm panel on her wall. “As far as we know her place was perfectly hermetically sealed until the cops batter-rammed their way in.”

“Prisoner in her own home?” Gil asked, standing there looking at the aforementioned safety features.

“Maybe she was agoraphobic?” I suggested, standing in her living room.

“So, how did he get in?” Catherine raised an eyebrow as she looked at the locks.

“A better question -- how'd he get out?” Gil questioned.

“Maybe he’s with the dog?” I sneered, looking under the furniture, trying to see if the dog was hiding underneath the couch. The dog bed was small – indicating that this wasn’t a golden retriever. “The dog bed looks sort of small. This dog couldn’t be more than 25-30 pounds. And there is no fur all over the home. I think it’s a hypoallergenic breed. Or this woman keeps vacuuming a hundred times a day.”

Gil walked into the living room behind me. He was still searching for a way that the assailant could have gotten in or out of the home. Gil pushed the gauzy curtains out of the way to reveal that the windows were covered in silver.

“Aluminum foil,” Gil said, shining a light on the silver material covering the windows.

“Keeps the sunlight out,” Catherine murmured also looking at the foil lined windows.

“God knows one needs to in Vegas,” I groused, still checking under the furniture, flashing my light around. “The dog couldn’t have just disappeared!”

“Keeps the eyeballs out, too,” Grissom stated as Catherine announced she was going to process the bedroom. She left the room while I was still poking under the furniture and trying to entice a dog. The door opened and Nick came in. He raised an eyebrow at my wandering around the living room, randomly whistling.

“Did you finally lose your marbles?” Nick drawled. I huffed at my boyfriend.

“I wish!” I called out. “The victims dog totally vanished. No one can seem to account for the dog that prompted the 911 call!”

“You’ll find him, darlin’,” Nick soothed, knowing my soft spot for animals, walking down the hallway. He stopped after a moment, looking at the scene in the bathroom. Gil watched him for a few moments, before turning to point out a random spot to me. After a few moments, Gil left me on my own in the living room.

“Sorry, Nick,” I heard Gil say in the bathroom. “You've been staring at this girl for ten minutes. Do you know her?”

“No,” his voice was faint.

“Why don't you go do the bedroom? I'll get the coroner in here and finish up in the bathroom,” Gil took pity on Nick.

“Sure,” I heard footsteps go down the hall to the bedroom. I left the living room and wandered down the hall to the kitchen. Very few hiding places, but I still checked.

Catherine and Gil came up behind me in the kitchen. There was nothing. This was absurd. A canine doesn’t just disappear into thin air. It had to be here somewhere.

“Find anything?” Catherine asked, unsure why I was pouring all my energy into the missing dog. I turned to look at her, a murderous look on my face.

“Nothing at all,” I sighed. “Absolutely nothing. Why not leave the dog?”

“Why don’t you go back to the lab with Nick when he’s done processing the bedroom,” Catherine suggested. I blinked but nodded.

“Someone will find the dog, right?” I implored, pleading with my bosses. They both nodded, even though they had already guessed that the dog was probably deceased along with the victim. I went back to poking around, but eventually gave up as Nick was finished processing the bedroom.

“You alright?” I asked him as we put the evidence and kits into the back of the Yukon. Nick had been really quiet after he walked into that crime scene.

“Yeah,” Nick said, though his voice didn’t sound sincere.

“If you need to talk, I’m all ears,” I winked at him, pulling my red hair from the tight bun. I massaged my scalp as I got into the passenger seat, a headache forming in my temples.

“You alright?” Nick asked, a little concerned at the pained look on my face. I nodded, reaching into my pouch to pull out some Excedrin.

“Headache,” I muttered.

“Something about that scene,” Nick muttered, and I left him to muse about the scene. For some reason, the body rattled him. He didn’t know the victim, but there was something familiar about it.

By the time that we made it back to the crime lab, my headache had subsided to a lesser roar. It made it so that I could think. Nick grabbed the evidence from the back of the Yukon and then we entered the building. He stopped by the A/V lab to pick up a file and then we walked to find our coworkers – Warrick and Sara so they could help us in our quest to figuring out what had happened to the poor lady.

On our way to the breakroom, where Archie had advised the missing CSI’s were located, Nick noticed the latest issue of the newsletter posted on the bulletin board. We had an internal newsletter called “Crime Stopper”. This month, Nick was featured on the front cover, complete with inaccurate facts. I stifled a laugh as Nick ripped it off the clipboard, irritated at the issue.

“Don’t,” he warned, crumpling up the paper in his hand. I shook my head, holding up my hands in innocence. I had totally read through that paper – which even included Nick’s Alma Mater and the name of the fraternity he belonged. It was cute, but the others were using it as a way to tease their friend.

As we approached the breakroom, Nick and I could hear the laughter and giggling coming from the two CSI’s in the breakroom. They were sitting at the table, reading over the newsletter, laughing. It was totally absurd. Nick smiled, shaking his head at their antics.

“Who wrote this?” Warrick asked. Sara couldn’t contain her laughter.

“You're kidding me, right?” Nick asked, throwing the balled-up newsletter from the bulletin board into the trashcan.

“Nick Stokes, Crime Stopper,” Warrick read from the paper, deepening his voice. I snickered and Nick laughed, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. “You went Hollywood on me, man.”

“And I quote, "in his off time, he enjoys creating and inventing toys." That's fascinating,” Sara said. “What kind of toys do you make, Nick?”

“I don’t know who got that information, but I can confirm that Nick doesn’t invent or create any type of toys,” I interjected.

“I thought I got my hands on all those departmental newsletters,” Nick reached down and picked up the newsletter. “Where'd you get those?”

“Greg,” Sara and Warrick said in unison.

“Yeah, that figures,” Nick’s jaw twitched in his annoyance. “All right, listen, Grissom wants us to divide and conquer. Blond hair for you, Warrick.”

“I do love a blond,” Warrick stated, holding up the bag of evidence containing the blonde hair inside.

“Sara, you're on phone records,” Nick put a folder full of phone records on the table in front of Sara who pulled a face.

“Yay,” Sara said, her tone dry as she looked down at the records she would have to comb through. Nick turned and left the room, crinkling the newsletter on his way out.

“Hey, I wasn't done reading that!” Warrick protested.

“Yes, you are!” Nick tossed the balled-up newsletter into the trash can as he left the room. I followed after him, waiting a moment, since he hadn’t given me an assignment.

“What about me?” I asked, trotting after him, questioning on how I could be of assistance to this case.

“You, my darlin’,” Nick winked at me, knowing how much his Texas drawl and pet names made me swoon, “are on a mission to see cause of death. Can you check with Doc Robbins to see if he has a COD?”

“Sure,” I smirked, walking around him. “I’ll find you when I get the results!” He nodded, continuing on his way after I pressed a kiss to his cheek.

I hated the coroner’s office. Doc Robbins and David were really nice, but it was extremely cold down there. I grabbed my fleece jacket and went into the autopsy room. Grissom and Catherine were with Robbins.

“Nick sent me down to see if we had a COD?” I asked, shivering inside the fleece jacket. Robbins usually took pity on me, sparing me a lecture, once he had caught my lips turning blue from hypothermia before.

“COD is asphyxiation,” Robbins said. “Petechial hemorrhaging, cyanosis. Oh, and she’s a natural blonde.”

“So someone died her hair?” I asked, reaching up to my own head of red hair. Robbins nodded, pointing at my natural-colored red hair.

“She wasn’t sexually assaulted either,” Catherine stated. I sighed.

“So torture, just to torture someone. Did you guys find the dog?” I asked and both Grissom and Catherine shook their heads.

“Dog?” Robbins asked, but I wasn’t up for chitchatting about the dog.

“UGH!” I groaned, leaving the morgue. I went upstairs, still shivering in my fleece jacket to find Nick fumigating the plastic bag.

“Find out anything?” He asked, raising an eyebrow at my obvious state of frustration.

“Yeah,” I sighed. “No one has found the dog yet!”

“Sunshine, I meant - ” Nick was interrupted by the sound of someone knocking on the lab door. We both looked up to see Greg.

“Heard you were looking for me?” Greg didn’t look like he wanted to be here. It looked like he wanted to be elsewhere but wanted to get it over with. I figured that Warrick told him that Nick was ticked.

“Greg. Come here. I want to talk to you for a sec,” Nick stated, looking down at the plastic bag. He put his clipboard and the pen down at the side, as he waved Greg into the room. Greg hesitated at the door.

“Come on,” Nick cajoled, waving him over. Greg finally relented, walking over to Nick’s side where he was standing looking down at a glass tank.

“What's up?” Greg asked. Nick reached over with his left hand, slapping him on the back, then gripping at the base of his neck.

“Stop invading my privacy, man, I don't like it,” Nick stated, not mad, but trying to get his point across. “I'm just trying to do my job around here. I don't need the extra attention.”

“Okay. But, I mean, you are the one who's doing the "Forensic Spotlight" in the,” Greg choked up as Nick tightened his grip. I hid my amusement as Greg winced in pain at his comment. “Department newsletter.”

“I didn't do anything, man,” Nick insisted, not letting up on his grip. “Someone from the community wrote a letter of commendation. Public affairs ran it. Cool?”

“Cool,” Greg grimaced, nodding his head. Nick finally let go of Greg’s shoulder, patting him on the back in understanding. Greg raised his eyebrows as Nick walked around the other side of the tank with his clipboard.

“So, uh,” Greg sighed, moving his shoulder subtly in a bit of pain from the neck pinching, “what are you fuming?”

“Plastic bag from the crime scene. I'm trying to get lucky -- see if I can get some prints off it,” Nick told the analyst. He opened the top of the tank and fanned the fumes. Greg was staring at the front of the plastic bag.

“Did she die of suffocation?” Greg asked. I gasped.

“How did you know?” I asked. Nick stared up at Greg, really amazed that was the only answer he was giving. Greg still stared at the plastic bag in the tank. After a moment, Greg looked up at Nick, since he didn’t get a response. Nick finally determined that Greg saw something. He walked around to the side of the tank where Greg was looking. I got off my chair and joined the two men, just to see the outline of Jane Galloway’s face on the plastic bag.

After several deadend leads that the CSI and Brass pursued throughout the day, Grissom finally called it quits with the rest of us. We departed for our homes. Nick pressed a kiss to my lips as he made sure that I was secure in my vehicle. I promised to call him once I got some sleep and then I left the Crime Lab.

I walked in my apartment, dropping the keys in the bowl by the door. I dropped my kit onto the closet floor, before walking into my living room. There were several messages on my answering machine.

“Hey Aria, just wondering how ya were doing? Give me a call sometime – Bobby,” I saved that message, having missed my surrogate uncle. He lived in South Dakota and owned a junkyard. As a kid I used to love tinkering in his yard, whenever my mom would take me to visit. Then when she married my stepfather, he forbid us from seeing Bobby.

The next message was a telemarketer. I deleted that message, before going into the kitchen. I searched high and low for something to eat – finding a few frozen meals. I preheated the oven. As I waited, I turned on the television. I watched a documentary about Egypt until my oven beeped. Then I put my food into the oven, and walked to the bathroom for a quick shower.

Once I had finished the shower, I slipped on a pair of silk pajamas and wandered to check on my food. I figured it had to be done, pulling the meal from the oven. I ate most of it, discarding the rest into the trash can. I sent a quick message to Nick, wishing him a good night, before I threw myself onto my bed, and fell asleep.

The next morning, I woke up at a reasonably late time. Once I had managed to drag myself from the comfort of my bed, I went to the bathroom – got a quick shower, before applying my makeup. Once I was finished, I went back into my room and dressed for another day of work. I always loved the height that wearing heels provided, but it wasn’t feasible when we spent sometimes upwards of 24 hours on our feet.

I was wearing a pair of light green dress pants, a darker green long-sleeved top, and I pulled on my brown combat boots. I also decided to wear my brown leather jacket to pull the outfit together. (https://www.pinterest.com/pin/647322146460814169/) I grabbed my phone, seeing that Nick had messaged me, advising he was on his way to pick me up.

I sprayed myself with my perfume, before turning off the lights. I didn’t bother with breakfast, as we had a routine. There was a little bakery on the way to the lab, where we picked up breakfast and our coffee.

“Hey!” I pulled open the door before he could knock. Nick whistled as he saw me in my work attire, my cheeks coloring at his teasing. “Nick!”

“Sorry, baby,” Nick leaned down for a kiss, before I pulled the door shut, locking the deadbolt. “I’ve never seen you in a leather jacket.”

“I’m full of surprises,” I threw back at him and he chuckled, opening up the door of the Yukon. I slid into the passenger seat. Once Nick was on the way to our bakery, I noticed something seemed off. “You okay?”

“What?” Nick seemed startled that I spoke for a second. “Yeah, just something odd.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked, careful not to pry too much. He shrugged as we arrived at the bakery.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Nick denied, opening up my door and then we went inside. I accepted his inability to talk about it for the moment.

“If you want to talk, you know where to find me,” I told Nick who nodded. Once we each had our food and drinks, it was time to return to the crime lab. I was in and out of the locker room quickly, while Nick hung around to talk to Warrick. I figured, he was unloading the situation with his best friend. I was happy Nick had someone to confide in, if he didn’t want to talk to me.

I found Catherine and Sara in the breakroom. They were looking over the files and the information that Sara managed to find about Jane Galloway.

“What about Jane’s work history?” Catherine asked, filling up a cup of coffee. She sat down and I joined the two as they discussed the information.

“Secretary at a brokerage firm. About three weeks from the day of her death she took a leave of absence,” Sara advised – my eyebrows furrowed.

“Is that the only one?”

“Yes,” Sara confirmed.

“Medical records?” Catherine asked and Sara looked down at the paperwork in front of her.

“She saw Dr. Slater. Had a prescription for valium and librium.”

“That’s some heavy prescriptions,” I stated. “Anxiety?”

(SARA shows the report to CATHERINE who takes it and looks at it.)

“Severe anxiety due to personal reasons,” Sara handed the report to Catherine who took it to look over the information as well. “One day back from leave, Jane quits her job. No notice. Hotel receipts show she checked into the Monaco for two nights.”

“The hotel?” I questioned, taking the receipts from Sara. Then I handed them to Catherine.

“A week before that she goes on a frightened woman shopping spree,” Sara told us, showing us the receipts to multiple hardware stores. Something was off about this whole situation.

“Hardware shop receipts for locks. Locksmiths. Alarm installations. Phone screeners. The voice on her answering machine—electronic,” Sara read off the information that she could gather about Jane’s whereabouts in the weeks leading up to her death. “She changed her telephone number. She cancels all but one of her credit cards.”

“No paper trail?” I questioned. “No personal way to distinguish herself either.”

“It's as if she's trying to make herself disappear,” Catherine stated, shaking her head as we looked over the evidence.

“Make no mistake. Jane Galloway was being stalked,” Sara stated, voice confident in this answer. All of us could agree – this was textbook stalking behavior. “Emotional terrorism at its finest.”

“And her boyfriend had an alibi?” Catherine asked, disbelieving. It was rare that stalking came from an outside source – like kidnapping.

“Here's the, uh, worst part. Uh, I ran a phone check on all her incoming calls. Guess where they were coming from,” I exchanged looks with Catherine before we took the phone records that Sara was handing over.

DATE / TIME / PLACE & NUMBER CALLED 4/16 / 2:44 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0146 4/16 / 2:56 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0198 4/16 / 5:15 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0287 4/16 / 5:18 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0188 4/16 / 5:18 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0188 4/16 / 5:18 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0188 4/16 / 5:19 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0188 4/16 / 5:19 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0188 4/16 / 5:19 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0188 4/16 / 5:20 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0188 4/16 / 5:20 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0188 4/16 / 5:20 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0188 4/16 / 5:21 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0188 4/16 / 5:21 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0188 4/16 / 5:21 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0188 4/16 / 5:22 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0188 4/17 / 10:48 am / Summerlin, NV 555-0173 4/17 / 04:16 am / Summerlin, NV 555-0189 4/17 / 3:43 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0132 4/17 / 12:04 pm / Henderson, NV 555-0173

“Wait – isn’t that her own phone number?” I asked.

“Inside her house.” The realization dawned on Catherine who knew that she had to get this information to Grissom and Brass right away. We overlooked something at the crime scene.

“Good work – Sara keep digging. Aria, you help her.” Catherine gathered the phone records and left the room with her coffee. Sara and I got to work, combing through more information about Jane Galloway. I was in charge of making sure that the prescriptions wouldn’t cause some type of psychosis or hallucinations. Though with the evidence that we had gathered – I was confident that wasn’t the case.

We were working on the situation, when suddenly Sara got a phone call from Catherine. Catherine advised us to get a list of utility companies that Jane had and send all the addresses. We would all be out gathering information.

Catherine ended up with the carpet installation. Warrick and Nick were in charge of the Luna Cable company. Sara was going to talk with the appliance delivery. Grissom was talking to the gas company, and I was to talk with the alarm company.

Unfortunately, the alarm installer didn’t know anything. He couldn’t even remember Jane’s name, just that he remembered putting in the state of the art alarm system for her. He said she was strange, but most single women in Nevada were worried about their safety, so he chalked up her nervousness to that.

I had just thanked him for his assistance and was walking away when I heard my phone ring. I grabbed it out of my pocket, expecting it to be asking if I had found anything. Only for Warrick to tell me that Nick was being transported to Desert Palms Hospital. I dropped the file onto the passenger seat and flipped on the sirens, before peeling out of the parking spot.

My heart was pounding as I raced to the Desert Palms Hospital after Warrick had called to tell me that Nick had been injured. I couldn’t focus on anything other than the loud thumping in my chest as well as my hands shaking on the wheel. I don’t think that I was alright to actually drive to the hospital, but I needed to be there.

Once I had parked the SUV, haphazardly, and not entirely in a space, I rushed into the Emergency Room doors. One of the nurses took pity on me, asking me why I was there.

“My boyfriend – Nick Stokes – was just brought in? He’s part of the police,” I explained, my heart thumping.

“I think your friends are over there,” she pointed out Warrick and Brass who were pacing a length of hallway. I thanked her, ears whooshing with my heartbeat as I tripped over my feet in my haste to get to them.

“Whoa,” Warrick steadied me before I could barrel right into him. “He’s alright,” Warrick soothed.

“Are you sure?” I asked, heart still pounding loudly behind my breastbone. It almost hurt, it was beating so fast and felt like it was hitting against the bone.

“He woke up before the paramedics got there,” Warrick gave me a light smile. Just then the rest of the team rushed into the hospital, reaching our side.

“What happened?” Grissom demanded.

“He was pushed out of a window,” Warrick explained. “I didn’t see anyone leave or enter the apartment.”

“Are you sure he’s alright?” I questioned. Catherine turned her attention to me.

“Honey, you need to sit down,” she urged, forcing me into a seat. “You are as pale as a ghost. Put your head between your knees.”

Catherine forced my head down between my knees, as I attempted to steady my breathing. It took me a while to calm down, the rest of the team offering support and comfort without discussing anything else. Brass had to leave as they were searching for this Nigel that threw Nick out of a window.

Finally, the doctor exited the room that they had Nick sleeping. Sara and Catherine both stood as she came out to give us an update. I didn’t trust my legs to support my weight, depending on the information that we would receive.

“Concussion, two cracked ribs, sprained wrist, five stitches to the forehead,” she explained his injuries to us. “It could have been a lot worse.”

“But he's going to be all right?” Warrick asked the question that was stuck in the back of my throat. When the doctor nodded, I cried.

“He needs rest,” she stated, looking back at the unconscious Texan lying in a hospital bed. “But I don't see why he can't go home relatively soon.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Grissom thanked the doctor who left since she didn’t have anything further to state. Warrick was upset, while Sara sat next to me, rubbing my back.

“Damn it,” Warrick hissed, sounding upset and frustrated. “Grissom, this guy was right there. I could have had him.”

“You helped out Nick. That was the right thing to do,” Grissom reassured Warrick who didn’t look convinced.

“Doesn't feel like the right thing,” Warrick grumbled.

“If you hadn’t helped out Nick, I would have shot you Warrick,” I warned the man, who looked chagrined to have even stated that. I wiped the tears from my eyes. It had been too long since I had to sit beside someone that I loved, that I cared for, and had so much uncertainty about their injuries. The last person was my brother.

“You know, Nick was alone,” Catherine mentioned, making the blood in my veins run cold. “The Stalker could have killed him and didn't.”

“Yeah, I wonder why. Let's go back over there,” Grissom stated. Catherine stood up, walking down the hallway. Warrick started to follow the two CSI’s.

“I'm going with you.” Grissom shook his head, putting a restraining hand on Warrick’s shoulder as he turned to leave.

“No, no. You need to calm down a little,” Grissom ordered. “Talk to Nick when he wakes up.”

Sara and I remained in the hallway beside Warrick who didn’t look pleased at the orders from Grissom. I was relieved that they didn’t want me to go with them – but I think Catherine knew it would take me kicking and screaming. Just then, my phone started to ring.

“I’ve got to take this,” I stated, looking down at the unfamiliar number on my screen. I sighed, walking down the hallway away from prying eyes and ears.

“Hello?” I answered the phone to be met with the familiar rough voice of my brother.

“Aria,” he sounded relieved to have my attention.

“Why are you calling me?” I asked him. He sighed, letting out a burst of air.

“Dad’s missing,” my brother stated. I rolled my eyes. Apparently, that was the reason that my brother wanted to call me, have a reunion. All over our father.

“Uh huh,” I wandered back down the hallway when Sara appeared at the end of the deserted and secluded space, waving me on. “Dad’s missing?”

“Yes!” My brother insisted as I entered the hospital room where Nick was awake – groggy and confused but awake.

“It’s Dad,” I rolled my eyes. “You know what he’s like. He’s found himself some Jim, Jack, and Jose along with some blondes. Dad will stumble home like he’s always done at some point. No need to send out any sirens.”

“Aria, I know you and Dad didn’t get along - ”

“Didn’t get along?” I echoed, a bitter laughter forcing its way out of my lungs. “You mean the same man that told me if I wanted to go to college, I better not grace his doorstep any longer? That same father?”

“Alright, so he said some things,” my brother attempted once more.

“No, he’s said a lot of things. Namely how I was dead to him for choosing a different career. I’m sorry, but I can’t argue about this right now. My boyfriend was injured, and I need to take care of him. I’m not helping you track down Dad, when he’s not even missing,” I said firmly into the phone, taking my coworkers off guard. They weren’t used to this side of me. I was usually the nice one – bending over backwards to help out anyone with their situation.

“Aria,” my brother pleaded.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “But find someone else, Dean.” I hung up on my brother, turning to the other members of my team and my boyfriend. “Sorry about that. How are you feeling, Nicky?”

“Sore,” Nick groaned. “What’s wrong with your dad?”

“Nothing,” I waved him off. “He’s off on a bender.”

“Are you sure you don’t need to go?” Nick groaned, but I shook my head, a smile on my lips.

“How could I leave you all alone?” I countered, not wanting to go into my family dynamic. The reason why I was left with my stepfather for years, barely seeing my father after my mother found out the truth of the matter.

“Thanks,” Nick smiled, as the guys started to talk between each other for a while. Sara gave me a concerned look, but I shook it off, content to sit in the uncomfortable hospital chair and watch Nick grow more aware of his surroundings.

The doctor came in while Nick was awake – she explained all of his injuries. I think Nick was a little overwhelmed by the information coming his way. He just nodded his head in response, which is when I knew that he wasn’t comprehending most of what the doctor had just thrown Nick’s way.

“When can I go home?” Nick asked.

“I can release you now that you are awake,” the doctor promised. “Will someone be staying with him?”

“I will,” I raised my hand. “Nick’s my boyfriend. Warrick and Sara will have to return to the lab.”

“Okay,” she nodded. “I’ll explain what needs to happen. Follow me?”

I followed the doctor into the hallway where she explained his injuries in full, along with the instructions to follow once he was home. I accepted all the paperwork for his injuries along with the responsibility of taking care of Nick. Once she was done, she left to get the discharge papers. I went back into the room, smiling at the scene of the CSI’s talking and laughing together. Finally, the doctor came back with a wheelchair.

“Now, these painkillers are the real deal, okay?” The doctor stated, handing over a prescription of opioid painkillers. “Don't overdo it. Plenty of rest. No work for at least a week.”

I nodded, understanding the situation. I took the medication, tucking it under my armpit. I would be monitoring Nick – ensuring that he ate with the meds, and that he only took them when absolutely necessary. We didn’t need Nick spending time in rehab over an opioid prescription. Nick was sitting in the wheelchair. He had wanted to walk out, but with his ribs, he could barely walk around to get dressed.

“Will do, thank you, doctor,” Sara stated, while I was still a little emotional. The Doctor finally turned and left. I grabbed the wheelchair handles as we started down the hallway towards the parking lot.

“The gloves, you find them?” Nick asked, disregarding what the doctor had just said about his work restrictions. I shot a glare at Warrick who actually humored him.

“Catherine thinks he might have got away with them,” Warrick avoided looking at me and my murderous glare. “But, uh, Grissom did find some wacky video collection.”

“Of what?” Nick demanded, interest the case well known. I sighed, but thankfully, Sara stepped in, knowing that I was going to snap at him.

“Now, did you not just hear the doctor?” Sara told Nick and I nodded my head, though he couldn’t see me as I was pushing his wheelchair. “You're supposed to rest. We're on it, okay?”

“Yeah, relax, Ironside,” Warrick joked, finally, stopping the information dump that he was providing to the workaholic in the wheelchair.

We had gotten home, Sara helped me get Nick into the car. When she was done, I gave her a smile as I handed Nick the prescription that the hospital had filled. Nick took it, letting me shut the passenger side door. I knew that it killed him that I was doting on him – since Nick was the perfect gentleman. He insisted on always shutting my door, everything that a gentleman would do.

“You sure you don’t want me to come with you guys?” Sara asked, genuinely concerned with Nick’s inability to move. I shook my head.

“We’ll be fine. Grissom needs all the help he can get on this case,” Sara nodded, understanding that Grissom and Catherine needed help. Plus Sara was a known workaholic. “Especially now that he’s down two people.”

“Alright,” Sara smiled. “But call me if you need anything.”

“Sounds good,” I gave her a hug. “Thanks for being there.”

“No problem,” Sara waved and walked off to her own car. I got into my car and looked over at Nick who looked terrible. He seemed to be in a lot of pain and was trying to hold off on how terrible he felt.

“When I get you home, I’ll make something to eat. You shouldn’t take pain killers on an empty stomach,” Nick nodded, groaning as the car jostled his ribs. I sighed, pulling out of the parking space and then out of the hospital. Thankfully, the ride from the hospital to Nick’s house was relatively short, especially since it was really late.

Nick was leaning against me as I helped him up the walkway to his house. Then he handed me the keys, which I dropped onto the counter along with his prescription. Nick motioned for the bottle which I handed over, going into the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of water.

“You’re the best,” Nick sighed, taking two pills and setting it down on the counter. I lifted it up and read the instructions.

DESERT PALMS HOSPITAL (NAME) STOKES, NICK (FILL DATE) 4/17/02 PHONE NO. 555-0190 TAKE ON TO TWO TABLETS ... EVERY FOUR HOURS. VICODIN (EXPIRES) 04/17/03 (REFILL) 0 (BY) 11/17/02

Nick shuffled along to the sofa holding his ribs with his arm, where he settled down with a groan. I clucked my tongue in sympathy. I knew how painful broken ribs could be. Especially with the rest of his injuries; though he was no stranger to injuries. A former football player, but it had been several years since his playing days.

“Do you want something like a sandwich or do you think you want a meal?” I called out to Nick. He just groaned. “Nicky.”

“Can we wait for dinner?” Nick asked, more or less pleaded. “Just until the pills kick in and I can actually focus?” I nodded my head, exiting the kitchen.

“Sure. I’m going to wash my face and change my clothes, okay?” Nick nodded as I walked down the hall of his house. I had some clothes in one of his drawers, but I was definitely going to steal one of his shirts. Some nights, it was too exhausting to drive us both home – therefore, Nick would just let me crash at his place. He was too much of a gentleman not to trust; plus the two of us were usually exhausted from working doubles.

I giggled, grabbing one of his extra-soft LVPD shirts. He had discarded it a couple of days ago; which meant that it still smelled like him. I also grabbed a pair of my bike shorts. I went into the bathroom, peeling off my work shirt. I grabbed a washcloth and then washed my face and down my arms. As I was trying to get some of the day dirt off of my body, I heard knocking at the front door.

“I’ve got it!” Nick said. I quickly toweled off, opening the door. I didn’t bother with the LVPD shirt, as I was wearing a sports bra. It covered more than most bikini’s. I walked into the living room where a man I recognized from this case was standing in the middle of the room.

“I saw this house. I saw this house; I saw the number I saw the street name. Something is wrong here. Something terrible is going to happen here,” Morris Pearson stated. The hair on my arms stood up as I stood in the living room.

“Sir,” Nick tried to get his attention, but the psychic was just standing there, looking around. He had been right about everything else in this case – including the breakthrough of the stalker watching Jane from her attic.

“I can feel it,” he murmured, the hair on my arms rising at his words.

“Sir. Sir ... You're going to have to leave,” Nick was standing at the door.

“Please, please, listen to me!”

“Get out of here!” Nick yelled, having enough.

“Nicky! Listen to the man!” I finally interjected, believing that this man knew something. He knew too much about details that were never released to the public. This man knew about the dog.

“Listen to me!” Pearson turned to look at Nick. They stopped screaming at each other.

“I saw the address. I saw this address!” Pearson implored. Nick took a step away from the door.

“You saw my address?” Nick asked, sounding unsettled. Morris Pearson continued to walk further into the living room. I wrapped my arms around my bare stomach, wanting to run back to the bathroom for the shirt.

“Yeah, but that's not it, that's not it. I saw, I saw ... I saw crashing,” he was desperate, trying to state what he had seen in a manner that would make sense. Morris was trying to interpret what he was seeing. “I saw ... falling and crashing-- I saw somebody seeing through the back of his head. I don't know, I don't know ...”

Morris continued to mumble as he walked around. But suddenly, he stopped dead in his tracks. He turned to look at Nick.

“Green tea! Green tea! Does that mean anything to you? Green tea?” Nick and I both shared a look. It didn’t mean anything to either of us. Neither of us were very big tea drinkers, though I enjoyed a cup every now and again.

“I don't know,” Nick shook his head. Not only did he have to deal with this, but he had to deal with a concussion. His phone rang.

“Just ...” Nick stopped whatever he was about to say and answered his phone. I moved around Pearson to Nick’s side. “Hello?”

“Who?” Nick asked, looking over at me.

“Yeah, well, I'm not alone,” Nick responded.

“Your psychic's here,” Nick told who I assumed was Grissom on the other end. Then Nick hung up the phone. He looked over at me, grabbing our weapons out of the hidden compartment by the front door. Our service weapons were back at the station, but these were our personal handguns.

“Mr. Pearson,” Nick cocked his Glock 19, handing me my steel Colt M1911A1. I took the gun in hand, feeling the familiar weight, before cocking it as well. Pearson was out of our sight. Nick motioned to the hallway. “Mr. Pearson. Mr. Pearson ...”

Nick and I walked down the hallway. Nick took the lead, even though he was injured. At this point, I assumed the Vicodin was kicking in, as most of his pain seemed to take second burner. He checked the first door, nothing. Then he looked at the backdoor, but it was still locked and chained. I waited; gun drawn as Nick looked outside.

“Mr. Pearson, you back here?” Nick called, checking the other rooms. We heard the floor creak before a thud was heard.

I pointed up at the ceiling and Nick nodded. We pointed the guns at the ceiling and walked towards the living room. My heart sank as I realized it wasn’t green tea as in the drink, but rather the floor. A green T in the center of his rug. I touched Nick’s sleeve and pointed. He let out a breath at the sight, now realizing that whatever Pearson had seen was about to occur right here.

We both stood still in the living room, listening. The sounds were still coming from the ceiling. We both had our guns trained on the ceiling and all of a sudden, the ceiling caved in. A body hit the floor in front of us as debris sprayed everywhere. Nick dropped his gun while I had plaster dust in my eyes. I heard another thump but couldn’t see well due to the tears welling in my eyes. I still had my Colt in hand.

“Oh, man. You got to ... you got to watch who you let in here,” a male said. I blindly pointed my gun at the location of where the voice was heard. “Guy was snooping around all over the place. You know, smart move. Spare gun.” The male sighed, as I just blinked the dust out of my eyes, getting a clear look at the intruder.

“Put your gun down or I shoot Nick in the face,” I sighed, and set the gun down on the floor. My eyes were finally clearing up. “Ah. Keep it right by the phone, right? Right next to your address book and, and take out menus.”

Nigel Crane, the suspect in our Jane murder, gathered up my gun and then went to the front door. He secured the front door, drawing the chain and locking the door.

“Cops are on their way,” Nick said as I stood in the living room beside him. I took in a deep breath, knowing that I would have to fight this man. I squared my shoulders, planted my feet. He went to the window and pulled the blinds down.

“You wearing my clothes?” Nick sounded sickened. I did as well – knowing that I stole Nick’s clothes for comfort. What was this guy doing? Apparently, he was assuming the identify of his victims. And that explained where all of Nick’s clothing had gone.

“Oh, yeah. I'm ...” Nigel Crane seemed proud of his deviance. “You know, I-I-I picked these up at the dry cleaners and I ... I hope you don't mind. It's just that ... I'm sorry I, I just get a little confused about what's yours and what's mine.”

“You know what? I'm a little confused here myself,” Nick and I were both confused as to who this guy was and why he was trying to assume Nick’s identity. “Uh, why don't you refresh my memory. When did we meet?”

“Sports package,” Nigel Crane sounded incredulous as he snorted. “Hundred fifty channels. I-I-I even threw in a few movie channels. Free. We-we-we talked, like, forever. I mean, it's like I knew you my entire life.”

“You installed my cable.” Nick stated, brain working on overtime. I kept myself partially hidden behind Nick’s muscular body. I didn’t like the way this man was watching me, in my partial state of undress.

“Yeah. The ... the minute I met you I knew we connected. Because you told me what you did and I knew exactly what you were talking about, because ... that's what I do. I do it, too. You know, I observe people. I-I-I notice everything about them. I watch them. All the time.”

“Like you watched Jane Galloway?”

“Jane was cool. But, um, it would have never worked out between us, you know. Never. I mean, she had a boyfriend, and she was kind of stuck up. And you know what, she would have totally, totally gotten between us. So, you know, consider that a gift,” Nigel stated. “Though you have a girlfriend.” I swallowed deeply. This man was seriously unhinged and this might end badly for us.

“A gift?” Nick spat.

“Yeah. Prom night. Your date. Melissa.” Nigel smiled, looking proud of himself. “Bent over the toilet puking her guts out. Is that ringing any bells, huh?”

“Yeah,” Nick sounded freaked out.

“You know, I mean, Jane's hair was the wrong color but, you know obviously, I fixed that. Because I know how much you love redheads,” he pointed out. I felt my face flush as he motioned for me to come out. “Like this lovely specimen. You know, you ... you mentioned her name in your sleep.”

“You watch me sleep?” I felt sickened. I had slept over a couple of times at Nick’s house, used his shower since he installed the cable. He looked down at the dead psychic on Nick’s floor.

“You, um ... you want to open him up?” Nigel sounded eager, crouching down over the body. “Hmm?”

“No, no, it's, uh ... it's not our job,” Nick shook his head as he crouched down to be on eye level with Nigel. “You should know that. It's the coroner's gig.”

“Are you humoring me, Nick?” Nigel asked, sounding outraged.

“No,” Nick shook his head, voice soft.

“You know ... we made friends that day and every time since you just blew me off,” Nigel was definitely unhinged. I wondered how much longer it would take for Brass and the uniforms to come here. “Do you know that? You just completely blanked me. You are so self-absorbed.”

“Nick is not self-absorbed!” I interjected. Nigel sneered at me.

“I was right in front of your face,” he laughed. He stood up, getting more upset. “Manners, Nick! Manners!”

“ey, now, Nigel, now we got a D.B. here, huh?” Nick was trying to placate the man, buy us both some time. “You're going to help me with the crime scene, right?”z\

“No, no, I'm going to ... I'm going to ...” Nigel pointed Nick’s gun at my face. “Give you a brand-new one. I'm going to do better than that. I'm going to give you the best you ever had. Stand up, Nick, Aria. Stand up.”

Nick and I both rose to our feet. Nigel grabbed a hold of me, pulling me into his side. I shuddered at the feeling of his unoccupied hand trailing over my flesh. I really wished I had put on that T-shirt right now, as Nigel’s hand pet my abdomen.

“Nick, you know what a nine-millimeter slug does to a skull at close range? You know?” Nigel Crane held the gun in front of Nick’s face. My eyes filled with tears.

“Yeah,” Nick swallowed hard.

“Blow it right apart, right? Brains like strawberry swirled whipped cream, everywhere. And you,” Nigel pointed the loaded weapon back at Nick. “You'd have to scoop that stuff up, right? Yeah, little pieces of skull and bone and brains. All in individual baggies with the victim's name on the label.”

“ You know I don't want to disappoint you, Nigel, but this isn't the first time I've had a gun in my face,” Nick took a determined step towards Nigel.

“How do you want this to end, Nigel?” Nick asked.

“How do I want this to end?” Nigel echoed Nick’s question. “I want you to be able to remember my name.” He jammed the gun into the side of my head. Nick lunged for the gun, the two of them struggling for the gun. Shots were fired into the ceiling.

Just then, the door burst open, battering ram through the front door. The door crashed open and Brass along with several officers rushed into the house. Their guns were drawn.

“Get down! Get down!” It was a chaotic scene. Nigel kicked me hard in the face, while struggling with Nick. I let out a grunt, feeling my cheek split open, hot blood spilling down my face. Nick managed to get possession of the gun, holding it up to the ceiling. He took a step back, pulling me back with him. We watched as they handcuffed Nigel Crane.

“Hey,” Brass said to the both of us, he put a hand on the side of Nick’s neck. The two of us were emotional at the fact that some strange man was able to violate the house. We were breathing heavy, both of us shaking with anxiety. “It's, it's done. All right?”

“Yeah,” Nick said, looking for all the world like this wasn’t done, struggling not to cry. Nick pulled me into his arms, running his hand down my back as he looked at Brass who called for some paramedics to attend to my cheek.

We were taken to the police station, where Nigel Crane sat at the interrogation room table. He was just muttering the same line over and over again ‘I am one, and who am I?’. It was honestly pretty eerie to stand in the observation room, seeing him mutter to himself.

Nick had his arm around me, reassuring himself that Nigel Crane hadn’t actually shot me as he had threatened. Catherine, Grissom, Warrick, and Sara were with us, watching this bizarre man have a complete meltdown.

“Why me?” Nick murmured. “Why us?”

“I don't think it was about you, Nick. Or Jane Galloway, for that matter. I think it was more about Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. His premise is that social beings strive to belong. In Nigel's mind, Jane Galloway was someone he could control which was okay for a while but you ... you were someone he could actually become. See, Maslow's Fifth Tier of the Hierarchy is Self-Actualization.

“The problem for Nigel is that you would have to die in order for that to happen. Or else he would,” Grissom stated, making the hair on my arms stand on end. “He would have shot Aria and then himself.”

“Twenty-five years to life, Nick. It's over,” Sara stated, I turned to look at her as she sat on top of another table.

“It's not over for me or Aria,” Nick murmured. “It's over for Jane Galloway.”

“Well, we should get back to the lab,” Catherine stood, putting a hand on Nick’s shoulder and one on my back in comfort.

“Yeah,” Grissom agreed, standing up. Warrick and Sara also stood, moving towards the door. They all left the room, leaving Nick and I standing in the middle, watching the madman that tried to kill me and might have killed Nick in his own home. As it was – Nick’s house was now stained with the death of Mr. Pearson.

#csi vegas #csi cbs #sara sidle #warrick brown #nick stokes #nick stokes x reader #original character #gil grissom #catherine willows #jim brass #stalker #fanfiction

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aylen-san · 28 days

Text

In the Elven forge of Eregion:

Celebrimbor: Did you know, Galadriel, that Orome has been coming to me in dreams lately? His hunting horn can be heard beyond the mountains, and the shadows seem longer. I believe it's an omen.

Galadriel: Your premonitions are rarely wrong, smith. But what troubles you in these dreams? Is Orome warning you?

Celebrimbor: I see fire raging in the forges and darkness engulfing the rings. Lord Annatar... He comes to me, and I see his eyes flare with greed and insatiable power. And then—emptiness, as if everything we've created is turned to nothing.

Galadriel: Annatar? I’ve always doubted his good intentions, but you, Celebrimbor, saw him as an ally. Do you think your premonitions are about him?

Celebrimbor: I'm no longer sure. We so desperately wanted to create something great, something eternal. But what if it was the beginning of our downfall? Could it be that Annatar is just a mask, hiding a malevolent wizard?

Galadriel: Sauron. I suspected, but didn't want to believe. If this is true, we must act swiftly. You must destroy the Rings we've already created before he completes his own. The Dark Lord will easily enslave our work.

Celebrimbor: No… not destroy. But hide. I know places where he will never be able to find them. I will create Rings that are beyond Sauron’s reach, but it will be a dangerous game, Galadriel. If he finds out about this, war is inevitable.

Galadriel: War is inevitable regardless, my friend. But if we can deny him power over these rings, we may stand a chance. Prepare yourself, Celebrimbor. You must be ready for anything.

Celebrimbor: I will do everything in my power. But know, Galadriel, if this plan fails, I am prepared to give my life to ensure Sauron does not take possession of our work.

Galadriel: And I will stand by your side, Celebrimbor. We will not allow the darkness to consume this world again.

They exchange a silent glance, understanding that the fate of Middle-earth hangs by a thread. Now their decisions will determine whether the Enemy is defeated or if everything will fall under his shadow.

You're right, if this is indeed an alternative scenario, Celebrimbor’s fate could have unfolded differently. Let's imagine another outcome, where his efforts to hide the rings lead to an entirely different resolution.

---

Eregion, Celebrimbor's secret workshop

Celebrimbor completes the creation of the three great rings and decides to act ahead of the curve. He knows that Sauron will soon don his Ring of Power, revealing his plans. Instead of waiting, he decides to perform a ritual that will bind him to the rings, as Feanor once supposedly did with the Silmarils, to track their fate and conceal their power from Sauron.

Celebrimbor: (to himself) If I cannot prevent his rise, I must get ahead of him. My will shall be tied to these rings, and no one, not even Sauron, will easily master them. But I will have to pay a high price for this.

Celebrimbor binds his soul to the rings, sealing their power, and sends them to Galadriel, Gil-galad, and Círdan. However, this binding makes him vulnerable to Sauron. He senses darkness closing in around Eregion.

---

The Great Council in Lindon, on the day Sauron wears the Ring of Power

Galadriel, Gil-galad, and Círdan gather in Lindon. They discuss the situation, realizing that Sauron may soon come for the rings.

Galadriel: Celebrimbor has taken a great risk. If Sauron captures him, he might use him to find the rings. We must do everything we can to protect him.

Gil-galad: We will send troops to Eregion. Even if Sauron comes, we will not let him destroy that city. Celebrimbor must not remain there alone.

Círdan: But if Sauron has already donned his Ring of Power, we may be powerless against his dark magic. We need to prepare for the worst.

Galadriel feels the connection with Nenya, and through it—with Celebrimbor. She realizes that Sauron is close, but she also feels the strength Celebrimbor has poured into the rings, a power that will prevent Sauron from finding them.

---

Eregion, the final battle

Sauron arrives in Eregion with a vast army. Celebrimbor, connected to the rings, uses this link to conceal their true power and distract Sauron. He creates the illusion that the rings are located elsewhere, far to the north.

Sauron: (frustrated) Where are the rings, Celebrimbor? I can sense them, but I cannot find them. Do you think you can hide them from me?

Celebrimbor: (barely standing) They are beyond your reach, Sauron. Even if you destroy me, you will not find them.

Sauron: You may try to deceive me, but I will find them, even if I have to wipe out the entire world. I will destroy everything you loved, and the rings will be mine.

Celebrimbor: (with pride) Your threats are futile. I am prepared to give everything to protect them.

Sauron strikes Celebrimbor in fury, but at that moment, the Elven armies of Lindon arrive to aid him. A great battle for Eregion ensues.

---

After the battle, Lindon, Gil-galad and Galadriel stand before Celebrimbor

The Elven forces managed to repel Sauron’s assault, but the city of Eregion lies in ruins. Celebrimbor lies wounded, but alive. Thanks to his connection with the rings, he was able to prevent them from falling into the Enemy's hands. Sauron was forced to retreat, as his forces were defeated, and he could not find the rings.

Galadriel: You saved us all, Celebrimbor, but at what cost? Your bond with the rings will give you no peace.

Celebrimbor: (weakly smiles) I knew the risks. Better this than allowing Sauron to possess them. Now you must protect them, for I can no longer do it alone.

Gil-galad: We will swear to protect them, as you have sworn. But you must return with us to Lindon, Celebrimbor. You need to recover.

Celebrimbor: (sighing) Recover… perhaps. But Sauron's shadow will haunt me as long as I live. If he learns that I survived, he will come for me again. Yet, I am glad that we won this battle today.

Galadriel: We will manage, Celebrimbor. You have bought us time. Time to prepare, and time to face the Enemy when he returns.

---

Celebrimbor returns to Lindon, where he is cared for, but he never fully recovers. His soul remains forever bound to the rings, and he knows that one day Sauron will come for him again. However, thanks to his sacrifice, the rings remain safe, and hope for the future of Middle-earth endures.

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lya-dustin · 18 days

Text

The Stone Table

or a rewrite of a one shot i did when rings of power first came out in my now deleted lotr blog erinti-of-the-maiar

Gil-galad x Erinti(oc)

could be read as part of both The Moon Lives in the Lining of Your Skin(silmarilion version)and I Sang of Leaves of Gold(Rings of power verision

inspired by this post made by @queenmeriadoc

summary: Gil-galad’s Maia wife wants a baby but his schedule is too busy so she uses their bond to spice things up during a feast to get what she wants.

cw: sex, telepathic dirty talk, cunnilingus, p in v sex, breeding, table sex, breast play

Her husband has always been too serious.

He had been serious and sensible with a perpetually stern brow despite his youth when they first married. While Ereinion Gil-galad had never been wild, he has always been bold.

The burden of kingship weighs heavily on him as does a strange hint of evil growing in the air. He smiles less and less these days, rarely takes a day off and Erinti has found him too tired to seek pleasure as of late.

She aches for him, to feel him move within her and see his troubles melt away as he sows his seed into her womb.

The Maia wants a child, to have their feä join and create a life inside her that will become a babe in her arms for them to love and nurture for the rest of their days.

And that cannot happen if her husband refuses to fuck that baby into her. To have him be rough with her, to have him overpower her and fuck her until all of Lindon feels the effect of their orgasms.

It would soon be autumn, but no plant would die nor leaf fall if the High King were to take her bent over his desk, or against the wall or on the balcony like they did a while ago.

Gil-galad’s hand on his glass tightens as his wife’s desire is felt through their bond.

Elves can hold a strong bond to the point of feeling one live and die no matter the distance, a Maiar could even manipulate a person so long as there is an opening.

Erinti and her husband have a bond so strong she knows the Halls of Mandos wouldn’t stand a chance against it. Sometimes they do not even need to speak out loud, his thoughts and hers can be heard and even seen as clearly as if each other were part of their psyche.

She is half expecting him to ask her to stop and yet her husband does not. Instead, her stick in the mud husband matches her desire with his.

Despite the regal and rigid as stone aspect he has, Gil-galad has quite a filthy mind. And, of course, the stamina to tire his maiar wife.

Something he reminds her with a hidden smile as he drinks his wine. Wine he claims is not as fine as that nectar that flows from her womb.

A womb he will fill the moment the feast is cleared, or so he promises.

But it does not end there, no, he doesn’t allow her to concentrate on the things said by those speaking to her as he takes his revenge.

He likes the low cut of her dress, the swell of her bosom on display like that for him, the fact that she wore no shift, or any other undergarments, had not gone unnoticed by him.

The king wants to tease her over the clothes, to knead and brush his thumb over her sensitive nipples as he kissed his way down her fair neck and collarbone until he is tearing off the dress to free her body from its confines. He intended to lavish her perfect breasts and use his mouth and fingers to string out that beautiful melody she makes when she comes.

A good prelude for what he had planned after the feast is over. By the time she’s readied for him to breed her Erinti of the Flowers would be naked and exposed to the cool autumn air.

The stone table would suffice, stone does not grow roots and leaves when he fucks his queen on it. Their bed had become a living tree with great roots and thick foliage with how attentive her husband usually is.

This particular stone was of great strength, carved from deep inside the mountains of Eregion and able to withstand the might of an Ent if it is to be believed.

A maia in the throes of passion may test that myth. Erinti’s hands had broken many things when her control slipped, while her ability was to nurture the earth as a servant of Yavanna and Nessa, her strength could destroy towers and castles with ease.

Gil-galad prided himself in making her lose control and admire his handiwork after. Not all furniture survived after he and his Queen were done.

It would not end with the table; he wants to take under the stars like he did when they wed. To have her ride him as the stars frame her like the goddess she is. To have the heavens and the earth witness the creation of a second Lúthien Tinúviel.

Not a princess, she corrects, but a son, a prince whose name she has seen from the moment she first laid with Gil-Galad.

Finnellach, flame of hair and eye.

The feast is scarcely over when the king makes good on his promise.

The king wastes no time in picking her up and setting her at the edge of the table, hiking up her dress until she could feel his hardness pressing between the heavy robes separating it from her cunt, feel how their game and his victory have affected him.

If she was as wet as the Lhûn before the final course had begun, the Maia Queen was sure to drown her husband with the waters from her womb.

“Has your husband been remiss in his duties, Lothíriel?” he asks between kisses with his sharp eyes dark and voice dripping with arousal.

Lothíriel, maiden crowned with flowers. The name he gave her when they first met, the name she wears as his wife just as he is Rodnor to her and the only name he cries out in pleasure.

“Our bed has wilted from your neglect, Rodnor.” The maia locked her long legs at his waist and let her hands roam up his chest and breaking the gorget he was wearing and tossing it aside as if it were nothing. “The leaves have begun to change color, but you’d notice that if you didn’t come so late and leave so early each day. I had half a mind to file a petition and demand a private audience with his grace to fix the issue.”

“You should have, I would have remedied the issue right there on my throne.” The vivid memory of all those times they had defiled his throne had her as wet as the Lhûn. “Her grace shall be crowned with oak blooms before dawn tomorrow.”

There is no promise of him taking the day off tomorrow, but the maia will fix that before the night is over.

“I better be, or his grace will not be leaving our bed.” The red haired being struggled to contain her desperation for him and effortlessly tore his robe of him to leave him only in his breeches.

He was built like an ox, trained in the same weapon that killed his beloved sister and as darkness grew around them, ready for war.

The scars from the Wrath have long since faded, you would not be able to tell he is a seasoned warrior and commander from looks alone. His physical strength could almost match her own, something Erinti Lothíriel has always loved.

“I won’t leave it either way.” With a smile he tears her dress apart until it pools around her waist on the table, and he is free to kiss his way down her neck and collar to her chest.

Gil-galad loves her breasts, the way they fit perfectly in his hands and their rosy peaks stiffen even more in the autumn air after he’d taken each of them into his mouth. He doesn’t stop there, the high king pushed her gently down to lie on the stone table as he continued down to her cunt as her hands threaded themselves in his dark mane.

The first time he had done this, the maia had turned made the meadow bloom to its fullest and remain so despite summer turning to fall soon after. The other times had resurrected the oak trees their bed had been.

Now as he threw her long bare leg over his shoulder, they would see how the stone would fare against the Scion of Kings putting his mouth and fingers to better use.

He is not the stern king with the weight of the world bearing down on him when they make love. He is simply her husband, her lover who knows exactly how to make her lose control of this fair form she made to be with him.

Her hand gripping the rough edge of the table feels nothing of the discomfort the stone against her soft palm nor does the stone show any sign of crumbling in her hold. Who was to say what would happen when Gil-galad makes her come undone?

She tries to hold back, not an easy task when Gil-galad uses every trick he knows to have her unravel with pleasure.

As great a singer and orator her husband is, Erinti things tongue fucking may be his best talent. The first time he had pleasured her this way the ground had shaken in tandem to her first orgasm and the hold on his hand had resulted in a hard to explain injury.

Still the stone does not break when the crescendo comes to its grand finish. They may have to procure more of it now.

“It passed the first test, but can it pass the second?” Gil-galad wiped her spent from his chin with the torn fabric of her gown, it won’t be of use anymore either way.

His manhood needs little help in reaching full mast, but the sight of it with some seed at its tip has desperate to feel it inside her. To feel it hitting those places only Gil-galad knows as they fuck hard and loud in open air without a drop of shame.

It was far too difficult to stop people from taking notice of their rulers’ sexual habits when their queen’s moods affected the life around them. So difficult it no longer mortified them almost two thousand years after.

“Only one way to find out.” The Maia breathes hard from the peak he brought her to, leaned back on her hands and spread her legs wide for her husband waiting for him to plow into her until Elbereth herself feels as if she too has been fucked senseless.

“The way her grace behaves, one would think she was a courtesan of the Edain and not a holy being.” he snaked an arm around her waist as the other pulled her face to his.

“Perhaps this holy being likes to be worshipped differently.” The maia kissed her husband deeply, tasting herself in his mouth as she pulled him closer to her until he dropped the hand on her chin to guide himself into her.

The wholeness that comes with being with him like this is heavenly, their feä melds into each other’s own as their bodies join in ways forbidden to anyone else.

“Then I will make this table a second altar to worship you on, Lothíriel.” His voice is low with desire and groans as he begins to move within her. Slow and steady, savoring every contour of her perfect body and driving her slowly to madness.

She may be Maiar, but Valar, did she find sexual compatibility the best thing Ilúvatar could bless his creations with. Her womanhood fit him like a glove, or so he says.

Perfection even Valinor would envy, his thoughts fill her head as he goes deeper and harder and brings his deft fingers to her button as his mouth seeks out her breast.

Their lovemaking brings the much-needed release Gil-galad desperately needed. Too many troubles coming seemingly out of nowhere and the lack of respite to find the why of it.

He is not the stone king teetering on the edge of a burst vein in his cerebrum, he is the elf groaning his wife’s name as their lewd sounds and smells fill the air. Time passes by around them and yet nothing exists beyond the two of them and their bliss.

Gil-galad comes just as he brings her to a second climax, a beautiful melody ending with a kindling of a new life.

“The stone didn’t break.” The King of the Noldor is still catching his breath when they remember to see if his theory proved correct. “We shall need more of this stone.”

“The table at your war room will need replacement.” The Maia grins hoping to see how they break that great round table hewn from a weaker stone.

#erinti of the maiar #gil galad x oc #gil galad smut #i sang of leaves of gold fic #the moon lives in the lining of your skin fic #silm fic #rop fanfiction #gil galad rop #rop oc

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softquietsteadylove · 2 months

Note

Here to say I’m missing Thenamesh Rus AU and this is in fact a prompt 😅 (sorry I have two brain cells and neither of them are working to formulate a real prompt but I appreciate anything u give us!!!)

Gil strolled through the crowd. He was coming off watch duty, although now that winter was over and spring was approaching, it wasn't quite so agonising. Even so, he was still volunteering to cover Thena's watch when at all possible for her.

He only relented when Thena herself insisted on him staying inside and resting in the warmth of his room.

The humans called it Maslenitsa, or some form of it. They were celebrating, and the sizzling of hot cakes could be heard all over the place. People had cast iron out over the fires, flipping the fluffy, sugary confections.

"Hot cake, Strong One?"

He tilted his head at the offer. There were plenty of other fires making hot cakes, and he had to admit he was curious to ask about how the technique and recipes varied between them all. But this one was already being held out to him; it seemed rude to ignore it. "Oh, uh, thanks."

The woman smiled, leaning on her knees and resting her chin in her palm. "You and your merry band should enjoy Maslenitsa. The nights will become shorter and the sun will be strong."

"That's good," Gil murmured, even looking up at the sky to admire the colour of it. Thena could do with a little more sun, after all. He chewed the hot cake. He thought it could do with a finer grind on the wheat they used, but it was tasty (hot butter and melted sugar would, of course, do that for anything). "This is good."

"It's a newer technique, the old ones don't always add the sugar," the woman smiled, flicking a long train of dark hair over her shoulder. "But I quite like to try new things."

Gil took another bite; the sugar did a lot to add to the light texture, he thought. Surely adding only butter would just be eating a flat biscuit, or soft hardtack.

"Where is the Warrior?"

Gil blinked, surprised she was asking. But he supposed he was rarely without Thena. Many of the people in this country had light yellow hair--more here than anywhere else they had stayed. But Thena's hair was the envy of many of them. It was great hair. "We all shift the responsibility of looking out for trouble. I'm sure she's around here somewhere."

"I see."

Gil licked his fingers finishing off the cake. "Thanks--it's-"

"Have another."

He was going to refuse politely. There were more he could try if he wanted to. But she was already extending another one. His insides squirmed. "Well, okay then."

"The attacks on our walls are lessening," the woman continued to make light conversation as he ate. Her eyelids fluttered and her lips pursed faintly. "Will you and your ilk disappear again?"

Gil thought about his words. They had been here long enough that most had accepted that they were part of the royal party, as it were. It was a sign they were assimilating effectively if people didn't think of them as temporary presences. The more they could muddy the waters around their connection to Deviant attacks the better.

Greece was all but convinced for three whole generations that Thena had fallen from the sky like an angel from the moment Athens was built. Most had forgotten that they had simply showed up one day.

"Your presence would be sorely missed."

Well, that was nice of her to say. Gil mulled on things with his mouth full of hot cake. What to say? They would, in fact, disappear sooner than later. "Uh, I guess we'll see what the Queen decides."

"Of course," the woman lowered her eyes. Sankta Olga's rule was beyond question, after all. She peeked at him coquettishly. "Would you like to know how to make the bliny?"

Apparently that was the hot cake sizzling in butter. He was curious. "Hm, I-"

"There you are."

Gil's face broke into a grin, "there you are--been looking for you."

"Is that so," Thena purred in a funny tone. She let him pull her closer to him, but her eyes were on the stranger. That was common for the Warrior Eternal though.

"Warrior," the woman curtsied to her.

"Have you had these?" Gil asked, gesturing with the half-finished hot cake in his hand. In truth, he had eaten this one slowly, wondering if he might find her and let her have the rest of it. "They're pretty good."

Thena observed the cake briefly before eyeing the woman again. "Tempting, are they?"

The woman shrank back some, letting more than just the fire separate them. Gil wasn't sure what had spooked her, but he held up the cake for Thena to try. "I think you'll like them. Try it."

Thena dragged her eyes away from the woman. She looked at the cake, but ultimately moved his hand out of her way, albeit gently. Her hand remained clasped around his larger one as she smiled, "I shall."

His eyes slid closed as she raised her lips to his. It was a simple peck at first, but she lingered, waiting for further access. Her tongue slithered past his, tracing around his mouth for the hot butter and syrup lingering there. His other arm came up to wrap around her waist completely.

"Hm," Thena moaned pleasantly. She leaned back, licking those perfect lips of hers. Her eyes had a mischievous sparkle in them, "delicious."

Gil blushed, although the woman had needed to look away from such a display.

"I quite like it," Thena added, continuing on as if the kiss had not occurred. She looked at the woman who was now too embarrassed to look at either of them. "I would like one as well."

"O-Of course, Warrior," the woman stuttered, her earlier smoothness and charisma leaving her. She handed over a fresh one from off the iron.

Gil swept it up into his free hand. Thena looked at him, pouting cutely. But he grinned, "it's hot. I'll hold it for you."

Thena rolled her eyes at his chivalry; it was not as though she were human, she could hold something as hot as that. It was no raw, molten iron straight from the fire, like he could. But she allowed it, bending her head to take a delicate bite of her fresh bliny.

He took a bite of his remaining one to finish it off. He raised his brows at her, curious if she wanted the last of this one straight from his mouth, but she shook her head, taking his arm and leading him away from the mortified human.

"You must get better at perceiving when women are hinting at you."

"Hinting what?" he asked. He thought he was pretty good at reading people, actually. He could read a room, he was quite sure. Maybe sometimes a few things might go over his head, but that was what he had her for--to watch his blind spots.

Thena just smiled, dusting some crumbs out of the fur on his shoulders. Soon, they wouldn't need to be draped in furs all the time. "Had I not arrived when I did, I do believe she would have asked you to sample more--the way I did with you?"

He furrowed his brows; that seemed impractical. But oh!--she meant the woman was trying to flirt her way into his arms! She was right, he was terrible at picking up those kinds of signals. He pouted right back at her, "you know I don't pay attention to how mortal women communicate that...stuff."

Thena must have been feeling the good weather. Rather than glare at him, her energy crackling and sparking in her palms, she let her amusement show. She ran her hand down his chest again, tilting her head to peck right at the corner of his lips. She pulled back, licking her lips again; he must have had crumbs there. "Indeed."

He chuckled; if she was happy, then he was too. He nuzzled the tips of their noses together, "sorry, Solnyshkuh."

She sighed cutely, feigning some maidenly distress. "I suppose it is not your fault you are so desired."

"Hey, speak for yourself," he grinned, continuing to lead her through the festivities with their arms wound together. "I witnessed several proposal attempts at that last ball we went to."

She laughed. "Those entertain you as much as they do, me."

That was true; they always had a good chuckle about it later. "And will you laugh about this with me later?"

Thena eyed his lips for a moment. "Later."

Fine with him, she could stake her territory all she liked with him. He would resign himself to it happily.

"I would like to know how they make them," he murmured, looking around at the various other offerings of bliny and flatbreads and cheese.

"I'm certain you need only ask," Thena also looked around them. Several women waved at them; she scowled again. "Perhaps the royal cook--the old one with the moustache."

He chuckled again. He tilted her chin back to him, using her good mood to sneak yet another kiss. "Whose am I?"

She lit, like the sun itself. "Mine."

"Whose?" he repeated, kissing her cheek as reverently as a goddess deserved.

"Gil," she laughed, chiding him lightly, although it came out airy as he tickling below her jaw with his teeth. "Mine."

"All yours," he swore, even canoodling in the middle of an open market. "Besides-"

Thena drew her brows together at his significant pause. Although they shot up as he snuck his hands under her heavy cloak to give the behind of her dress a pat.

"Your hotcakes are still the best."

"Gilgamesh!"

#Thenamesh Rus AU #thank you so much for the ask!!!#listen honey I have only one brain cell and it has office hours so #truly thank you for all your support!#I love this au so much it's dear to my heart #poor Gil #he really has no idea when women are trying to give him the vibes #he just thinks wow everyone is so friendly #ignorant and obsessed with his wife as he is #then Thena can spot it from a mile away #like oh absolutely not #she's not one for public affections #but she sees this woman kind of flirting with her Gilgamesh #and she goes over and sticks her tongue all the way down his throat #Gil is just happy to be a part of things #history wouldn't know it but he's the origin of the term 'cake' for the butt #because now he always tells Thena she's got the best hot cakes #and the rest of them are like did you teach Thena to cook I'm confused #Thena gets really embarrassed because what cheesy joke #eventually the rest of the Eternals catch on and they're like dud can you NOT???

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astrology-bf · 4 months

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A Primer on Ul'dahn Marriage

(More FFXIV headcanon, this time regarding weddings in the Sultanate of Ul'dah)

As is the case in Ishgard, the centrality of religion to Ul'dahn culture - specifically, the worship of Nald'thal - is one of the chief distinguishing aspects of the Sultanate's traditional wedding customs.

Matrimony within the Sultanate is seen first and foremost as a contract between families rather than a love match. While this is hardly surprising from such a highly mercantile culture, compatibility is still viewed as an important factor if only for the sake of domestic tranquility (cynically referred to as "a good business relationship") - however, its importance is secondary compared to the economic and social advantages of a given match. Thus, a marriage proposal is often preceded and followed by months of negotiation between family heads during which the details are haggled out and marriage portions are agreed upon before a date is selected for the ceremony. This too is a rather involved process, as special attention is paid to how auspicious a given day is predicted to be - wealthier families will often spend large amounts of gil on auguries for that purpose, so as to ensure the match is as divinely-favored as possible.

Ceremonies themselves can differ considerably according to social class, but they tend to share the same basic structure stemming from ancient religious practices. A traditional Ul'dahn wedding will usually proceed as follows:

The wedding begins after dusk when Menphina is visible without obscuration. The betrothed and their families and respective parties of celebrants will proceed from their homes in a candle-lit procession that is silent save for a drummer with a slow beat. This is deliberately intended to evoke a funeral march, signifying that each of the betrothed are about to pass on from their previous lives and be reborn into matrimony.

When the respective parties arrive at the venue, each of the betrothed will bid their families farewell before approaching the altar, where a priest of the Order of Nald'thal will perform a variant of the last rites for the couple. This portion of the ceremony honors Thal, the Dusk Trader.

When these rites are concluded, each of the betrothed will place a token from each of their families upon a set of scales, usually a ring or some other form of jewelry. It is considered extremely bad luck if the scales do not balance, so special attention is paid towards making sure the weights of each token match as closely as possible.

Once the scales have balanced, the priest will then perform a variant of a baptism to welcome the newly-wed couple into life as they are "born", at which point the tokens are exchanged. This portion of the ceremony honors Nald, the Dawn Trader.

The celebration will then begin in earnest featuring feasting, music, and dancing. Such festivities will usually go on for several hours, traditionally only ending at dawn.

When Azeyma rises in the east, the couple are fully considered "dead", and are reborn as a dual entity acting as a commercial and spiritual bridge between their families, evoking the dual nature of Nald'thal himself.

While wrapped up in as much religion as Ishgardian matrimony, Ul'dahn marriage being seen primarily as a mercantile contract makes it differ considerably in that it is neither inherently a lifelong agreement (though annulment and divorce are wrapped up in as much haggling and mysticism as marriage itself), nor is it necessarily exclusive - polygamy, while rare, is not prohibited by canon or by custom beyond the inherent contractual complexities. Similarly, the marriagable age within Ul'dah is usually on the higher end owing to a belief that both participants must be full adults capable of understanding a business agreement.

#ffxiv #headcanon #writing #ffxiv headcanon #ul'dah

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starlightinitiative · 5 months

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Interest Check: Monthly In-game Trivia Nights and Once Every Two Week Map Nights

Hello everyone!

With things settling down at home for me for the most part, I'd like to take a more active role than I have been lately.

I'd like to gauge interest in if people would be interested in a monthly trivia night that takes place in-game on the Crystal Data Center! It's just a rough idea for now, though the plan would be to find a lot of little lore, music, and other general tidbits that could be used for a fun trivia night.

In addition, maps have always been one of those things I'm sure not only I have accumulated a ridiculous amount of and would like to do at some point. :') So I'd also like to see if we can get nights for maps set up whether it's for gil, rare materials, or even just getting achievements for finishing certain map dungeons. Any level maps would be accepted!

Nothing is yet set in stone, of course. I'd like to do my best to cast a net that allows as many people as possible to drop in and drop out whenever they'd like by choosing a day that works for a good majority of people.

If you're interested, please feel free to join our Discord, or if you're already a part of it, look out for any announcements. :>

-Admin Prim

#ffxiv #ffxiv events #interest check #ffxiv trivia nights #ffxiv map nights

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counsellorerestor · 7 months

Note

For the headcanon meme: 📖 👻 🥀 🏭 🏛️

[ 📖 ] does your muse keep a diary or journal? what do they, or would they, write in a journal?

Yes and no. Erestor keeps a leatherbound journal on the desk in his office. It is, essentially, the equivalent of a modern bullet-journal; it is a planner with his tasks and appointments for each week and day, and sometimes he makes notes on how something went.

The only thing it would tell you about him is what he is doing and whether it went well.

Erestor is not someone to write his personal thoughts and feelings down. He is often introspective, and will take some time to sit and mentally work through things and process what he's thinking and feeling. But he keeps that to himself and, to some extent, his inner circle of friends.

[ 👻 ] what decisions have your muse made that they regret?

If asked today, Erestor would shrug and say he cannot regret the paths he took because they led him here, to a place where he is happy and content.

If probed deeper, Erestor would say he deeply regrets the Second Kinslaying most of all. The First Kinslaying was a horrific, tragic incident, but he was young and swept along and he believed, at the time, that he was doing the right thing. He regrets it, of course; what Noldo does not? He also regrets leaving his family behind.

At Doriath, however, he ought to have known better. He thinks they all ought to have known better.

He did argue against it, but it was hard to sway the sons of Fëanor when the Silmarils were involved. Ultimately, despite his misgivings, Erestor accompanied his lords out of loyalty. He fought in self-defence, but people still died.

He regrets not being able to sway them, and he regrets going.

[ 🥀 ] what are your muse’s standards for a romantic partner? are they realistic? why do they have these standards?

I knew you would ask this. :P

Erestor says he has high standards, but really it's no different from most other people; he just rarely gets quite that close to people. He must find them attractive, of course, but that does not necessarily mean conventionally attractive; if he likes you, your face is dear to him. He had a lover in Himring who was scarred, but Erestor liked him and found him attractive. (That Elf died in the Nirnaeth.)

He does like sex, so they must be compatible in bed.

The good values and principles likely go without saying.

He likes a good sense of humour; he himself is a fairly serious person by nature, but he values someone who can make him laugh.

Having some interests and inclinations in common would be important, although perhaps with just enough difference to keep things interesting. Erestor and his friend Iorissel once tried romance for a while, but frankly they were far too similar and it did not work.

On that note, his partner must have a strong sense of duty and understand the importance of his responsibilities, and take their own duties seriously; they would need to understand that sometimes his work comes first. At the same time, Erestor would not want to always put his work first; if he loves you he should prioritise you, and similarly he would want to be prioritised. This is a hard balance to strike, and he wonders if it is realistic.

Erestor's mind is always whirring, always thinking of what to do next and what might come and how to prepare, even when relaxing. He wants someone who is easy to be with, who can make him relax so much that his mind quietens. If he has already found this quality in his friendship with a certain Captain, he does not say.

[ 🏭 ] is your muse happy with their job or career path? why or why not?

Of course!

Erestor may sometimes act a little put-upon, and he takes so much work upon himself that sometimes he can be a little harried. But he would not do that if he did not want to; if he did not, ultimately, derive satisfaction from it.

Erestor was a hard worker in Lindon, and he respected Gil-galad. But he truly loves Imladris. He helped Elrond build it. He feels a certain sense of stewardship and responsibility towards it. It is his home, and he does what he does to keep it running as smoothly as possible so that all its denizens can be happy and peaceful, sheltered and well-fed.

He helped build Himring too, but those were different, stressful times, and he did not truly enjoy the work he did then. (Additionally, despite being Seneschal of Himring, he still had to do what amounted to military service. He was good at it, but it is not his chosen profession.)

In between being an administrator and counsellor, Erestor is a scholar of lore. He occasionally teaches some of the students (as somewhat of a guest lecturer), and he has contributed to the library. This straddles the line between hobby and career path, admittedly.

[ 🏛 ] does your muse have any strange interests? do they keep these interests to themselves, or are they comfortable sharing them with others?

Not particularly strange. Erestor is a curious person and enjoys learning about the world. He likes learning about other peoples and cultures. He has a passing interest in natural history, or the study of the world around them, though his true passions are history and literature. He has written a few historical analyses and treatises, and sometimes teaches. He is happy to share all these interests.

He does take a special interest in Númenor, because of Elros. Most people assume he is just doing his job, but it is very personal.

#OOC #Erestor #backstory #Imladris #Rivendell

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myreia · 9 months

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Divergence of the Heart

CHAPTER TWO: THE NATURE OF THE BEAST

Chapter Rating: Mature (full story rating is Explicit) Characters: Aureia Malathar (WoL), Aymeric de Borel, Thancred Waters, Hilda Ware Pairings: Aureia/Aymeric, Aureia/Thancred, Thancred/Hilda Chapter Words: 4,788 Notes: Set during the Heavensward patches. Summary: Aureia Malathar may have made a name for herself in Ishgard, but her deeds come with a hefty personal toll. Despite her victories at the Grand Melee she has never felt more unsure of herself. Her relationship with Thancred—the person she thought knew her the best—is strained, yet she cannot abandon him. Aymeric is falling for her harder with each passing day, yet she cannot bring herself to accept it. All may be fair in love and war, but at least war is predictable. Love on the other hand… Chapters: 1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6 • 7 • 8 • 9 • 10 • 11 Read on AO3 Avi’li Sostomi belongs to my dear friend @lilas!

When she reaches the Forgotten Knight, Aureia shoves the doors open and clatters down the stairs. Though the sound causes some heads to turn, the tavern quickly reverts to its drunken murmurings and clandestine conversations. She has always had an affection for Gibrillont’s establishment. The lighting is dark, the hearths warm, the food and drink good. She is rarely identified as the Warrior of Light here, blending in with crowds too drunk to recognize her. Here, everyone’s business is their own. Here, she is just another patron stepping in from the cold.

“Ah, Aureia!” Gibrillont nods in welcome, his hands occupied by cleaning out tankards with a worn rag. “I hear congratulations are in order—”

She rests her arms on the counter and leans into it. “No. Not in order. As far as I’m concerned, nothing of significance happened today.”

He pauses, regarding her with a knowing smile on his face. “Very well,” he says. “‘Tis but an ordinary day, with ordinary struggles.”

“And ordinary drinks,” she adds pointedly.

Gibrillont chuckles and stoops, resurfacing a moment later with a bottle. “Then perhaps this miraculous brew will serve you well, Mistress Malathar,” he says and slides it across the counter to her waiting hand.

Aureia eyes him—the honorific has not gone unnoticed—and hefts the bottle. Wine. Likely cheap, likely strong, and likely to give her a phenomenal hangover the next morning. “Thanks,” she grunts. The dark glass slips against her fingerless glove and she reacts quickly, tightening her grip before she drops it.

His eyes narrow. “I apologize if this is not my place,” he says carefully, picking up the rag and returning to cleaning tankards. “But I suspect this is not a celebratory drink.”

The nape of her neck prickles. Thoughts of Thancred race through her mind, jagged and raw. No matter how hard she tries to banish him, he lingers. Making a face, she yanks the cork out and downs a mouthful of wine. She coughs, the tart, heady scent clogging her nostrils, the fragrant flavour lingering on her tongue.

“There’s nothing to celebrate tonight, Gibrillont,” she says and slams a handful of gil on the counter. “I’m here to get drunk.”

Bottle in hand, Aureia forces her way through the crowd, searching for a table. The cacophony of a dozen conversations fills her ears. From the merchants to the off-duty Temple Knights to minor scions of lesser nobility, all are focused on one thing: the Grand Melee, the Alliance, and the Warrior of Light’s thrilling duel with General Raubahn.

Notably—at least to her—Sidurgu is absent from his usual post. He must have not wanted Rielle caught in the midst of all this revelry, not when there are so many Temple Knights around. The day they dispatched Ystride de Caulignot together is still raw in her mind. Though the church has changed, any number of her former allies or supporters could be among the knights’ numbers.

Aureia pauses in the centre, twisting left and right as she scans the room. “Seven hells,” she mutters, taking another swig. She is glad for their success, truly, she is. Aymeric was correct, this was the only way to incorporate Ishgard into the Alliance without upsetting the Holy See’s delicate internal politics. She hates to give it to him, but Thancred was right—Ishgardian pride has been the source too many of their difficulties. The whole nation is too arrogant for its own good.

And the last thing she needs now is a recount of her heroics on refrain.

Pushing her way through a cluster of loud-mouthed knights, she rounds the corner and flies down the stairs, disappearing into the lower level.

Aureia feels the change as she descends. Though Aymeric is doing his best to pave a way for a new future, dismantling a thousand years of tradition is not a feat accomplished overnight. The highborn and the lowborn still separate instinctively, and that divide could not be more palpable than in the Forgotten Knight. The hearths are dark, the rooms cramped, the floors and tables scratched. The air is mustier here, thick with the scents of the Brume. But the alcohol is strong, the patrons lively, and there is a sense of fierce, fearless freedom about this place that she has never found upstairs.

“Aw, c’mon, Avi, I had it that time!”

A familiar voice cuts through the din. Aureia pauses on the third step and scans the room, searching. Hilda sits slung in a chair, boots on the table, cards in her hand. A wrought iron lamp lies off to the side, its candle casting a warm glow over a collection of discarded plates and half-finished tankards. Her carbine rests against the wall behind her, its polished finishings glinting in the dim light.

A white-haired Miqo’te perches across from her, his tail curled casually around one of his stool’s legs. He holds his cards close to his face, eyes alight with an impish grin. “Looks like fortune says otherwise,” he says. “I win.”

Hilda harumphs and tosses her cards. “Cheater,” she snorts, grabbing her tankard. “You’re never this good.”

His ear twitches. “Or perhaps the sun has finally risen, understanding has dawned, and I am finally decent at Triple Triad,” he replies, rolling a card between his fingers. “Play enough and even the worst of us get better eventually.”

She eyes him over her tankard and takes a drink. “Or you cheated.”

“I did not.”

“Keep telling yourself that—”

The Miqo’te chortles and throws down his cards, forearms pressed against the table as he dissolves into a fit of laughter. Hilda coughs and lowers her tankard. Spotting Aureia from across the room, she balances it on her knee and raises a hand in greeting.

“I was just beginning to think I wouldn’t see you tonight,” she says casually, adjusting her feet as Aureia draws close. She gestures to her companion. “Avi’li, Aureia—Aureia, Avi’li. Don’t trust him, he cheats at Triple Triad.”

Avi’li’s mouth drops open. “I don’t cheat—”

“Mhm. You’ll have to be more convincing than that.”

Avi’li flashes her a grin as she pulls up a chair. “Always good to meet a friend of Hilda’s,” he says, eyes flicking curiously from her to Hilda and back again. They narrow with that distinct inquisitiveness that comes over anyone who spots the two women together. “Pardon the intrusion, but you two aren’t—”

“No,” Aureia and Hilda say together.

It’s become a habit—if six separate incidents so far can be called a habit. From their similar colouring, heritage, and builds, it is easy for the indiscriminate eye to assume they are sisters. After all, how many ruby-eyed, black-haired women of mixed Hyur and Elezen parentage find their way to Ishgard? The truth of the matter is that their origins couldn’t be more different. But despite it, they are connected—if not by mutual experience, then by respect and solidarity. Hilda has been one of the few in Ishgard unafraid of her reputation and status. Her keen awareness and blunt honesty are a breath of fresh air in a nation who has alternatively seen her as a hero to be worshipped or a threat to be put down.

Aureia is forever grateful for it.

“I see you came prepared,” Hilda continues, eyeing the wine bottle as Aureia places her staff against the wall and throws herself into her chair. “You made a memorable display in the Grand Melee today. Tired of all the lordlings fawning over you, I reckon?”

“Didn’t stay around for that,” Aureia replies, slouching down.

She regards her with an amused smile. “Abandoning Aymeric to field them for you? Now I feel sorry for the poor sod. I wonder how many propositions of marriage have landed on his desk in the past half-day.”

“None, if I have anything to say about it,” Aureia replies, raising the bottle to her lips. The wine is just as sour the second time as it was the first.

Hilda chuckles and shakes her head, her long, dark ponytail rippling down her back. “Don’t think you have a choice there, Aur,” she says grimly. “If you hadn’t won over the blue bloods yet, you’ve certainly done so today. More eyes are on you now than ever before.”

She grimaces.

“If you wanted to avoid this mess entirely, you could have… I dunno… thrown the fight with that general bloke. But that would have led to quite an upset. Best not think on it now, eh?”

She grunts noncommittally into her bottle and takes another drink.

Hilda presses her lips together, eyes narrowed, and slowly unfurls. “Give us a moment here, huh, Avi?” she says, removing her feet from the table.

Avi’li glances at Aureia, his tail flicking quietly behind him. “Good to meet you, Aureia,” he says with a graceful bow. “See you around sometime, yeah?” Swiping his tankard from the table, he turns and threads his way through the crowd.

Hilda folds her arms across her chest. “Right,” she says as he disappears. “Now tell me what’s really going on. I ain’t seen you like this since Haurchefant passed.”

“Nothing,” Aureia replies, sipping on her bottle. “What’s wrong with wanting a drink?”

“Because you shouldn’t be drinking on your own after that display today!” Hilda grips her chair by the seat and drags it forward. The legs scrape horrifically as she shuffles it across the floor. “You should be celebrating. With your fellow Scions, the Ul’dahn delegation, or hells… why not Aymeric? You should have seen the look on his face when you disappeared. So, tell me—” She prods a finger into Aureia’s shoulder. “What in the seven hells are you doing down here with a bottle of Gibrillont’s worst wine, looking like the world just ended?”

Aureia lowers her bottle, chewing her lip as she stares absently at the flickering candle. “It’s nothing,” she says. “I’m tired. And someone who I thought was my friend may no longer…”

She trails off, the words catching painfully in her throat. Saying it now is as good as admitting it. She isn’t prepared for that—not yet. As furious as she is with Thancred, she sees too much of herself in him. He is struggling with something he refuses to voice, something she knows all too well. She should have seen it the moment he ran off after the cyclops on his own. It wasn’t that long ago that she was going through the same motions, taking off across Coerthas on her own, battling whatever monsters she could find alone and unprepared.

But Aureia had help when her luck ran out. Estinien tirelessly shadowed her as she stupidly threw herself into fight after fight, pulling her out when she encountered a foe she could not handle alone. Sid watched her back, his initial resentment and mistrust bleeding into hope and faith as they stood their ground against Rielle’s pursuers. Hells, she thought she foolishly thought she was alone when she came to Ishgard, but she was wrong. So impossibly wrong. Alphinaud and Tataru never gave up on her, even when she pushed them away. Even Ysayle—wonderful, relentless Ysayle who had risked so much and sacrificed all—came for her at the eleventh bell.

But Thancred has no one. He was fortunate today, scraping by with only a handful of minor wounds. If Y’shtola’s theory is correct and his aether is disrupted… How long will it be before he puts himself in a situation he cannot overcome?

Bastard, she thinks. Wherever you’re going, don’t you dare get yourself killed for this. I’ll never forgive you if you do.

Hilda sighs irritably and plucks the bottle from her hand.

Aureia opens her mouth in protest. “Hey—”

Hilda sets it on the table and firmly pushes it out of the way. Twisting around, she grips her by the forearms and pulls her in. “Listen to me, Aur,” she says, staring her in the eye. “That friend of yours? Fuck them. If they’re making you feel this miserable, tell them to bugger off. You’re the bloody Warrior of Light, you don’t have many chances to catch a break. Good days are priceless where you’re concerned. Don’t let anyone ruin that for you.”

Aureia swallows hard. If only it were that easy… “I’m trying,” she says.

Hilda raises an eyebrow.

“I am,” she insists. “Give me my wine back.”

Hilda smirks. Swiping the bottle off the table, she digs her heels into the floor and pushes herself backwards, sending her chair scooting across the floor and out of reach. She leans back, one leg crossed casually over the other, and eyeing Aureia as she raises the bottle to her mouth and takes a long drink. Grimacing, she lowers the bottle and coughs into the back of her hand. “Yeah…” she says hoarsely, holding the bottle out. “That’s, uh… bad. Extremely bad. I’m gonna have to have a word with Gibrillont over how bad that is, aren’t I.”

Aureia snorts with laughter and retrieves the bottle, taking another swig. The tartness has begun to fade—or perhaps it’s turned her tongue numb. Looping a lock of hair behind her ear, she lounges in her chair and casts an eye around the tavern. The cacophony washes over her, the noise and commotion strangely soothing after the icy silence on the bridge.

Hilda retrieves her own drink. “If you want my advice, Aur—”

“Hmm… not particularly, no.”

She chuckles. “Too bad. I’m gonna give it to you anyway.”

Aureia makes a face.

Hilda shifts in her seat, her foot bouncing on her knee. “If I were you, I’d find someone to enjoy myself with,” she says. “Take the edge off, eh? Have a little fun. Don’t say it hasn’t occurred to you. Someone like you, with your standing and fame? You must have more than one suitor calling—”

Aureia flushes. “Not interested in that,” she says firmly.

“No?” She raises an eyebrow. “Not once? Not in all this time you’ve been in Ishgard? Surely someone here has caught your eye—”

“Not interested.”

“Not even that Auri fellow? The one upstairs with the girl following him around like a lost puppy?”

The description twists sharply on her gut. “Rielle isn’t a lost puppy. And Sid and I—”

“Oh ho?” Hilda raises an eyebrow, her smirk barely contained. “Never realized you were on first-name basis with those two. Is there something you ain’t telling me, or am I to figure it out for myself?”

Aureia rolls her eyes. “It’s not what you think.”

“No? He’s a handsome enough bloke, if you ask me—”

“Well, I’m not—”

“The only time I see that scowl wiped off his face is when you’re around.”

“Sidurgu and I are friends, that’s it. Besides, I said I wasn’t interested in all that and I meant it.”

Hilda shuts her mouth and raises her hands, silently indicating that the point has been made and understood.

Aureia sighs, rapping her fingers against the bottle. This is not an easy discussion to have—and certainly not now, certainly not here, certainly not with Hilda.

This isn’t about Sid. It’s not.

She flushes at the thought and shoves it away, annoyed at her friend for making assumptions. There’s no point belabouring where she and Sid stand, they aren’t anything more than war comrades. Though there have been times when she has wondered differently. A casual touch here, a look there… She flushes remembering the scolding of the century he gave her after she threw herself in front of him and Rielle and took a temple knight’s blade to the gut. Bleeding out in the ass-end of Coerthas, turning bright snow to red sludge, while he cursed and swore and made her promise to never do anything so foolish again.

But even if it were different, would she even want to act on it? There’s a queasiness in her stomach whenever a subject like this is raised, a sense that something isn’t right with her. She envies how damn easy it is for others. It’s not about love—she knows what that feels like, and how intensely it can strike—but intimacy. It has always been a barricade, growing larger and more insurmountable with every passing year, not helped by her utter lack of interest in sex.

Sometimes she wonders if it’s too late for her. Even if her feelings on the matter have shifted in recent years, it’s easier to ignore it entirely than admit this humiliating truth.

“Point taken,” Hilda says finally. “I see why you like to drink now.”

Aureia grimaces, bristling at the tone. She shoves a hand into her seat and pushes herself upright. “I—”

A hand brushes her shoulder.

She reacts on instinct. Ripping free of its grasp, she throws herself out of her chair and falls into a defensive stance, hands raised, fingers curled. A messenger in silver and blue stares at her, mouth agape, fear in his eyes.

“Mistress Malathar?” he stammers. “I meant no offense—”

“Announce yourself properly next time,” she snaps, dropping her stance and folding her arms. “What do you want? Which House do you represent?”

“I… uh…” The messenger flushes and stares at his feet, still shaken. The Elezen must be relatively young. Though he is much taller than her, he is gangly and nervous. Oddly, he reminds her of Emmanellain. “May we speak upstairs? The message I bear is not for… well… certain ears.”

Aureia exchanges looks with Hilda. Despite recent advances, some things never change.

“Us lowborn, you mean?” Hilda offers, a dark look in her eye. “Are you that scared of the Brume, boy? You’re gonna have to work on that if you intend to remain a messenger for the Lord Commander.”

Aureia curses inwardly, taking in the messenger’s colours once again. Of course. Temple Knights… The messenger is from Aymeric. She’s had more to drink than she thought and she’s falling into foolishness.

“Seven hells,” Aureia mutters and ushers the boy forward. “Let’s talk upstairs.”

She guides him through the crowd to the foot of the stairs, then clambers up them two at a time. He follows, his armour clinking in her ears, and breathes an audible sigh of relief when they surface on the upper floor.

Leading him into a far corner, she takes up position with her back to the wall and crosses her arms. “Now, then,” she says brusquely. “What is this about?”

The messenger quickly salutes. “Mistress Malathar, I bear a message from Ser Aymeric.”

“Yes. I gathered that. What is it?”

“I… I don’t know. It is here.”

He proffers a letter, stamped and sealed with the insignia of House Borel.

Aureia takes it from his shaking hand, brow furrowed, and flips it over. Aymeric has written her many times, but always in an official capacity as Lord Commander of the Temple Knights. But now he’s using the insignia of his own house… This isn’t official. This is personal.

Her heart clenches. “Is that all?” she asks.

The messenger nods, bowing, and retreats. Aureia watches him go, rubbing the envelope’s luxurious parchment between her fingers, her mind racing. Though part of her wants nothing more than to race down the stairs and return to Hilda’s company and the comfort of her wine, curiosity has set her aflame.

Why the personal message? What does Aymeric want?

Chewing her lower lip, she tears the envelope open and unfolds the letter.

Aureia, I am loathe to begin with “congratulations are in order” as I am certain you have heard that phrase far too much today. Nevertheless, it is true. This victory was more than a simple triumph in the heat of friendly combat. We have secured Ishgard’s position within the Alliance and safeguarded the course to her future. I cannot say how grateful I am for your involvement. Nor would I have wanted to be the one opposing you on the field of battle! Livia assures me that General Raubahn holds no grievance over the thrashing you gave him. I am told he was beaming with pride at his defeat and has requested a rematch the next time your travels bring you to Ul’dah. I must apologize for conveying this within a letter. This conversation is ill-suited to the pen—one-sided even, as it leaves no opportunity for your immediate reply—but circumstances allowed us no time for proper conversation once the melee had concluded. Or perhaps I am merely accustomed to writing to you now, given how far your travels now take you from Ishgard. You recall my somewhat mortifying request for a drink some nights ago? I would ask again. Perhaps more legitimately, this time, and with more grace and sincerity. I did not intend to put you on the spot with my words the last time, and yet I did. I do not begrudge the silence you gave me in return, I was, to put it quite frankly, a fool. And so I ask again. Please, my dearest friend. Join me for an evening. It would be a delight to spend the night in your company.

Aureia exhales slowly, staring blankly at the elegant script. A lump forms in her throat, her heart beating rapidly. Aymeric, as always, is far too kind to her. Too thoughtful, too genuine, too damn polite. She doesn’t know why he thinks so highly of her when she is prickly and disagreeable, no charm, no patience, all sharp edges. But their friendship has been tried and tested through more ordeals than she count this past year. He has been the one consistency through it all.

Once she thought it was Thancred who kept her grounded, but then the bloody banquet fractured the Scions and the man he was then is now gone forever. After her flight to Ishgard, Haurchefant was a shining beacon, as dear to her as the brother she never had—and now he is gone, cut down before her very eyes. Estinien was her source of strength in the dark days that followed, their rivalry softening to friendship over the course of their trials. He, too, is now gone, lost to Nidhogg’s rage.

But Aymeric has remained a firm, resolute presence in her life.

She remembers that day in his office, when he blurted out his initial invitation. She was so shocked, she couldn’t even garble a reply, staring at him with her eyes wide, like a deer facing a hunter. Embarrassment flushed her cheeks not long after and she excused herself, passing through his door with her back perfectly straight, praying that he did not see the colour on her cheeks.

It was only after that she realized he intended it as a friend. A friend. Somehow, that only made her response all the more humiliating…

At least she knows he was as mortified as she was. She can take solace in the fact that they can be fools in equal measure.

Aureia folds the letter and stuffs it in her pocket. She needs to return to her room, write a reply… Or perhaps it would be faster to go to him herself? Then again, there is wine on her breath and she is still sweat stained from the melee. Better to write him. He doesn’t need to see her like this.

She is halfway to her room in the inn when she remembers her staff is on the lower levels. Cursing inwardly, she wheels around and hurries through the tavern, weaving in and out of the crowd. Clattering down the stairs, she makes beeline for her table—

Her staff is there, but Hilda is gone.

Aureia pauses, frowning in confusion as she retrieves her staff and straps it to her back. The messy collection of plates and tankards remain. Even her bottle of wine is there, now emptied. In the centre of the table, the lamp’s candle flickers from a pool of wax, burning down to the stub. Its light glints off Hilda’s carbine, left unattended against the wall. She must be here, somewhere… It’s not like her to forget her weapon.

Grabbing the carbine, she withdraws from the table and casts an eye around the premises. The floor is emptier than before, many of the patrons having found their way outside one way or another. Aureia rounds the tables, searching, but Hilda is nowhere to be found. And she wasn’t upstairs, either… Either she exited to the Brume or she’s elsewhere in the tavern. The Forgotten Knight is filled with pockets of odd space—knotted hallways leading nowhere, oddly-shaped rooms tucked away in the corners or beneath the stairs. There are plenty of places she could have gone. Patrons find their way to them for one reason or another.

Slipping through a door, Aureia paces down a tight, dark hallway, cradling the heavy carbine against her chest. Her throat is dry, her head is aching—she forgot to drink water and now the side-effects of Gibrillont’s miraculous brew raising their ugly heads. She blinks, ignoring her body’s complaints, and pushes on. She can’t leave now. She needs to find Hilda.

“…so you admit it, then?”

“Admit what?”

Voices echo through an open door. Droll and heady, drunk on too much wine and spirits.

“…and here I thought it would take more than that for you to say you felt some affection for me.”

“Affection? Please. Far too strong a word.”

Auriea’s heart leaps into her throat. She freezes in the shadows of the hall, floorboards creaking underfoot. Hilda and Thancred stand together in the adjoining room, their profiles illuminated by the dusty moonlight filtering through the narrow window. His arms are locked around her, pulling her into him. She tilts her chin, a playful smile on her lips, red eyes dancing wickedly.

“You wound me, my lady,” he says, his lips brushing her cheek.

She smirks. “Not a lady.”

“To me you are.”

“Oh, please. Is that what you tell all the women in your life or did you truly expect a line like that to work on me?”

He kisses her, fierce and desperate. She melts into it, her fingers scraping the sides of his face, his jaw, pulling him into her. His fingers brush her ear, tentatively cupping the point, and thread through her hair. He releases it from its tail and the dark waves fall free, flowing over her shoulders and shadowing her face like a curtain. She chuckles huskily and shoves him back against the wall. He grunts and seizes her, lifting her up. She wraps her legs around him and allows him to spin them around.

Hilda pulls back from his kiss, face flushed and eyes wild, and scrapes her fingers through his hair. “You sure about this?” she asks huskily, lips pressed against his ear. “Don’t mistake me for her. Because I’m not.”

He freezes, his arms going stiff. “I am here for you. Only you.”

“Good. Just wanted to be clear—”

He kisses her, pinning her to the wall, his mouth on hers, still kissing, always kissing. She presses against him, her hands wandering, reaching, urgent, desperate—

Aureia tears her eyes away, cheeks flushed with the heat of anger and humiliation. She stoops, setting the carbine against the doorframe, and stalks down the hall. She doesn’t care if the floor creaks, if they hear her footsteps, if they know she was there. Chances are they never noticed. Chances are they will never know.

Bitter tears pang in the corners of her eyes. Seven hells, why is she crying? Why does she care so much? They are her friends. She should be happy if they’ve managed to find some solace in each other, gods know they’ve needed it. It’s not like she could give it to them herself, what with the way she is. Even if she wanted to, it’s too much.

Too much.

She kicks the hallway door open and storms through the tavern, scattering the remaining patrons in front of her. Gibrillont catches her eye when she storms up the stairs and quickly retreats. He knows better than to interfere. He know he must leave her be.

Aureia is certain she will become a snivelling mess when she finds privacy. But when she reaches her room, the tears refuse to fall. The best she can do is lay on her bed, staring numbly into the silver of moonlight dancing across her floor, and let her symptoms take her. She will welcome the hangover tomorrow. No matter how bad it is, it is nothing compared to the pain and isolation she feels tonight.

Aymeric’s letter remains folded in her pocket, all but forgotten.

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