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rosssrandomblog · 24 days ago

Note

Hello! I am quite enjoying your writing!

May I please request some Adar fluff? Maybe Yule is approaching in Middle Earth and Reader has organized some small treat for the Uruk children. As the end of the evening Adar offers to escort Reader back to their quarters, when it starts to snow. Reader is delighted, and Adar uses this as pretext to wrap his arm and cloak around them. Then perhaps a goodnight kiss?

Thanks!

This was so sweet I almost cried!! Sweet Adar and his poor Uruks!

Yuletide Joy

The cold in the air signals the turn of the season, crisp and biting, yet it feels softer here among the mountains. The world outside the fortress is blanketed in frost, the ground hard underfoot, but you’ve come to find a kind of peace in the harshness. The Uruks move through the camp with the same steady determination as always, indifferent to the encroaching chill. They are practical creatures, efficient and blunt, and their lives are not built around the sentimentality you once knew in other places.

Still, the approaching season stirs something in you. Yule draws near—a time of warmth, of light in the dark, of remembering what is good even when the world feels cold and unyielding. You have lived through many Yules, some filled with joy, others with sorrow, but never without the sense of something shared, something meaningful.

As you walk through the camp, your breath clouding in the frigid air, you pass a cluster of Uruk children gathered around a low fire. They speak in rough voices, exchanging half-teasing jabs, and though their bodies are young, their faces bear the same hard lines of survival you see in their elders. The fire’s light dances in their eyes, but there is no laughter, no sense of anticipation for the season to come. Something feels… empty.

Later, in the quiet of the hall, you bring your curiosity to one who might answer. Adar sits near the great hearth, his dark eyes reflecting the fire’s glow, his presence both commanding and oddly still. He looks up as you approach, and though his expression remains unreadable, there is a flicker of acknowledgment in his gaze.

“May I ask you something?” you begin, hesitant yet determined.

He inclines his head slightly, inviting you to continue.

“Do the Uruks celebrate Yule?” The question feels strange on your tongue, an echo of the life you once knew—before this. “Or… anything like it?”

For a moment, Adar says nothing. The fire crackles between you, filling the silence. Then he leans back, his gaze thoughtful, distant. “No,” he says at last, his voice low and measured. “They have never known such things. Their lives have been forged in darkness, in hardship. There has been little room for celebration.”

The words strike you harder than you expected. You knew, of course, of their suffering—how they were shaped by cruelty, by war—but to imagine a life devoid of even the smallest joy, even the brief warmth of a shared moment, is something else entirely.

“They have known no kindness,” he continues, his tone softening slightly. “And kindness was never taught to them.”

A silence stretches between you, heavy with understanding. You glance toward the fire, watching the embers pulse like faint, dying stars. “Then… perhaps it is time they learned,” you say quietly, the idea taking root in your mind before you can question it.

Adar watches you for a long moment, his dark gaze unreadable. Then, without a word, he turns back to the fire, as if to say he will not stop you—but he will not help, either.

It is a challenge, unspoken but clear. If you wish to teach them Yule, you must do so yourself.

You leave the hall with a strange warmth blooming in your chest, despite the cold outside. For the first time in years, you feel the season stirring in you—not as a memory, but as a possibility. And as you step into the chill night, you find yourself smiling.

This Yule, the Uruks will know something different. Something new.

. The decision you made the night before settles firmly in your mind: this Yule, the Uruks will feel something other than the weight of survival. There will be warmth, gifts, and something resembling joy.

The first step is understanding what they might appreciate—and that means asking questions.

You find Rakha near the camp’s edge, her shoulders broad and scarred, her expression as always, sharp and skeptical. She is one of the few who does not outright avoid conversation with you. Perhaps she even tolerates it. Her eyes narrow slightly as you approach, her hands busy sharpening a blade that has seen years of battle.

“Elf,” she greets with a rough voice, the name more observation than insult.

“Rakha,” you reply, your tone light. “I need your advice.”

She gives a short, barking laugh. “Advice? From me?” She raises a brow, clearly amused. “What mischief are you up to?”

You smile, undeterred. “Not mischief—something more… festive. If you were a child,” you say carefully, “what would make you happy? What do the young ones enjoy?”

Her sharpening pauses, and she frowns in thought. “The children enjoy games, though they play rough. Not like your kind.”

“I’m not asking for my kind,” you reply softly, watching her face. “I want to know what would bring them joy.”

She considers this, her dark eyes narrowing. “A good hunt. A game of strength, something with competition.” She taps the blade thoughtfully. “And perhaps food. Something sweet—if you can manage it.”

Sweet. That will be a challenge, but not impossible. You thank Rakha and make your way through the camp, gathering scraps of knowledge from the Uruks willing to speak. You hear suggestions for rough-hewn games, tales of contests they enjoyed as whelps, and ideas for food that might please even their hardened palates.

By mid-afternoon, your mind is full of plans. You’ll need supplies for a feast—perhaps roasted meat, root vegetables, and something sweet, even if it’s simple. You will craft small gifts from what little is available, carving trinkets from wood, perhaps stitching small pouches of dried herbs and spices. It’s not much, but it will be something.

You throw yourself into the preparations with a quiet determination, keeping your work discreet. The Uruks eye you curiously, though few ask questions. They’ve learned not to expect answers from you unless you offer them willingly.

But Adar is not so easily deterred.

He finds you late in the evening, standing near the great hearth, sorting through a pile of worn fabrics and dried herbs. His steps are soft, his presence unmistakable. You don’t look up as he approaches, focusing instead on your work.

“You’ve been busy,” he says, his voice calm, but with a hint of curiosity. “What are you planning?”

“Nothing important,” you reply too quickly, too lightly. “Just something to pass the time.”

Adar tilts his head, and you can feel his gaze on you, sharp and knowing. “You are lying.”

You glance up, meeting his eyes briefly, trying to muster an air of nonchalance. “It’s nothing,” you insist with a faint smile. “I have everything under control.”

He watches you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before finally giving the smallest of nods. “Very well,” he says, though his tone betrays that he knows more than he lets on. “I will leave you to your… nothing.”

As he turns to leave, you exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. He knows. Of course he knows. But for some reason, he is letting you have this—letting you work in secret, pretending he does not see.

A small, pleased smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. Whatever he thinks, the Uruks will have their Yule, and you will make sure of it.

Even if Adar lets you think it is all your idea.

The halls are alive with the smell of roasting meat and spices, the rich aroma blending with the faint, sharp scent of evergreens you’ve woven through the space. The fire roars high in the great hearth, casting flickering light across the worn stone walls. For the first time since you arrived, the fortress feels less like a bastion of war and more like a home—at least for one night.

You step back to survey the scene. The long tables, usually bare and utilitarian, are lined with simple but hearty food: roasted meats dripping with juices, stewed roots seasoned with herbs, and in the center, a collection of small, honeyed pastries you worked tirelessly to prepare. It was no easy feat to find the ingredients, let alone bake them without notice, but you managed—and the golden treats gleam temptingly in the firelight.

The Uruk children are the first to arrive, creeping in hesitantly, their wary gazes darting around the room. They eye the decorations with suspicion, unused to such offerings, but the warmth of the fire and the enticing scent of the feast lure them closer.

One small Uruk, barely more than a whelp, edges toward the table, his eyes wide as he stares at the pastries. He glances back at you, suspicion still lingering in his gaze. “What is this?” he asks, his voice rough but curious.

You crouch to his level, smiling. “They’re sweets,” you explain gently, picking up one of the small pastries and holding it out to him. “Try it.”

He sniffs the treat, his distrust warring with curiosity, but eventually, hunger wins. He takes a tentative bite, and his eyes widen in shock and delight. He chews slowly, savoring the unexpected sweetness, before letting out a low grunt of approval.

Soon, the other children follow, cautiously at first, then with more confidence. They dart toward the table, grabbing treats and food, their faces lighting up with something that might almost be joy.

The room fills with noise—laughter, the clatter of plates, the delighted cries of the children as they realize that this night is theirs to enjoy. One of the older Uruks, Rakha, appears in the doorway, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a bemused expression. She steps forward, grabs a sweet pastry, and takes a large bite.

Her eyes narrow, as if trying to maintain her usual gruff demeanor, but the way she devours the rest of the treat gives her away. “Sweet,” she mutters, chewing thoughtfully. “Didn’t think I’d like it.”

You grin, leaning against the edge of the table. “Seems you have a sweet tooth after all.”

She snorts but doesn’t deny it, reaching for another. Around the room, other Uruks begin to filter in—adults drawn by the warmth and scent of the feast. They take their seats hesitantly at first, watching the children with quiet curiosity, but it doesn’t take long for the tension to melt. Soon, the room is filled with the sound of conversation and laughter, rough and unfamiliar, but genuine.

The children play games near the fire, shouting and chasing each other through the hall, their sharp-edged voices echoing with unexpected joy. One of the younger ones topples, only to be scooped up by an older Uruk, who chuckles as he sets the child back on his feet.

You watch it all unfold, the sight filling your heart with warmth. They are fierce, scarred, and hardened by life, but tonight, they are something else: a family, if only for a moment.

At the center of it all, the fire crackles and roars, casting golden light over the gathered Uruks. Some sit close together, sharing food and stories, while others lounge near the edges, their expressions relaxed, their usual wariness softened. The sound of laughter, rough and raw, fills the room like music.

As the night deepens, you feel a presence behind you, and you don’t need to turn to know it’s Adar. His footsteps are soft, but the air seems to change when he enters, a stillness settling over the moment.

“You’ve done well,” he says quietly, his voice low and steady, just loud enough for you to hear.

You glance at him, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “It’s not nothing,” you reply, teasing, recalling your earlier evasion.

Adar’s dark eyes glimmer in the firelight, and though his expression remains unreadable, there is a softness there, a hint of approval. “No,” he agrees. “It is not nothing.”

Together, you watch the Uruks—your Uruks now, in some small way—as they revel in this unexpected celebration. For once, there is no war, no fear, no pain. Only warmth, joy, and the fleeting magic of Yule.

The hall is finally quiet, save for the crackling of the fire, its embers glowing faintly in the hearth. The Uruks, full and content, have begun to drift away—some lingering near the warmth, others guiding the children back to their sleeping quarters. The scattered remnants of the feast remain: half-empty plates, crumbs from the pastries, and overturned wooden cups.

You sit at the edge of one of the long tables, exhaustion settling into your bones like a deep ache. Yet, despite your weariness, there is a glow in your chest, a kind of satisfaction that makes the fatigue feel lighter. You move to gather a few plates, intent on helping with the cleanup.

“You’ve done enough.”

Adar’s voice, smooth and low, cuts through the quiet, and you turn to see him standing at the edge of the hall, his dark eyes unreadable but soft in the firelight. He crosses the room, his steps slow and deliberate. “Let the others take care of it,” he says, his gaze locking with yours. “You deserve rest.”

You hesitate, glancing at the mess still left to be cleaned, but the warmth in his voice and the weight of your own exhaustion finally convince you. “Perhaps,” you admit with a small smile, “I could use some rest.”

“Come,” Adar offers, extending his arm in a subtle but unmistakable gesture. “I will walk you back.”

Surprised but grateful, you nod and rise, taking his offer. His presence is steady beside you, and as you step out into the cold night air, the sharp chill is softened by the nearness of his warmth.

The snow has started to fall, soft flakes drifting down like stars shaken loose from the sky. The quiet is profound, the sounds of the camp fading behind you as you walk together, boots crunching in the fresh powder.

“You’ve done something remarkable tonight,” Adar says after a moment of silence. His voice is quiet, but there is something weighty in it, a rare gentleness. “They laughed. Truly laughed. It has been many years since I heard such a sound.”

You smile, watching the snow gather in the dark locks of his hair. “It wasn’t just me,” you reply. “They were ready for joy, even if they didn’t know it.”

He glances at you, the faintest curve of his lips betraying something like amusement. “You underestimate what you’ve done.”

You walk a little farther, the night air crisp and still. The conversation turns to the night’s success, and as you speak, a thought strikes you like a sharp pang. You halt mid-step, realization blooming in your mind.

“I forgot something.”

Adar stops, his brow furrowing slightly. “What is it?”

You exhale, a soft puff of white in the cold air, and laugh at yourself. “I forgot to make you a gift. With everything else, I… I didn’t prepare anything for you.”

He tilts his head, studying you with that patient, enigmatic expression. “You think I require a gift?”

You shift on your feet, suddenly feeling foolish. “It’s Yule. I should have made something, given something—”

Adar steps closer, close enough that the cold air seems to vanish between you. His hand reaches out, barely brushing your arm. “You gave me something,” he says softly, his voice like the distant roll of thunder, “something no gift could surpass.”

You blink, caught by the intensity in his gaze. “What?”

He smiles, a small, rare thing, and the firelight from the hall catches in his eyes. “The sound of my children laughing,” he says. “Of them living, not merely surviving.” He pauses, and the weight of his words lingers in the air like the falling snow. “That is more than I could have asked for.”

At his words, warmth blooms in your chest, fierce and unexpected, and you realize there is nothing else you could have given him that would mean more.

As you stand at the threshold of your chambers, the snow falling in gentle silence around you, Adar steps forward, his gaze heavy with unspoken meaning.

Adar leans in slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. His hand moves from your arm to cup your cheek, his palm rough but his touch achingly gentle.

“If there is one gift I desire,” he murmurs, his voice low, “it is this moment.”

Before you can speak, his lips brush yours, soft and deliberate. The kiss is warm, unhurried, and tender, his confidence steady where yours trembles. For a heartbeat, you freeze, uncertainty swirling in your chest—but then the warmth of him draws you in, and you melt into it, your hands rising to rest lightly against his chest.

The kiss lingers, sweet and fragile, until he pulls back just enough to look at you, his breath mingling with yours in the cold air. His thumb brushes your cheek, a soft, lingering touch.

“Goodnight,” he whispers, his voice a soft caress.

You manage a shaky smile, your heart still fluttering. “Goodnight, Adar.”

He steps back, his cloak brushing the snow as he turns and walks away, the snow falling around him in a silent curtain. You stand at your door, the warmth of the kiss lingering long after he is gone, your heart full in a way it hasn’t been in a long time.

#awwww cute

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