criticallyinneedofadar

[criticallyinneedofadar]

The Breaking of Threads

Chapter 2

Lyra stirred again to the crackle of firelight.

For a moment, she didn’t open her eyes. She was tired—tired in a way that reached deeper than her bones. Tired of waking up in strange places. Tired of having no idea where she was, or why. Tired of slipping into unconsciousness like it was some sort of cosmic reset button.

She really had to work on staying conscious.

With a quiet sigh, she opened her eyes and blinked into the flickering orange glow. Shadows danced across the bark of tall trees. She was lying on a bed of moss and leaves, nestled beside a rock in a shallow grove just off a narrow road. It was night now. The stars blinked above through the tree branches, and somewhere beyond the glen, an owl called once and fell silent.

A small fire burned a few paces away.

And there—seated before it, pipe in hand, as though this were the most natural thing in the world—was Gandalf.

He was packing the bowl of his pipe with a pinch of dried herb, humming softly to himself in some language she didn’t recognize. When he noticed her stirring, he glanced over and gave a small nod of approval.

“Ah. Awake again,” he said. “That’s good. You gave me a bit of a worry there.”

Lyra sat up slowly, her muscles stiff and her shoulder still sore from the fight. “How long was I out this time?”

“Not long,” Gandalf replied. “You lost consciousness when the pain caught up with you. It happens. A knock to the side, a spill against the rock. You’ll bruise, but you’ll live.”

Lyra made a face and flexed her fingers. “Wonderful.”

Gandalf struck a match against a flat stone and lit his pipe. The scent that rose was surprisingly pleasant—earthy, spiced, calming. It curled into the air like a sigh.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Still near the East Road, not far from the borders of the Shire. This little nook seemed a fair enough spot for resting. The trees here are kindly, and the stones remember old silence.”

Lyra stared at him, blinking. “The stones… remember?”

He puffed his pipe thoughtfully. “You’ll find that the world speaks more than you’re used to, if you’re willing to listen.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready to listen to anything,” she muttered. “Everything already feels like it’s shouting at me.”

There was a pause. Gandalf leaned back on one hand and looked at her more closely. “You truly don’t know how you came here, do you?”

“No.” Her throat tightened. “One moment I was in my living room, and then I was… somewhere else. And now here.”

He nodded slowly. “I felt it. When I came upon you in the glen. Something not of this world. Something—woven. I cannot say by whose hand, but the thread is bright. You are not meant for this land, and yet you are here.”

“Brilliant,” Lyra said, hugging her knees to her chest. “That’s just what I needed to hear.”

There was silence between them, filled only by the quiet hiss of the fire.

And then the panic hit.

It crept in slowly—first as a cold in her fingers, then a flutter in her chest. And then it bloomed fully: They don’t know where I am.

“My world…” she breathed. “They’ll think I vanished. They’ll call the police, search the woods, check the hospitals—I just disappeared, and they won’t know why.”

Gandalf’s brows drew together. “Your family will do their best to find you, I am sure.”

“I don’t have family,” she snapped, the words cutting sharper than she meant. Her voice cracked. “I have a cat. A stupid, spoiled, neurotic cat who hates everyone but me. And she’s going to be hungry, and alone, and think I left her.”

To her surprise, Gandalf laughed—a deep, amused, genuine laugh that echoed through the trees like warm bells.

“A cat!” he said, smiling around the stem of his pipe. “That’s what you mourn most?”

“She’s the only one I had left,” Lyra said softly.

He sobered at that, watching her through the rising smoke.

“If you were meant to come here,” he said, “then I believe things in your world will shift to meet the absence you left behind. Sometimes, when the world moves strangely, it leaves kindness in its wake.”

Lyra stared into the fire. “What if no one even notices I’m gone?”

“Then perhaps,” Gandalf said gently, “there is something here worth being found by instead.”

She didn’t reply. Her mind was full of questions, scattered thoughts that seemed to vanish as she tried to snatch them.

The fire cracked.

Gandalf looked at her with something like quiet certainty. “There is a purpose to your presence here. I do not know what it is. But I feel it in the wind. In the way the world tenses around you. There is a thread running from you that has not yet been tied.”

Gandalf took a long draw from his pipe, then exhaled a stream of smoke shaped vaguely like a ship with sails.

“You could look at it this way,” he said, his voice low and companionable. “Whatever force pulled you here didn’t mean to leave you stranded. It set you down neatly by the road, wrapped you in starlight, and placed you directly in the path of a wizard. That hardly seems accidental.”

Lyra raised an eyebrow. “So I should be… what? Grateful?”

“Not grateful,” he said. “But perhaps… curious. The world has a way of unfolding toward those who move forward with purpose. Trust your instincts. Something wants you somewhere. You just have to find where that is.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So she did neither. Instead, she let herself lean back against the stone and tipped her head toward the canopy above.

“We’ll rest here tonight,” Gandalf said. “It’s a gentle place, and the night will keep to itself. At first light, we’ll head into the Shire.”

“The Shire,” she repeated, almost numbly.

He grinned. “I’m expected at a party.”

“A party,” Lyra echoed. “Of course you are.”

“It’s a very notable one,” he said with some pride. “Marigold Tunnelly Brambleburrow is celebrating her seventy-seventh birthday. There will be dancing and rhubarb pie and far more pipeweed than is entirely proper.”

“Marigold Tunnelly… Brambleburrow?” Lyra repeated, lips twitching. “That sounds like someone who bakes excellent scones and has Opinions about butter.”

“You’re not far off. She’s a good sort—stubborn, bright, fiercely kind. She married into the Brambleburrow family, and their hole is practically overflowing with cousins. She’ll be able to help you into some clothing better suited to wandering.”

Lyra glanced down at her own clothes. Her oversized sweatshirt hung oddly on her frame now, and the leggings she'd once bought to "stretch and breathe" now sagged slightly at the knees.

“It wasn’t exactly a planned wardrobe,” she muttered.

Gandalf chuckled. “No, I suppose not. You wear it like armor, though—stubborn and soft all at once.”

He tapped out his pipe, then went still.

After a moment, he turned to look at her more closely. “You never told me your name.”

Lyra blinked. “Oh.”

A strange shiver went through her. Something about the question felt too large.

But she answered.

“Lyra.”

She didn’t offer a surname. She wasn’t sure it would matter here.

Gandalf tilted his head. “Lyra,” he repeated. “A star’s name. Fitting.”

She furrowed her brow. “Why fitting?”

But he only smiled and rose to his feet, reaching into a leather satchel. “Are you hungry?”

She didn’t answer right away. Because standing, she realized something felt off—again. Her body felt smaller than it had before. Lighter. Her center of gravity had changed, and the world suddenly looked taller.

She stood.

And gasped.

“What in the hell—” she looked down at herself, eyes wide. Her legs, her hands, her entire frame—everything was shorter. She reached for her jacket and held it out—far too long in the sleeves now, her hands swallowed by fabric. She turned in a circle, almost stumbling.

“I’ve shrunk!”

Gandalf, who had produced a small pouch of dried berries and a hunk of stale bread, gave her a sympathetic look. “Yes, I rather suspected.”

She rounded on him. “You suspected? And you didn’t say anything?!”

“Well,” he said, rubbing his beard, “you had quite a lot on your mind. I thought it best not to add to the list.”

Lyra opened and closed her mouth, utterly at a loss. “How much?”

“Ten inches, give or take.”

She stared. “I was five-six. That makes me—what, four-eight now?!”

He offered her a berry.

She ignored it. “I’m tiny.”

“You’re still taller than most hobbits.”

“I wasn’t a hobbit!”

“I never said you were,” Gandalf replied mildly. “Though I had to consider the possibility. You’re not nearly hairy enough about the feet, of course—and your soles wouldn’t last a half-mile barefoot. But still.”

Lyra stared at him in horror.

“Then I wondered if you might be a dwarf,” he went on, unbothered. “You’ve the temperament for it. Sharp and spirited. But you lack the… stoutness around the middle. And there’s not even a whisper of facial hair.”

A flicker of memory cut across her mind—the rogues in the road. One of them leering, calling her a dwarven lady.

Her stomach twisted.

“No,” Gandalf finished. “You are not quite either. Nor elf, nor orc, nor man.”

He looked at her again—truly looked—his bright eyes flickering like coals.

“So what, then, I wonder… are you?”

…..

The fire had long since burned down to embers.

Gandalf snored gently from his corner of the glen, one hand still loosely curled around his staff, his hat tilted forward over his eyes. Lyra sat with her knees drawn up to her chest, cloaked in an oversized coat that didn’t belong to her and a silence that did.

She couldn’t sleep.

It wasn’t just the hardness of the ground or the unfamiliar stars—it was the hollow feeling in her chest. That sense of absence. Like a word left off the end of a sentence. Like waking up from a dream that had mattered deeply, but dissolved the moment her eyes opened.

Something was missing.

She didn’t know what.

A memory, maybe. A name. A person. No matter how hard she reached for it, her mind slid past it like oil on glass.

It was maddening.

Her chest ached, but she couldn’t say why. The pain was real—it pulsed with her heartbeat—but it had no source she could point to. Just a heaviness, like she was carrying grief she had no story for.

Whatever she had lost… she knew this much:

She had loved it.

Loved them.

She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, curling against the earth as the night wore on. Her body still felt foreign. Shorter. Lighter. Looser in the joints, as if she’d been reshaped without permission. The grass whispered against her cheeks in a voice she didn’t recognize.

She blinked up at the stars.

They were different here.

Closer. Brighter. Older.

But one of them—just one—shimmered with a cold blue clarity that stirred something deep within her. Like a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Like the very edge of a memory that refused to step forward.

For a fleeting moment, she felt less alone.

Then the wind shifted. Morning crept into the sky like a secret.

And the world moved on.

[criticallyinneedofadar]

The Breaking of Threads

Chapter 1

Author's Note: This story has been in my head for over 8 years, it's a long one guys. But the good new is it's already written! I'm just editing as I go along so updates should be fairly frequent!

Pairing: Thorin x OC!Reader

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

Three Years Earlier

There is a place beyond the circles of the world, where no sun rises and no shadow falls—only endless light and endless silence. It is not for the living to know, save in dreams or death, and even then, few remember.

The Halls of Mandos.

Here, the spirits of Elves rest in waiting, and the echoes of the world’s sorrow drift like snow upon the windless air. There are no walls, yet the space is bounded. No doors, yet none may enter unbidden. The light is neither day nor flame, but something older, deeper, woven from thought and memory and the will of Ilúvatar.

Within these halls, two of the Valar walked alone.

Nienna, Lady of Mercy, moved with the stillness of mourning rain. Her eyes were veiled, though she wept not now. She had wept long, and her tears had carved quiet paths through ages unnumbered. Grief clung to her as a mantle, and yet there was no weakness in her—only patience, and the strength of one who has borne the sorrow of all things and still stands.

Beside her walked Irmo, whom Men name Lórien, master of dreams and visions. He was as a breeze in a sleeping forest—gentle, elusive, but filled with vast and knowing silence. His thoughts drifted like leaves, and yet in his gaze burned the clarity of starlight.

They passed beneath an arch of singing silver, where no mouth moved and no breath stirred, and paused before the Veil of Fate—the place where the Music of the Ainur still echoes, hidden in the threads of the world.

“He mourns them already,” Nienna said at last, her voice as soft as distant water. “Though they yet live.”

Irmo inclined his head. “He feels it in the roots of the stone. The fall of his firstborn craft. The breaking of Durin’s line.”

“Aulë loves all his children, but the Dwarves were his first sorrow. He does not forget.”

“No,” Irmo agreed. “Nor do we. Yet what can be done?”

There was a pause. The Veil shimmered—images glinting like motes in a beam of light. Mountains, fire, war. Gold and ruin. The shadow of a dragon. The mourning of a king.

And one face that did not belong.

A woman—strange, still, unknown. Neither of this world nor shaped by its song.

Nienna’s gaze lingered on her.

“She does not belong here,” Irmo said quietly.

“No,” said Nienna. “But she weeps in her sleep. And listens, even when no voice speaks. Perhaps that is enough.”

Irmo considered. “Eru forbade it.”

“He forbade the sight of other realms. Not mercy.”

“And what is this, if not interference?”

Nienna turned. “A kindness. A small defiance, for the sake of love.”

He did not answer at once. Then, softly:

“Would you change the Music?”

“No,” she said. “Only… add a harmony where dissonance will soon reign.”

They stood in silence once more. Then Irmo raised a hand, and the Veil parted slightly. Beyond it, in the distant folds of another world, a woman named Lyra walked beneath gray skies, unaware that fate had turned its eye upon her.

Nienna closed her eyes.

“Let her come.”

…..

Lyra often felt like she was made for a world that no longer existed.

Not in the grand, dramatic sense—she wasn’t born in the wrong century, or dreaming of castles and corsets-though let’s be real, who would turn down a castle? But there was something about the hum of modern life, all its noise and momentum, that made her feel like she’d been left behind in the rush. Too slow. Too still.

She worked. She cleaned. She called in prescriptions. She picked up dry cereal for her sister, who always forgot breakfast. She kept the kitchen quiet after 9 PM because her sister’s migraines were getting worse. And she read. Lord, how she read.

Her copy of The Silmarillion was more annotation than paper now. Pages worn soft at the edges, corners turned, spines re-glued more than once. The Unfinished Tales lived under her pillow. And The Return of the King—her third copy, the one with gilded edges and onion-thin paper—had wept beneath her tears more times than she could count.

She never thought of herself as particularly brave or adventurous. But there was something about Tolkien’s world—its pain, its quiet valor, its long, slow sadness—that mirrored something inside her she didn’t know how to name.

And then there was her sister.

Clara.

Bright-eyed, sardonic, brilliant Clara who once played violin on street corners and now refused to go outside unless it was cloudy. Some autoimmune thing the doctors couldn’t agree on. Chronic fatigue. Something systemic and cruel. Lyra had never asked too many questions. She just… stayed. Learned how to help. How to care.

It was only the two of them now. Their mother had been gone for years, and their father had left long before that—if not in body, then in every other way.

Clara needed her.

And Lyra needed Clara.

It made her world small, but safe. Books, tea, the low hum of old music. Her sister’s laughter on good days. The silent steadiness of love on the bad ones.

That night, Clara had already gone to bed—too tired to talk, her limbs aching again. Lyra sat curled up on the old couch with a blanket across her lap and The Silmarillion open in one hand. She wasn’t reading, not really. Just rereading the part about Lúthien and Beren. Again.

She thought of Clara sometimes when she read about Lúthien—someone who shone even in stillness, who endured what others could not.

Outside the window, the stars flickered behind the trees. A late summer wind brushed against the glass.

She turned the page—and sleep crept in like a shadow.

…..

The floor beneath her shifted.

She was standing, barefoot, in a place that was not her living room.

There was no ceiling. No walls. No sky—only mist and light and the breathless sense that something ancient was watching.

Before her stood a woman, veiled in gray and moonlight, though no features could be seen. Yet the sorrow that radiated from her struck Lyra like cold water down the spine.

“Where—” Lyra began, then stopped.

Her voice sounded small here. Smaller than usual.

The woman did not move, but a voice—soft and endless—filled the air around her.

“Why do you grieve?”

Lyra blinked. “I don’t. I mean—” She paused. “I suppose I do. But so does everyone, mine is not special.”

“It is. Your sorrow echoes in more than one world.”

That made no sense.

But dreams rarely did.

She did not move, but Lyra felt watched—not unkindly, but with the weight of an understanding too deep to explain.

“I must be dreaming,” Lyra murmured.

“You are,” said the voice—not heard aloud, but felt deep within her chest. “And you are not. A mirror has two sides, and both are the reflection.”

Lyra frowned. “I’ve had vivid dreams before. This is just stress. Or exhaustion. Maybe both.”

The figure didn’t reply.

A kind of pressure filled the air, like the stillness before a storm. And with it, something stirred in Lyra’s chest. A sense of… loss. Of being pulled from something important. Someone.

She pressed a hand to her heart.

“I feel like I’ve forgotten something,” she said quietly.

“Not forgotten,” said the voice. “Only left behind.”

It wasn’t quite memory—more like a shadow of one. A face blurred by distance. Music from another room.

Lyra closed her eyes. She could feel the shape of someone’s laughter if she reached for it, hear a voice that once fit beside her own. Someone had braided her hair once. Someone had cried into her shirt. Someone had said I love you and meant it.

But the name wouldn’t come.

“She matters to you,” said the figure beside her. “The one you cannot name here.”

Lyra’s voice caught. “Yes.”

“Would you carry her absence, if it meant others could be spared sorrow like yours?”

She hesitated.

Then, slowly, she looked down at her hands—calloused now, smudged with travel and wear. "Why are you asking me that? I’m not anyone. I can’t…”

There was silence, soft as snowfall.

“You think small of yourself,” said the figure. “But even the quietest soul carries weight. And you—Lyra of the other world—yours is heavy with love.”

A flicker of memory rose then, sharp and golden.

Clara’s arms wrapped around her after the accident. The way her voice cracked when she said, I need you to stay.

Lyra flinched. Her heart clenched like something caught between gears.

“I can give her something better,” the figure said. “Not healing—no. That is not the path laid for her. But ease. Kindness. A life with less pain. A home with more light. All of it can be hers.”

Lyra looked up, eyes wide. “But she won’t remember me?”

“No,” the figure said gently. “And neither will you.”

There was a beat. Then another.

And then something in Lyra snapped.

“You’ve already done it,” she said, her voice cracking with fury. “Haven’t you?”

The figure said nothing.

“You’re taking her from me,” she said, louder now. “She’s still alive, and you’re ripping her out of me like she never existed!”

A surge of heat rose behind her eyes, wild and sudden. Her fists clenched at her sides. “You can’t just—take her. You can’t just undo her.”

Light flickered within the flowing robe, almost imperceptibly. “She is not undone.”

“She is,” Lyra hissed. “It’s already happened. I can't hear her laugh. I can't remember the shape of her hands. Her name was on my tongue and now it's gone.”

The fear hit next, a cold wave behind the anger. Her breath caught.

If this being could erase Clara—this fundamental, sacred part of her—without warning, what else could she lose? Who else?

“What are you?” she whispered, stepping back. “What are you?”

“I am sorrow,” the figure said, calm and eternal. “And mercy.”

“Then show some,” Lyra spat.

But her voice faltered.

Because beneath the anger, beneath the fear, a deeper truth curled itself like a thorn in her chest:

If forgetting meant peace for Clara—real peace—could she bear to remember alone?

“You would keep the love,” the figure said softly. “It would remain in your bones. But not its name. Not its face.”

Lyra’s hands trembled. Her voice was quiet now. “I don’t want to forget her.”

“And yet,” said the Valar, stepping nearer, “you want her to be free.”

The ache was unbearable now. Nauseating.

“She has suffered enough,” the figure said. “You would not have found your way here if you did not believe that. You would not have been chosen.”

Lyra’s legs felt unsteady. Like the ground beneath her had shifted. Like something vital was already missing.

And in that emptiness, Clara’s voice echoed again—soft, broken, fading.

I need you to stay.

“You feel the weight of the world, even when it does not notice you.”

She sneered, “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“It is a truth.”

The light around them brightened—not harsh, but vast and endless. She felt suddenly small. Unseen. Meaningless in this harsh landscape.

“There is a place where you are needed,” said the voice. “A thread not yet woven. A chance that has not yet been taken.”

Lyra stepped back instinctively—but there was no ground to hold her.

“I’m not the kind of person who—” she began, and then stopped. The words fell flat.

“You fear you are not brave,” said the voice, soft as a lullaby.

“I know I’m not,” Lyra whispered.

The figure tilted her head, as if listening to something far away. Then, almost kindly:

“You are not asked to be fearless. Only to be willing.”

Before she could reply the light surged, filling her vision.

And everything else fell away.

…..

The glen was quiet.

Lyra sat up slowly, her head spinning. The air smelled of pine and damp earth—crisp and clean, like the first morning of the world. Sunlight filtered through tall trees, casting shifting golden patterns across the mossy ground.

She blinked hard, once, twice.

It didn’t make sense.

She looked down at her hands. Her sleeves hung looser than usual. Her boots were slightly too large. The earth felt strange beneath her—too low, somehow. As if gravity itself had shifted.

It was a dream. That was the only explanation. She must’ve fallen asleep on the couch again. That’s what this was. A forest dream. She’d read about Doriath or the woods near Rivendell and now her brain was piecing together some immersive dreamscape. That had to be it.

And yet…

The trees didn’t feel like a dream. They felt old. Real. Not conjured by the subconscious, but carved by time.

A rustle of movement snapped her head toward the tree line.

There—stepping through the ferns, leaning on a wooden staff, came an old man in a grey cloak and wide-brimmed hat. His beard was long and grey, his boots muddied, and his expression curious beneath the brim of his hat.

He paused when he saw her.

“Well,” he said, his voice deep and amused. “This is a rare thing indeed.”

Lyra stared.

Something in her head gave a jolt. She didn’t know his face—not really—but something about him felt known. Like a warmth on a winter morning. Like a voice heard long ago.

She gripped the edge of her too-loose jacket. “Right,” she murmured. “Dream wizard.”

He chuckled lightly. “If that is what you believe, you are welcome to keep believing it. Dreams are safer company than the world, I find.”

“I’m asleep,” she said quickly, more to herself than to him. “I must be. Because you’re not real. None of this is real.”

“Isn’t it?” He tilted his head. “And yet here we both are. Curious, isn’t it?”

She took a step back. “No offense, but I don’t usually dream about strange forests and… wandering fantasy gamers.”

The wizard looked delighted. “Gamers?”

“Never mind.” Lyra ran a hand through her hair, only to find her fingers catching on a different texture—thicker, rougher. Not her usual curls. She froze.

The old man’s eyes twinkled. “You’ll find things may not be quite what you left behind. Dreams are like that. Sometimes, they show you what you truly are.”

Lyra narrowed her eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Only a little.”

He turned, as if to walk away, then glanced over his shoulder.

“Well, are you coming?” he asked. “The path is safer with two.”

Lyra hesitated.

Logic told her none of this was real. She’d wake up on the couch, probably with a stiff neck and her cat knocking over a water glass.

But her feet moved anyway. She followed him into the trees.

…..

Lyra had never dreamed anything quite so detailed before.

The glen, the light, the birdsong—they lingered even after she began walking. The dream refused to dissolve the way dreams usually did. No jump-cuts. No surreal edges. Just long stretches of forest trail under her boots and the company of a wizard who, apparently, didn't know how to give a straight answer.

“I don’t suppose you have a map,” Lyra asked as they crested a hill, brushing a hand against a bramble-thick hedgerow.

“A map?” His bushy eyebrows lifted. “Of the dream you mean?”

“Sure,” she said dryly. “Dream cartography. Seems legit.”

He chuckled, and his walking stick thumped along the dirt path. “Alas, dreams rarely come with such conveniences. But the road always leads somewhere. Especially when it’s not trying to avoid you.”

Lyra narrowed her eyes. “That sounds like an answer, but I’m not sure to what.”

“Precisely!” he said cheerfully.

They walked on.

To her credit, Lyra adjusted quickly. That was one of her better traits: when reality shifted, she played along until the rules made sense. She had done it after her mother died. After her father left. When every other "normal" cracked beneath her.

And now, here she was, taking long strides to keep up with a wizard she half-suspected was plucked straight from The Fellowship of the Ring—though the resemblance wasn’t exact. His face was less Ian McKellen, more... timeless. Kind. Sharpened by secrets.

“So,” she ventured, “do all my dreams include folklore wizards and fairytale woods, or is this just a special occasion?”

The old man gave a considering hum. “I do make rare appearances in people’s dreams. Usually at times of transition. Great turning points.”

“Like a sleep-deprived internal crisis?”

“Something of the sort.”

They shared a stretch of companionable silence.

“How far are we walking?” she asked eventually.

“Not far,” he said. “We’re headed west. A celebration draws near.”

Lyra blinked. “A party? In my dream?”

“A very good one,” He assured her. “I’m expected. Fireworks and all.”

She almost laughed. “Of course there are fireworks. What’s a dream wizard without pyrotechnics?”

They crested another hill just as the sky began to tint orange with the approach of dusk. Far off, Lyra could just make out rolling green fields—and beyond that, something quaint and quiet nestled among the hills.

“That’s…” she frowned. “Are those hobbit holes?”

“If you like.”

She squinted. “Okay, that’s a little on the nose, don’t you think?”

But he only smiled.

They turned down a narrower lane, and the trees grew sparser, the land more open. Lyra had just begun to wonder if the dream might let her taste hobbit food when she heard the voices.

Rough. Male. Laughter that didn’t belong to anything kind.

Three men stood ahead, near a bend in the path—dusty travelers, armed with knives and clubs that looked too worn to be ceremonial. One leaned against a cart with a bored expression; the other two stood in the middle of the road.

Her companions posture changed almost imperceptibly. “If you would be so kind as to stand behind me,” he murmured.

Lyra nodded at once. “Gladly.”

He stepped forward with a calm that surprised her.

“Good evening, friends,” he said warmly. “The road is wide, and it seems you have taken up a great portion of it. Perhaps you’ll allow us to pass?”

One of the men straightened. He had crooked teeth and small eyes that glittered unpleasantly. “Passin’ ain’t free these days.”

“We’re but two travelers,” The wizard said. “And not carrying much of value. You’d do better to rob elsewhere.”

“Maybe,” said the leader, “but I’ve never had the chance to meet a dwarven lady before.” His eyes slid to Lyra. “Always wondered what they were like.”

The air changed. Cold. Tight.

The old man’s expression sharpened into something steel-hard.

“That,” he said, “was very impolite.”

The man smirked. “Just talkin’, old man.”

Then the fight broke.

It wasn’t like the brawls she’d seen on television or in movies—no slow motion, no choreography. Just noise and violence. The man moved with startling agility for someone his age, swinging his staff in powerful arcs that knocked weapons from hands and sent men sprawling. Light flared at the tip once—just briefly—and one attacker cried out, clutching his face.

But there were three of them.

And one of them grabbed her.

Lyra struggled. She elbowed him in the ribs—hard—and screamed. His grip shifted, trying to hold her tighter. Her knee slammed into his thigh. He cursed and dragged her sideways, and they both fell hard against the packed earth. Her shoulder slammed into a rock, and pain blossomed down her side.

Then he was gone—flung backward by a sudden surge of force she couldn’t explain.

The man in gray stood above them, staff glowing faintly, his cloak torn and his eyes storm-bright.

It was over.

The men scrambled to flee—limping, cursing, vanishing down the hill with bruised pride and empty hands.

Silence settled again.

Lyra stayed where she was, heart pounding. Her arm throbbed. Her shoulder ached. There was blood on her sleeve. Not a lot, but enough.

She stared at it.

Then she looked up at the man, and the world tilted.

She could smell the smoke from the cart’s broken wheel. She could feel dirt caked beneath her fingernails. She could feel pain.

Real pain.

“This…” she whispered. “This isn’t a dream.”

The wizard knelt beside her, his tone gentler now. “No. It is not.”

She drew a shaky breath. “Then where the hell am I?”

He gave her a long, searching look.

And for once, he did not answer with a riddle.

“My name is Gandalf, Gandalf the Gray, and though I do not know how you came to be here, you are in the lands of Eriador, just on the edges of the Shire.”

[criticallyinneedofadar]

The Breaking of Threads

Prologue

A hush lay upon the ruined stones of Dale. The wind had stilled. Smoke drifted skyward from the chimneys of Lake Town on the horizon, and the mountain loomed behind them like a shadow cast into eternity.

She stood at the edge of it all, the hem of her cloak brushing the ash, her eyes bright with sorrow. Before her, the Company waited in confusion, some in anger, others in aching silence. But none more silent than he.

Thorin Oakenshield did not speak. Not at first.

His gaze was fixed upon her, as if she were some dream that had slipped between his fingers. The weight of the oncoming battle hung from his shoulders, but this—this was the wound that cut deepest. She saw it in his eyes.

Beside her stood a figure cloaked in light—neither man nor woman, clothed not in fabric but in radiance, shaped as though the stars themselves had woven form and purpose into one.

“This is the hour,” said the being. The voice echoed in the stillness like the breath of a mountain. “The thread is severed. The time has come.”

She did not speak.

Thorin took one step forward, and the pain in his voice struck her like a blow.

“You would leave us now?” he said. “After all we have endured? After all that you have done?”

She could not lift her eyes to meet his.

“You stood with us,” he said, louder now, disbelief bleeding into fury. “You stood beside me at the gates. You gave hope where none could be found. And now—now you turn away?”

The light at her feet began to glow, creeping outward in a silent tide. She could feel it gathering, reaching for her soul like the tide pulling from shore.

Thorin surged forward—but a hand caught his arm.

Bilbo.

He said no word. There were tears on his face, but he only shook his head and held fast to Thorin’s cloak with both hands, his grip fierce for one so small.

“Let go of me!” Thorin snarled, trying to wrench free.

But Bilbo would not.

The others remained still, stunned. Grief sat heavy upon the Company, but it was Thorin’s voice that broke it all apart.

“No!” he roared, struggling in vain. “Do not do this!”

Her name left his mouth then—a cry torn from deep within, echoing across the stones, filled with everything he could not say.

And she heard it.

It hollowed her. Shattered her.

But the light had risen past her hands now, past her heart, until the world was nothing but white. The wind returned, keening through the ruins.

And when it passed—

She was gone.

[criticallyinneedofadar]

I can't keep falling for older men with salt and pepper hair, beard, glasses and sad brown puppy eyes... RELEASE ME PLEASE

[criticallyinneedofadar]

Noah Wyle if you don’t get a fucking Emmy for this shit I’m gonna lose my GOTDAM MIND

[criticallyinneedofadar]

Across Time

Chapter 1

This is the first chapter of the rewrite. As a reminder, if you are looking for the original version it can be found here.

Pairing: Adar x OC Umbreth

Summary: Umbreth was once an elf born under the starlit skies of Valinor, but Morgoth’s cruelty has forged her into a creature of shadow and deceit. Now, torn between half-remembered light and the demands of a dark master, she navigates a fortress where evil holds every secret in its iron grip.

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Sunlight glimmered upon the crystal shores, and gentle waves whispered secrets against the sand. Althaen stood at the water’s edge, marveling at the soft radiance of Valinor’s sky. She could still feel the salt breeze on her skin, auburn hair brushing her cheek. No shadows loomed there, no hint of the darkness that would later claim her.

A voice called out from behind: warm, resonant, and full of promise. “Althaen, come, the light is changing!” She turned to see a figure silhouetted against the brilliance—an old friend, laughter on his lips, beckoning for her to join in the day’s simple joys. That laughter had once made her heart lift, reminding her that there was music in every breath, every ripple of water. Back then, she had never known fear.

Abruptly, the memory shattered like glass. Harsh torchlight and the stench of sulfur replaced the clean scent of the sea. Althaen—no, she was no longer called by that name. She was Umbreth here. She sat bolt upright, lungs straining in the stagnant air of Morgoth’s domain. A cringing servant stood at the entrance to her chamber, head bowed to avoid meeting her eyes.

“My lady,” he muttered, anxiousness creeping into his voice. “Lord Morgoth summons you.”

She rose in silence, the edges of her faded memory still cutting deep. Once, she had carried only warmth in her heart, her steps as light as her spirit. Now, every breath tasted of dust and ash, and her eyes shone not with wonder but with the threat of chaos. It struck her how far she had fallen—how easily she had cast aside the name Althaen for Umbreth, and with it, all that was pure and whole.

Yet she did not linger on regret. Not anymore. Without a word, she followed the servant, each footstep echoing a truth she could never erase: she was forever changed—and it was far too late to turn back.

*****

Umbreth entered Morgoth’s hall with measured steps, the air so thick with dread it nearly weighed down her lungs. Torches lined the walls, flames guttering with each tremor of the mountain beneath Angband. Their light never reached the throne’s dais, leaving the figure perched there in an unsettling half-glow. Even from a distance, Umbreth felt Morgoth’s presence like a tidal surge threatening to pull her under.

His form was impossibly beautiful, every line a tribute to the power he commanded. The perfect curve of cheekbones, hair darker than the Void, and skin that appeared as though it might refract the faint light in crystalline brilliance. It was a loveliness that repulsed her now. He had once whispered promises of a sanctuary from the suffocating light of the Valar, a place to live without restraint. But this hall stank of decay and despair—no haven, only a twisted echo of what he had dangled before her.

She bowed low, gaze dropping to the black stone beneath her feet. A single breath was all she managed before Morgoth’s voice rang out—a deceptively gentle sound, high and lilting, sweet as venom.

“Umbreth,” he said, elongating the syllables like a lullaby. “I have been waiting.”

She sank to one knee, careful to keep her posture humble. “My lord, I—”

He cut her off, letting out a light laugh that was far too musical. “You have been idle. Surely you found some diversion in the shadows to occupy your time?”

Umbreth did not risk meeting his eyes. “I was—”

Another interruption, a sharp twist to his otherwise soothing tone. “You were doing as I bid. Yes, of course.” He seemed amused by her attempts at explanation. “And now you will do more.”

A wave of his hand summoned a servant from the darkness, carrying a twisted bit of metal that resembled a scroll holder. Umbreth raised her gaze just enough to watch the object pass from hand to hand, eventually offered up toward her. She waited, unmoving, until Morgoth himself grew impatient.

“Well?” he prompted, his voice cool. “Come, child. Take it.”

She rose and stepped forward, palms outstretched to accept the strange holder. Its surface felt frigid, as though carved from the heart of a glacier. She curled her fingers around it, bracing for more of his clipped orders.

“There are elves encamped two days’ ride south of here,” Morgoth said, this time in that almost-kind tone that froze her spine. “They have been foolish enough to correspond with others of their kind—exchanging plans, no doubt, to challenge my designs.”

He reclined in his throne, long, graceful fingers tapping the armrest. “You will retrieve those scrolls. No one must see you. Make no sound. Bring them to me unopened.”

She swallowed. “Yes, my lor—”

“Yes,” he repeated breezily, cutting her off again. “Yes, you will.”

Then came a subtle, dangerous edge to his words: “Fail me, and we will have to see if Umbreth can be replaced.”

That cool, mocking statement coiled around her heart. Umbreth bowed her head once more, recognizing the threat. In a motion of forced calm, she slipped the metal holder beneath her cloak. She felt eyes on her—Morgoth’s gaze, amused and expectant.

And so, with a final murmured obedience, Umbreth left the throne room, her thoughts heavy with the knowledge that once again she would walk among her former kin, though she no longer belonged to them.

Umbreth moved through the cavern storehouse with brisk efficiency. Stacks of crude crates and barrels lined the walls, containing all manner of weaponry, rations, and foul-smelling tinctures. Uruks milled about, barking at one another or loitering in tight clusters. They paid her little heed; most had learned it was unwise to cross Morgoth’s top spy, despite her slight elven frame.

Torchlight flickered across the cavern walls, casting jagged shadows that danced like specters. The guttural chanting of nearby Uruks echoed through the corridors—raw, rhythmic calls rising and falling in ominous unison. Umbreth paused by a crate, testing its heft. Her arms still ached from prior abuses, but she forced herself to appear calm. Morgoth had granted her another mission, and she refused to depart unprepared.

She was no stranger to this harsh domain, this reek of sulfur and sweat. The thought pricked an old wound, reminding her of how different she once had been: Althaen, the swift elven scout. A lifetime ago. That name and its glow belonged to a world she could barely recall. Morgoth had broken her, piece by piece, forging her into something unrecognizable. The madness might have been there from the start, or perhaps it was merely a seed he’d planted. She no longer cared which was true.

“Still watching from the shadows, I see.”

The low, cutting voice startled her. It was rare anyone crept up on her unannounced—rarer still to provoke that flutter in her chest. Umbreth turned sharply, her gaze catching the figure stepping from the entrance of the storehouse. An elf, tall and lean, with dark hair that fell neatly around patrician features. His skin was free of the deep scars she bore; in him, Morgoth’s cruelty had not manifested as rending flesh but as a different kind of corruption.

Sauron.

She had sensed the swirl of dark power around him from the moment he arrived in Morgoth’s domain, still wearing an almost deceptively fair form. He might have claimed to be an ally, but Umbreth recognized him for what he was: a power-hungry spirit bound to Morgoth, far more cunning than any Uruk could hope to be.

Sauron let his eyes wander over the scattered supplies. “Preparing for a journey?” His voice rang clear, near-musical in the cavern’s gloom.

Umbreth shrugged, returning her attention to the crate in front of her. “Orders,” she said curtly.

His lips curved in a smile that never reached his eyes. “I admire your efficiency, if nothing else. Our master does value competence—especially from those with… unique methods.”

She said nothing to that. Instead, she hefted another bundle of rations onto the crate, ignoring the flare of pain in her arm. The Uruks’ chanting thundered anew in a nearby corridor, and she felt Sauron’s gaze sweep over them with a detached interest.

“Morgoth’s twisted creations,” she muttered, watching a few lumbering forms pass in the distance. “They serve their purpose, but little else. I can’t say I have any affection for them.”

The edges of Sauron’s smile tightened. “Nor do I. Yet they are tools in our master’s arsenal—necessary ones. As are we.”

Umbreth huffed, her tone turning bitter. “We? Speak for yourself. I bring chaos. Morgoth values chaos. That is what I am.”

He stepped closer, and she fought the urge to recoil. Sauron’s presence was insidious: part graceful elf, part roiling darkness. “Chaos,” he said softly, “is only power unbound. But power demands structure, control. Morgoth sees that—eventually, so should you.”

She felt the faint tremor of rage stirring inside her, the same madness stoked by centuries of torment. “Control,” she repeated with a humorless laugh. “Spoken like a strategist. That’s your talent, isn’t it? Shaping all that raw potential into something you can wield.”

Sauron inclined his head, conceding the point without argument. “It’s done me well enough. And I suspect your… unpredictability has served our master too.” His gaze settled on her with unsettling intensity. “Though I wonder, does it serve you?”

Umbreth straightened, jaw clenching. “I do what I must. Morgoth is all that remains for me.”

He made a thoughtful sound but said nothing to dispute it. A ripple of dark hair shifted over his shoulder as he cast a final glance at the Uruks trudging by. Then, with a mild shrug, he turned to leave.

“Enjoy the shadows, Umbreth,” he said, voice echoing through the cavern. “Try not to get lost in them on your little errand.”

She watched him disappear into the half-light, tension clawing at her insides. Behind her, the chant of Uruks rose again, thundering in her ears like a promise of violence to come.

Retrieving the last of her supplies, Umbreth resumed her preparations in silence, entirely aware that Sauron’s parting words carried more than a hint of challenge. Yet she had no love for him, or for any of them, not anymore.

Umbreth set down the crate she had been rummaging through and turned to a stocky Uruk standing guard. He jolted at her sudden attention, fists clenching at his sides as if anticipating a blow. Despite his bulk, he looked wary, almost nervous in her presence.

“I need a spare elven guard uniform,” Umbreth said crisply, wasting no time. “One of the nicer ones, if you can manage it.”

The Uruk blinked, confusion clouding his brutish features. “Elven… uniform?” he repeated, as though the concept itself were foreign. Then, with a short bow of his head, he rasped, “I’ll find it, Umbreth.” He loped off into the dim corridors, leaving her alone in the storeroom once again.

While she waited, Umbreth tapped her foot impatiently, eyes flitting over the jumbled supply shelves. Subterfuge missions like this demanded stealth, and the garment was key—no doubt a shred of irony that she would be impersonating one of her former kin. Through the heavy walls, she could hear the continuous, deep chanting of Uruks engaged in drills, pounding a steady rhythm that reverberated underfoot.

Before long, the Uruk returned, clutching a folded bundle of forest-green cloth adorned with faint, swirling embroidery. The quality was moderate—far from the finery of Valinor but passable enough to fool a casual observer. He held it out in both hands, an unusual show of reverence.

“For your… change,” he said, reluctance tainting his voice. “I—” He glanced away, hesitating. Then, in a rush, he added, “I have heard tales of your shifting. The others say you can become something else entirely. I’ve… never seen it up close. I’d be honored, Umbreth.”

She snatched the uniform from his hands and scowled. “You think I’m some petty mortal magician? A conjurer of parlor tricks?” The weight of her glare made the Uruk flinch. “I don’t perform for onlookers.”

He nodded, stepping back. “Of course. F-forgive me. I meant no disrespect.”

His deference only grated on her further. She swept around him without another word, leaving the storeroom in a swirl of dark cloth and wounded pride. She didn’t stop until she reached the corridor that led to one of the fortress’s many entrances—an opening carved into the rugged mountainside, wide enough for scores of Uruks to march abreast. Faint lines of daylight slanted through from beyond, and for a moment she was struck by how long it had been since she’d stepped outside for any reason other than orders.

Lost in her thoughts, Umbreth did not at first notice the tall figure approaching from the opposite end of the corridor. He moved with a focused grace, the faint lamplight catching the severity of his features. As they drew near, recognition flared like a hot spark in her mind. Eruviel. She had once known him well—long before Morgoth’s cruelty had dragged them both into these choking depths.

As they crossed paths, Eruviel’s gaze met hers. In that split second, a memory slammed into her:

They stood together, newly enlisted under Morgoth’s distant banner. The fortress had not yet reeked of death the way it did now; the corridors had seemed merely dank, not oppressive. She recalled a moment of uneasy camaraderie. He had confided that perhaps their new master’s designs might bring them the liberty they both desired. She had believed it, too, once—believed that Morgoth’s path offered freedom from the constraints of the Valar’s light.

The memory dissolved, cast away by the stark reality. Eruviel’s eyes held no warmth now, only the rough edge of a soldier accustomed to brutality. He offered her a curt nod, then passed by in silence. No words. No acknowledgment of all they had once shared, all they had lost.

Umbreth exhaled, letting her grip on the elven uniform tighten until the fabric crumpled beneath her fingers. She pushed the flashback aside, forcing her focus back to the mission ahead. With her head held high, she strode down the corridor toward the fortress entrance, toward another task performed in the dark, for dark designs—just as Morgoth commanded.

[criticallyinneedofadar]

Across Time Rewrite

I'm not satisfied with Across Time in it's current form, and I'm going to be rewriting it so I can really write it the way I want to. The original version can be found here though it is unfinished and will remain that way. The new rewrite however, will be finished and still have the same characters!

It is also going to be a fully Named OC story, I can't wait to post the first chapter!

[criticallyinneedofadar]

The Rock and the Vine

Here it is ya'll. The Final Chapter. If you are interested- I would definitely be willing to write the letters between these two that happened between chapters and then some of Elrond's letters from the ending! Let me know in the comments!

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The journey back to Khazad-dûm passed beneath a sky the color of pale steel, clouds trailing like silken banners above the mountains. The tension that had weighed so heavily on your shoulders during your departure from Eregion had lightened since Elrond’s arrival, though not vanished entirely. It clung at the edges, like a storm on the horizon—one you could feel but not yet see.

Elrond rode beside you now, his expression calmer than when he’d burst through the underbrush in a panic, but still distant in quiet thought. Occasionally, your eyes would meet, and in those moments, there was a depth of understanding between you that needed no words. He had come looking for you. He had feared you lost. And now he remained, choosing to accompany you back.

At the fork in the road, Elrond raised his hand to his company. “Ride ahead to Eregion,” he said. “Tell Lord Celebrimbor I will follow within the week.”

There was no protest. The elves bowed, wheels of their horses turning toward the horizon while you and Elrond continued alone.

Khazad-dûm rose from the stone like a mountain crowned with iron and fire. The gates stood open, as they always did to friends of the dwarves, but even from a distance, something felt... off.

The air hung thicker. The forges were quieter.

Elrond seemed to sense it too. “It is different,” he murmured. “Even the stone feels subdued.”

You both dismounted in silence. As you crossed through the great threshold into the mountain, you barely made it ten steps before a familiar voice rang down the corridor.

“Well, look who finally decided to come back!”

Disa rounded the corner, hands on her hips, robes flowing around her like a stormcloud given form. “You disappear without a word, not a note, not a whisper—not even a beard-hair’s worth of warning—and then waltz back with an elf in tow?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again as she swept forward and crushed you in a hug that made your ribs creak.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured into her shoulder. “I had to go. I didn’t want to offend you—”

“Offend me?” she pulled back just far enough to glare at you, tears shining faintly in her eyes. “You scared me half to death, girl.” She smacked your arm lightly. “Don’t ever do that again.”

You nodded, heart tight, only for her gaze to shift to Elrond.

“And you,” she growled. “Don’t think you’re off the hook just because you’re tall and tragic. You’re supposed to be the wise one, remember?”

Elrond raised a brow, managing a perfectly measured bow. “I stand thoroughly chastised, Lady Disa.”

Her eyes narrowed, but her mouth twitched. “You’d better.”

Later, in the royal quarters, you stood beside Elrond as Prince Durin met with you both privately. His face was weary, ash streaking his hands and cheeks as though he’d come directly from the forge.

“Something’s wrong with my father,” Durin said quietly, his voice heavy. “He’s still got the ring, and he barely eats. Barely speaks. He mutters to himself, stares at nothing for hours. He won’t let me or Disa near the mithril anymore.” He paused, glancing toward Elrond. “You were right. I didn’t want to believe it, but... I think the ring is changing him.”

Elrond nodded, his expression grim. “The rings were forged with Annatar’s help. We believed them to be gifts. But I fear now that some of them were poisoned with his will.”

“And you think...” Durin trailed off, eyes shadowed.

“I think the longer your father wears it, the harder it will be to bring him back,” Elrond said. “And I think time is running out.”

There was a long silence. The weight of their words sank into the stone walls, too vast to be immediately answered.

Durin looked to you, his voice softer. “You came back just in time.”

“I only wish I’d come back sooner,” you murmured.

Elrond followed you in silence through the familiar corridors until you reached the door to your chambers. You paused there, hand on the handle, realizing you’d never imagined bringing him here—not like this.

He didn’t wait for you to invite him in, nor did he presume. He simply stood beside you, quiet, waiting.

You turned the handle.

The door creaked open.

And the two of you stepped inside.

Your room was quiet when you entered, the familiar scent of ink, metal, and earth grounding you in the space that had so long been your sanctuary. It was a modest room by dwarven standards, though crafted with immense care—warm stone walls carved with patterns of leaves and runes, a polished desk tucked into the corner, and shelves lined with books, tools, and bits of half-finished projects.

You watched Elrond quietly as he stepped inside behind you. He didn’t speak at first. Instead, he moved slowly, his hands behind his back, eyes drifting across the collection of items that made up your world. He paused at your worktable, where small lengths of wire and metal had been twisted into attempts at jewelry. A few were elegant, shaped with the precision the dwarves had taught you. Others... far less so.

He picked up a crooked silver pendant with a bent clasp, the corner of his mouth quirking in faint amusement. “A design from before your morning tea, I suspect?”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t hide the soft smile tugging at your lips. “I was trying something new. It didn’t like being new.”

His eyes lingered on your books next, then the shelf of small stone carvings you’d bartered from the children of the miners in exchange for sweets. You could see it on his face—the bemused fondness, the curiosity he always tried so hard to keep dignified.

Then he turned slightly, glancing toward the adjoining space where your bedchamber lay. He hesitated, not crossing the threshold, only peering in with the air of someone who did not wish to offend.

But something inside caught his eye.

He stepped forward, slowly, until the edge of the bedchamber light touched his face. And then his expression shifted entirely.

There, in the corner of the room, where a long shaft of golden light poured down from a mirrored channel high above, flourished the elwinglir. The delicate star-bloom shimmered faintly in the beam, its petals gently unfurled as if basking in the light of a summer’s afternoon. It was vibrant, thriving—alive in a place of stone.

Elrond moved closer, kneeling beside it. His hand hovered before gently brushing the soft edge of a petal. “It lives,” he whispered, as though the words themselves might frighten it away.

You stepped beside him, folding your hands in front of you. “The sunlight beam was already here when Durin gifted me the room,” you said. “But I adjusted the mirror channels, added a few more lenses. I thought... maybe it would be enough. I wasn’t sure it would survive.”

Elrond looked up at you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

You smiled faintly, though your voice dropped with the weight of quieter thoughts. “I started caring for it after I wrote your letters. It became a habit. Water, prune, write... and wait.”

You hesitated. “I thought maybe you weren’t getting them. Or maybe you just didn’t want to answer.”

He stood slowly, the movement quiet. And then, without a word, he reached into the folds of his cloak and withdrew a bundle. A stack of letters, carefully bound with a strip of blue silk.

“I answered every single one,” he said, voice low. “Every time I tried to send them, I was called away. Gil-galad, Celebrimbor, Galadriel... they always needed something. Someone. And still, I wrote. On horseback, beside campfires, between councils. I never stopped.”

He held the bundle out to you.

“These are yours,” he said. “To read, to keep… to burn in the forge if you like. I wouldn’t blame you.”

You didn’t move. Not yet. The weight of the letters seemed too much to hold just yet. But your eyes never left his.

And neither did he move away.

“I would never burn them,” you said softly, your fingers finally closing around the bundle Elrond had offered. “Your words… your thoughts… they’re precious to me.”

Elrond’s breath caught, barely audible, but you saw the way his jaw tensed and his eyes softened. He stood close—so very close—and you could feel the energy between you humming like the air before a thunderstorm, electric and heavy with things unsaid.

You turned the letters over in your hands, careful, reverent. Then you looked up.

And he was watching you with that same quiet intensity—the kind that had once unnerved you, but now left you aching. There was longing in it, barely restrained. But still, he didn’t move. Elrond Peredhel, noble and reserved, forever patient.

Always waiting for someone else to make the first move.

Well. You’d waited long enough.

You stepped into the space between you, your hand sliding up to the back of his neck. His skin was warm beneath your fingers, and his breath hitched as you leaned in.

And then you kissed him.

There was no hesitation, no slow beginning—it was a kiss born of months of silence, of letters left unread, of words unspoken and tension unrelieved. His arms wrapped around you as though they had always meant to, pulling you into him as your lips met, deep and desperate and real.

When you broke apart, both of you were breathing heavily, your foreheads pressed together, your hands still tangled in his hair.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered breathlessly. “I—I shouldn’t have—but if one of us didn’t do something, I was afraid it would be years before anything happened.”

Elrond let out a low, delighted laugh, one you felt in the very center of your chest. He cupped your face, brushing his nose gently against yours.

“You’re right,” he murmured. “It probably would’ve taken me decades. I’ve always been absurdly slow when it matters most.”

You giggled, and the sound seemed to ease something between you both. You drifted together toward the little seating nook beside your bookshelves, letters still in hand, and settled together on the cushions, close—closer than you’d ever dared before.

Elrond’s arm curled around your waist, his cheek resting briefly against the crown of your head as you nestled into him, letting the firelight dance across the stone walls. For a time, neither of you spoke. The silence was no longer heavy. It was warm, full of understanding.

Still, the thoughts crept in.

“The world’s changing,” you murmured. “The rings. King Durin. The unrest. I feel like we’re standing at the edge of something vast and dangerous.”

Elrond didn’t respond right away, only tightened his hold around you. Then his voice came, soft and sure.

“We are,” he said. “But you won’t stand at the edge alone. Whatever comes, we will face it together.”

You closed your eyes, the comfort of his words wrapping around you like a blanket.

*****

Just outside your chambers, the heavy stone corridors were mostly empty, save for two familiar figures.

Disa slowed her steps as she and Prince Durin passed by your door. The sounds inside were faint—barely audible—but unmistakable.

A quiet giggle. A soft laugh. The gentle murmur of two people, finally finding their place beside one another.

Disa stopped and grinned.

“Well,” she said with a huff of satisfaction, “I’m so relieved they worked it out themselves. My next plan involved locking them in an abandoned mineshaft until one of them finally kissed the other.”

Durin gave her a sidelong look. “That was the next plan?”

“Oh please,” she said, linking her arm through his. “You don’t want to know the one after that.”

They continued down the hall, the sounds of quiet laughter fading behind them.

And within the stone-warmed chamber, the elwinglir glowed gently in its shaft of light—flourishing, still.

[criticallyinneedofadar]

Meeting in the Meadow

pssst... pretend that's not Galadriel in the gif

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Elrond and his small company moved cautiously through the dense forest between Eregion and Khazad-dûm. The trees were ancient, their gnarled branches stretching toward the dimming sky as the last light of day faded. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something else—something wrong.

It was one of his scouts who first spotted the tracks, deep impressions in the mud leading off the path, marked by signs of struggle. Broken branches, disturbed underbrush, the unmistakable grooves of dragged feet. Elrond dismounted, his keen gaze sweeping the forest floor.

“This was no ordinary passage,” he murmured, kneeling to inspect the marks.

One of his men, a lithe warrior named Taladir, pointed further ahead. “There are more disturbances ahead, my lord. Whatever happened here, it was not long ago.”

A shadow crossed Elrond’s face. His mind raced to the only conclusion that mattered—she had traveled this way. And now, there were signs of a fight.

“Fan out. We follow the trail,” he commanded, drawing his sword. The group moved swiftly but cautiously, the tension crackling like static in the air.

They found the source of the disturbance moments later—a clearing where the mist clung unnaturally to the ground. At its center, a group of twisted figures loomed, their gaunt, decayed forms wrapped in rotted burial cloth. The air grew thick with a chilling wail as the barrow-wights turned toward the intruders.

“Elbereth Gilthoniel!” one of the elves cried, raising his blade just as the creatures lunged.

The battle was swift, but brutal. The wights fought with an unnatural strength, their touch icy and numbing. The elves moved with precision, their weapons flashing through the darkness as they cut down the creatures one by one.

Elrond drove his blade through the final wight, watching as it crumbled into dust, its curse broken. Panting, he looked around. The ground was littered with the remains of their foes, the mist slowly retreating into the woods. as Elrond stood in the quiet aftermath, his heart pounded not with the rush of battle but with growing dread.

She was not here.

There were no signs of her body, no trace of her among the remains of the creatures they had vanquished. He scoured the ground—footprints marred the earth, a struggle had taken place, but there was nothing to tell him where she had gone.

His breath was unsteady as he turned, his voice sharp with command. “Search the perimeter. Do not stop until we have an answer.”

The elves dispersed, their keen eyes scanning the dim woods, but Elrond barely moved. He was rooted to the spot, staring at the disturbed ground, his mind racing.

Where was she?

Had she fled? Had she been taken? Or—his stomach twisted—was he too late? Had she already fallen, her body dragged into the shadows beyond their reach?

The thought sent ice through his veins.

His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white. He had spent so many years convincing himself that his feelings for her were nothing more than friendship. That whatever warmth stirred in his chest whenever she smiled at him, whenever she teased him with her sharp wit or met his gaze with that quiet, knowing look, was simply the comfort of familiarity.

But if that were true, why did this silence, this absence, feel like a wound?

Why did it feel as though something had been ripped from him?

Elrond exhaled slowly, forcing himself to think. He had been called away too soon from Eregion, with no time to respond to her letters, no time to tell her that he had kept every word she had written. They had sat untouched in his saddlebag for weeks—until the guilt became unbearable, and he had taken them out, one by one, reading them beneath the light of the stars, memorizing the curves of her script, the way she wrote his name.

He had carried them with him even now, hidden beneath the folds of his cloak.

And the elwinglir.

The delicate flower he had given her in Eregion—the one he had offered her as a reminder that beauty could grow even where it seemed unlikely.

He had found another, only a few weeks later. It had taken root in the gardens of Eregion, its pale blue petals catching the light in the evenings. On a whim—or perhaps something deeper—he had taken one of its blooms and set it in a small dish of water beside his bedside. It was wilting now, but he had not yet found the heart to cast it away.

Elrond closed his eyes, pressing a hand against his brow.

“I should have answered her,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I should have told her—”

That he had missed her. That her words had been a comfort in the long, lonely hours between duty and war. That he had wanted to see her again, needed to see her again.

But now, it was too late.

A sharp gust of wind cut through the clearing, rustling the trees, making the lingering mist shift like ghosts in the underbrush. He felt hollow, standing there, his own fears closing in around him.

If she was truly gone, she would never know.

Never know that she had left an imprint on his heart deeper than even he had realized. Never know that he had wished, in quiet moments, that she had chosen Eregion, had chosen him.

Never know that the absence of her letters, of her voice, of her, left him feeling more lost than he ever had before.

A voice called out through the trees—one of his men returning. “No sign of her, my lord.”

Elrond swallowed against the lump in his throat, schooling his expression into something unreadable. He was the High King’s herald. He could not allow himself to crumble.

Not yet.

Not until he found her.

“Then we keep searching,” he said, his voice steady despite the weight in his chest. “We do not stop until we find her—or until we know the truth.”

And as he turned back to the shadowed trees, he silently vowed that even if it took him to the ends of Middle-earth, he would not let this be the end.

*****

Back in Eregion, frustration mounts with each passing day. You have waited nearly a week for an audience with Celebrimbor, only to be met with endless delays.

“I am terribly sorry,” Mirdania says, wringing her hands apologetically. “Lord Celebrimbor is a very busy man. He has not forgotten you, I promise.”

You sigh, crossing your arms. “A week, Mirdania. I have been here a week. If he is too busy to meet with me, then perhaps I am wasting my time.”

“Now, now,” a smooth voice interrupts before Mirdania can respond.

Annatar.

He steps into view, his presence as commanding as ever. His golden hair gleams in the soft light of the chamber, and his smile is one of easy confidence.

“There is no need for such distress,” he says, his voice warm, reassuring. “Celebrimbor’s work is of the utmost importance, but I assure you, you are not forgotten.”

Mirdania visibly relaxes, her shoulders easing, her gaze softening as though enchanted. But you do not share in her ease. If anything, the unease that has lurked in the back of your mind since your arrival only grows stronger.

You study him carefully. Too perfect. Too charming. Too… practiced.

Something is wrong.

And you have wasted enough time here.

Steeling yourself, you meet Annatar’s gaze. “If Lord Celebrimbor truly has no time for me, then I must return to Khazad-dûm. There are matters I must see to there.”

Annatar’s expression barely flickers, but you swear you see something shift in his eyes. Amusement? Annoyance?

“Of course,” he says smoothly. “It would be a shame to see you go, but duty calls, does it not?”

Mirdania looks startled. “So soon? Are you certain?”

You nod. “I will depart in the morning.” 

Annatar’s expression did not waver as he inclined his head. “Of course,” he said smoothly, his voice as polished as ever. “It would be a shame to see you go, but duty calls, does it not?”

Yet as he stepped back, allowing you passage, you caught something in his gaze—something cold and calculating, just for the briefest of moments. It was gone almost instantly, replaced by his ever-gracious smile, but the weight of it lingered.

You had been granted leave. But you did not think he was pleased.

*****

The road back to Khazad-dûm was a familiar one, but today, it felt different.

You pushed forward at a determined pace, the weight of unease settling heavily in your chest. The feeling had clung to you since leaving Eregion—an ever-present sense that you were being watched. The rustling of leaves felt too deliberate, the silence of the trees unnatural. More than once, you turned sharply, scanning the dense woods on either side of the path, but you saw nothing.

Still, the feeling did not fade.

It sat in the back of your mind, pressing like a warning. Annatar’s parting smile had not reached his eyes, and the lingering image of it sent a chill through you. Had he let you go too easily?

Your horse, sensing your tension, moved swiftly beneath you, its ears flicking back every so often as if it, too, sensed something unseen.

You pushed yourself harder, determined to cover as much ground as possible before nightfall. You had traveled these roads before and knew the best routes, but never before had you felt so exposed. The forests that once felt like a buffer between worlds now loomed around you, their twisted boughs casting long shadows that stretched too far.

Keep moving, you told yourself. Just keep moving.

Hours passed, and still, you rode. The sky shifted overhead, the sun climbing higher, casting the world in golden light, but it did little to ease your nerves. The tension in your shoulders ached, your limbs weary from keeping such a relentless pace. You needed to rest.

It was only when you reached the meadow that you finally allowed yourself to stop.

It was a place of untouched beauty, a hidden haven nestled between the rising slopes of the mountains and the endless stretch of trees. Wildflowers stretched in vibrant patches of gold, violet, and crimson, swaying gently in the breeze. The grass was soft underfoot, welcoming and warm in the midday sun. The air smelled of earth and honey, the hum of bees weaving through the silence.

Here, at least, the world did not feel so heavy.

Sliding off your horse, you took a deep breath, letting the tension in your muscles ease. The mount nickered, lowering its head to graze, grateful for the pause. You let your fingers trail through the tall grass, the soft petals of wildflowers brushing against your skin.

It felt safe.

Almost.

And yet, even as you sank into the cool embrace of the earth, stretching your tired limbs, your mind would not settle.

The feeling of eyes on you had not left.

*****

The snap of a branch sent you bolting upright.

The soft peace of the meadow shattered in an instant as the sound of rustling, of movement—fast and purposeful—cut through the quiet hum of the wildflowers. Your breath hitched, your heart hammering as your fingers closed around the hilt of your sword.

You rose to your feet, drawing the blade in one fluid motion, muscles coiled and ready. The sensation of being watched had lingered too long, and now—now something was coming.

The underbrush rustled violently. You gritted your teeth, planting your feet in the grass. If this was danger, then let it come.

Then—

“Elrond?”

He burst through the trees, his dark cloak catching on brambles, his silver-gray eyes wide and frantic. Behind him, his small company followed, but Elrond’s gaze swept past the meadow, past everything—until he found you.

And then he ran.

You barely had time to react before he reached you, his hands gripping your shoulders, pulling you close with such force that you stumbled. His breath was uneven, and his touch, though firm, was desperate. His hands moved, checking for wounds—his palms pressing against your arms, your sides, his gaze frantic as it darted over you.

“Elrond—” you tried, bewildered, but he didn’t seem to hear you.

He grasped your face then, tilting it up, his eyes searching yours with something so raw it sent a tremor through you.

You caught his wrists, squeezing tightly, before reaching up and pressing your palm flat against his forehead, forcing him to still.

“Elrond,” you said, voice steady but firm. “Slow down. What’s happened? Are you hurt? What’s going on?”

He exhaled sharply, his breath warm against your cheek. For a moment, he only looked at you—his pupils still blown wide with lingering fear. Then, as if realizing what he was doing, his grip loosened slightly, though his fingers still rested against your arms.

“I thought—I thought you had perished,” he said, his voice rougher than you had ever heard it. “We found tracks—yours—leading into a barrow-wight den. There was a struggle. And when I saw no sign of you—”

He broke off, his jaw tightening.

Without warning, he pulled you against him, his arms wrapping around you in a fierce embrace.

Your breath caught.

For a moment, you simply stood there, stunned. Elrond was always composed, always measured, always in control. But now—now he was holding you as if he had nearly lost you.

As if the very thought of your absence had been unbearable.

Slowly, you lifted your arms, pressing your palms against his back, returning the embrace just as tightly. You felt the tension in his shoulders, the way his breath still came unevenly.

“Shh,” you murmured softly, rubbing soothing circles against his back. “I’m here, Elrond. I’m safe.”

His grip tightened ever so slightly, as if to reassure himself that you were real.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, standing there in the middle of the meadow, wrapped in each other’s arms. His heartbeat was steady beneath your touch, his warmth grounding you more than it should.

Eventually, his breath evened out, and you felt the weight of his shoulders slowly ease.

“I traveled swiftly and safely to Eregion,” you said gently, your voice still quiet, as if speaking too loudly would break whatever fragile moment had settled over you both. “And now I am on my way back to Khazad-dûm.”

Elrond finally loosened his hold, just enough to lean back and look at you. His hands lingered against your arms, reluctant to let go entirely.

He exhaled slowly, shaking his head, a faint, self-deprecating smile ghosting his lips. “And here I have nearly lost my wits over nothing.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “I wouldn’t call it nothing,” you said, giving his arms a reassuring squeeze. “But you do look rather terrible, for what it’s worth.”

As you traced a hand around the curve of Elrond’s ear you huffed a quiet laugh, tilting your head as you looked up at him. “Do you really think I can’t defend myself, Elrond?” you teased, arching a brow. “I’ve handled far worse than a few wretched wights.”

Elrond, still recovering from the wave of relief that had nearly undone him, gave you a dry but amused look. “Well, you did need dwarves to rescue you all those years ago,” he countered, his voice carrying the barest hint of playfulness.

You gasped in mock offense, swatting at his arm. “Oh, that is low, Peredhel.”

A small, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he caught your wrist with ease. “Then you must forgive me, kinmate of dwarves.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the grin pulling at your own lips. “I’ll consider it—once I decide whether or not to tell Durin what you just said.”

His expression shifted into something resembling cautious alarm, and for the first time in what felt like an age, laughter truly eased the tension between you.

Elrond chuckled under his breath, shaking his head, but the mirth did not fully reach his eyes. “I do not know whether to feel relieved or foolish,” he admitted.

You tilted your head. “Why not both?”

He huffed, and though his grip finally loosened, he did not fully step away. His gaze lingered, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes.

“Do not vanish from me again,” he said, quieter now.

You swallowed, feeling the weight of his words settle between you. “I won’t.”

For now, that would have to be enough.

[criticallyinneedofadar]

I need a part two for The Banks of Edhellond, please!

I was really struggling with where to take the story after their reunion so instead I pivoted to what led to their departure! I hope you like it!!!!!!

The Agony of Deception

Read this one next for a happy ending! The Banks of Edhellond

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

Your life with Elendil had been a whirlwind of excitement, adventure, and love. You’d known each other for years before that, of course, but marriage brought with it a sense of permanence you hadn’t truly grasped until now. Two years, and already it felt like you’d been together your whole life. The bond between you was deep, forged in moments of quiet affection and the many battles you’d fought side by side. You never imagined the world around you would shift so suddenly, and yet, here you were, standing at the edge of the pier, uncertain about everything.

Elendil had been a constant in your life since before your wedding. Stoic and strong, with the weight of Númenor’s future on his shoulders, he had always been the pillar you leaned on. But tonight, something was different. You could feel the subtle shift in his demeanor, even though he hadn’t said a word to indicate anything was wrong. His usual calm, composed nature seemed to have faded, leaving behind something quieter, something darker.

As you walked side by side, your feet heavy against the stone, the sound of the waves crashing gently against the docks was the only noise between you. You stole glances at him, trying to read the expression on his face, but he was distant. His eyes were fixed ahead, his posture tense. The usual warmth he exuded was gone, and in its place was a man weighed down by something unseen.

“Elendil,” you spoke his name carefully, your voice soft but filled with concern. “Are you alright?”

For a brief moment, he hesitated, his hand tightening around yours before he forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He met your gaze, his face as unreadable as ever. “All is well, my love,” he assured you, but the words sounded too practiced. “I am happy to be here with you, walking beside you, in this moment. It has been too long since we’ve had time together, hasn’t it?”

You couldn’t help but feel a pang in your chest, a sense that there was more to it than he was letting on. You knew him better than that—he never hid his emotions from you, and yet tonight, there was something in him that was kept tightly locked away.

Still, you didn’t press him. You never had to force him to speak in the past, but now, in the space between his silence and your own uncertainty, you wondered what it was that he wasn’t telling you.

He stopped walking for a moment, turning to face you fully. “I’m grateful, truly, for these two years,” he said quietly, his gaze softer now. “They have been everything I ever wanted. I am glad we could spend this time together.”

His words, though sweet, only deepened the ache in your heart. There was something in his tone that unsettled you, something final. He wasn’t simply reflecting on your marriage—he was preparing for something, and you were terrified it was a goodbye. The ship in front of you, its wooden frame now bathed in the cold glow of the moon, loomed like a shadow, an ominous presence that made your stomach turn.

You tried to keep your composure, but the unease built up in you, the weight of something unsaid hanging between you. You squeezed his hand, trying to steady yourself, but the cracks were already forming in your voice. “I’m happy, too,” you said, though the words felt strained, the air thick with the unspoken tension. “But Elendil, this doesn’t feel right. We should be facing this together, whatever it is.”

He took a deep breath, his shoulders stiffening slightly before he released a sigh, one that seemed to carry the weight of everything he was holding back. "I can’t risk you being caught up in the storm that is coming," he said, his voice unnervingly calm, the words so matter-of-fact that they hit you like a slap. "You have to go. For you. For your safety."

Panic flared in your chest, the world narrowing around the words he had just spoken. “What do you mean?” You stopped, pulling your hand away from his, feeling the coldness creeping between you. “What do you mean, ‘you have to go’?” His calm tone did nothing to soothe you. In fact, it made the panic grow, the knot in your stomach tightening. “Why does it sound like you’re saying goodbye, Elendil? What are you—”

He glanced at you, his jaw tightening, and then he turned, leading you further down the dock. Your heart raced, confusion flooding you. “Elendil—stop. What’s going on?”

As you reached the end of the pier, the ship came fully into view, its sails folded neatly, its dark hull looming like a beast waiting in the shadows. The sight of it struck you with the force of a thousand suns. You finally understood, your breath catching in your throat. You weren’t on a stroll. He wasn’t just walking you along the water, enjoying the night air. He was leading you to this ship, the very ship that would take you away from him. The very ship that would carry you away from Númenor, from everything you knew.

“No.” The word was a ragged breath. Your legs felt weak beneath you as you shook your head, taking a step back, your mind racing. “Elendil… no. You’re not—this isn’t what you promised. This wasn’t supposed to be how it happens.” You felt a surge of heat rise to your face, your body shaking with outrage. “You’re sending me away? After everything we’ve been through, after everything we’ve built?”

Elendil didn’t look at you, his eyes fixed on the ship. But his silence only fueled your fury, and the words tumbled out before you could stop them. “You’re sending me away like some helpless wife? For my safety? What does that even mean, Elendil? I can’t just—” You stepped forward, grabbing his arm in a tight grip, your nails digging into his sleeve. “You can’t just send me away without an explanation. You owe me more than that, don’t I deserve that? What is this? What’s going on?”

Finally, he turned to face you, his jaw clenched and his eyes softened as he gazed at you with love in his eyes. “You’re not listening,” he said, pleading. “It’s not about sending you away, it’s about protecting you. Protecting our future. There is nothing more important than that, nothing.”

Your chest tightened, disbelief washing over you. “Protecting me? Is that what this is?” You laughed bitterly, a humorless sound. “I’m not some fragile thing to be hidden away, Elendil. I’ve fought beside you for everything we have. I’ve chosen you, I chose this life. And now you’re—what? Telling me to go and hide while you stay here? While everything around us crumbles?”

“It will not be forever. I am fighting for us, but I won’t risk your life in this. It’s already too dangerous.” His voice was sharp now, his hand moving to grasp your arm in return, but there was an unusual urgency in his touch, a hint of desperation that made you flinch. “You need to go, and you need to go now. I’ve already had provisions and things you may need loaded onto the ship.”

“No!” You jerked away from him, the anger boiling over. “I won’t leave you. Not like this. You cannot make me!”

His eyes flashed, and for a moment, you saw the strain of the decision in his face. "I must," he said, his voice tight with emotion. "I can't—"

“No!” you repeated, your voice rising with a mix of fury and fear. “I am not going anywhere. Not until you tell me everything. You owe me that much.”

The silence between you both grew thick, your breaths heavy as the finality of his words settled in the air around you. The ship loomed behind him, an unspoken command, but you couldn’t—wouldn’t—step toward it. Not yet.

Elendil stopped, turning toward you with a weariness in his eyes that you had never seen before. For a moment, there was a long, painful silence between you. Then, as if the weight of everything was finally too much to hold in, he spoke—his voice rough, raw with emotion.

“I can’t lose you,” he said, his words breaking with the pressure of his own fears. “I can’t stand the thought of something happening to you, not after…” He trailed off, taking a shuddering breath, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

You watched him closely, confused, the anger slowly giving way to concern. “After what?”

“Elendil?” you prompted gently, your voice softening.

His voice cracked when he spoke again, his tone desperate. “I lost Isildur. I couldn’t save him. And now Earien… She’s aligned herself with Pharazon. It feels like I’m losing everything, and I—I can’t lose you, too. I can’t stand the thought of it, can’t even think about it. I’ve already lost too much.”

His words struck you like a physical blow. You had known the weight he carried as the father of Isildur, the leader of Númenor, but hearing his grief so raw, so uncontained, was something else entirely. You felt your breath catch in your throat.

“Pharazon is stirring the people against the crown, and with the missing palantír, we can’t even predict what will happen next. The eagle that flew to him at the coronation… it’s not just some message of peace, it’s a threat. And civil war is coming, I can feel it.” His gaze finally lifted to meet yours, his eyes dark with unshed tears. “I need you safe, I need to know that you’re out of reach of the chaos that’s about to unfold. You’re the only thing that matters to me. Please understand that.”

He took a step closer, his hands trembling as they reached for you, his voice steadying as he spoke again. “I’m not doing this to push you away. I’m doing this because I love you, and I cannot lose you, not like this.”

Tears welled in your eyes, and for the first time, you reached for him, pressing your hands against his chest. “I’m not leaving you,” you whispered fiercely, your voice breaking. “I’m not leaving you to face it alone, not when we’ve come this far. Not after all we’ve been through.”

Elendil shook his head, his face drawn with sorrow. “You don’t understand. I can’t live with myself if something happens to you. You have to go. I will not lose you, not like this. I will find you, I will come for you, but right now… I can’t take the chance.”

For a long moment, the weight of his words hung heavy in the air. You felt the crushing sense of loss closing in on you, the understanding that this was not just about fear for your safety, but about the life he was trying to protect, the future that seemed increasingly uncertain.

“I will wait for you,” you said through your tears, your voice barely a whisper. “I’ll wait. No matter how long it takes, I’ll wait.”

Elendil nodded, the weight of everything he carried reflected in his eyes. “I’ll come for you. I swear it.”

Tears swelled in your eyes, the anguish at the thought of leaving him here overwhelming you. Elendil could not contain his ragged groan as he grasped your face and brought his lips down in a fierce kiss. 

The kiss between you and Elendil lingered in the space between relief and anguish. His lips were soft, but there was a fierceness behind them, an urgency in the way he held you, as though he could somehow pull you into himself, as though one kiss could erase the fear he held in his heart. His arms wrapped around you tightly, drawing you closer, his breath ragged as he pressed his forehead to yours. You could feel the pulse of his heart, frantic, out of sync with the gentle rhythm it usually carried.

For a moment, the world disappeared. It was just the two of you—your hearts racing in time with each other’s. But then the kiss deepened, the pressure building, as though neither of you could let go, as though letting go would mean giving up. Your hands tangled in the fabric of his tunic, desperate to hold on to this moment, to hold on to him. Tears gathered in your eyes, but the kiss was your only reprieve, your only escape from the chaos of the world around you. You could feel the weight of everything that was about to happen pressing down on both of you, but for just this brief moment, you allowed yourselves to be lost in the sensation of being together.

When the kiss finally broke, your breath came in sharp, uneven gasps. Elendil’s face was wet with tears, and your own cheeks were flushed, still tingling from the touch of his lips. His hand gently cupped your face, his thumb wiping away a stray tear that had fallen down your cheek, and his gaze softened for a brief instant, the anguish replaced by a deep, unspoken love. But the reality settled in quickly, and you knew that you couldn’t stay in that moment forever.

Elendil stepped back, his fingers lingering on your skin as he took a breath. "You must go now," he said softly, though the pain in his voice was undeniable. “Stay safe. Please, for both of us.”

You nodded, your chest tight, but no words could find their way past the lump in your throat. With trembling hands, you turned and made your way toward the ship. Every step felt like you were walking away from part of yourself, the weight of the decision heavy with each footfall.

As you stepped onto the ship, Elendil followed you, walking closely behind. His presence was unwavering, but you could feel the reluctance in every movement, the reluctance that mirrored your own. He stayed at your side, guiding you across the deck until you reached the captain, a tall, solid man with a weathered face. Beregar—Elendil’s close friend and trusted confidant.

Elendil turned to him, his voice low but filled with the raw emotion that had been simmering for so long. “I trust you with her life, Beregar,” he said, his words almost a plea. “You carry my heart across the sea.”

Beregar’s eyes softened, and without a word, he nodded, his face set with a solemn promise. “I will guard it with my life, Elendil. You have my word.”

There was a long pause as Elendil met Beregar’s gaze, an unspoken bond between the two men that spoke volumes. Finally, Elendil reached out, grasping Beregar’s shoulder firmly, the strength of their friendship evident in the gesture. Then, he turned to you.

“Elendil…” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion, but he simply shook his head, silencing you with a look that was full of so much love and sadness that your chest ached.

He pressed his forehead against yours, a final moment of connection before the separation that loomed ahead. You could feel the warmth of his skin, the steady rhythm of his breath, and for a moment, everything felt normal again. But when he pulled away, his eyes were filled with sorrow, the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“Wait for me,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I will come for you. I swear it.”

With a final, lingering kiss on your forehead, Elendil stepped back. You watched him, tears streaming down both of your faces, as he turned and made his way down the gangplank. His steps were heavy, the resolve in his face a stark contrast to the pain that lingered in his eyes. He paused for a moment at the end of the dock, watching you with a gaze that seemed to pierce through to your very soul.

The crew began raising the anchor, the ropes creaking and the ship groaning as it slowly began to drift away from the dock. Neither of you looked away. You couldn’t. Your eyes were locked on each other, hearts tied together across the distance, unwilling to let go of this final moment.

As the ship pulled farther from the shore, you could see Elendil standing still at the edge of the dock, his eyes never leaving yours. The water between you seemed to stretch, but there was a bond stronger than the distance, a bond you both held on to desperately. The ship glided silently away, the sound of the waves against the hull becoming the only noise, but still, neither of you looked away.

You held his gaze until, finally, the distance between you was too great to bridge, and the shapes of each other’s forms became indistinguishable against the darkening horizon. The image of him standing there, watching you leave, was burned into your memory, and even as the ship sailed farther into the night, you promised yourself—no matter what came next—you would wait. And so would he.

[criticallyinneedofadar]

Hurt me

Burn me

Devour the shattered pieces of my soul

Laid bare before you like a broken window pain

Only say that I am not alone

Say that someone is by my side

I give you my pain and my tears

If you only will sit awhile

My flesh is your canvas

My heart your music

My soul a lump of clay to mold

If you will only fill the silence of my mind

Take my aching loneliness

By the violence of your hand

And I will thank you

Steal my breath

So I have no air to wail

Steal my eyes

So I have no more reason to cry

Steal my hands

So I cannot mourn their emptiness

Only say that I am not alone

Would that a love that is soft and sweet should be my fate

But in its absence

Fill my days with touch and warmth

Even if that warmth should burn

Burn me

[criticallyinneedofadar]

The North (2)

Several months had passed since your arrival in the North, and though the first meeting with the lords of Winterfell had been met with skepticism, you had begun to earn their trust. It was a slow process—one built on action rather than words. Time and again, you had proven yourself, flying Cannibal back and forth to Dragonstone with news, provisions, and messages exchanged between Cregan Stark and your mother, Rhaenyra. The cold of the North was no longer a shock, but still, every departure was marked by the same words from Cregan:

"Be careful."

It was not an order, nor a plea, but the weight behind it never lessened. His gray eyes held a concern he never voiced aloud, his hand tightening around his sword belt as he watched you mount your dragon. Each time you flew from Winterfell, you felt the weight of his gaze follow you until you were beyond the horizon.

And each time you returned, it was growing harder for him to maintain the aloof mask of a northern lord.

On this day, you returned just as the sun dipped below the western sky, Cannibal landing in the courtyard with a rumbling growl. The men had grown accustomed to his presence, but they still regarded him warily. Cregan stood waiting at the steps of the Great Hall, arms crossed, his expression schooled into neutrality, though his shoulders betrayed the tension he carried.

"Safe and sound, my lord," you teased as you dismounted. "Did you think I wouldn’t return this time?"

He exhaled through his nose, stepping forward. "One day, you may not," he admitted, voice quieter than usual. "And what then?"

Something in your chest tightened, but before you could reply, he turned briskly. "Come inside. We have much to discuss."

Seated by the fire in the council chamber, Cregan unrolled a letter marked with the sigil of House Targaryen. "Your mother has asked about the strength of the Wall," he said. "She wishes to know if there is a force there that might be turned to her cause."

You leaned forward, studying his face. "And what do you think?"

He was quiet for a long moment. "I think you need to see it for yourself."

Surprise flickered through you. Cregan had been adamant about keeping you within the safety of the North’s strongholds, reluctant to let you near the dangers of the wilds.

"You would take me there?" you asked, watching him carefully.

"I do not want to," he admitted, running a hand through his dark hair. "But I need you to understand why I cannot send my men away to fight in a war when they are sworn to hold the North. If the Wall fails, the realm faces a greater threat than any Targaryen or Hightower could bring."

A chill ran down your spine, not from the cold, but from the solemnity of his words. You had heard whispers of what lay beyond the Wall, but no southerner truly understood the dangers of the far North. If Cregan Stark thought it necessary for you to see it firsthand, then the truth was more grave than any rumor could convey.

+++++

The morning air was crisp and biting as Winterfell stirred with the preparations for departure. Cregan’s men readied their horses, adjusting saddles and securing provisions for the journey ahead. The sky was clear, though the chill in the wind spoke of the deeper cold that awaited them the farther north they traveled.

You stood near Cannibal, running a hand along his dark, ridged scales, feeling the warmth that radiated from his massive form. His amber eyes flickered toward the gathered men with little interest, his tail lazily sweeping across the snow.

Cregan approached, leading a sturdy brown horse by the reins. His expression was unreadable, though there was the faintest glint of expectation in his eyes. Stopping just before you, he extended the reins in your direction. "Here," he said simply.

You eyed the horse, then looked up at him with a skeptical arch of your brow. "For me?"

He exhaled shortly. "Aye. You’ll ride with us to the Wall."

A laugh bubbled up from your throat, amused and disbelieving. "Cregan, I have a dragon." You gestured to Cannibal, whose nostrils flared as if in agreement. "I intend to fly there. Dragons are not made to traverse long distances on the ground like common steeds."

Cregan’s lips pressed together as he considered his words carefully. "The farther north we travel, the colder it will be," he countered. "Not ideal conditions for a dragon. The wind, the ice—it will be different than anything you’ve faced before."

You smirked, stepping closer to him. "There is little in this world that could keep a dragon from what she wants," you murmured, eyes locking with his. “A little cold will not sway me."

Cregan inhaled sharply, his grip tightening slightly on the reins before he shook his head. "It isn’t just the cold," he argued, clearly determined to win this battle. "The farther north we go, the scarcer the prey. There is little food beyond the Wall, and even less in the way of fresh meat. Cannibal will not have enough sustenance."

You hesitated, glancing back at your dragon, who huffed as though already aware that he would be left behind. Cregan had a point, and you knew it. The northern wilds were harsh enough for men—how much more difficult would they be for a beast that needed constant nourishment?

With a sigh, you relented, rolling your eyes dramatically. "Fine. But only on the condition that the people of Winterfell stay clear of Cannibal while I am gone." You smirked again, tilting your head. "I cannot attest for his mood while I’m away—he does not like to be parted from me."

Cregan nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching in something close to amusement. “A wise dragon indeed," he muttered under his breath.

You pretended not to hear him, though warmth curled low in your stomach at the implication. Shaking your head, you took the reins he offered and mounted the horse. The journey north awaited, but something told you the true challenge would not be what lay beyond the Wall—but the man riding beside you.

[criticallyinneedofadar]

Hey love! I absolutely adore A Flower Among Stone, would you consider writing another part? Wishing you the best day!! xoxo

Here is the next part!! This one was a lot of fun to write! I hope you enjoy it! Hugs xxxxx

Two Ships Passing in the Night

The meeting in the hallway lingered in your mind like a shadow, pressing against your thoughts no matter how hard you tried to shake it. Something about Lord Annatar unsettled you in a way you could not fully name. His beauty was too sharp, almost cutting, as if it had been crafted rather than born. When he spoke, his voice was smooth, too smooth, like silk wrapped around a blade. And his scent—not the crisp air of the elven lands nor the sturdy, earthen musk of dwarven halls—but something sweet, cloying, almost sickly, like honey left to rot in the sun.

Now, back in your chambers, you paced, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. The stone walls, once a source of security and warmth, now felt close and unfamiliar. This mountain had been your home, your refuge. Since the day you were carried from the wilds, battered and broken, Khazad-dûm had cradled you in its depths, kept you safe when you had nowhere else to go. But now… now you felt adrift in its halls, a creeping unease settling into your bones.

You thought of Durin—the King. His demeanor had already begun to shift with the weight of the ring upon his hand. And now, with Annatar here, with his honeyed words and shadowed presence, you feared the king was slipping further into something unseen. Something dark.

You should speak with Prince Durin. With Disa. But how? How could you tell them that the guest they had welcomed into their halls made your very skin crawl? That his presence turned the air heavy, thick with something unseen but felt? You did not wish to offend them, to insult their judgment—but could you stay silent? Could you watch as that darkness wove its way deeper into the heart of Khazad-dûm?

You sank onto the edge of your bed, pressing your hands into the thick furs covering it. There was another you could turn to.

Elrond.

The thought of him brought a sharp pang to your chest. You had written, again and again, pouring your fears into ink, but there had been no reply. No sign that he had even received your words. Had something happened? Or had he, too, simply turned away? The absence of his voice, his presence, left you feeling more lost than ever.

For the first time in years, you felt as though you had nowhere to turn, no place where you truly belonged. And that loss settled over you like the weight of the mountain itself, pressing you into the stone, suffocating and silent.

The decision settled in your chest like a stone. You could not risk offending Durin and Disa, nor could you disregard the kindness they had shown you all these years. But you could not stay here, not with the unease that wrapped around you like a shadow. If Elrond was still in Eregion, perhaps he would have the answers you sought. And if not, then surely Celebrimbor would appreciate the skills you had honed under the mountain’s watchful eye. You could be useful there—you could belong.

Your hands moved frantically as you packed, shoving garments into your satchel with little care. The mountain no longer felt like home, and every moment spent lingering deepened the growing sense of suffocation.

A soft knock sounded at your door before it creaked open. "Have you seen my—?" Disa’s voice cut off as she took in the scene before her, her sharp eyes narrowing. She stepped further inside, her brow furrowing in confusion. "What’s all this?"

You stilled for only a moment before forcing a smile. "I’ve been called to Eregion. Urgently. There’s no time to waste."

Disa folded her arms across her chest, studying you with quiet intensity. "Called by whom?"

You hesitated just long enough for her to catch it. Her expression softened, but worry flickered behind her dark eyes. "Something is wrong. You’re running."

You shook your head, turning away under the guise of fastening your pack. "It’s nothing like that. I just—I need to go. Please understand."

Disa exhaled slowly, stepping closer. She did not press further, though concern lingered in her gaze. "If you must go, then go. But let me know as soon as you arrive. And if you need anything—anything at all—you need only ask."

The knot in your throat tightened. You turned abruptly, crushing her in a hug. "I’ll speak soon. I promise."

Before she could say another word, you turned and rushed out, the weight of farewell pressing heavy against your chest.

+++++

Disa watched you disappear down the corridor, her heart twisting with unease. Something was wrong. She could feel it in her bones, in the way you had avoided meeting her gaze, in the frantic way your hands had moved as you packed.

She lingered for only a moment before turning sharply on her heel and making her way toward her husband’s chambers. Durin needed to know. Whatever had unsettled you so deeply had rooted itself in the heart of Khazad-dûm, and she would not rest until she understood what it was.

+++++

The journey to Eregion had been long and wearisome, but as you passed through the city gates, the sight of its graceful arches and sunlit towers did little to soothe the ache in your chest. The weight of all you had left behind pressed heavily upon you, but you forced yourself to hold your head high. You were here now—there was no turning back.

A familiar voice rang out, warm and welcoming. "Look who the wind has brought back to us!"

Mirdania approached with a bright smile, her golden hair catching the afternoon light as she embraced you jovially. You hesitated for only a moment before returning the gesture, grasping onto the familiarity of a friend—if only tentatively.

"It’s good to see you again, Mirdania," you said, managing a small smile. "I hope you have been well."

"Better now that you’re here!" she laughed, stepping back to examine you with curiosity. "Though you look as though the road has not been kind to you. Come, we’ll find you food and rest."

You hesitated, shifting your weight. "Before that—could you tell me of Elrond? He has not responded to my letters of late. Is he well?"

Mirdania’s expression softened with sympathy. "Ah," she sighed, "I am sorry, but Lord Elrond is not here."

The words struck you like a sudden gust of cold wind. "Not here?"

"No. He passed through briefly a week ago, after being summoned by the High King. He left westward with a small troop—not a grand procession, mind you, just a handful of trusted companions. Toward Khazad-dûm, I believe."

You barely managed to school your expression, though your heart twisted with the cruel irony of it all. Of course. Of course he would go there. The gods must have been laughing at you.

Swallowing down your disappointment, you forced yourself to nod. "I see. Well… then I would like to request an audience with Lord Celebrimbor. I have spent much time learning from the dwarves and have acquired skills in gem mining and cutting that may be of use to him."

Mirdania’s eyes brightened. "That is an intriguing offer! I have no doubt he would be interested. But, I must warn you, he is quite preoccupied at the moment with a very demanding project. If you would be so kind as to wait in the guest quarters, I will inform him of your presence."

You nodded, grateful for even a sliver of purpose. "Of course. Thank you, Mirdania."

She smiled warmly, giving your arm a reassuring squeeze. "Rest for now. I will find you when he is ready."

As you followed her toward the guest quarters, you could not shake the feeling that no matter where you went, you were always arriving just a moment too late.

+++++

Elrond rode through the gates of Khazad-dûm with his small company, the sound of hooves muffled by the heavy air that seemed to cling to the great dwarven halls. He reined his horse to a stop, scanning the vast city with a growing unease. The liveliness that once marked the mountain kingdom was subdued, the ever-present hum of mining and industry now softer, as if the mountain itself was holding its breath.

He turned to his men. "Wait here. I will request an audience with Durin myself."

Dismounting, he walked deeper into the halls, his steps echoing through the wide corridors. The stone walls felt heavier than before, and a strange sorrow clung to the air, a weight he could not name. He had expected tension, but not this. The dwarves he passed cast wary glances his way, their usual nods of greeting absent. Whispers trailed behind him, voices hushed as if speaking too loudly might crack the very foundations of their home.

Arriving at the chambers of Durin and Disa, he barely had time to knock before the door was wrenched open. He was met with the full force of Disa’s glare.

"And just where have you been?!" she demanded, her voice a mixture of anger and something deeper, something raw.

Elrond opened his mouth to respond, but Disa did not wait. She grabbed his arm with surprising strength and yanked him inside, pushing him down onto a seat at their table with a force that left no room for protest.

"Durin!" she bellowed over her shoulder, her arms crossed tightly as she turned back to Elrond. Her dark eyes flashed with an intensity that made him tense instinctively. "You had best have a damn good reason for your absence."

Elrond, still reeling from the suddenness of the encounter, composed himself as best he could. "Lady Disa, if I have caused offense, it was not my intention—"

"Offense?" she cut in sharply, stepping closer. "You think this is about offense?" Her voice softened only slightly, eyes dark with concern. "How is she? How is our kinmate?"

Elrond blinked, not realizing Disa and Durin cared for her so much. "Kinmate?"

Disa scoffed, shaking her head in frustration. "Do not play the fool, Elrond. She left for Eregion not a fortnight ago! We have heard nothing since!"

A sharp alarm shot through him, his posture stiffening. "She left? For Eregion?"

Disa’s glare only sharpened. "You mean to tell me she is not with you?"

Elrond stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the stone floor. "No. I have not seen her since she departed from Eregion months ago. If she has left Khazad-dûm, she is out there—alone. The roads are dangerous, and orcs have been stirring."

Disa’s expression faltered, the fire in her eyes dimming into something far worse—fear. "Then where is she?"

Before another word could be spoken, the chamber door opened again, and Prince Durin entered, his usually proud and strong frame slumped under an invisible weight. His face was smeared with ash, and his eyes were dark with grief.

Disa turned to him instantly, her voice dropping into something more tender but no less urgent. "Durin—?"

Elrond took a step forward, his heart pounding with foreboding. "What has happened?"

Durin exhaled slowly, his voice heavy as the mountain itself. "The King is dead."

The words crashed into them like a hammer striking stone. Disa let out a sharp breath, pressing a hand to her chest as though trying to steady herself.

Elrond remained frozen, the weight of the revelation settling deep within him. The silence that followed was suffocating, pressing against them from all sides.

Disa, regaining some of her composure, turned back to Elrond, her voice hushed but firm. "We need to find her. If she left for Eregion and never arrived, something is wrong. And with Durin—" she gestured to her husband, whose grief was etched into every line of his face—"everything is about to change."

Elrond nodded, the gravity of the moment settling over him like a heavy cloak. Whatever had befallen the kingdom of the dwarves was far from over, and now, he feared, they had lost more than just their king.

[criticallyinneedofadar]

do you think you could write something with Círdan? I have this idea that the reader has been so lonely since the death of Gil Galad and needs a reason to stay in Middle Earth and maybe Cirdan would be this reason?

Here you go lovely!! I hope you enjoy! I'm probably the least familiar with Cirdan, but I gave it my best shot!

Comfort of the Grey Havens

The sound of the waves lapping at the shore fills your ears as you sit on the grassy banks of the Grey Havens. The briny scent of the sea mingles with the damp earth beneath you, grounding you in a moment that feels both eternal and fleeting. The horizon stretches endlessly before you, a silver line where the sky meets the water, promising a journey to places you cannot fathom. Yet, your feet remain planted firmly in the soil of Lindon, your heart weighed down by memories you can neither escape nor embrace.

Gil-galad. His name is a breath you dare not exhale, for fear it will shatter the fragile calm you have wrapped around yourself like a cloak. The High King of the Élves, your husband, your light, is gone, his brilliance extinguished in the fires of war. He stood against Sauron with the strength of the ages, and you had believed, foolishly, that such strength would endure. But now the echoes of his laughter haunt the chambers of your mind, and his absence carves hollows in your soul. Decades have past, but your soul finds little comfort. 

You have spent countless days and nights here by the water, seeking solace in its ceaseless rhythm. The sea does not judge, does not demand. It simply is. And yet, even here, you cannot escape the guilt that coils around you like a serpent, whispering that your grief is not pure, that your heart is a traitor.

For there is Círdan.

You close your eyes, the thought of him cutting through the haze of your mourning like a shard of glass. Círdan the Shipwright, ancient and wise, a steadfast friend to Gil-galad and to you. In the long years of your marriage, his counsel had been invaluable, his presence a comfort. And now, in the wake of your loss, he has been a pillar of strength. He does not fill the void left by your husband—nothing could—but he keeps you from falling into it entirely.

And therein lies the guilt. For when he looks at you with his serene, sea-grey eyes, you feel a warmth that you have no right to feel. When he speaks your name, it is a balm to your wounded heart. You have begun to notice the way his voice softens when he speaks to you, the way his hand lingers on yours for a heartbeat longer than necessary. And though you know it is wrong, some part of you yearns for the solace he offers.

The sound of footsteps on the grass pulls you from your thoughts. You do not turn, but you know it is him. No other walks with such quiet assurance, as though the earth itself bends to his will. He does not speak immediately, and for a moment, the two of you exist in a shared silence, broken only by the sigh of the waves.

“You’ve been here often,” he says at last, his voice low and steady. “The sea calls to you, does it not?”

You nod, though the sea’s call is not the only reason you come. “It reminds me of him,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “He loved it so.”

Círdan moves to sit beside you, his presence as calming as the ocean breeze. He does not press you to speak further, does not demand answers you are not ready to give. He simply waits, a patient anchor in the storm of your emotions.

“I do not know how to carry on,” you admit, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “Every day feels like a battle. And now… now I feel as though I am betraying him.”

“Betraying him?” Círdan’s tone is gentle but questioning. “How so?”

You hesitate, your hands twisting in your lap. “I… I feel things I should not feel. For someone else. And it feels as though I am casting him aside, as though his memory means nothing.”

Círdan’s expression softens, and he reaches out to cover your hands with his own. The touch is warm, grounding, and you find yourself looking at him, truly looking, for the first time in days. His eyes hold no judgment, only understanding.

“You loved him,” he says simply. “You will always love him. But grief does not demand that we cease to live. To feel again is not to betray him. It is to honor the love you shared by continuing to seek joy, even in the face of sorrow.”

Tears well in your eyes, and you shake your head. “But how can I? When he is gone, and I am here, and the world feels so empty?”

Círdan’s hand tightens slightly around yours, his gaze unwavering. “Because he would not want you to wither away. He would want you to find peace, to find happiness. He would want you to live.”

You close your eyes, the weight of his words settling over you. Deep down, you know he is right. Gil-galad had always been a beacon of hope, a champion of life. He would not want you to drown in the shadow of his absence. But knowing that does not make it easier.

“And what of you?” you ask, your voice trembling. “How do you endure, after all you have seen and lost?”

Círdan’s lips curve into a faint smile, though there is sadness in his eyes. “I endure because I must. Because the world needs those who will stand, even when it seems impossible. And because I have learned that even in the darkest times, there is light to be found, if one is willing to seek it.”

For a long moment, you simply look at him, the weight of his words sinking in. And then, without thinking, you reach up to touch his face, your fingers tracing the lines etched by centuries of wisdom and sorrow. He does not pull away, but his eyes search yours, as though seeking permission.

“Círdan,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the sound of the waves. “I do not know what the future holds. But I do not want to face it alone.”

He smiles then, a true smile that lights his face and softens the weariness in his eyes. “Nor do I,” he says. “Whatever may come, we will face it together.”

And then he leans forward, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that is as gentle as the sea breeze, a promise of companionship and understanding. It is not a declaration of undying love, but a beginning, a step forward from the shadows of the past into the uncertain light of the future.

When you part, he does not let go of your hand, and you find that you do not want him to. For the first time in what feels like an age, the weight on your heart feels a little lighter, the world a little less bleak.

Together, you sit by the shore, the sea whispering its eternal song, and you dare to hope that, perhaps, there is still light to be found.

[criticallyinneedofadar]

I just want 2 say that ur elrond fic gave me critical brainrot and i have not stopped thinking abt it since i read it. Ily mWAH 💜 second have u heard of lord of the rings online? asking bc in that game u run thru moria as a zone and u could lift locations from there as inspo for ur fics 💜 oki byeeeeee💜💜💜

First off- stop I'm gonna cry! I'm so glad you liked it!

Second- I haven't heard of this!!!! Oh my gosh that would be so helpful, I'll have to look into it! Thank you lovely!

[criticallyinneedofadar]

will there be a second part to The North? Cregan Stark my beloved 🤍

At this point there probably won't be a direct sequel, however I do have a couple more one shots planned for him that could be interpreted as interconnected! Look out for the next one in the next week or so!

[criticallyinneedofadar]

Hi! I love your writing! Are you able to do a Elrond fic with a mage elf reader from a different land where their ears are longer & was raised with human commoners? Maybe she's been hiding with Bronwyn and the south landers? (they don't trust Halbrand, he reminds her of the nobles she used to know) Just a meet cute would be lovely, maybe in Eregion? Thanks, keep up the fantastic writing ♥️

I haven't forgotten about my asks! It's just taken me some time to give them all the time they deserve!

This is adorable and I had so much fun writing it!

Side note: For the purposes of this ask, we are saying that the Noldor have longer ears and some split off to stay around the humans in the southlands. Does it follow Tolkien lore? No. But that's okay. Don't take it too seriously :)

A Promise at the Gates

The air smells faintly of woodsmoke, a ghost of the battle that razed Tirharad to its foundations. You stride through the remnants of the village, your boots kicking up ash that clings to the hem of your cloak. The cries of children and murmurs of despair echo as displaced humans cluster around their leader, Bronwyn. Your friend.

She stands with her shoulders straight, her face a mask of calm determination. You marvel at her resilience; the humans have lost so much, and yet Bronwyn remains steadfast.

"I’ll journey to Eregion," you announce, breaking into her thoughts.

Bronwyn’s sharp gaze fixes on you. "Are you sure? The road is dangerous, and the elves…" She hesitates. "They may not listen."

You smirk, though your heart aches for her doubt. "They’ll listen to me. I’m persuasive."

She huffs out a laugh, and the two of you share a moment of fleeting warmth. But your gaze flickers to Halbrand, standing apart from the others. His every move prickles your instincts—his easy charm, his watchful eyes, the way he avoids questions with a grin.

"I still don’t trust him," you mutter.

"Neither do I," Bronwyn admits. "But he helped us."

"Did he, though?" you counter, your voice low. Your past whispers in your mind—smiling lords who lied with their teeth and betrayed with their blades. Halbrand reminds you of them.

But Bronwyn shakes her head, her focus resolute. "If he means harm, we’ll deal with it. For now, we must find shelter."

And so, you go, leaving the humans behind to gather their meager belongings.

+++++

The road to Eregion is long, winding through the wildlands of Middle-earth. You keep to yourself, avoiding caravans and curious humans. The journey gives you time to think—perhaps too much time. Memories surface, unbidden, of the great halls of your kin, where politics wove tighter snares than any spider’s web.

By the time you arrive, the walls of Eregion gleam in the sunlight, and its beauty takes your breath away. Fine craftsmanship blends seamlessly with the natural world, an unmistakable mark of the elves who dwell here. Yet it’s not the architecture that catches your eye—it’s the figure waiting just beyond the gates.

"Mae govannen," he says, his voice like a song. He is tall, with a poise that speaks of both wisdom and kindness. His dark hair shines in the light, and his eyes—those eyes—seem to look straight into your soul.

You hesitate, and his brow furrows slightly. "You are a traveler, yes? Seeking refuge or passage?"

"I’m seeking aid," you reply, your voice steady. "For the people of Tirharad."

His lips quirk upward at her name. "Ah, the human settlement. I cannot say I have heard much of anything from the southlands." He places a hand over his heart in a gesture of respect. "I am Elrond Peredhel. Please, come inside."

You nod, falling into step beside him as he leads you through the city.

+++++

The warmth of Eregion’s halls is a balm to your weary soul. You are ushered into a sitting room, where wine and fruit await. Elrond pours you a glass himself, his movements unhurried.

"You are Noldor, are you not?" he asks as he offers the drink.

You incline your head. "You know us by our ears, I assume."

His smile softens. "They are distinctive, but there is something else. A certain… informality in your bearing. It is refreshing."

You laugh, a genuine sound that surprises even you. "Is that your way of saying I lack decorum?"

"Not at all," he replies, his tone earnest. "It is a compliment."

The conversation flows easily after that. You speak of Bronwyn’s plight, of the humans displaced by war and the help they desperately need. Elrond listens intently, his gaze never wavering. When you finish, he nods thoughtfully.

"Eregion’s resources are strained, they are not equipped to send out vast quantities of supplies," he admits. "But I will speak with the High King.  No one should be left to suffer, not while aid is within reach."

His words ease a tension you hadn’t realized you were carrying. "Thank you," you say, meaning it.

But as the evening wears on, you find yourself watching him not as an emissary, but as a friend. There’s a warmth to him, a quiet strength that draws you in. And when he smiles at you—a real, unguarded smile—it feels like the sun breaking through the clouds.

The days that follow blur together. You work closely with Elrond, planning the logistics of transporting supplies to Tirharad. The more time you spend with him, the more you realize how different he is from the elves you knew in your youth. He is kind, yes, but also clever and quick-witted, with a knack for putting others at ease.

One afternoon, as you pore over maps in his study, he leans back in his chair and regards you with a curious expression.

"You are unlike any Noldor I’ve met before," he says.

You arch an eyebrow. "Is that a compliment or an observation?"

"A little of both," he admits, his lips twitching into a grin.

You tilt your head, studying him. "And you, Elrond Peredhel. You’re unlike the other elves I’ve met. You seem to carry the weight of two worlds on your shoulders, yet you never falter."

He looks away, his smile fading. "It is both a gift and a burden to be of two peoples. I strive to honor them both, but it is not always easy."

For a moment, you see the vulnerability beneath his polished exterior, and it makes your heart ache. Without thinking, you reach across the table and place your hand over his.

"You do it well," you say softly. "Better than most could."

He meets your gaze, and something unspoken passes between you—a connection that feels as ancient and unshakable as the earth beneath your feet.

The day of your departure arrives too soon. Bronwyn’s people need the supplies, and you cannot linger, no matter how much a part of you wishes to stay.

Elrond walks you to the gates of Eregion, his expression unreadable.

"Will you return?" he asks, his voice quiet.

You hesitate, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. "If the road leads me here again," you say, "I will not stray from it."

He smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "Then I will wait. Until the road calls you back."

You step closer, your heart pounding. "And if it doesn’t?"

His gaze locks with yours, and for a moment, the world falls away. "Then I will find it myself."

The words hang between you, a promise and a hope. You don’t say goodbye; it feels too final, too cruel. Instead, you turn and walk away, the weight of his gaze following you long after the city disappears from view.

As you journey back to Tirharad, your thoughts linger on Elrond—on his kindness, his strength, and the way he made you feel seen in a way you hadn’t been in centuries.

You smile to yourself, the memory of his voice echoing in your mind. Perhaps, someday, the road will lead you back to Eregion. Or perhaps, as he promised, he will find you first.