lamemaster

[lamemaster]

Why am I just seeing this 😭 (I wanted to vote)

But I would totally play into the angst of watching them fall. Like Maedhros boy- how did you even make that happen? And who fights with hair down Mr. Balrog Slayer? (I cast myself as Melian in the relationship. The one with good and useful advice)

And if they break up with me, then sucks to be them because guess who saw it coming.

Imagine for a moment that you, a maia, learned that your elven lover was destined to a horrible fate that you could not change (Maedhros for example). At first you wanted to save them but resinged yourself to knowing that there was nothing you could do. But some part of you still holds out hope for the future. Later on your lover and you have a nasty break up.

[lamemaster]

Blog Hiatus

Hi people, 2024 was a great writing year, but it was intense. So, to recover from the angst of it already being 2025, I am planning on taking a break from this blog. I plan to take my time and come back sometime in March (but who knows when I snap and write some passionate nonsense).

Until then, I will be focusing on my Ao3 and other writings.

See you in about 2 months :D

[lamemaster]

omg this is so cute and hilarious

My Engagement With A Fae Prince

You come home and reveal your engagement to your family and folks.

Requested by Anon

Hi,

Not sure if this counts as a continuation, but I loved the Fae!Maglor x reader pieces that you sent to LoveFairyMina - I was wondering if maybe you’d be willing to do a quick continuation of what happens after they get engaged? (Could be pregnancy shenanigans, other Fae!Silm characters reacting or after reader gives birth to their firstborn) I’d love to see more of this relationship!

Again, wanted to apologize if it’s not part of the guidelines for open requests this time and feel free to discard if not. Thank you and have a wonderful day!

(Author note: Never thought this could get turned into a crack fic but here we are. Decided to use my Frozen Heart characters. Tagging Mina: @a-contemplation-upon-flowers so she can also see this)

Warnings: none just drama

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

Your dad: Let me get this straight. You go to the fae woods and vanish for three days, and now you are engaged to a fae prince because you thought you could fulfill the terms of the deal of giving him your firstborn child by having your firstborn child with him?! *Points at Fae!Maglor standing beside you*

You: *Sweats nervously* Uh... yeah?

Your dad: *Releases a deep sigh* Why am I not even surprised? 

Your mom: *Smiling* Anyway, it's lovely to meet you. Will you stay over for dinner? 

Your dad: Darling, our daughter is engaged to a fae, who is also a prince. I think you are taking this way too calmly. 

Your mom: Nonsense, thanks to him my illness is gone. Let’s show some appreciation. 

Fae!Maglor: *Looks at your grandmother and little brother, Kian,  who are doing their things, not minding his presence like he was a casual sight*

Fae!Maglor: Your family is taking our engagement oddly well. 

You: I mean... it's good, right?

Your grandmother: *Looks up to you* Taking the other things you have done. This is not the strangest thing so far. 

Fae!Maglor: *Getting slightly worried* And what are the other things she had done? 

Kian: *Randomly* Can you really turn into a bird? 

Fae!Maglor: *To himself* Into what kind of family have I gotten myself into? 

--- 

Camilla: (Name)! I heard you got engaged to a fae! 

You: I can explain! 

Camilla: No need. After hearing about your deal, I'm not even surprised. I know that's something you would do 100 percent. So, congrats on your engagement, I guess. *Pats your shoulder and leaves*

You: *Giggles* Well, that went better than I thought. 

Fae!Maglor: *confused by the reaction* Huh? 

---

Your village chief: *Slightly nervous at the sight of Fae!Maglor* (Last name). Can you explain why you have brought a fae prince to our village? 

You: Well, chief, that's actually a funny story. You see I made a deal with him in order for my mother to get better again, and.... well... he wanted my firstborn... I asked when do we start... and then... now we're engaged! 

Your village chief: *calms down immediately* Oh--- well, congratulations on your engagement then. *leaves casually*

You: *Smiling* Thanks chief. 

Fae! Maglor: *freaks out* Why are you humans taking this so calmly?!

--- 

Fae!Maglor: *Pouting and sulking in the corner of your house, waiting for the rest of the visit days to go by so you two can finally go back to his home*

You: Are you gonna pout the rest of the visit here? 

Fae!Maglor: You are weird! Your family is weird! Your whole village is weird! They should be afraid of me and look at me with cautious, but all of you are taking this situation way too calmly. This was supposed to be a typical deal, where you ask what you want, accept the terms, and then give me your firstborn a decade later. Not having the firstborn with me and getting me unwittingly engaged to you! 

You: *Shrug your shoulders* Well, sorry if I'm not an ideal partner. Anyway, I heard from your family that you were a musician and liked music, so--- I checked the attic of my house and found some old musical notes my grandfather used to play. *pull out some music notes*

Fae!Maglor: *Looks at them with interest*

You: They might not be anything like fae music, but since we're gonna be married soon... I thought you might be interested.

Fae!Maglor: *Stares at you with silence before reaching out his hand and taking the notes* Your weirdness is forgiven for now. 

You: *grin* You know, with your feathers so puffed up. You look like an angry curled owl. 

Fae!Maglor: * Pufs and turns his back toward you with the notes in hand* Silence, my clever fool of a bride. I am a proud majestic bird of great songs. Do not compare me to those night dwellers. 

You: *Pats his head with a grin* Whatever you say, my pouty little birdy. 

Fae!Maglor: *Disgruntled yet flustered bird noises*

[lamemaster]

Things the Silmarillion elves find adorable about a human reader

After surveying the recurring elves of this blog, here are seven things they find adorable about humans:

Waving Greeting

Maedhros froze the first time you did it. Across the military camp, you excitedly waved at him. Raising your arm high, you waved, smiling broadly, and your elf froze in his path. For a fleeting moment, he thought it must be someone else you were so happy to greet. But no. It was him. With unpracticed-stiff movements, he raised his own arm and waved back. He watched as laughter bubbled out of you, and you ran to him, leaving him utterly dumbfounded yet his heart leaping out of his chest.

Baggy Clothing

Glorfindel tries not to stare, but by Elbereth, it is hard. Drowning in his robes, you look utterly adorable. The way the sleeves flow down your arms, completely covering your hands, and how the fabric pools around your feet, it’s enough to make him squeal. He worries briefly that you might trip, but for now, he’s too busy enjoying the sight. Picking you up in his arms, he resists the urge to squeeze you, mindful of the last time he tried and how poorly that ended for him. Still, his heart aches at how endearing you look, swallowed by the robes that were never quite meant for you.

Breathless Laughter

The entire palace can hear it. Yet this does not stop the subtle smile it puts on everyone’s face. Sitting across from you, Finrod watches you wheeze with laughter, clutching your stomach as you fall off your chair. Your face is red, your eyes brimming with tears. “I think I peed a little,” you whisper through giggles as your friend continues laughing uncontrollably. Finrod loves the sight of such unrestrained joy, raw, rugged happiness amid marred lands. How wonderful it must be, he thinks, to express joy so freely.

Apologizing to Inanimate Objects

It’s not the first time Maeglin has seen you do this. Bumping into a corner, you mutter a quick “Sorry,” rubbing your arm as though the object could feel pain. Wooden crates, rocks, curtains, tables, nothing escapes your apologies, and Maeglin secretly adores it. It’s such an absentminded habit, and yet it speaks volumes about your nature. There is, however, one exception: when you stub your toe on something. Then, your mouth lets loose with the vocabulary of a seasoned sailor. Much to his dismay (and secret delight), Maeglin finds even this utterly endearing. But there’s absolutely no way he’s telling you that. He keeps that fondness locked away where you’ll never uncover it.

Love for Blankets

Fingon has trekked across the Helcaraxe. He knows the cold and understands the precious value of warmth. Yet, his appreciation pales in comparison to yours. He absolutely loves your ritual of joy at the sight of your bed. The way you jump into your blankets, rubbing your feet together, scrunching your eyes shut, and giggling. It’s a sight he never tires of. On nights when he gets to witness this, Fingon even mimics your antics, despite not feeling the cold himself. He delights in how you grin and snuggle into him, often followed by your sneaky attempt to press your freezing feet against his. Though he feigns annoyance, he treasures every moment of it.

Physical Touch

Beleg smiles broadly the moment you enter a room. Without fail, your eyes scan the space until they find him, and then you make your way over to sit beside him. Every. Single. Time.

He loves how humans gravitate toward physical closeness, finding contentment in proximity alone. Unlike elves, who feel bonds through senses, heartbeats, or thoughts, you seek him out with pure will. Every time you do, Beleg can’t help but put his arms around you, squeezing you in a way he’s seen you do to him. And when you hum contentedly, he melts just a little more.

Baby Voice

Celegorm can’t help but laugh at the way your voice softens when you bend down to pet Huan. Every time you see the hound, you greet him with exaggerated enthusiasm, “Who’s a goob boy?” Celegorm has, on several occasions, reminded you that Huan is older than your grandfather, older than your entire kind, in fact. Yet this knowledge hasn’t dimmed your excitement one bit. Your bubbly tone, the kisses on Huan’s paws, the endless stream of pets, Celegorm finds it both amusing and endearing. Much to your credit, Huan is completely putty in your hands.

[lamemaster]

Bride's Gambit

"Can't be her room. That is too obvious." Argon declares from where he is nestled between Aredhel and Maeglin.

"How about Alqualonde?" Idril spouts the dreaded option. "You can't really go there, uncle." She looks at Fingon with the naivety that has yet to dim after so many ages.

Fingon on the other hand sighs burying his face in his palms. "Is this the best we can come up with?!" He hollers. It had been a week of searching for you. A week of failed attempts.

None in the House of Finwe had seen this coming. You were a Peredhel yes. But on most occasions, that fact ended with the hilarious tale of Fingon's discovery of Men's sleeping habits.

This was not in the memo.

It started 2 weeks ago when the Nolofinwes were knee-deep into the discussion for the right material for curtain for your wedding home.

Your innocent remembrance of your mortal mother's preference for Satin over Silk led to the discovery of the tradition that now had the eldest Nolofinwean at his wit's end.

A simple tradition. A game between the bride's side and the groom's side. A challenge for the groom to find the bride, who is hidden and guarded by family.

[lamemaster]

Maedhros and Modern Secret Agent Reader

Plot: A world where Feanorians can dream of their human s/o who is now reborn into the modern world- in this case, Maedhros. Catch, they come as a deal. So they all dream of it together. Sort of like Feanorians watching a live stream of your life. *Spoiler* Reader dies in the modern world and awakens in theirs but in middle earth instead of Valinor. maybe idk this lives in my brain and I am tired of 20k drafts.

Need to clear my drafts. Not adding tags yet because I need to know if this is worth continuing.

"Is this the patient, timid, fragile daughter-in-law we've been told about?" Nerdanel commented from where she leaned against the bloodied pillar.

The rest of the Feanorians were too dumbfounded to respond to their mildly amused mother.

You, on the other hand, were quite preoccupied with beating the living daylights out of a man who had lost consciousness minutes ago. Panting, you straddled the man, maniacally pounding his already battered face.

Atop the prone figure of their attacker, your normally soft features were contorted into a mask of primal rage. Sweat beaded on your brow, plastering strands of hair that had escaped your usually intricate braid.

Your once elegant hands, now slick with blood and grime, pounded a relentless rhythm against the man's already disfigured face. Each blow was fueled by a cocktail of fear, violation, and a desperate need for escape. (lol why does this sound so wrong)

How did things end up like this? Maedhros wondered. Everything was so different from the past he knew.

Beneath you, the man whimpered pathetically, a stark contrast to the predatory leer he'd worn moments ago. His bravado, the same bravado that had fueled this altercation in the first place had evaporated completely under the relentless onslaught.

You weren't a warrior, not in the traditional sense. You were sharper a venomous needle rather than a scathing sword but that did not lessen the impact of your blows. Not when the entire Feanorian cohort had witnessed you breaking another man's ribs with your bare hands.

A strangled gasp escaped your lips as you felt a hand clamp down on your shoulder. With a snarl that would have sent shivers down the spine of even the most seasoned warrior, you spun, ready to unleash your fury on the next threat.

But the hand belonged to Alden, your partner or at least what they had gathered from the entire day of following you.

"Enough," he said, his voice low and firm. "He's finished. We need to leave before the rest find out," he whispered, snapping you out of your wrathful haze.

Maedhros sucked a cautious breath at the familiarity with which you looked at the other man and the ease with which you leaned into his touch.

[lamemaster]

Teardrop (Chapter 2)

Genre: angst (hurt- comfort in future)

Pairing: Fingon x Reader

Summary: When the time came, your yes was hesitant, tinged with uncertainty, while his acceptance was measured, dutiful. And so, your marriage came to be, transforming the carefree days of play into the reality of shared lives.

AN: So angsty. I'm sorry. But alot of parental grief inspiration is from Beartown- my current read. Next part gets better I promise ><

TW: Heavy angst. Fingon not being cheerful and loads of grieving. So please read fluff if this is not on your 2025 bingo.

Chapter 1| Chapter 2| Chapter 3|

He is cold. Fingon is always cold. Not a day passes where the mercy of warmth graces him.

He had forgotten the comfort of warmth ever since the Helcaraxë. Ever since his son’s name had become his greatest torment.

His little Irimion, lost to the freezing waters of his doom.

How could Fingon ever accept any other fate but to join him there? He should have never left him.

On nights that bring no rest, Fingon thinks of his son. Though he rarely forgets him, on the quietest nights, his mind fixates on one truth; his son died.

His little son, gone without ever knowing that his atta was not angry with him. That his atta had not abandoned him.

Fingon never got to apologize. Never got to tell Irimion how deeply he loved him. He left his son to the void or to the mercy of the Valar, who had turned their faces from his people.

In some ways, this is a fitting penance. Fingon deserves this life, one steeped in anguish and unrest.

But what had that elfling done to deserve an end so haunting?

On the nights when dreams find him, Fingon dreams of only one thing: his son. A reunion.

His mind crafts a single scene, a solitary hope that plays on repeat in the fragile theater of his heart.

A reunion with Irimion. To hold his child again, to press his lips to his son’s brow and whisper the love that had never wavered. He would accept any punishment, any prison. He would kneel as a thrall to the Valar, bear any loss, endure any torment, if only his son could be returned to him.

He was never a creator like his uncle Feanor. He never forged treasures worth the cost of losing a child. No treasure could ever be worth that price. All Fingon ever wanted was to hold his son. To take away the pain. To soothe the fear of a little one who had yet to grow accustomed to the dark.

How could Irimion have endured the darkness and the cold alone? How terrified must he have been when the air refused to come? When neither his amil nor his atto were there to catch him?

Such thoughts are Fingon’s poison. They creep into every quiet moment, dissolve into every breath he takes, and coil tightly around his soul.

Fingon’s lips are cold when you kiss him, his cheek chilled by the wind that snakes through the crevices of Himring.

You haven’t kissed him in so long. Yet today, you do. When he returns, bearing a delirious Maedhros, you kiss him.

He has returned to his foolish errand.

Beyond the sea of tears you’ve shed, beyond the countless arguments and desperate pleas, only a failing sob remains.

Was he so eager to leave you? Did the grief of Irimion belong only to him? Were you nothing to him? What of his people? Was the damned High King so eager to die? None of the Feanorians had gone after their brother, so why your husband?

But you cannot say it.

In all these years, you have come to know one thing: to Fingon, Irimion’s loss is greater than any love. You could love him enough to disguise your grief, but your husband cannot. He cannot love you enough to fathom your pain.

You could despise him for it. Blame him for your loss. You could find an outlet for your rage, but you don’t. His love for your son is too precious to tarnish. Sacred, even.

So, you let him look away from you. You put his grief above your own because no loss, not even Irimion’s, can diminish your love for him.

The same love that gave you your son.

He is your friend, your love, your husband, and Irimion’s father. 

What is joy? Is it bliss that the land of Aman promises? Is it the feeling of worldly pleasures? Or is it the absence of pain? 

But what is joy without pain? How can one come to realize it’s presence without the past of pain?

Yet, every sentient being would want not to experience pain. To give up on heartbreak, and live in the ignorance of joy. 

For pain, is a dye that refuses to not stain for eternity. It is a lingering presence in all joy. Like fragrance in air, that you cannot separate should you wish to. 

Begetting of Ereinion, your second son was such joy. Once stained by tears. By apologies instead of confessions. 

A child of your grief and Fingon’s. 

He came bearing the burden of your guilt and your husband’s. His birth remained the failure of your heart to separate him from the grief of Irimion. 

The sight of your growing belly freezes him.

The pulse of failure thrums through Fingon, an unbearable rhythm tied to the child you carry. Another failure, another fear. Beyond joy, this is Fingon’s crippling anxiety, wrapping tightly around his chest.

Too late to retreat, Fingon steps forward and sits beside you on the gently swaying swing. His eyes flicker to the emptiness around you, noting the absence of maids or attendants. Not for the first time, he feels the weight of that emptiness.

The tension between you is thick, awkward. Fingon struggles to find something to say. A remark on the weather, perhaps, or a suggestion to browse the wares brought by Eastern merchants. But the words die on his tongue.

In some way, he’s forgotten how to talk to you.

The duties of the High King have kept him bound to his study, drowning in scrolls and letters through long, restless nights. He cannot remember the last time you spoke without grief resting between you, heavy and unyielding.

He cannot look at you now. His eyes refuse to lift, even when your hands wrap around his, warming his cold fingers with your touch.

“You’re cold, Finno,” you whisper, the softness of your voice breaking through his haze. You pull his hands into the folds of your cloak, shielding them from the chill.

He misses you. Fingon realizes, with a pang of regret, that he misses you terribly. Even as he sits beside you, the distance he has created between you feels immeasurable. For the first time in too long, he feels the ache of it, sharp and deep.

“Why yes, shall we warm up?” he says, his voice laced with a cheerfulness he knows is hollow. The faint smirk he forces doesn’t fool you. He sees it in your wide, knowing eyes.

Your knuckles brush his cheek, soft and sincere, a gesture of love he knows he doesn’t deserve.

He doesn’t deserve this kindness, this patience. He has done nothing to earn it, not when you have carried your pain in silence, quietly holding his grief alongside your own.

Fingon closes his eyes, his chest tightening. He wants to speak, to apologize, to bridge the chasm he has built. But the words remain trapped, locked away behind the fear that has gripped him since Irimion’s loss.

And yet, he sits there, holding your hands in his, as the swing sways gently in the breeze.

He’s left you alone. Blamed you for something you did not do. What punishment is it that you bear?

“Do you wish to visit Idril? A trip to her before the days grow too close?” he asks in a desperate measure, his voice steady, masking the fracture beneath. He offers it as a solution, a way to send you from his misery. To Idril, his bright niece, who could keep you company better than he ever could. “I’m sure she would love to hear more about her cousin.”

A better husband would keep you close. A better husband would never let you travel in such a state. But Fingon has nothing to offer except more distance.

He watches as your hand moves gently over your belly, a faint smile softening your features. How easily you have accepted this child. How freely your love flows to another.

Does Irimion’s memory not linger in your heart, as it does in his? Do you not fear his resentment, the shadow of the son who came before?

“I think I should go, indeed,” you say softly, nodding with a calmness that cuts through him. “I will be back before winter, and then we can watch the snow.” Your sigh is one of quiet resignation, carrying a weight that neither of you acknowledges aloud.

And then you are gone.

Every trace of you erased, leaving Fingon alone with the grief he has so desperately clung to. The following silence is bitter, suffocating, and it wraps itself around him like the cold he can never escape.

There is no need to smile anymore. No need to sit at the elaborately set table meant for the High King.

Every night, he kneels in vigil, his knees pressed to the cold stone, the weariness of his sorrow far heavier than the weight of the crown. The darkest of thoughts whisper to him.

Why had you left Irimion to seek him? Why had you not carried the child with you?

He knows, deep down, that the distance he created and the accusations he cast have left cracks in the bond between you. But even that knowledge does little to quell the bitterness that festers inside him.

In the snowbound quiet of winter, you do not come. The snow falls without the sound of your voice, the warmth of your presence. Fingon has delayed your arrival with hollow excuses. Pleas of safety, the demands of feasts, matters of state. You have accepted his whims without protest, as you always do.

But it is news of his son that reaches him.

Ereinion. You have named him in your letters.

Fingon feels the fragile tether of the child’s presence, distant and delicate, like the faintest ember struggling against the cold. He dares not reach for it, fearing it might extinguish at his touch.

There are other letters. From his brother. From Idril. From those who write with joy and concern alike, urging him to come to you, to stand by your side. Letters that speak of the life growing within you, the toll it takes, the need for his presence.

Fingon reads them with trembling hands, barely able to finish each one. He does not need their words to know the truth.

Finweans know the cost of childbirth too well.

When the paths finally clear, allowing safe travel, Fingon comes to find his son. Not you. Only the child.

Through the numbing pain of your absence, he holds the newborn in his arms. His own name for the boy. Gil-galad falls from his lips in a whisper as he presses a soft kiss to the infant’s forehead.

He cannot bring himself to meet the child’s eyes, so painfully like yours.

[lamemaster]

I love writing so much. I can't stop. But still I don't want to post everyday because what am I? Crazy? Yes I am but I also happen hate being seen as the no lifer. So here's a plot I haven't written-

Someone going crazy in love. Human reader who loves the elf in question so much that it transcends Arda.

How to write that madness? Or the helplessness of that elf who carries the weight of another's doom? Who would be the elf? Logically Finrod but Maglor would be good too. Or Glorfindel who's heart is so soft that it bleeds at the pain it causes another.

So many thoughts.

[lamemaster]

[lamemaster]

I need to know because finding the right gif is most soul sucking part of writing on tumblr

[lamemaster]

Maiar Falling in Love with a Mortal Reader

AN: Idk I just wanted to write something pretty. And this came to be. Everyone gets a gif because- aesthetic.

Pairings: Eonwe x Reader and Tilion x Reader

Eonwe:

It had been a simple errand. A task he could have done without traveling to Middle-earth. Yet, in a moment of strange pull, Eonwe found himself walking through the lands of the Secondborn.

Through deserts vast and barren, searching for the lost Istari. Their concealed songs lingered, faint but tauntingly close, though the distance refused to be bridged.

Drawn by the sights and sounds of Iluvatar's children, Eonwe found himself in the crowded streets of a market. Vendors shouted over one another, peddling their wares with prices echoing in the narrow streets. Faces peeked out from crumbling buildings, and birds flitted about, dodging the half-hearted swats of annoyed residents.

He was lost in these sights, a Maia out of place in the noisy, bustling chaos, when his steps collided with yours. The force pulled you forward, and in an instant, his arms moved on instinct, steadying you before the ground could claim your fall.

His hands wrapped around you, holding you close. Eyes blazing with the light of the Flame Imperishable met his own, hidden beneath the shadow of his hood. Time itself seemed to pause.

He noticed everything. The small gasp that escaped your lips, the way your fingers clutched at his cloak, the warmth of your body against his own. Even your hair, cascading like a stream of silk along his arm, seemed to burn itself into his memory.

Eonwe stood frozen, his mind caught in the strange trance of the moment until a passerby jostled him from his stupor.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice low and steady as he helped you stand.

Color rushed to your cheeks as you glanced up at him. “Are... are you an elf?” you whispered, eyes darting toward the marketplace. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Without waiting for a response, you grabbed his wrist and pulled him through the bustling streets, away from prying eyes. He followed, silent and curious, his hood slipping slightly as he glanced back at the market fading into the distance.

You glare back and without a hesitation pull his hood back up, "Seriously, why did they send a new one alone." You mutter to yourself, slipping through alleys.

You led him to a modest house at the edge of the marketplace, its weathered walls no better than the houses he had seen in the market. Closing the door behind you, you turned to face him, pouring a glass of water from a chipped pitcher before sinking into a rickety chair.

“Did Rómestámo not inform you of our meeting place?” you asked, your voice edged with quiet frustration as you pushed the glass toward him.

And that was how he met you. A Secondborn with peculiar markings etched upon your skin. A fiery symbol on your wrist and scars that spoke of battles long fought.

You were the leader of a revolution in the East, a beacon of hope for the downtrodden and oppressed. That day, Eonwe came to witness the Flame Imperishable in a way he never had before.

Not as the unyielding fire of creation, but as the kind that burned bright against the darkness of evil. The kind that defied the judgment of the mighty and the learned. A single flame, flickering amid the shifting sands of the East, yet strong enough to light the way.

He found himself drawn to it. Drawn to you. Like a moth to light.

What had begun as a simple errand became a journey he chose to repeat. He returned time and again, taking on countless guises. The unnamed informant from Rivendell, a wandering Avari, or a silent shadow among the dunes.

He returned to bask in the music of the Secondborn, in the fire that defied all despair.

Until the day the flame flickered out.

When no songs called to him from the East, when the light he had followed was no more.

And in that silence, he mourned the passing of a light he had come to cherish, even as the winds of the desert swept away all trace of what once had been.

Tilion:

He, the moon, remains the most beloved of the Children of Iluvatar, even to those said to be of the Sun's lineage.

The Quendi have sung countless odes to his silvery light, their voices weaving tales of his steadfast love for Arien. Beasts of his Vala rest most deeply under his glow.

Yet, it is not their songs or their reverence that pierces his heart, it is the heavy-lidded eyes of the Secondborn, gazing upward with the wonder of fawns seeking solace in their mother’s warmth.

Lovers have serenaded him, their voices rising like soft waves, laying bare their hearts beneath his light. Tilion has seen love unfold in quiet corners and shuttered windows, its warmth nurtured in the hush of his glow.

Some sing of his scars, others of his pride. Poets, who long ago forgot the faces of their mortal loves, have turned their affections toward him.

But tonight, his path halts.

Tilion’s gaze falls upon a small courtyard, where a woman crouches over scattered papers. The wind teases at her work, sending loose sheets spiraling into the night. She does not notice. Her quill moves with an urgency untethered to the world around her.

Curiosity stirs the Maia. He descends, his light caressing the scene below, painting the scattered papers in hues of silver. And then, he sees it.

On the pages spread around you, his face stares back.

Sketch after sketch, each line etched with painstaking care. The proud curve of his jaw. The sorrow resting like a shadow in his eyes. The faint scars tracing his visage.

Details so precise they feel alive. Each page captures him, not as a vague reflection of his light but as though the artist had stood before him and committed him to memory.

Tilion’s breath stills. He has seen countless tributes inspired by his light, but never this. Never something so raw, so achingly intimate.

A mortal who knew his face.

Not the idea of him, not the ethereal glow he cast upon the world, but him. His true form, rendered by a hand moved by something far beyond understanding.

Below, you remain lost in your frenzy. The quill moves ceaselessly, heedless of the blood that stains the coarse paper. Around you, the night stretches on, its silence broken only by the relentless scratching of your quill.

You draw, and Tilion watches.

He cannot leave.

Not until the Sun’s rays push his light from the sky.

And as his glow fades, he sees the stains where your tears have fallen, smudging the lines into blurred whispers of despair.

This frenzy, this helpless act, is born of an impulse with no discernible cause in your mortal life. A yearning that cannot be named.

For the short days you are granted, your nights belong to Tilion. Your madness, or whatever enchantment has woven itself into your soul, leaves you capable of little else.

It is as if a single note in your song was sung wrong. A fault so profound it aches. Like the oceans that rise to meet him, only to be bound by the Earth’s relentless pull, this longing is a futile agony.

And Tilion, in his waxing and waning, cannot soothe it. He cannot ease the torment that was built into your being by the hands that shaped you.

So, he lingers. He lets his light remain longest over you. On nights when your voice rises in song, Tilion stands beside you, among the scattered pages of his likeness. His hand brushes yours, and sometimes, in those fleeting moments, he swears he feels them still beneath his touch.

A silent rebellion against the fate bestowed upon you by your creator. A protest against the punishment he now shares, meeting your anguish with equal fervor and impossible devotion.

[lamemaster]

IDK but something about Mandos, the Vala who declared Noldor's doom, crying for Luthien is so 🤌🏻 (there wasn't a word made for this feeling)

A godly being crying for a mortal (then immortal). And then like the elite Vala that he is, Mandos seeks Manwe to seek Eru's take on this. Like this Vala out here doing the most.

He totally would have supported Andreth and Aegnor had he been allowed to be a part of the Anthrabeth debate because he's a romantsy bro. Aegnor would have been allowed to build a life with his lover like Luthien did (Or maybe not because their union wasn't necessary for the damned music of Eru but I would like to think otherwise).

He is the Vala who remains fair despite witnessing the worst in all of Arda. His halls are that of healing, of respite for the weary.

I'm sorry but he's my no. 1 now (Ulmos no. 2).

[lamemaster]

Everyday struggles. What writing feels like

[lamemaster]

The strangest thing about Celebrían's story is that she didn't die, but was rescued. Maybe, the Orcs who captured Celebrían didn't know she was important and just used her for torture practice…

but if they had known she was important and reported it to their superiors, there's no way Sauron would have let the sons of Elrond, no matter how great they were, save her. He should have tortured her over and over again, using her as a bargaining chip. Not because Elrond would agree to negotiations, but because he wanted to make him suffer for abandoning his wife when he had a choice.

Did Morgoth really believe that the sons of Fëanor would back down if they got their brother back? He made the offer to make them betray their brother in order to torment them even more.

In that sense, some of the Orcs captured Celebrían without knowing it, or if Sauron knew, he returned her. With poison.

It's clear that Morgoth could enslave the Elves. Throughout the story, Sauron seems incapable of doing so. But perhaps none of the elves he had captured were worthy of his slavery. Unlike his previous master, he might have been too hard on them and could only enslave one at a time. And he might have written that it was poison. If he had captured Celebrían, he could have held him hostage to Elrond and Galadriel and tormented him for ever, or he might have tried to assassinate one of them for the jackpot. In fact, tormenting Celebrían for ever would have been useless. However, if he had enslaved her and returned her to her family in part, and she had succeeded in killing her mother or husband, it would have been a great gain. On further reflection, it is possible that Celebrían had known about this trick, but that it was his only escape route and that he had intended to resist. So Celebrían returned, fortunately failing to kill them, who were skilled warriors, or successfully resisting Sauron, but still dangerous, and eventually went west for safety.

p.s. Saying it's poison VS. Truth

???: Not only Morgoth, but also Sauron? We're all doomed! Let's drive out all the refugees!

Elrond: Don't do it! Aside from the humanitarian aspect, the exiled ones could be a hint to where this place is, or they could spread panic by overreacting, and honestly, most of them aren't worth the trouble of making them into slaves for Sauron.....

Yes. That's Poison. Strangely enough, she can't stay with us and has to go west because she's poisoned by a poison that only the Valar can cure.

[lamemaster]

When You Take Care Of Them

Headcanon: Curufin, Caranthir, Fingon, Galdor, Rog

Request: How about hcs for reader spoiling our elves? 🥰 (with caranthir, fingon, galdor, rog and curufin) like they‘ve been going through a stressful time and reader decides to set aside a day to just focus on them and help them get some relaxation (be it a spa day, picnic in a secluded spot or just a cozy day inside playing games/reading) do they happily go along with whatever you‘ve planned? Keep insisting it‘s not necessary until reader has to be like „just shut up and let me take care of you“? – @spirit-of-felagund

A/N: I don’t why, but telling the characters to “shut up,” or “be quiet” has brought me joy while writing about them being pampered and babied.

Masterlist | Navigation

Curufin

The forge had been his prison for days. Tools strewn across every surface, half-forged blades cooling in haphazard piles, and Curufin, shoulders tense and brow furrowed, barely looked up when you entered. His hands were stained with soot, knuckles white from gripping a hammer too tightly, and his hair which usually meticulously combed, was pushed back in wild disarray. The scent of molten metal clung to him like a second skin.

“You need to stop,” you said, arms crossed as you leaned against the doorframe.

Curufin didn’t even glance at you. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am.” The clang of steel against the anvil punctuated his words, but you weren’t having it. Days had passed since he’d stepped out of the forge, and you could see it—how exhaustion sat heavily on him, how his movements, once fluid, were edged with frustration.

You strode forward, snatching the hammer from his hand mid-swing prompting him ro finally looked up with narrowed eyes.

“I said I’m fine,” he punctuated with a huff.

“And I said you’re not.”

The heat between you could have melted the iron on his workbench. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. His gaze flickered to your hand on the hammer, then back to your face, but when you didn’t move, he let out a sharp breath.

“You’re difficult.”

“And you’re stubborn.”

Curufin wiped his hands on a cloth, tossing it aside with more force than necessary. “What exactly do you have planned?”

“A day off.”

He arched a brow.

“You’re going to stop working,” you said, tilting your head towards the doorway, “and let me take care of you for once.”

Curufin let out a dry chuckle. “I don’t need—”

“You do.”

His smirk faded as you stepped closer, eyes locked onto his. “You’re exhausted, Curufin. I see it. Just let me do this.”

He hesitated, but something in your voice, in the gentle insistence behind your words, made him relent. “Fine.”

Tugging at his wrist and pulling him out the forge, past the main hall, until the tranquillity of the library enveloped both of you. Large windows stretched to the ceiling, letting in streams of light that warmed the space. The air smelled faintly of old parchment and cedarwood, a stark contrast to the forge’s acrid tang.

There Curufin crossed his arms, on the verge of rolling his eyes. “This is your grand plan? Reading?”

“Yes.” You shoved a book into his chest, almost sending him backwards.

He stared at it, then back at you. “You dragged me away from forging for this?”

“I could tie you to a chair if that’d help you relax more.”

For a moment, his lips twitched, and for the first time in days, a faint glimmer of amusement softened his sharp features. “Tempting.”

“Then sit down and I’ll read.”

Reluctantly, he slumped into the armchair near the fire and waited for you to sit beside him, flipping the book open. Your melodic voice stretched between you as you read, the only sound the crackle of flames interrupting. However, very slowly did his posture melted, the tension bleeding from his frame with every turn of the page until he felt his eyes growing heavier.

When your eyes flickered up, you noticed him curled beside the chair leg with his head slumped and mouth opened as soft snores escaped. Shaking your head at his stubbornness, you shut the book and placed it on your lap, peacefully watching your husband catch some sleep.

Caranthir

Caranthir had been brooding by the lakeside when you found him with his arms crossed and eyes narrowed at the water as if it had somehow personally offended him. His hair, tangled from the wind, brushed against his shoulders, and his cloak barely clung to one side. He barely acknowledged your approach, only the faintest flicker of his gaze greeting you.

“You’ve been out here all day,” you said, settling beside him on the grass.

He grunted.

“Brooding doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m not brooding.”

“You are.”

He fell silent while his eyes remained fixated on the water. Gently you leaned over and nudged him lightly with your elbow. “Come with me.”

“I’m fine.”

“Moryo.” Your voice sharpened, and his eyes finally met yours, dark and unreadable. “You’re not fine. You need to stop shutting yourself away.”

A frown marred his face but didn’t argue, which for Caranthir was as close to surrender as you were going to get. So, quietly you led him away from the lake, through the woods until the scent of earth and pine surrounded you. The trees thinned as you reached a small clearing where a blanket had been laid out, baskets resting at the edge.

When he saw the sight, he raised a brow. “You planned a picnic?”

“You need fresh air and food that isn’t hastily thrown together at midnight.”

Once again he grunted, but this time it was less irritable. With a heavy sigh, he dropped onto the blanket, stretching his legs in front of him while you unpacked the basket, laying out bread, fruit, and cold cuts of meat. In silence, his eyes lingering on your hands as you handed him a plate.

“You’re not eating?” he asked, chewing thoughtfully.

You shook your head. “I wanted to make sure you actually ate first.”

His gaze softened, though his expression remained neutral. “You’re too persistent.”

“You’re too difficult.” Your remark earned you a low chuckle rumbled from his chest as he reached for another piece of bread. The sunlight filtering through the trees warmed his skin, and for the first time in days, his features relaxed.

When you leaned back against the grass, Caranthir glanced at you sideways. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you refuse to take care of yourself.”

He hummed quietly, eyes drifting to the treetops above. “I didn’t ask you to.”

“I know.”

For a while, neither of you spoke. Every so often did his hand brushed against yours absentmindedly as he reached for another piece of fruit, and he didn’t pull away.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, after the last of the food had been eaten. “For not letting me wallow.”

“I’d do it again,” you replied with a small smile.

His lips twitched, and he let out a breath he’d been holding far too long. As the wind rustled the leaves overhead, he let himself lean back beside you, the tension slowly ebbing away.

Fingon

The living room was warm with the soft glow of the fireplace, the light dancing lazily along the stone walls. Fingon sat slouched in the armchair near the hearth, his hair undone, cascading over his shoulders like a black waterfall. He was still clad in his usual attire—worn leather bracers on his forearms, the edges of his tunic slightly frayed from overuse. His sword belt lay discarded at the door, a rare sight.

You had to practically wrestle it off him, insisting there was no need for weapons today. He’d tried to argue, but one sharp glare had silenced him. Fingon might have been a prince, but in your home, he wasn’t above being told off. His eyes followed you now, tracking every movement as you placed a steaming mug of mulled wine on the low table in front of him. “Drink it,” you said, voice brooking no room for protest.

He arched a brow but obeyed, fingers wrapping around the mug. The warmth seemed to sink into him slowly, and he exhaled.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Shut up.”

His mouth quirked at that, the ghost of a grin flickering across his lips.

You perched yourself on the arm of his chair, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear. His shoulders tensed slightly under your touch. Fingon had carried too much weight on them lately, and the knots beneath your fingertips told the story well enough.

“Lean forward.”

He hesitated. “I can handle a few aches, it’s not—”

“I wasn’t asking, Fingon.”

There was a beat of silence, and then, with a soft sigh, he leaned forward, letting you press your hands into the hard lines of his back.

“You know,” he murmured after a while, eyes half-lidded as you worked over the muscles near his neck, “for someone so small, you have no sense of fear. Ordering me about like one of your servants.”

“I’d treat your servants better than you treat yourself.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re tense. So, be quiet and let me help.”

His head lolled slightly forward, hair slipping over his shoulders, and you worked quietly. His breathing slowed, and his shoulders gradually eased under your touch. The fire crackled softly beside you both, filling the room with the scent of burning cedarwood.

After a while, Fingon’s voice broke the quiet. “I can’t remember the last time I sat still like this.”

“That’s the problem.”

He glanced up at you, eyes catching the firelight, gold flickering in the dark. For a moment, there was something softer there—vulnerability he rarely let anyone see. You resisted the urge to kiss him, instead kneading your thumbs deeper between his shoulder blades.

“You take care of everyone else, but who takes care of you?”

His gaze held yours for a breath longer before he dropped his eyes to the flames.

“I have you, don’t I?”

You paused, fingers stilling against his back. He didn’t look at you, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Galdor

The storm outside had rolled in thick and heavy, drenching the streets of Gondolin with rain that pattered relentlessly against the windows. There in the armchair by the hearth, Galdor sat, his brows furrowed in that quiet, ever-present tension he never seemed to shed. His broad shoulders carried the weight of command long after he left the barracks, and it wasn’t difficult to see how it gnawed at him, day by day.

You watched him for a while, standing quietly in the doorway. He hadn’t noticed your presence yet, too caught up in whatever report he’d been scribbling at the small writing desk beside him. The flickering firelight danced across his strong profile, softening the stern set of his jaw.

“Galdor,” you said, stepping forward, “that’s enough for today.”

He didn’t even glance up. “I’m nearly done—just a little longer.”

Crossing the room, you planted yourself in front of him, blocking his view of the desk entirely. His eyes finally lifted, meeting yours with mild confusion. “You’re done,” you said firmly as you crossed your arms. “Come on.”

His lips quirked faintly at your tone. “You know, I outrank you.”

“And I outrank those reports,” you countered, grabbing his wrist and tugging him to his feet. He didn’t resist, though his gaze flickered towards the half-finished parchment.

“It’ll wait.”

You didn’t give him a chance to argue, guiding him away from the desk and towards the large, plush settee you’d piled with blankets and cushions earlier. The hearth crackled invitingly nearby, warmth radiating through the room. A tray sat ready on the low table—steaming mugs of spiced wine and small plates of fresh bread, cheese, and fruit.

He raised a brow. “What’s all this?”

“A distraction,” you said, gently pushing him to sit. He sank into the cushions with a quiet exhale, the tension in his shoulders loosening, though his eyes still lingered on the tray.

“You didn’t need to—”

“Galdor,” you cut in sharply, your patience thinning, “just shut up and relax.”

His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, before a rare laugh escaped him—low and rumbling, a sound you didn’t hear often enough. “Understood.”

Sinking down beside him, you passed him a mug of wine, and for a time, silence settled between you, broken only by the crackling fire and the rhythmic tapping of rain against the glass. His large hand brushed against yours when he reached for a piece of bread, but he didn’t pull away.

“Thank you,” he said softly, the words barely audible over the fire. His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he looked back to the flames, his shoulders finally easing into the comfort you’d laid out for him.

Rog

The forge was quiet, an unusual state for it. Tools lay untouched, the great anvil cold and unlit. Rog stood near the window, arms folded across his chest, gazing out over the city below. His frame filled the space effortlessly, broad shoulders tense even as he tried to appear at ease.

“Turn around,” you called from behind him.

He grunted but didn’t move. “I don’t see why you’re fussing over this.”

“Because if I don’t, you’ll work yourself to the bone. Now, sit down and stop being stubborn.”

There was a long pause before he finally turned, arching a thick brow at the set-up behind you. A wide basin of hot water sat beside a cushioned bench, steam curling lazily into the air. Oils and herbs rested on a tray nearby, their rich scents filling the space.

“You’re planning to drown me?”

“If you keep resisting, maybe.”

Rog sighed but stepped over, towering over you as usual. He lowered himself onto the bench, the wood creaking slightly under his weight. You knelt by the basin, pulling off his boots without ceremony. His feet slipped into the hot water, and he grunted softly, head tipping back against the wall.

“You’re stubborn,” he muttered.

“So I’ve been told.”

You took his arm next, rolling up his sleeve. Scars crisscrossed his skin, stories you’d heard in fragments over the years. His hands—rough, calloused things—were surprisingly gentle as you rubbed warm oil into his forearms, kneading the tension from the muscles there. The sensation was enough to make his eyes shut and his breathing slowed.

“You should’ve been a healer,” he murmured after a while.

“Too much responsibility. I’d rather handle one stubborn blacksmith at a time.”

He huffed a soft laugh, but his shoulders eased under your touch. You worked in silence, pressing your fingers into the tense lines of his forearm, feeling the knots slowly release.

After a while, Rog shifted, cracking one eye open. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because someone needs to,” you replied simply, meeting his gaze.

He studied you for a moment, then closed his eyes again, leaning into your touch. “You’re too good to me,” he exhaled.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

His lips quirked. “I just don’t want you to think I expect this. I can handle myself.”

You tightened your grip slightly, enough to make him wince. “No one said you couldn’t. But you don’t have to, not today.”

For a long while, there was nothing but the soft crackle of the nearby fire and the faint lap of water against the basin’s edge.

Rog’s voice broke the quiet eventually. “Thank you.”

You glanced up at him. His eyes were soft now, warm in a way they rarely were. “Don’t make it a habit,” you teased.

He chuckled, low and rumbling. “Too late for that.”

Taglist: @lilmelily @ranhanabi777 @mysticmoomin @rain-on-my-umbrella @batsyforyou @asianbutnotjapanese @involuntaryspasms @stormchaser819 @aconstructofamind @addaigio @ladyenchanted @hermaeuswhora @lamemaster @elficially-done-with-life @feanorynz

If you wish to be tagged, click on the Taglist Link to join

[lamemaster]

Mamushi by Megan Thee Stallion was written for Earendil.

(Art by Morgan Rogers)

[lamemaster]

Damned Nutmeg

Request: @misfortunateleprechaun I loved the ‘Yours Truly, Passenger Princess’ it was amazing and funny as well. Would please do a part 2 for it?

Genre: fluff

Pairing: Caranthir x Human Reader

Summary: You were every bit the spoiled princess you appeared to be. No regard for the effort and resources behind the feast, no thought for the people you so effortlessly dismissed.

AN: Thanks for requesting this! I love writing this specific reader! And fluff is the best way to end this year and start a new one! (I don't have a life lol) I hope you enjoy this!

Yours Truly, Passenger Princess- might have to read this for context

The dish clattered loudly in the hall, the sound echoing off the high ceilings. The servers froze in place, their faces a mix of fear and shock. Some elves at the far end of the table winced at the clanging, their refined senses recoiling at the noise.

“Nutmeg!” you declared, standing at the center of the room with an indignant frown. “The most abhorrent spice to ever disgrace the lands of Arda! And black pepper, of course, is a close second.”

The remnants of the cake were swiftly cleared away as your tirade against the dessert continued, your voice growing increasingly dramatic. The elves seated nearby exchanged uneasy glances, while the humans accompanying your father tried and failed to mask their discomfort.

Two seats down, Caranthir’s knuckles whitened as he clenched his fists. Only hours ago, he’d thought you tolerable. Your presence, despite its eccentricities, had helped secure the alliance that his brother so carefully orchestrated. For a brief moment, Caranthir had even entertained the thought that you might be amenable.

Too soon.

You were every bit the spoiled princess you appeared to be. No regard for the effort and resources behind the feast, no thought for the people you so effortlessly dismissed.

From the corner of his eye, Caranthir caught sight of the cook. A proud elf who had spent the better part of the day preparing the banquet, bowing humbly under the weight of your unjust criticism. Something in Caranthir simmered dangerously close to boiling.

Meanwhile, you resumed your seat beside your father, who patted your back sympathetically, as though your struggle against an unsatisfactory dessert was a tragedy of epic proportions.

Caranthir’s gaze flicked to Maedhros, seated at the head of the table, his elder brother’s expression calm and carefully neutral. Even Maitimo remained silent, no doubt calculating that enduring your outburst was worth securing the alliance with one of the most powerful Edain kingdoms.

But Caranthir? He wasn’t sure he could endure it.

So he waits.

Hours later, as you stand kissing your father’s cheek with a mumbled goodnight, Caranthir watches from the shadows, his patience stretched thin.

When the moment is right, he follows you.

Before you can step too far, he grabs your wrist, his grip firm but not cruel. Ignoring your cries of protest, he pulls you swiftly toward the nearest closet, his strides purposeful and unrelenting.

“What are you doing?!” you shriek, twisting against his hold, your free hand shoving against his chest in a futile attempt to break free. “Let go, you idiot!”

Your voice echoes down the hall, and Caranthir is fairly certain twenty other rooms have heard your hollering by now.

He finally releases your wrist with a sharp sigh, stepping back just enough to block the door and cross his arms. “Would you lower your voice for once?” he growls, his tone low and biting, the frustration of the evening dangerously close to boiling over.

“You are the most entitled woman to ever walk this Earth,” he snarls, his voice laced with venom. “How dare you insult my brother’s welcome? Wasting food made with so much care and love, detestable, as most mortals are.”

“I should’ve known better about an elf who carries a person like a sack,” you add bitterly, your voice steadier now but still cutting. You fumble with your disheveled hair, your fingers trembling slightly as you try to smooth it back into place.

And there it is. That same indignant look, like a hurt puppy wronged by undeserved anger.

Despite himself, Caranthir felt his rage dissolve, as though doused by a bucket of cold water. The sharp edges of his frustration dulled, leaving behind an uncomfortable knot in his chest.

His eyes caught on the faint smudge of dust now streaking your sleeve, something that, under any other circumstances, would have drawn your immediate annoyance. But now, you seemed oblivious, unbothered, your focus elsewhere.

“I do not like nutmeg. It tastes disgusting. Why must I hide a fact so trivial?” you complained, your tone sharp, though more exasperated than angry. You didn’t seem to notice or care that Caranthir was no longer arguing.

“Why must you elves be so sensitive about everything?” you added, your rant gaining momentum. The irony of your statement wasn’t lost on Caranthir, and he had to stifle the urge to point it out.

Instead, he stood there, arms still crossed, watching you with a mixture of bewilderment and reluctant amusement. For all your flaws, there was something oddly disarming about the way you vented so freely, as though the world should rearrange itself to suit your whims.

And to his irritation, he couldn’t bring himself to interrupt.

“I didn’t even want to be here,” you continued, your tone growing more indignant. “I quite enjoy my mortal-built palace. We might not have your fancy elven shampoo, but at least in my palace, no one seasons cakes with nutmeg!”

Without warning, Caranthir broke into laughter. A deep, unrestrained sound that echoed through the small room. Eru, this was absurd! The sheer vanity of arguing with you. A spoiled, mortal princess, was laughable. And yet, somehow, it was weirdly… endearing.

Was this how his brothers felt every time they endured his own complaints?

Your rant faltered at the unexpected sound, your mouth snapping shut as you stared at him in disbelief. Caranthir, shoulders still shaking with laughter, looked down at you with a grin he hadn’t worn in what felt like ages.

Caught off guard, you huffed, your cheeks warming with indignation. “You are the most insufferable of your bunch! I shall never trade my pearls with you. Not even for a lifetime’s worth of hair care.”

With a sharp stomp of your foot, you turned and stormed off, your figure bristling with pride and anger. Yet, the same fire that had so frustrated Caranthir earlier now tugged at the corners of his lips, an unexpected amusement softening his stern features.

The next morning, you awoke to an unusual sight. A basket brimming with bottles of shampoo and a bouquet of wildflowers. Your perplexed maids exchanged glances as you pulled the arrangement closer, the faint scent of lavender and mint filling the air.

Nestled among the flowers was a handkerchief, the embroidery delicate and unmistakable—a small horse, its form almost playful, hidden within the folds of the fabric.

Your fingers brushed over the stitching, your expression unreadable as you gently tucked the handkerchief away. Much to your maids’ surprise, you began rummaging through your belongings, searching for riding clothes.

The basket sat untouched on the vanity as the morning light filtered through the windows, but the faintest of smiles played at your lips.