badwolf-gallagher88

[badwolf-gallagher88]

Day 22 - Hurt/Comfort

Daenerys sat calmly, her tokar draped about her body. For all she hated the garment, she was glad of its abundance of fabric now.

Upon her knees lay Ser Jorah, his face bloodied, his chest barely moving. She rested upon the stairs of the throne room, and lifting her skirts she draped them over the knight as a makeshift blanket. He barely moved at her touch, though his lips parted slightly as if in great pain.

She cradled his head in her hands, analysing every inch of his war weary features. There was a slight crinkle at the corner of his mouth, the legacy of many momentary smiles. His eyebrows were drawn together, as they did when in deep thought, but his closed eyes instead belied great pain. Blood matted his hair, leeching onto his forehead. He had taken a blow to the head she noted, moving to trace the shallow scars that lined his cheeks.

Her fingers lingered about his neck, noting the marks made by Yunkai chains. The welts were old and healed, yet streaks of red still marred his tanned skin. As she studied her Old Bear’s broken body, Dany felt the waves of emotion overcome her. These scars had been earned to her benefit, and their owner was like to die to protect her too.

So, Daenerys Targaryen allowed herself to cry, letting the hurt fill her soul as she sought to comfort the weakened knight.

Then, as the tears made their rivers down her cheeks, she began to talk.

“I’m sorry. Oh, I’m so, so sorry,” she murmured, reaching for the water and cloth left her by Ser Barristan. Gently, she moved the fabric over his forehead, pulling it away stained pink.

“I should have done as you asked. I always did as you asked. You were my Old Bear, my commander, my knight. You sold your sword to no man, but were willing to sell your sword to save a woman. 

“I should have left for Westeros when you urged. We could have taken the Seven Kingdoms, and I could have placed you upon your seat on Bear Island. There would have been celebrations - a feast to feed a hundred, more courses than you could count. I would have gifted you new armour from the best smiths in the land, restored your family Valyrian steel to your hand. We could have danced that night - you would have taken my hand, bowing before your Queen but knowing she was sure to accept.

“You should have begged the slavers to let me see you, begged them with words or steel, it would have made no matter. Had I known…

“Had I known I would have come to you, Ser Jorah. I would have flown upon Drogon and burnt them all to nothing, and left you standing there. The King of ashes and flames. Jorah Fireborn they may have named you - the only man to withstand dragon fire.

“Know that I regretted it immediately, sending you away. I never wanted you to flee. I just…

“I couldn’t bear to look on you. Not when I knew you cared for me. Not when I knew you would lie to my face. I was scared… Scared you would move against me, that you were the great betrayer I was warned of. 

“Pray, forgive me, Ser.

“Forgive me, Jorah.”

She continued with her ministrations, the words tumbling from her mouth unbidden. Each movement was slow, intentional, an effort she knew would not save him but nonetheless she hoped might. Daenerys’ focus was so deep, she did not even notice his eyes open.

And when she heard the word “Forgiven,” it was nothing more than a ghost of a voice on the breeze.

[badwolf-gallagher88]

idc he's a half-god. he'd have to take sick leave after i'm done with him.

[badwolf-gallagher88]

Day 21 - Euphoria

Though battles were rarely becried good in the great songs, there was always a majestic justice reserved for the lines in their description.

No warrior was ever weak of limb and war-weary, and always the enemies fled for the hills, never the victors. Every death was noble and ensconced in legend; no suffering was not for greater good.

Yet, as the Uruk rabble pushed High King Gil-galad to his knees, he feared the songs rang false.

At first, he had been overcome like any other in the skirmish of battle. Like the great forefathers - Finrod Felagund and Fingolfin and his sons - he had taken his place alongside elvenkind. Golden armour he had donned, encasing his body from head to toe in golden metal that shone as brightly as the trees of Lorien. His helm weighed heavy upon his brow, but not so heavy as the responsibility to protect those whom would call him king. He would not allow his people to fight alone while he rested safe behind locked doors. Not so long as Sauron did live.

So, he took up his spear, and astride his great war horse Ereinion Gil-galad rode into battle. And to begin, Euphoria claimed his heart and her tightly grasping hands did hostage take his Soul.

A fearless adrenaline overcome him, each movement reduced to a blur of unplanned action. The splatter of ebony blood, dimming the golden glow of his armour and marring his features was no longer unwelcome. For, the more black blood upon his shining helm, the less that flowed within these Uruks who strove for nothing except pillage and war.

Whilst the euphoric freedom of active combat had lasted, these was no fate save death that could wrest the joy of protecting his people from his heart.

However, the fever of battle was gone. Upon his knees he rested, ground down into the dirt and blood that now stuccoed the tiles of Eregion. In his distraction, he could hear Elrond screaming, yelling to save the knowledge of elven kind, battle’s great depravity still running strong in his blood. And still Gil-galad did not move, and struggled not, for he knew none could truely stay Sauron’s hand. 

He knew some would try. He knew Galadriel would not rest until either her or the dark lord’s body rested broken and alone. He knew now that Elrond was right in his mistrust of the rings, but the young lord would not stop to ensure their harm reached no further.

Yet, Gil-galad stared blankly into the swollen ash of scrolls, some still tipped in flame and smouldering like dragon fire.

In that moment, he knew no amount of battle euphoria would win this war. Instead, those who prized the knowledge of elvenkind above all things, that very knowledge which before him burned, would be the ones to pursue victory.

He was growing old, and blind, fading with this age of Middle Earth.

But for all he was not the High King the elves needed, he was the High King the elves had.

So he listened to Elrond’s rage, and drunk deeply from the same cup, and when the moment came, Ereinion Gil-galad let the euphoria of battle fill his heart once more.

[badwolf-gallagher88]

Listen you can have opinions on ROP all you want, but you can’t deny that this was the perfect casting ever for Sauron 🥵❤️

[badwolf-gallagher88]

[badwolf-gallagher88]

Day 20 - Steamy

The pain had begun to bleed into her shoulders. Yet with each stroke, Gunnery Sergeant Roberta Draper pulled the handle of the ergometer taught. She wouldn’t let the pain get to her, not this time, not so close to her best. The meters kept counting down, mirroring the whir made by the machine with every stroke.

Then, all of a sudden she was there, the numbers clicked over, and she dropped the handlebar, letting air fill her lungs. Breath after breath began to nourish her, as the moment of satisfaction passed. She tapped the side of her headphones, pausing the song, and let them fall around her neck. 

Her contact with the world restored, she was met with a low whistle, a damn quickly muttered under breath. She turned, pulling her feet from the erg to rest on the floor as she rotated. Alex stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. 

Shit. 

She bolted from the room.

…

The water scolded every inch of her body, to the point it almost burnt. The heat made her heart beat faster, the scars on her legs and arms looked white, and her eyes stung with tears.

All brought on by the heat, of course.

The steam swirled around her, choking her lungs in a way that was not unpleasant. Bobbie leant against the shower wall, breathing it in, feeling the dampness cloying at her throat and thanking it for reminding her of the importance of breathing. Gradually, she sank to the floor, pulling her feet towards her and burying her head in her hands. The water continued to rush over her body, soaking her hair.

She dreaded having to explain her flight, but for a few minutes, she had peace within the steamy interior of the shower. 

It was not the first time she had purposefully avoided him - not that she had never purposefully sought him out either- but there was just something about Alex. And she knew he was growing suspicious.

She enjoyed their conversations about Mars, about his time in the Navy and her first-hand experience on the battlefield. They spoke of terraforming, of lasagna, of whatever crazy, stupid idea Holden would conjure next. Gradually, she felt herself become comfortable in his company, and then she felt herself become uncomfortable.

Her heart beat as fast as it did when she pummelled a punching bag. Her hands grew clammy, like she was on the erg. Her cheeks flushed red, and she laughed too much. 

So she started running away.

On a small ship, there were few places to take refuge. The calming heat of the shower was her last resort.

Slowly, Bobbie stood, turning off the water. There was no point hiding there all day however. The steam quickly faded, and she was left shivering, regretting not pausing long enough to grab fresh clothes.

She sighed, pulling on what she had. The change room door slid open, and she almost ran straight back into the shower.

He was still there, pushing himself back and forth on the erg seat like a child on a see-saw. He turned, taking in her damp appearance, hair turned frizzy by the steam, and red eyes.

“Gunny, are you a’right?”

[badwolf-gallagher88]

Day 19 - Unexpected

The father prided himself on doing the unexpected. For one, he had taken the name of Adar for his own, preferring its simplicity and truth. Elsewise, he had turned his back on Sauron, despite knowing in his mind there was no way to defeat such great power. 

Despite her reaction, Adar believed his offer of allegiance to Galadriel was not, as such, out of character.

Clearly, the she-elf disagreed.

He would allow her time to consider her options, aided by the bars of a cage. He did not wish to be needlessly cruel, but sometimes it was the method best suited to a fast solution.

While he waited, he too would think, within his own ungilded prison. Upon his dark throne he sat, hand on sword, eyes closed. For all the world, he was a sleeping king not to be disturbed.

Yet, Adar was fond of the unexpected. So whilst the kings of Lindon closed their eyes and dreamt of peace and prosperity, Adar dreamed the solutions to his problems.

Once, these problems had been simple. How does one control an Uruk army? How does one outfit and prepare said Uruks for war? The answer had been simple; it was realised in the name of father. Now, however, the problems he faced were more complex/

How did one combat two golden-haired lords who wished equally for the same power and revenge?

His time as Sauron’s lieutenant had taught him much, but had equally confounded him. Where once the simple promises of land, territory and lordship had quelled his wrath, now the Dark Lord desired little and nothing. Except perhaps his Queen. Adar had watched the way the two fought together to capture him. The way he seemed to predict her every move, until the spear was at his throat. Although Sauron’s face had changed, he knew there was still the same frenzied desire hidden in that elven body.

A desire to take whatever had its own free will.

Galadriel, he had discovered, was quite precious about her free will, and particularly reluctant to give it up. Her shouts as he had barred her cell revealed as much. Nonetheless, the she-elf had not been unaffected by Sauron’s charms, and he could see the anger, embarrassment and envy etched on every facet of her face. 

So, night and day were at war again. A king was desperate to ensnare his queen, while a queen had been duped by her not-quite-king.

Where did the father stand in such a war?

Adar opened his eyes, and was met by the tent’s surrounding darkness. A tiny sliver of light filtered through the entrance, cutting the black like a knife. There was no way for the darkness to resist a light that shone so brightly.

He would wait for Galadriel to make her decision.

Yet, his own decision was already made. He must acquire nenya, the light that cuts through darkness.

Yes, Adar thought, he must needs do something unexpected. 

[badwolf-gallagher88]

Day 18 - Thrilling

He grasped tightly to the rope, planting his feet so he swayed alongside the ship. Below him the water churned; blue that was almost black became bright white-dipped turquoise as it crashed upon the ship’s hull. Despite the onslaught, the red barnacles that decorated the prow did not move, but clung, much like Ser Jorah to the ship.

Sea-spray coated his face, the salty water dripping in places from his hair. A single drop rolled down his forehead, over his nose, and came to rest on his lips. As he licked it away, it was not salt he tasted, nor the bitterness of the sea, but her. 

Their time aboard the ships named for her dragons had infused the knight with a new kind of daring. He had begun to suspect some kind of sea-sickness had gotten into his head, that he was suffering from a scurvy that rotted the brain’s more logical parts. Perchance it was the constant presence of dragons overhead, the way their wings brought the only shade on deck but it was still unwelcome. Maybe it was the Dothraki mumblings, which were enough to convince even the sturdiest Iron Born they would soon find themselves in the Drowned King’s halls.

Whatever the case, Ser Jorah Mormont found it thrilling.

The high seas had made him more willing to take risks, for deep inside he knew each risk may be the last he would ever take.

So, shrouded in the darkness of the cabin, he had finally done it.

He had kissed his Queen.

And he was glad.

Ser Jorah was not upset that she had pushed him away. The look of pity that passed over her face and then faded was not unexpected, and he admitted, entirely just. In many respects he had taken advantage of his position, let his feelings overwhelm him. He did not consider there to be any compromise of Daenerys’ honour, nor his own. For despite its inevitability, he still found the kiss thrilling.

He had never experienced the sensation so strongly before, and he had rapidly fled on desk to hide his response. The anticipation in the moments before had been as strong as the hours before battle. A quickening of the heart, a swirling clarity of the mind, the body reduced to the basest of functions. 

In the moments during, he had felt nothing; or, if it was something, the merest, wildest sensation. 

Then it had stopped, and his legs were shaking. His cheeks were red, his hands trembled, and he ran.

As the sun fell in the sky, diving towards a watery grave, until it rose as if walking on the seas itself hours later, the knight heaved a sigh of relief. The thrills were finally leaving his body, and the shadow of profound weariness that perpetually cursed his waking moments was returning.

With a spark of fresh air, and the promise of land on the horizon-line, he knew this dazed freedom and inhibition would soon come to an end.

Nonetheless, he did not regret his actions. 

For what was a moment of thrill-seeking when faced with the prospect of endless war?

And what was a kiss if it made him but half the knight he once was?

[badwolf-gallagher88]

Day 17 - Experimental

To be a smith, one had to experiment a little.

One had to grasp the fire in one’s hand, and meld that fire into a new creation. Its shape was vital to what was to come; a sword could change the future, and a shield could change it back, but both had to be created for that future to chance to come to pass. 

Celebrimbor knew the moment his experiments had gone too far.

The mouse stood up on its hind legs a moment, then scuttled away.

It was the third time this had come to pass. Three times was too many for nature’s coincidence, but he would sit and wait for there to be a fourth. 

He pulled back his chair, and sat down, propping his head upon his hands. Celebrimbor waited.

He had worked tirelessly to invent. Every metal he touched would be shaped into something new. Silver could not be simply silver, nor gold simply gold. It had to be original. 

So, Celebrimbor began to meddle. He mixed the silver and the gold, and countless other precious objects and metals. He shaped objects with mere willpower, longing for them to become what he dreamed. There were swords that flickered starlight upon the walls of a dark room, glowing with energy and tempered to a perfect smoothness. There were great helms plumed with rare feathers, that would neither scratch nor dint with an axe blow. There were necklaces emblazoned with fire and ice, set with bright stones and imbued with power.

Then, there were the rings.

Annatar had preyed on his desire to experiment. He had emerged from the fires of the forge like one of Celebrimbor’s creations, and brought him the promise of more. Vampire-like, he had fed on the smith’s desire for more mithril. Immediately he had sensed the three elven-rings were not enough, and he had promised him the chance for more.

Seven more experiments. Seven more objects to empower and bring peace. 

When he was informed by Durin of the effect of the dwarven rings, he was entirely disbelieving. Nothing of such great beauty had the power to cause true harm. The prince was mistaken.

Then came nine more experiments.

Celebrimbor had spotted the greed that ruled Annatar long before he realised whom he was truely working with. Yet, he ignored it, preferring his own company and the chance to make something new and different. Annatar did not constrain him, but allowed him the space to work. So work he did.

Hours he had spent sculpting the rings. First the stones had to be found. Then the mithril was mixed with precious metals, to the right consistency. The metals could be corrosive, or unstable, but he was practiced by now. Then, he steadily wired the rings, sculpting, weaving, braiding. The settings were elegant, and the stones fit effortlessly. Fëanor’s hammer aided the process quite nicely.

He knew now the rings would be his final experiment. 

He ran his fingers through his hair, and glanced up.

The mouse stood up on its hind legs a moment, then scuttled away.

[badwolf-gallagher88]

Day 16 - Cozy

Space was very rarely what one would call ‘cozy’. It was neither comfortable, nor particularly warm, and most things were the same three shades of silver, grey, and silver-grey.

There were none of the red brick fireplaces ablaze with logs that Holden would so fondly recollect of his childhood. He claimed the false projected versions were pathetic in comparison to the reality, yet Gunnery Sergeant Roberta Draper struggled to comprehend how fire could provide comfort.

For her, fire was always dangerous, always a threat. 

Once, in her first few months training to be a marine, the MCRN had forced the new recruits into an early morning battle sim. Most of them had been half-asleep, rubbing their dreams from their eyes, hastily pulling on clothes. She had not been able to sleep that night, so the wake-up call had not been so unwelcome. Stopped her thinking about what was next. 

She remembered little of the actual sim, but she did recollect the panic brought on by the flames. Marines weren’t meant to flinch at anything. And for the most part, no one did. Rail guns were fired, evasive manoeuvres were made, all quickly, effectively and to the point. 

Then the ceiling gave way.

Tongues of red had spilled down into the bridge, separating command from navigation and weapons. They were meant to don their power armour and continue as if nothing had happened. That she did, but she still remembered how other recruits had been reduced to nervous wrecks, or spent weeks recovering from burns.

No, fire would never be cozy.

She was coming round to the idea that space had potential to be, however. Bobbie had never felt quite so at home on any ship as on the Roci.

She suspected her time there would not be infinite, so she used every minute wisely. And watching the ship’s crew, she knew they did the same.

Alex’s pathetic attempts at cooking were not so bad as they seemed. The lasagna was edible, and seemed to encourage conversation. The subjects were banal, but not unwelcome. Holden’s tales of Earth interested her the most; the realisation of her dreams of Mars’ terraforming. She liked to listen to Alex’s stories of home too, and Amos’ grunted opinions on subjects that varied from weaponry to Naomi’s hair.

She never failed to smirk while watching Holden carefully making his coffee. He took such care in finding the perfect beans, feeding them into the processor and taking his time over the finished product. She couldn’t stomach the liquid herself, but it was nonetheless funny to watch the universe’s martyr enjoy his drink of choice.

Each day, she became more and more enamoured with the Roci’s homely atmosphere. Its crew were a family, and though she was an outsider, she still felt somewhat part of that family.

She had grown comfortable at last - cozy, even.

And if there was one thing Gunnery Sergeant Roberta Draper knew, it was that comfort was dangerous.

[badwolf-gallagher88]

Day 15 - Delicious

There was nothing quite so delicious, Sauron decided, as watching one’s enemy struggling and in pain.

Especially if said enemy was a certain she-elf, her hair tumbling down her shoulders in golden braids.

Her swordsmanship was good - even if he had not been trying to use Morgoth’s crown as a weapon in its own right, he would have needed the accursed object as a shield. He very much doubted he would have been able to hold his own against the slash of her blade if he had not seen her fight in Númenor. If he did not have nearly every step of her training routine for the Sea Guard memorised.

As he matched her step for step, the realisation suddenly hit him. The reason why her pain was so tasteful, so delicious, was because he knew exactly how to inflict it upon her. 

He scrambled away, not wishing to combat her sword strokes as he made his next move. Slowly, Sauron began to change his face.

The face that turned back to meet Galadriel’s next cut was not as it had been. Instead, the King of the Southlands returned her blow. White scale armour covered his torso, fastened with brown leather straps. His shimmering blond hair had been replaced by shoulder-length waves, though he had removed the matted blood and sweat that usually coated his body. And his eyes - his eyes were no longer the pale blue of dusky skies, but the deepest, richest brown.

Once again, he was Halbrand.

Galadriel’s look brought pure joy to his heart. He watched the effects of his actions gleefully - the mix of pleasure and pain, lust and loathing, crossed her features in moments, yet each reaction was as rewarding as the next. 

He continued to meet the volley of her blows, but the effort it took lessened considerably. She didn’t want to harm him, he slowly realised, and a knowing smirk crossed his lips. 

He had made Halbrand more comely, he had to admit. Why not have fun when you have the power to do so? Based on Galadriel’s reaction, however, he need not have tried so hard.

He had never been entirely certain of how the she-elf had regarded him. Nor he her, when rarely he was entirely honest with himself. Sometimes he suspected Halbrand was as much a tool to her as she was to Sauron. She was desperate to avenge her brother, willing to make any sacrifice.

Their time in Númenor had revealed another side to Galadriel, however. She was desperate to defend her people, yes, but only because she cared.

He suspected she probably cared about Halbrand too, even if she was rather loathe to admit it.

Sauron continued to combat her blade, the victim of a new rush of anger. She was growing clumsy, his distraction paying off. The words had dried on his lips, but his thoughts were asunder. 

There was nothing so precious as victory to Sauron. Victory drew nearer.

Oh, but to taste it on his lips. Yes…

Its taste was so very delicious. 

[badwolf-gallagher88]

*PRETTY LOOKING KEYBOARD SMASH TO DO THEM JUSTICE*

ALRIGHTY THEN

[badwolf-gallagher88]

Day 14 - Past Life

Miller wondered what the point of dreaming of a past life was, if it was just as bad as the present. 

His limbs burned. A thousand tiny pin pricks pierced his flesh. Heat coursed through his body, enflaming his throat and convulsing behind his eyes. Then the cold began, a rigid, freezing cold that spread from his toes and put his teeth on edge. 

Radiation. 

He could vaguely hear the big guy - Amos, he thought he’d heard Holden call him - muttering by his side. He was semi-aware of the med cuff being fitted to his arm, alongside the array of red symbols that decorated it. Those couldn’t be good. 

He knew now, of course, that he wasn’t going to die. But for a time, he’d been certain of it. 

His past life hadn’t been overly pleasant. He knew when most people thought of the phrase they were referring to some quasi-religious justification for self-preservation. 

Miller, on the other hand, knew his past life was on Ceres. He had been on Eros less than 24 hours, but something deep inside him recognised that those 24 hours were a kind of turning point. 

His small apartment on Ceres would be the last home he would have. Star Helix his last job. Yet, there was nothing he regretted about that past life. His rooms were dark, damp - and the damn shower… Well, Ceres never had enough water except where you didn’t want it. He’d spent too much time around dead bodies, he didn’t want his own to end mulched and feeding some Earther garden. He’d liked being a detective, he admitted, but only when he was good at it. Only in those moments when the dots connected, and he felt like throwing his hat into the air. 

Damn, he missed that hat. 

Even so, his past life was not worth regretting. Without following that path, he would never have lived to see the stars. He would have spent a few more years with Star Helix. Trained Havelock so he wasn’t quite so incompetent. Got frustrated with the OPA, got beaten up by their thugs a few more times. Attempted to drown his sorrows in drink. Ended his life floating out of an airlock or drunk on his apartment floor.

His past life was in the past. The present wasn’t much better, he admitted, but it was something. The crew of the Roci seemed to know what they were doing, and hopefully they would see him on his way. Give him a clue where he should head next, if they were so kind.

Point him in the right direction.

Yes, he thought, through the pain and blood and whatever the hell Amos was trying to say to him.

There must be some future life. 

[badwolf-gallagher88]

Day 13 - Replacing

Replacement was not a usual concern for the knight.

He had heard of Westerosi men who feared the idea with vehemence, and hunted their supposed replacements to the ends of the earth with vengeance. 

Ser Jorah was the only son of his father Jeor, so he had never felt the threat of an elder, nor younger brother. Bear Island was always going to be his - his if he hadn’t foolishly dabbled in the slave trade, that was.

The women of Bear Island were warriors, if truth be told, but female cousins were still hardly a threat. Their swords would have had to have been sharper than their tongues to truely hope to challenge his claim. 

He knew, as such, that he would not be replaced at home. He did not dream, however, that he would be replaced in exile.

The reports that reached him spoke of Ser Barristan Selmy’s rise to power. He liked the old man, respected him even, yet this change left him uneasy. He knew the older knight would give wise counsel to Daenerys, and ensure she was learned in the ways of Westeros and the Targaryens. 

Nonetheless, he would have preferred to have been at her side himself. He knew how to get the young queen to listen. He knew that even when she hadn’t wished to, she had heard his words, and acted accordingly. He feared Selmy would not be so able in his ability to impart necessary wisdoms.

The aging knight was the least of his true concerns, however. No, what Ser Jorah really feared was replacement by that damned Daario Naharis. The Tyroshi sellsword was arrogant, myopic, and mercurial.

And somehow, he had managed to leave Daenerys Targaryen absolutely besotted.

He would not stoop so low to admit that he was simply jealous, but he did envy the sellsword’s ability to garner the queen’s support. Everything he said was infallible, his every move exotic, and his preening and prancing exactly what the young queen desired.

Before his exile, Jorah had watched the way Daenerys’ eye wavered towards the Tyroshi. When it returned to himself, it was always seeking counsel, direction, advice. Never anything more. 

Yet, he had been able to step in. Keep Naharis busy, keep Dany on the task at hand. He could challenge the more foolish propositions, support the elements with value, and protect the woman he cared for.

No longer.

Now, he envisioned the queen constantly by the Tyroshi’s side. Oh, Daario, she would cry, seeking his advice in everything. Her kingdom, her lands, her men, even her body.

He did not want to be a petty man. He did not want his anger, or his jealously to fuel his actions.

But if there was one thing Ser Jorah Mormont hated, it was being replaced.

[badwolf-gallagher88]

Day 12 - Holy

If there truely were seven hells, Ser Jorah Mormont suspected he had experienced at least three of them.

He had never been a particularly holy man. Whilst he had knelt in the darkness of many a sept, he had never experienced the reverential devotion the space was supposed to conjure. He had stood vigil over his grandfather’s body in the sept on Bear Island, yet remained indifferent to its cloisters and flying buttresses. He had traipsed the halls of long dead and recently interred ancestors, and thought little of the gods who watched over him. He had placed a rich, verdant green cloak, emblazoned with rampant bear, upon his wife’s shoulders, and neither the Maiden, nor the Mother, said their thanks.

Yes, the knight thought. He was finally being punished for his lack of holiness.

The bars that caged him left barely enough space for a hand, yet the shackles that bound him prevented his even reaching past the iron prison. His neck was raw and blistered, Yunkai gold emblematising his enslavement. His ribs showed, his calloused hands bled. Yet, for Ser Jorah, this was not one of the three hells he was certain of. 

Unless, of course, it was a mysterious fourth.

The first, he knew, had been in the form of a maiden. The Maiden had sent him to the Targaryen girl to protect with honour and chivalry. The Maiden had not accounted for the fact the Targaryen girl would become Daenerys, then Dany, then his Queen.

His love, an unhelpful voice added. Yes, that too.

That hell had been simple to understand. His feelings for the girl would be thwarted at every turn, yet he must seek penance and continue to protect her. The maiden would no longer be such, she would have her sun and stars, and still the knight would watch from the shadows.

He knew the second hell to be sent him by the Mother. He had been forced to watch Daenerys become big with child. He had continued to serve her as he should, repressing the regrets and desires permanently intertwined within his heart. He repressed them until he watched her suffer. Her sun and stars dead, her son dead, and her slowly dying.

Yet again, Jorah was able to escape this hell. When she brought forth her dragons, when she named herself Khaleesi, he pledged himself to his Queen. He did not flee in fear, but stayed in loyalty, and for that the Mother of Dragons let him live.

The third hell had been the most torturous.

The Stranger had brought his own gift: estrangement. Ser Jorah’s loyalty had been reduced to nothing. He had been sent from his Queen’s sight, exiled.

Forgotten.

Her eyes had lingered too long on Daario Naharis, her Old Bear had betrayed her, and she had no patience left. So she had found the cruelest hell she could and rendered him a stranger.

His Queen had abandoned him, and Ser Jorah Mormont knew the darkest hell the Seven had to offer.

There were still four more he awaited, and the knight knew he could not bear the hells of Crone, Smith, Father and Warrior.

Ser Jorah Mormont was not a holy man.

Yet, under the Meereenese sun, wrapped in Yunkai chains, the knight began to pray.

[badwolf-gallagher88]

Star Trek: Let’s set our phasers to stun, we don’t want any unnecessary deaths to occur.

Star Wars: LETS. SHOOT. SOME. STORMTROOPERS. LETS. BLOW. EVERYTHING. UP. WOOHOO!!!

[badwolf-gallagher88]

Day 11 - Scared

He had once been told there was no fear that could not be vanquished. One could hold a sword in their hand, and defeat one’s foes. One could grasp a parchment and banish the unread and ignorant. Why, one could even mutter a few words and bring about the downfall of an enemy.

Those were the words Elrond Peredhel had believed as the leaves of Lindon began to fall. He had stood beneath the golden bows of the trees of Valinor, and had caught the greying leaves between his fingers. Deftly he had turned them, hoping to see a sign of recovery. Instead all he had seen was poison. Creeping, reaching, blood red and dangerous.

Yet, even then he had not been without hope. He had not been truely scared, simply determined. Desperate, but determined. A solution would be found.

And a solution had been. But the rings…

Oh, the rings had left him scared.

He sat under those very same trees now, watching the way their leaves tousled each other in the breeze. Water ran nearby, the stream splashing and gurgling - nature’s rhythms always continuous. Yet, Elrond could not shake the feeling something was desperately wrong. 

From the path to his right, High King Gil-Galad approached. He looked weary - older even - or as much like those two things as an immortal being could look. He was distracted, staring into the middle distance.

Elrond stood hurriedly. “High King,” he trailed off, as Gil-Galad became level with him.

The High King did not greet him, but said simply “I fear there is something unnatural at play.”

The younger elf nodded, returning to his seat. Gil-Galad continued.

“The rings, this ring, has shown me worlds I fear to come to pass. I do not doubt its truth, yet the truth it shows me leaves me uneasy.”

Elrond nodded again. He did not trust his words before the High King. The rings left Gil-Galad uneasy, yet nothing could persuade him to give them up. Elrond was frustrated by the endless cycles they treaded. He would warn Galadriel, she would not take him at his word. Gil-Galad was more tolerant, yet ultimately favoured Galadriel’s choice. The rings had restored their lives - the rings could do no wrong.

“You feel it too,” the High King murmured, coming to sit beside Elrond. “Despite your mistrust of the rings.”

Again he nodded, mistrusting his tongue.

Yes, he felt it too. He felt the way in which the edges of the world had blurred; the way in which darkness crept in from the edges. It reached and clutched at their hearts, just as the blood-red poison had leached the gold from Lindon’s trees. He had seen the way Galadriel had let the darkness touch her. He had seen how besotted she was, and he had seen how Sauron’s facade was as enchanting as his persona. The rings had guaranteed their survival, yet they had guaranteed the presence of that darkness. What had once been snow lit and ivory, now turned a swirling marble of grey, the edges tinged with black.

Elrond and Gil-Galad sat side by side, silent.

Elrond felt the darkness crash like a wave against him. And in that moment, he realised something else.

He was utterly terrified.