nataliabdraws

[nataliabdraws]

trouble maker

haladriel outlaw au!

[nataliabdraws]

darling heart, i loved you from the start (V)

pairing: maglor x original female character

summary: maglor buys a horse and a hunting trip leads to a moment of bliss.

warnings: one instance of animal death in this chapter.

word count: 4.9k

author's note: I was gonna try to postpone posting this but I literally love it too much to not share it with you guys. I thought ch 4 was my favorite but this chapter has definitely replaced it. Little warning for later in the chapter, there is a animal death, written some what explicitly. Other than that I hope you enjoy!!

read full thing on ao3

A week later, Olwyn sends him into town to buy a horse.

(Over potato soup and the remains of a buttered loaf, she lays out small coins upon the wooden table— silver in careful stacks, gold placed in a separate pile. “My brother won’t be back soon enough to use his,” she mutters, rolling the coins beneath her fingers. Three tidy piles of silver, then five gold pieces, each one plinking against the wood. Maglor’s chest tightens as he watches; he has lived on foot for so long, and the thought of taking from her meager coffers stings like a bruise.

He tries to speak, but the words catch. Olwyn presses the coins into his hand instead. Ten silver, five gold. “Tell Euden I sent you. He might be more inclined to bargain.”

So he goes.)

The livery stands at the far edge of town, crouched on the outskirts where the fields stretch thin. Euden— the horse master— is a gnarled older man with shrewd eyes that take Maglor’s measure in an instant, like a craftsman weighing metal for the forge. Maglor explains he needs a horse, and Euden laughs low in his throat, as though he’s heard this a thousand times before.

“Of course you do,” he says. “What are you looking for?”

Maglor pauses. Realizes, in truth, he doesn’t quite know. Over the centuries, he has ridden every manner of steed: the gilded, fiery stallions reared in his family’s stables, surefooted mountain nags that carried him over crags and ravines, and everything in between.

“Reliable,” he says at last.

Euden nods, seems to approve of the word. He calls for his son— a sandy-haired youth with knobbly knees— and the boy brings out three horses in turn.

The first is a fine dark bay stallion, bright-eyed and dancing on a taut lead. The son struggles to keep the fiery creature from sidling, from flaring its nostrils and flicking its tail in restless energy. Maglor watches, unimpressed, reading youth and untested mettle in the stallion’s every move. They send that one away.

The second is a dun mare, round in the belly, her eyes serene and knowing. Maglor’s hope sparks— until he catches the subtle hitch in her step, a slight limp that tugs at him with gentle sympathy.

“No,” he says quietly, and Euden inclines his head, untroubled.

At last, the third is called: a shaggy black gelding who plods forward with hooves thudding against the frozen earth like distant war-drums. Winter clings to his coat in tufts, a ragged shroud that cannot conceal the sheer breadth of his chest, nor the weighty bulk of his head. Maglor notes the draft blood in this one.

“Berion,” Euden names him. “Once a warhorse.”

The son beckons Maglor closer, and Maglor rests a hand on the gelding’s nose— velvet-soft and questing for treats. He traces the alabaster blaze that streaks down between the gelding’s eyes, feels the deep-worn years in that warm, weary gaze. A patience forged by battles unnumbered. A spirit that has endured.

Maglor finds a kindred soul.

"Your price?" Maglor asks.

Keen eyes appraise him. "Four gold."

"Olwyn sent me."

Laughter, rough-hewn. Crooked smile. "Two, then."

"Three. Plus tack."

A nod— coins exchanged— and before long, Berion stands bridled, blanketed, saddled.

-

Read the rest on ao3

[nataliabdraws]

darling heart, i loved you from the start (V)

pairing: maglor x original female character

summary: maglor buys a horse and a hunting trip leads to a moment of bliss.

warnings: one instance of animal death in this chapter.

word count: 4.9k

author's note: I was gonna try to postpone posting this but I literally love it too much to not share it with you guys. I thought ch 4 was my favorite but this chapter has definitely replaced it. Little warning for later in the chapter, there is a animal death, written some what explicitly. Other than that I hope you enjoy!!

read full thing on ao3

A week later, Olwyn sends him into town to buy a horse.

(Over potato soup and the remains of a buttered loaf, she lays out small coins upon the wooden table— silver in careful stacks, gold placed in a separate pile. “My brother won’t be back soon enough to use his,” she mutters, rolling the coins beneath her fingers. Three tidy piles of silver, then five gold pieces, each one plinking against the wood. Maglor’s chest tightens as he watches; he has lived on foot for so long, and the thought of taking from her meager coffers stings like a bruise.

He tries to speak, but the words catch. Olwyn presses the coins into his hand instead. Ten silver, five gold. “Tell Euden I sent you. He might be more inclined to bargain.”

So he goes.)

The livery stands at the far edge of town, crouched on the outskirts where the fields stretch thin. Euden— the horse master— is a gnarled older man with shrewd eyes that take Maglor’s measure in an instant, like a craftsman weighing metal for the forge. Maglor explains he needs a horse, and Euden laughs low in his throat, as though he’s heard this a thousand times before.

“Of course you do,” he says. “What are you looking for?”

Maglor pauses. Realizes, in truth, he doesn’t quite know. Over the centuries, he has ridden every manner of steed: the gilded, fiery stallions reared in his family’s stables, surefooted mountain nags that carried him over crags and ravines, and everything in between.

“Reliable,” he says at last.

Euden nods, seems to approve of the word. He calls for his son— a sandy-haired youth with knobbly knees— and the boy brings out three horses in turn.

The first is a fine dark bay stallion, bright-eyed and dancing on a taut lead. The son struggles to keep the fiery creature from sidling, from flaring its nostrils and flicking its tail in restless energy. Maglor watches, unimpressed, reading youth and untested mettle in the stallion’s every move. They send that one away.

The second is a dun mare, round in the belly, her eyes serene and knowing. Maglor’s hope sparks— until he catches the subtle hitch in her step, a slight limp that tugs at him with gentle sympathy.

“No,” he says quietly, and Euden inclines his head, untroubled.

At last, the third is called: a shaggy black gelding who plods forward with hooves thudding against the frozen earth like distant war-drums. Winter clings to his coat in tufts, a ragged shroud that cannot conceal the sheer breadth of his chest, nor the weighty bulk of his head. Maglor notes the draft blood in this one.

“Berion,” Euden names him. “Once a warhorse.”

The son beckons Maglor closer, and Maglor rests a hand on the gelding’s nose— velvet-soft and questing for treats. He traces the alabaster blaze that streaks down between the gelding’s eyes, feels the deep-worn years in that warm, weary gaze. A patience forged by battles unnumbered. A spirit that has endured.

Maglor finds a kindred soul.

"Your price?" Maglor asks.

Keen eyes appraise him. "Four gold."

"Olwyn sent me."

Laughter, rough-hewn. Crooked smile. "Two, then."

"Three. Plus tack."

A nod— coins exchanged— and before long, Berion stands bridled, blanketed, saddled.

-

Read the rest on ao3

[nataliabdraws]

I dont want to set the world on fire

haladriel outlaw au!! ch 1 is out now on ao3

[nataliabdraws]

darling heart, i loved you from the start (III+IV)

pairing: maglor x original female character

summary: wedding invitation are extended and weddings are attended.

warnings: N/A

word count: 2.3k (kinda a short one)

author's note: i decided to post ch 3 and 4 together since ch3 is a very short one. Ch 4 was one of my favorites to write. I hope you enjoy and I love getting your feedback!

read full thing on ao3

Maglor’s wound heals faster than it should. Unnaturally swift, yet it knits itself together all the same.

The blackened skin of his right hand softens, paling to the ashen scar-tint marking the rest of his palm. Veins remain raised—red, raw—spiderwebbing across his flesh, though their edges have lost that furious burn, settling into a subdued, quiet ache.

“Hold this,” Olwyn says, pressing a cluster of herbs into his waiting hand.

The skin there is still cracked and scaly, pulsing with a warmth. She nestles the herbs in place, the linen bandage wrapping snug around his palm in practiced, careful coils. Her touch lingers for a breath before she ties it off.

Maglor cradles the herbs, letting her spiral the cloth up his forearm. When she is done, she steps back, meets his gaze—his eyes keen, unwavering.

“Thank you,” he says. His voice is gentle, barely above a whisper. He flexes his fingers, testing the tightness of the bandage. The movement is small but deliberate; his resolve hums beneath the injury.

It has been weeks since she’d dragged him through her door, pale and wordless in the half-light. From the moment he could stand, he insisted on helping—so long as she treated him. He weeded the gardens, patched the thatch on the roof, shoveled hay into the barn. His wounded hand made the work slower, but he was always there, always reaching for the next task (until her brother returned).

Olwyn is grateful. She does not say it outright—she need not. From the first sunrise they spent side by side, there was an unspoken accord. She is not one to share her burdens (the homestead, the fields, the animals), yet another pair of hands—steady, capable—lifts the weight in ways she never imagined. The labor is lighter, shared.

Now he is a constant presence, moving quietly alongside her, his slender frame pacing hers with ease. She finds a still comfort in that. She notices too, when he thinks no one is listening, he hums—a soft, lilting tune that seems just shy of spilling into melody. Sometimes a line slips out, and she hears something ancient in it. Other times, he falls silent the instant he catches her watching. His pale cheeks flush under the sun, and he murmurs, “Forgive me.”

He does not wish to leave.

And, though Olwyn scarce admits it, neither does she.

She’d grown used to their shared meals— to the hush of evening when the hearth still glowed from the day’s labors, and the promise of wine warmed both their hands. She’d taken to teaching him an old board game passed down by her father: small wooden disks marked with symbols, slid across a battered board. Each move precise, deliberate. Her brother had once been the master of it— yet Maglor took to it like a second nature, his clever hands arranging cunning paths until the lines of his strategy pinned her own.

In those moments, it was hard to see him as the warrior of legend— one of Fëanor’s sons, a name both reviled and mourned. Here, he was a figure bent over the table, one leg tucked beneath him, fingertips tapping a rhythm against the worn wood as he considered his next move. His hair, loosely braided over one shoulder, framed a thoughtful, almost boyish face, intent on the next piece to shift.

Not a warrior. Not a war-monger. Just a man.

And it is a man who knocks at her door.

-

read full thing on ao3

[nataliabdraws]

darling heart, i loved you from the start (III+IV)

pairing: maglor x original female character

summary: wedding invitation are extended and weddings are attended.

warnings: N/A

word count: 2.3k (kinda a short one)

author's note: i decided to post ch 3 and 4 together since ch3 is a very short one. Ch 4 was one of my favorites to write. I hope you enjoy and I love getting your feedback!

read full thing on ao3

Maglor’s wound heals faster than it should. Unnaturally swift, yet it knits itself together all the same.

The blackened skin of his right hand softens, paling to the ashen scar-tint marking the rest of his palm. Veins remain raised—red, raw—spiderwebbing across his flesh, though their edges have lost that furious burn, settling into a subdued, quiet ache.

“Hold this,” Olwyn says, pressing a cluster of herbs into his waiting hand.

The skin there is still cracked and scaly, pulsing with a warmth. She nestles the herbs in place, the linen bandage wrapping snug around his palm in practiced, careful coils. Her touch lingers for a breath before she ties it off.

Maglor cradles the herbs, letting her spiral the cloth up his forearm. When she is done, she steps back, meets his gaze—his eyes keen, unwavering.

“Thank you,” he says. His voice is gentle, barely above a whisper. He flexes his fingers, testing the tightness of the bandage. The movement is small but deliberate; his resolve hums beneath the injury.

It has been weeks since she’d dragged him through her door, pale and wordless in the half-light. From the moment he could stand, he insisted on helping—so long as she treated him. He weeded the gardens, patched the thatch on the roof, shoveled hay into the barn. His wounded hand made the work slower, but he was always there, always reaching for the next task (until her brother returned).

Olwyn is grateful. She does not say it outright—she need not. From the first sunrise they spent side by side, there was an unspoken accord. She is not one to share her burdens (the homestead, the fields, the animals), yet another pair of hands—steady, capable—lifts the weight in ways she never imagined. The labor is lighter, shared.

Now he is a constant presence, moving quietly alongside her, his slender frame pacing hers with ease. She finds a still comfort in that. She notices too, when he thinks no one is listening, he hums—a soft, lilting tune that seems just shy of spilling into melody. Sometimes a line slips out, and she hears something ancient in it. Other times, he falls silent the instant he catches her watching. His pale cheeks flush under the sun, and he murmurs, “Forgive me.”

He does not wish to leave.

And, though Olwyn scarce admits it, neither does she.

She’d grown used to their shared meals— to the hush of evening when the hearth still glowed from the day’s labors, and the promise of wine warmed both their hands. She’d taken to teaching him an old board game passed down by her father: small wooden disks marked with symbols, slid across a battered board. Each move precise, deliberate. Her brother had once been the master of it— yet Maglor took to it like a second nature, his clever hands arranging cunning paths until the lines of his strategy pinned her own.

In those moments, it was hard to see him as the warrior of legend— one of Fëanor’s sons, a name both reviled and mourned. Here, he was a figure bent over the table, one leg tucked beneath him, fingertips tapping a rhythm against the worn wood as he considered his next move. His hair, loosely braided over one shoulder, framed a thoughtful, almost boyish face, intent on the next piece to shift.

Not a warrior. Not a war-monger. Just a man.

And it is a man who knocks at her door.

-

read full thing on ao3

[nataliabdraws]

Work in progress of a scene from chapter 1 of my haladriel outlaw au!

[nataliabdraws]

i think i just wrote my favorite maglor and olwyn scene ever

[nataliabdraws]

Your haladriel art is amazing omg T-T How long have you been drawing? I admire your skills so much, especially since I struggle with anatomy and figures.

Btw, welcome to the fandom! Do you want any fic recs? Ouroboros by amuria is a classic!

this is so sweet of you!

I've been drawing almost all my life (I'm 22 now). I went to middle and high schools that had specialized art programs, so I am very fortunate to have a pretty solid start. Though I absolutely still consider myself a student lol, I'm always learning.

I can't believe it took me so long to make art for the haladriel side of the fandom, I finished season 2 awhile ago. I guess I just needed my hyperfixation to switch over. I appreciate the welcome! I've read Ouroboros, and it was absolutely fantastic! I started writing the haladriel outlaw au I've been making sketches of. I've been posting about it more often on my twitter! here is a little excerpt from the end of ch 1! I hope to post it if I can write more than three chapters.

thanks for checking in!

[nataliabdraws]

Outlaw au pt2

[nataliabdraws]

darling heart, i loved you from the start (II)

pairing: maglor x original female character

summary: maglor begins to adjust to farm life, Olwyn takes a trip to town

warnings: N/A

word count: 2.3k (kinda a short one)

author's note: I'm so glad you all have been enjoying this fic! please let me know what you think of it on ao3!

read full thing on ao3 (read to the end for some concept art!)

The Elf joins her in the garden most days—quietly, without fuss, kneeling among the herbs as though it is the most natural thing in the world. His long, slender fingers sift through the dirt, finding the best place for each seed to take root. The rows he tends grow precise, straight as an arrow's flight, every leaf fanning outward in healthy arcs. Under his care, the vegetables flourish: thick-stemmed and vibrant, as though mocking the season's lingering chill.

Olwyn watches from the small stable across the way. She pitches hay into stalls, arms moving in practiced sweeps; but her gaze drifts toward the Elf, observing how deliberate he is in everything he does. She has asked for his name more than once—only to see him slip around her words like a well-trained hound avoiding a snare. She doesn't press him. In time, she tells herself, he will speak.

Later in the afternoon, she brushes the mud from her sturdy grey mare, its flanks dappled with remnants of the day's work. The mare's muzzle, cold with the approaching dusk, nudges her hand. She offers a sugar cube from her apron pocket, lingers in the gentle nuzzle of warm breath against her palm. The brush sweeps slow circles over the horse's coat, each stroke a quieting lull, smoothing the tension from Olwyn's own shoulders.

Satisfied at last, she settles the saddle upon the mare's back, cinching the girth with an efficient tug. The bridle slides into place. She checks the straps by running her hand along their length, ensuring no sharp edge or knot might chafe. Everything feels right beneath her fingertips—the surety of leather, the steady beat of the horse's breath.

Leading the mare toward the stable doors, she nearly collides with the Elf, who leans against the frame. He has a casual air, though she knows he notices everything, his eyes unwavering upon hers.

"You're leaving," he says, tone low and even, a statement rather than a question.

"I am." She steps into the stirrup, mounting in one fluid motion. Her skirts gather at her knees as she reins the mare. His hand lifts, pressing gently against the horse's flank, steadying.

"Where?" he asks.

"To town," she replies, voice firm. "For supplies. I'll be back before dark."

He nods once, but doesn't move aside. Instead, he fidgets briefly with the edge of his cloak, tugging it free where it clings to his shoulder. The dark cloth ripples in a faint breeze before pooling in his hand, a gathered hush of fabric.

"Take this," he says, extending the cloak toward her.

She hesitates, a polite refusal rising in her throat, but the sky beyond the stable yawns open—an expanse of swirling clouds over the distant sea, thick with the promise of rain. Reluctantly, she accepts. The worn wool feels both rugged and comforting, a shield against the chill that creeps through the dusk. She drapes it across her shoulders, the weight of it—a solemn gift—settling around her.

"Thank you," she murmurs, fingers curling into the folds.

He inclines his head, a silent acknowledgment. For a moment, they simply regard each other, the air heavy with unspoken words. Then he steps back, a hand on the mare's neck, guiding her forward.

“I’ll return before nightfall,” she promises, her grip tightening on the reins. Her heels press against the mare’s sides, and the horse springs forward, hooves drumming across the ground as they break into a steady canter.

The town rises into view as the sun dips lower, the edges of its thatched roofs catching the last traces of golden light. A faint glow spills from scattered lanterns, their reflections quivering in the dark waters of the harbor. The air here is heavier, tinged with salt and wood smoke, and Olwyn breathes it in, the scent a familiar balm.

Her horse slows as they cross the village square, its gait measured and calm. Voices drift toward her—low murmurs, the occasional burst of laughter spilling from the open door of the small tavern. She lets her gaze linger for a moment before dismounting, her knees protesting the motion.

She gathers the reins over the mare’s head and ties them to the post, the leather cool and smooth in her hands. Vendors line the square ahead of her, their small, dust-streaked tents leaning into the breeze.

Their calls rise over the hum of the village, voices warm and lilting as they beckon her closer. Faces light with practiced cheer, hands flashing toward rows of vegetables displayed in tidy piles—turnips, rutabagas, parsnips. The colors stand out in the fading light, their skins smooth and unblemished, a small miracle of the season.

The chill begins to creep in as the evening deepens, and she pulls the cloak tighter around her shoulders, the fabric heavy against her arms.

A man sits within the tent, hair white as snow, shoulders bent beneath the weight of years. Beside him, barrels brim with fresh-caught fish, silver scales glinting in the dim. Glassy eyes stare unseeing, still and lifeless.

Olwyn knows him at once. Relief washes over her.

"Old man Rendil," she calls, a smile curving her lips. "I feared you'd not have another good haul before winter's coming."

The fisherman chuckles, voice deep and steady as the tide. "Right you are, girl. But the waters were kind today. Caught them just this morn, before the clouds crept in." He nods to the sky, dark shapes gathering ominous above the distant sea.

"I'll take two greyfish," she says, fingers fumbling for her coin purse, "and a half-pound of mussels."

Rendil's eyes twinkle with mirth as he sets to work, pulling her order from the barrels with practiced ease. "Mighty appetite, haven't you, girl?"

"Oh, it's not her appetite, Rendil." A woman's voice, sharp and knowing. "It's for the man in her house."

Rendil's wife appears, keen-eyed, gaze fixed on Olwyn. "Is it true, then? He's an Elf?"

Heat floods Olwyn's cheeks. She straightens, tugs her cloak tighter round her shoulders. "Word spreads quickly here, does it not?"

The old woman cackles, hand swatting at her husband's arm. "Heron's boy spotted him by the cliffs just last eve," she says, grinning wide. "Now the whole town's abuzz with tales."

Olwyn keeps her eyes on her hands, adjusting her cloak. Heron—quiet, sharp-eyed Heron—worked with her brother on the fishing boats in warmer seasons, when the hills were lush and green. She'd always wondered at the silences he carried, the weight of words unspoken.

"It's true, then," Rendil's wife presses, curiosity like a knife's edge. "He is an Elf."

[to be continued! read full thing on ao3 ]

[nataliabdraws]

🎶 take me homee country roadssss 🎶

outlaw au

[nataliabdraws]

these barbies have insatiable yearning that if acted upon will have dire consequences! 😀

and by consequences I mean half maia celebri- [GUNSHOT]

[nataliabdraws]

lost his ship, lost his crew, beat by middle schoolers, and he’s broke

Did a draw over of that old hux concept art bc I really did think jod was gonna kick the bucket and this diva would do something like this

[nataliabdraws]

lost his ship, lost his crew, beat by middle schoolers, and he’s broke

Did a draw over of that old hux concept art bc I really did think jod was gonna kick the bucket and this diva would do something like this

[nataliabdraws]

darling heart, i loved you from the start (I)

pairing: maglor x original female character

summary: at the start of the fourth age, olwyn gets a unexpected visitor on her doorstep

aka maglor gets the cottage core life he doesn't know he needs

warnings: N/A

word count: 3.8k

author's note: this is just a entirely self indulgent fanfic I wrote about my oc olwyn and maglor.

read full thing on ao3 (read to the end for some concept art!)

1.

The man arrives with the storm.

Olwyn sees him first as a dark blot against the horizon, teetering on the white stone cliffs of Langstrand. The wind howls, carrying the crash of waves against the rocks below, but the man walks with no caution. His cloak snaps wildly around his ankles, his bare feet gliding over the slippery, rain-slicked edge as if he does not fear the jagged maw of the sea waiting below.

She watches him for a long moment, rooted by the strangeness of the sight. The old stories creep unbidden into her mind—those whispered tales of spirits who sang with sweet voices to lead the unwary to their deaths. But those stories spoke of grace, of beauty that beguiled.

This man sways like a drunkard.

A gust of wind topples him forward into the grass, the rain drenching him further as he lies motionless against the over-saturated earth. It’s too far to see clearly, his face obscured by the veil of the storm, but the scene jolts Olwyn from her reverie.

Her chair scrapes against the wood floor as she rises, her heart lurching. She fumbles with the thick pelted cloak hanging by the door, the fastenings slipping beneath her fingers. Rain pounds against the windows as she pulls on her boots, rushed and graceless.

The door bursts open under her grip, the wind slamming against her, biting through her clothes and whipping her pale hair into her eyes, into her mouth. The storm roars around her, blinding and deafening as she steps out onto the wet stone path. She blinks hard against the rain clinging to her lashes and braces herself against the wind.

Olwyn starts toward the cliffs, her boots sinking into the slick, muddy earth as she hurries to where she last saw the man.

“You! Are you okay?”

Her voice cuts through the storm, but the wind swallows it whole, hurling her words over the cliffs and into the sea. The squelch of her boots in the mud is drowned out by the crashing waves below, each step splattering her calves with wet earth. The hem of her skirt clings heavily to her legs, soaked through.

She stumbles, her footing faltering on the slick ground, but her fingers catch the man’s elbow just in time. The contact shocks her—his skin is clammy and cold, like ice water soaked through flesh. Like he had been out in this weather far longer than she had spotted him. He shudders under her grip, a faint, involuntary tremor, and the wrongness of it sends a shiver racing up her spine.

When she turns him onto his back, he looks dead. Mud and seawater streak his face and clothes, dark hair plastered to his forehead. His eyes are half-lidded, rolled back into his skull, and for a terrible moment, Olwyn is certain she’s too late. But then she sees it—the faint rise and fall of his chest, fragile and uneven but undeniable.

Above them, the storm howls, a mournful wail that drowns out even her thoughts. Rain lashes against her face, relentless and cold, as she looks back toward the distant shape of her dwelling. The thatched roof barely stands out against the rolling cliffs, but the warm glow of lantern light cuts through the gloom, beckoning her back.

The storm will only worsen—she knows it will. The past few days have been unforgiving, and this stranger won’t last the night out here, not in this.

Olwyn grits her teeth, steeling herself against the weight of what she must do. Looping her hands under his armpits, she braces her legs and pulls.

“Come on,” she mutters, the rain slipping between her teeth as she speaks. The man groans faintly, a weak protest spilling from his lips, but his legs barely move beneath him. “Come on now, you can do it.”

With a grunt of effort, she hauls him upright, his body heavy and unyielding, nearly twice her size. His head lolls against her shoulder, his arms limp at his sides, but he stumbles forward when she tugs at him. The weight is staggering, but Olwyn is struck with sudden gratitude for her brother and the long hours spent wrestling calves and sheep in the past—this man weighs no more than calf her herd ever did, though the stakes feel infinitely higher.

Her humble cottage grows larger with each faltering step, the glow of the lanterns cutting through the storm’s darkness and blazing against her retinas. The light burns faint spots into the night sky behind it, but it promises warmth and safety, and she clings to that thought as her boots squelch through the mud.

At last, they cross the threshold. The door slams shut behind them, muffling the roar of the storm. The man stumbles once more, crumpling into her, his full weight bearing down on her shoulders and chest. She staggers but manages to hold them both upright, his skin like ice through her damp clothes, stealing the little warmth she has left.

The dim light of her home barely illuminates the path ahead, and she moves carefully, guiding them around the low table and through the curtain that separates the bedchamber. The weight eases as she lowers him onto her bed, the mattress groans beneath his weight. His breathing is shallow, each faint inhale barely perceptible, but it’s enough—it has to be.

Rain drips from her hair, trailing down her skin and soaking further into her dress. She shivers, her teeth clattering no matter how hard she clenches her jaw. Still, she pulls off her drenched cloak and tosses it aside, reaching for a dry one.

She wraps the warm fabric around the man’s freezing form, her fingers moving briskly despite their numbness. As she props him up to tuck the cloak under him, she begins rummaging for dry clothes. Her hands fumble, clumsy and slow, but she pulls out a tunic —old ones of her father's. The wool is rough and scratchy against her fingertips, but they're warm, and they'll have to do.

Olwyn works quickly, peeling away the soiled tunic that clings to his skin, the damp fabric resisting her at every pull. She shimmies the dry shirt over his head, yanking it into place with hurried efficiency as his arms flop limply at his sides. It’s far too large for her, and it will swamp him, but warmth matters more than fit.

Her breath catches for a moment as she catches sight of his frame—thinner than she had expected, his ribs stark against his chilled, pale skin. She barely has time to register the sight before he shifts, twisting suddenly away from her hands with a low groan. The sound startles her, her heart leaping, but she lets him go. He burrows into the furs like a wounded animal seeking shelter, and she moves to pull them up higher, tucking them carefully around his neck.

She pauses as her eyes fall on a stray lock of hair. It’s raven black, untamed and tangled, and the damp strands cling to his face. She brushes them aside without thinking, her fingers revealing the pointed tip of his ear beneath.

An Elf.

The thought lands heavy in her mind as she stares, taking him in for the first time with real clarity. There are no Elves in Langstrand—not anymore. Not for a long time. And yet, here one is, lying unconscious in her bed, draped in her father’s old tunic.

Her gaze lingers on the steady rise and fall of the furs over his chest, his breaths soft but rhythmic. Her hand drifts absently to her own ear, tracing the subtle curve of its dull point—a mark of her half-blood lineage, a quiet truth she has carried her whole life.

But he is not like her. He is pure-blooded, unblemished. Older. Other.

Something else entirely.

The dull ache in her jaw, from the relentless chattering of her teeth, pulls Olwyn sharply back to the present. She reaches for a rag and rubs at her face, the rough fabric dragging against her clammy skin. Her hands tremble as she works, clumsy and slow, and the chill bites harder when she begins peeling off her soaked clothes. The damp fabric clings to her skin, reluctant, but she shoves the garments aside and reaches for fresh underclothes.

She gathers her sodden clothes, the fabric heavy and cold in her arms, and drapes them over the back of a chair. The wet material drips onto the floor, dark spots spreading across the wood where the water falls, but she pays it no mind.

Reaching for her brother’s wool blanket, Olwyn wraps it tightly around her shoulders. The texture is coarse but warm, and the weight of it steadies her as she totters toward the kitchen area. The scent of soup, thick with salt and thyme and earth, hangs heavy in the air. It still simmers faintly over the coals where she’d left it hours ago, forgotten in the chaos of the storm. It had been meant to last her for days, but with a second mouth to feed, that feels unimportant now.

She ladles out the broth, the steam rising to warm her face, chasing away the lingering chill. Blowing gently at the surface, she takes a cautious sip. The heat stings her lips, her tongue, but her stomach growls in protest when she sets the cup down. The last of her bread had been eaten two days ago—there’s no sense in waiting now.

Soup in hand, Olwyn makes her way back to the bedchamber. The blanket clings to her as she pulls a chair up beside the bed and lowers herself into it.

The Elf stirs.

The movement is subtle, but it freezes her all the same. His brow furrows faintly, the lines of his features shifting ever so slightly, and she watches with bated breath. His chest rises and falls in shallow rhythm, his lashes fluttering as his eyes roll beneath their lids. The pale cast of his skin has softened, losing some of its waxy sheen, and the harsh lines carved into his face seem to have eased.

Her gaze lingers, tracing the high bridge of his nose, the sharp line of his jaw. The pointed tips of his ears peek through his dark hair, long and unmistakable, even in the dim light.

Then, his eyes open.

They are pale and distant, unfocused, as though he sees her but not entirely.

“I’ve brought you soup,” she says, her voice loud in the heavy silence of the room. She thrusts the cup toward him, as if the gesture alone might help him understand, as if he even speaks her language. “It will help warm you,” she tries again, softer this time, her tone gentle and steady. “Can you eat?”

He doesn’t answer. His eyes are fixed on the cup in her hand, and his nostrils flare, a subtle movement that gives her pause. Olwyn dips the spoon into the broth, steam rising faintly as she lifts it. She blows gently on the liquid, the warmth wafting between them, and holds it up.

“You have to eat,” she says, the words low but firm, a quiet insistence.

He blinks, his brow furrowing slightly, and for a moment, it seems as though he might speak. The corners of his lips twitch, a faint flicker of effort that never materializes into sound. His gaze drops to the spoon in her hand, and she sees it—a glimmer of understanding.

Encouraged, she presses the spoon forward, close enough to brush against his dry, chapped lips. “Here. Eat.”

There’s a hesitation, his body still save for the flicker of dark eyelashes. Then, his mouth opens, and his tongue darts out, tentative.

He swallows, the motion slow and deliberate. Olwyn nods slightly and dips the spoon back into the bowl, scooping up another measure.

His lips close around it this time, his tongue working as he swallows again. He blinks once, then slowly again, the deliberate rhythm of it matching his movements.

The process is slow, each spoonful a careful exchange, but Olwyn is patient. He eats halfway through the bowl before his lips part and the spoon falls away. He leans back, the furs pulling up around his chin as he shifts deeper into the bed. His eyelids drift shut, and his body slackens, the harsh lines of his face softening once more.

For a long moment, she watches him. The storm rages outside, battering the walls of the cottage, but the rise and fall of the blankets is steady, calm. In sleep, he looks smaller, almost fragile. Her eyes linger on the pale line of his throat, exposed and vulnerable, before she looks away.

Olwyn finishes the rest of the soup herself, the warmth soothing the tightness in her chest. Leaning back in the chair beside his bed, she lets her head rest against the worn wood. What was she going to tell her brother?

read full thing on ao3

[nataliabdraws]

I have a new lotr oc I’m going crazy over but I can’t post about her yet this is torture