#Adar is always hot

[bilbo-babe]

[lazyneonrabbitt]

Astray far Away Ch4

Adar x reader | SMUT🔞 | Ch.3

Sexy bath times and rowdy kids! An eventful day for our Lord Father and his companion.

AKA the chapter took on a will of its own and accepted a sidequest or two instead of moving on.

Morning came way too quick.

And so did the frantic knocking on your door that had you groaning in frustration. 

“Just come in, I’m decent.” 

It was Grasho, shouldering her way through the door with two bowls of food and a stack of clothes hung over her shoulder. 

“Morning! Got food and simple dresses.” She was quick to place the food on a table and toss the clothes onto the bed where you sat. 

“Food or cloth first?” The question was asked but waiting for an answer was not in the cards as Grasho already reached for the new garments she brought.

“Please, food first. I need a second to wake up before I get up and be active.” You mimicked her energy, making grabby hands at the bowls from where you sat on the mattress. “I am seriously starving, thanks.” With the bowl in your hands you happily ate in silence, chowing down the broth even faster than Grasho finished hers. 

“Woah. You eat good for a mortal!” With a satisfied noise she put her empty bowl away and was up on her feet. “Now we fit! Got lots to do today.” Grasho rubbed her hands together so she wouldn’t be immediately grabbing at your clothes again. Boundaries. She learned. 

You worked through the pile dhe brought easily, no longer feeling that nagging panic with having to undress in front of her. She paid your bare chest no attention and kindly turned away when you changed your trousers for proper undergarments. 

All the items Grasho brought you fit perfectly and soon enough she almost shoved you out the door with the order to go find Adar. “You go see Lord Father. Still need a bath. And wound checks.”

You barely got a chance to grab Adar’s tunic before you were out the door and on your way to his tent, wishing Grasho a good day as she went back to her workshop.

Finding Adar’s tent was easy enough and luckily you found him as well.

“Adar? Do you have time?” You approached him with care and kept a safe distance so as to not intrude.

“I hear you almost fought last night. Krod defended you after you spoke kindly of the uruk.” He leaned back in his chair and watched you. 

“I’m sorry if I caused any disturbance, I tried my hardest to ignore them but..” The event was still clear in your mind and gnawing at you. With a quiet sniffle you looked at the ground. “The names they called me. The things they implied I did, I snapped. I’m sorry..” You were clutching the black tunic to your chest as you tried your hardest not to cry like a weakling in front of your leader. 

“From what I heard they called you a harlot, yes? Implying you spent time with Glûg’s family for pleasure.” He looked you over once, twice. You wore new garments like he suggested. The tunic he gave you wrapped tightly in your arms.

“You are always allowed to cause a scene. My children see you as an equal. A part of the family.” Adar had gotten up and grabbed his sword and dagger, along with a bag he stuffed with supplies. “You came by to ask about that bath, yes?”

You let Adar lead the way through and out of the town, further towards the mountain and into a tree-littered area. It was all just as gray and ashen as your village, burned trees and all. And, steam? Fog?

Then, it all came into view behind the trees. Adar had taken you to a hot spring. 

“Mortals prefer privacy when bathing. I did not get that wrong, did I?” Near the rocks beside the spring Adar placed down his bag and unpacked the supplies he brought. He gave you time and space to do what you needed, not looking as you undressed and only turning back once you cleared him to do so. 

“You can look, it’s okay.” Your gentle voice had him turn to face the water and sit down at the edge of it, taking off his boots and rolling up the legs of his trousers. 

As his legs lowered into the water Adar let out a groan, the heat of the water relieving some of his aches. 

“You’re welcome to join me fully, if you’d like. I don't mind.” You moved closer to him, raising yourself partially out of the water and fidgeted with the bandages to get them off now that they had soaked for a moment.

“Let me assist you with that.” Adar beckoned you over when you couldn’t find the start of the wrapping. With careful hands he unwrapped it, layer by layer and rinsed the remains of the dried medicine. 

The cuts had all closed up, only a few scabs remaining over risen pink lines that spelled out his name. His touch lingered and your hand found his, taking it off your skin and placing it back on your chest. 

“I invited you in for more than just to let the water soothe your aches.” When he withdrew his hand you let yourself sink further into the water again. 

Adar was clearly affected by your actions. It showed in his restless movements and how he cleared his throat as he adjusted each and every part of his armor. 

With a quick dive you wet your hair and moved over to Adar’s legs, coming back up only an inch away from him with your hands on his knees, pushing them apart. 

“You’ve been taking care of me since I got here. At least let me return the favor.” You eyed the strain in his trousers for a moment before looking up and you could see him contemplating, and then nod.

Excited, you went to work and fumbled to open Adar’s trousers to pull him free, wrapping one hand around his length to pump him a few times before moving forward, wetting the fabric around his legs with your body.

As your tongue laps at the head of his cock Adar sighed and leaned back on his hands, watching as you worked him. Adar’s soft moans and gentle slosh of the water was all you heard with every inch you took him deeper into your mouth. 

His taste was salty on your tongue, leaking with each pull of your lips. It was with great difficulty that you managed to take all of him into your mouth, the tip at the back of your throat causing you to gag. 

Adar was holding back his sounds, trying to keep himself from bucking his hips into you, fingers digging into the layer of ash on the stones beneath him.

He watched as drool and tears ran down your face as you eagerly sucked him off, a hand coming to rest on your cheek. 

“You know there is no need for you to do th– ahh, oh, don’t stop..” Adar’s voice cracked as your hand cupped his balls and your tongue swirled around the head of his cock, your other hand working what didn’t fit comfortably in your mouth.

Adar’s earlier soft sighs turned into full moans, unable to keep his hips still when he spilled his seed down your throat.

Only when he let go of your cheek you separated from him with a cough, having swallowed all that he gave you.

“Go wash up, I’d like to have you returned home before dark.” Adar worked to tuck himself back into his trousers and retrieved a towel for you while you washed yourself, shivering immediately from the cold air as you got out of the water. 

As you stood by him, drying your hair, bare for the world to see, Adar glanced over your body. His gaze lingered and his mind replayed the words you had spoken to him.

Please.." You pulled him in closer with your heels pressed into his back, moaning as his cock hit just right inside you. "Make me a mother." 

Adar’s eyes were on your stomach and he wondered. Had his seed taken root yet, or was he to try again? Would you even still want to, now that your mind wasn’t partially hazed by alcohol? 

The walk home was a quiet one. Partially to Adar’s wandering mind, as well as you keeping yourself busy with sightseeing. The dull light scattered by the damaged trees gave an eerie air to the surrounding woods, but you could not keep your eyes off it. It reminded you of graphite drawings back home. 

Home. 

You had been so focused on the uruk and settling within their community you hadn’t even given a thought to finding if your old home was still intact. It probably wasn’t, if you took into consideration that most of the structure was wood, not even close to being as sturdy as the tavern that still partially stood despite the flaming rocks.

“Say, Adar.” You fell into step with him once more and saw you had his attention. 

“Can we eh.. Can you help me find a place in town? I want to see what’s left of it.” 

With an affirming nod Adar hummed in agreement. 

“Where exactly was the building you seek? There is a chance it was torn down for resources.” Adar thought out loud in hope to lessen your hurt if you found the place to be gone. 

You looked around and were sad to say you had no idea where in the old village you stood now with the addition of so many smaller tent homes around and other structures down and broken. 

The tavern that served as your current residence was used as a starting point, looking into the direction your old home stood and started wandering. 

Through the homes and workshops young uruk played. Two boys with toy swords ran and yelled in passing. Visions of the once green grass and sandy paths appeared before you as you followed your feet towards where you’d find your old home.

Your home, that was now nothing more than a lot filled with salvaged wood and stone, sorted and piled.

It hurt to see your home no longer stood, even if it was never much in the first place. 

Your grief was short lived, as high pitched yelling pulled you from your thoughts and a weight suddenly slammed into your leg. A young child had clamped herself around your lower leg, trembling. Behind you more yelling sounded and you picked up the scared child and let her wrap herself around you, sharp nails digging into your skin.

“Oh crap, it's Adar. Run!” The two boys you saw earlier dropped their toys and ran off in the opposite direction, away from you and Adar who stayed at your side. 

“Are you alright, little one? The boys are gone.” You stroked her coarse hair that sat in a lopsided ponytail tied with a clearly recently found, shiny ribbon.

Big, sad eyes looked up at you, tiny hands still grabbing your top as she nodded. 

“Yes, lady.” She looked away from you when Adar stepped closer again after retrieving the toy swords the boys had dropped, and quickly shied away once more. Her face was hidden in the crook of your neck. “This is Myko,” Adar’s gentle voice spoke beside you, his hand coming up to rest on her back. “She loves spending time with the wargs. Wants to be a warg rider when she’s big enough.” 

At the mention of her interest she peeked up once more, a glimmer in her eyes that had you play into it. 

“Oh, you should show me one day! I would love to learn about the wargs.” You gently put the young girl back on her feet, letting her run off after she excitedly agreed to show you the wargs.

Turning back to Adar you noticed the toy swords in his hands. “It sounded like those two have given other kids trouble before with how fast they ran from you.” There was amusement in your tone, and in Adar’s as well. 

“They are twin boys who have taken it upon themselves to cause havoc wherever they go, yes.” Adar sighed, an air of sadness clear in his eyes. “Their mother has a hard time keeping them in control.” 

“Twins, huh.” You mimicked. “They didn’t look alike, from what I saw.” You stepped back into the town streets aside Adar, thinking back at the two boys. “I have to be honest here, though. I don’t think I’ve ever seen twins before in my lifetime.” 

Now it was Adar who chuckled, a sound that caught you so off guard you nearly missed the hole in the ground and tripped. “You will have to get used to seeing doubles, then. Twins are common among uruk.” He made a sudden turn towards a home and handed the two wooden swords back to a woman walking with a crutch. She missed her left lower leg but moved around with practiced skill. She and Adar exchanged quick words before he moved on once more. 

“You’ll find most twins to be different at first with their differences in skin, but on closer look you will find there to be many similarities. Eyes, ear shape and other features match their counterparts. Next time Lech and Kach decide to grace you with their presence, take the time to have a good look.” the conversation kept up until your paths split on your way to each of your homes. Adar had business to attend as the Lord Father of his people, and you desperately needed rest.

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

Has Galadriel already touched the darkness?

Yes. When? In this scene:

And she’ll have to deal with the consequences of it in Season 3.

Until this point she didn’t touch the darkness. Her being proud, rebellious or killing Orcs isn’t “touching the darkness”. From that point of view, every Elf was dark, which isn't the case. She's royalty, she's a princess, and behaves as such: of course she's arrogant, and proud, and thinks she's always right and can do whatever she wants. That's not being "dark". She enjoys power, and for others to bow down to her will, that's the reason why Sauron's temptation was to make her queen, because that's what she truly wants. And that D, but that's a question for another time.

The "darkness" in Tolkien lore is absolute corruption, and perversion of purpose and of Eru’s creation. It’s what Morgoth did to Mairon, and to every other Maia who became a servant of his.

We see the effects of darkness in both Mairon and Adar. Adar tell us a bit about this process, in 2x01: 

In the eldest of the Elder Days. Thirteen of us were chosen to be blessed of Morgoth's hand, with the promise of power. A new birth. I was led up to a dark and nameless peak. Chained and left. And after what seemed endless thirst and hunger...

And this is why Sauron cries in this scene: he’s recalling the “lovely time” he had being blessed by Morgoth’s hand.

Mairon being the worst case, here: he was a Maia of Aulë, as everyone must be aware by now. He fell prey to Morgoth’s seduction of promises of power, and betrayed the Valar, and eventually become Sauron.

How did Mairon became Sauron, you ask? Thousands of years of torture and corruption, where Mairon was broken, ripped apart and reshaped by Morgoth until all of his original Eru ordained purposes were reversed: loyalty became deceit; good became evil; order became control; perfection became domination; loyalty became deceit/treachery; and beauty turned into abomination.

We joked about “evil Barbie” and how Sauron gets more androgenous as he goes deep into evil, but this is also a side-effect of Morgoth’s corruption of him, actually. Because Aulë is suppose to be “macho man” on steroids (hyper masculinity). We see this with the Dwarves (Children of Aulë) too: both men and women are very masculine and have beards, and, according to Tolkien, it’s hard for outsiders to tell them apart.

The Children of Aulë are pretty much what we saw from Halbrand (Repentant Mairon) in Season 1. While Elves are "delicate beauty", these tough mountain dwellers are Dirty Hot beauty. So, I don't understand why so many in the Tolkien fandom expect the Maiar of Aulë to be any different, only more "angelic" looking.

OG Mairon would have looked something like this, but angelic instead of human:

Look at this freaking Dwarvish-inspired necklace! This is peak Mairon, the Maia of Aulë.

So, another one of the side effects of Morgoth’s corruption was the “feminization” of Mairon, and he'll get more androgynous as he goes deeper into evil. Meaning, Morgoth corrupted his hyper-masculinity, which raises some... strange questions.

So, yes, Halbrand/Mairon/Sauron is absolutely correct when he asks Galadriel “what do you know of darkness?” Because she’s acts like she does, but doesn’t. At all.

“Touching the darkness” is what happened to the Sons of Fëanor, during the quest for the Silmarils, and it involved endless bloodshed, kinslaying, etc. And at the end, Maglor and Maedhros were so corrupted by darkness they couldn’t even hold the jewels on their hands, anymore. Galadriel knows nothing of this, because she never done things like this.

[criticallyinneedofadar]

Alliance of Shadows (8)

A/N: Come on now. You know I could never harm my hubby.

Pairing: Adar x Reader

Warnings: Violence, wounds, reader gets injured.

Word Count: 2.5k

Taglist: @zoya-olenko @annatartastic @oakenshielq @perse-cora @passionofthesith @eowyn7023

Previous- Next

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Without thinking, you move.

Your body surges forward, driven by instinct rather than reason, and before you know it, you are between Adar and the treacherous Uruk. The world seems to freeze in that moment, the chaos of the battlefield dimming as the sharp, cold steel of Glûg’s blade bites deep into your side. Agony flares through your body, every nerve screaming in pain. A gasp tears from your throat, the sound lost in the cacophony around you, and you stumble, your hand flying to the wound as warm blood spills over your fingers.

Adar spins, eyes wide, his usual composed expression crumbling into shock. You see the disbelief in his gaze, the fury flickering just beneath the surface, but before you can fully register it, his arms are around you, catching you just before you collapse to the ground. His hands grip you tightly, pulling you close as he lowers you gently, the cool earth meeting your back. He presses his hand against your side, desperate to stem the flow of blood, but you can feel it—hot, thick, and unrelenting.

“You fool,” Adar growls, though his voice is thick with emotion, far deeper than anger. His hands, always steady, tremble ever so slightly as they press against your wound, trying to keep you tethered to life. “Why would you do that? Why?”

Your vision blurs, the edges of the world fading in and out as pain clouds your senses. You want to respond, to tell him that you didn’t think, that protecting him was the only thing that mattered in that moment, but the words die in your throat, smothered by the agony coursing through your veins.

Before either of you can speak, Sauron’s voice cuts through the moment like a dagger, his tone dripping with malice. “Your children no longer need you as their father, Adar,” he sneers, his dark gaze shifting to Glûg and the small group of Uruks who had broken away from the main force. They stand behind him now, weapons in hand, their loyalty clearly pledged to Sauron.

Glûg sneers, his eyes filled with something colder than hatred—something akin to betrayal. “We are no longer slaves to your cause, Father. Sauron will provide what you cannot.”

The words sting, sharper than any blade. You lie cradled in Adar’s arms, your vision swimming with pain, but the bitter taste of betrayal rises in your throat. These Uruks… You had fought for them, bled for them. You had defended them time and time again, and yet, here they stood—turning their backs on the one who had given them purpose, who had fought for their very right to exist.

Adar’s grip tightens on you, his body tensing as he stares down Glûg, the rage simmering in his dark eyes. “Traitors,” he spits, his voice low and venomous. “Sauron will use you as bodies to build his throne. Nothing more.”

Glûg’s sneer only deepens, and for a brief moment, the battlefield stills around you, the tension thick as the air itself seems to hold its breath. The Uruks behind Glûg shift, their eyes flickering with doubt, but their weapons remain drawn, ready to strike.

And then, before either you or Adar can react, a new presence cuts through the fray. Galadriel.

Her figure appears, seemingly out of nowhere, her silver armor catching the dim light of the battlefield. Her eyes burn with righteous fury, a silent storm brewing behind them. She does not look at you or Adar—her focus is solely on Sauron. With a fluid, effortless motion, she draws her sword, the blade gleaming in the low light as she steps forward.

For a moment, Sauron’s attention shifts to her, his dark gaze narrowing as the air around them thickens with power. Without a word, Galadriel charges, her sword slicing through the night with lethal precision, aimed directly at Sauron. The clash between them is immediate and fierce, their weapons meeting with a force that seems to shake the very ground beneath your feet. The battlefield trembles with the impact of their fight, a collision of light and shadow, of righteous fury and dark malice.

As they battle, the world around you seems to shift, the air growing thick with tension. You struggle to stay conscious, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you clutch Adar’s arm. His face is a storm of emotion—rage, fear, and something deeper, something rawer. He presses harder against your wound, his hands slick with your blood, and his gaze shifts between you and the scene unfolding before him.

“Stay with me,” Adar murmurs, his voice soft but firm, cutting through the haze of pain clouding your mind. 

But even as he speaks, you feel the darkness closing in around you, pulling you under. Your body grows heavy, the pain dulling to a distant throb as your vision narrows. The sounds of the battlefield fade into the background, the world around you reduced to the steady beat of Adar’s heart against your side.

Galadriel and Sauron continue to clash, their battle a blinding display of power, but you can no longer focus on it. Your world has shrunk to the feel of Adar’s arms around you, the warmth of his breath against your skin, the quiet, desperate plea in his voice as he fights to keep you grounded.

“Adar…” you murmur, your voice barely a whisper.

He shifts, his movements quick and precise as he scoops you into his arms, his grip tightening. “I won’t lose you,” he says, his voice thick with desperation. “I won’t.”

As the battle continues to rage around him, Adar fights his way through the chaos. His blade cuts through the enemy with a ferocity you have never seen before, and a small group of his closest Uruks rally around him, forming a protective barrier. Every movement is calculated, every step taken with the singular goal of getting you to safety.

But the pain is overwhelming now, your body weak and trembling in his arms. You try to focus, to stay conscious, but the pull of darkness is too strong. The last thing you remember before the world goes black is the sensation of Adar’s arms tightening around you, his voice a distant echo in your fading mind.

When you wake, the world is still.

Your body aches, your side throbbing with the memory of Glug’s betrayal, but you are alive. The soft crackle of a fire nearby fills the silence, and as your eyes adjust to the dim light, you realize you are no longer on the battlefield.

You are in a tent—Adar’s tent. The scent of blood and smoke lingers in the air, but the worst of the battle’s noise has faded. Your body is wrapped in bandages, the wound from Glug’s attack having been carefully tended to.

Slowly, you sit up, the movement causing a sharp pain to shoot through your side. You wince, clutching at the bandage as you try to get your bearings.

“You’re awake.”

Adar’s voice is soft, and when you turn, you see him standing at the entrance of the tent, his armor smeared with blood and dirt, his face hardened by the weight of the day’s events. But there is something else there too—relief. He has been worried about you. The thought causes your heart to flutter.

“How long...?” you begin, your voice hoarse.

“A few hours,” he replies, crossing the space between you. He kneels beside you, his hand gently brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You should not have thrown yourself into that blade. You should have let me handle it.”

You meet his gaze, your own filled with defiance despite your weakened state. “And let him kill you?”

“I would have survived,” he says, though his voice falters slightly, betraying the truth beneath his words. He had not expected Glûg’s betrayal, nor had he expected you to take the blow meant for him.

Silence lingers between you, thick with unspoken emotions. His hand, rough from battle, cups your cheek as he studies your face, as though ensuring you’re truly there, alive and breathing. You see the conflict in his eyes—relief, fear, and something deeper, more fragile. His thumb traces the line of your jaw, a touch so tender it almost undoes you.

Without thinking, you reach up, your fingers curling around the edge of his armor, pulling him closer. He doesn’t resist, his breath hitching as you lean in. His lips find yours in a kiss filled with emotions. The tension, the fear, the relief—it all melts away as your mouths meet, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, holding you gently as if you might slip away from him again.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative, but soon deepens, the weight of everything that has passed between you—life, death, betrayal—pouring into it. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest as he pulls you closer, his relief palpable in every touch. You feel it too, the reassurance of his warmth, of knowing he’s here, that you are both still standing in a world that seems determined to tear you apart. You grip his shoulder pulling him tighter to you. A rough groan escapes him as his hands tangle in your hair. 

Stretching closer to him, you wince, when the movement pulls on the wound on your side. You pull back, breathless, and his forehead rests against yours. His voice is a whisper, hoarse from everything left unsaid. “I thought I lost you.”

“You didn’t,” you murmur, your fingers brushing the side of his face. “I’m still here. With you.” For a moment, you just hold each other, the world outside the tent fading into the background. In that small, quiet space, it’s just the two of you—wounded but alive.

The memory of Glûg’s treachery hits you like a wave. “He joined Sauron,” you say bitterly. “Some of them did.”

Adar’s expression darkens. “Yes. Sauron’s poison runs deep. I had thought to save them from him and only succeeded in pushing them into his arms.”

You can hear the weight of his anger, the hurt that simmers beneath the surface. You reach out, your hand resting against his arm. “Not all of them betrayed you,” you remind him. “You still have loyal children.”

He nods, though his gaze remains distant, as if he were lost in thought.

“I should have protected you better,” he says after a moment, his voice soft. “But instead, you protected me. Again.”

A small smile tugs at your lips despite the pain. “I don’t regret it. I am not some damsel in need of rescue Adar.”

His eyes meet yours, something unspoken passing between you. The weight of the kiss you had shared before lingers in the air, the tension between you still palpable.

Adar reaches out, his fingers brushing gently against your cheek, and for a moment, you think he might kiss you again. But instead, he pulls back, his expression conflicted.

“We will have our reckoning with Sauron,” he says, his voice hardening. “But for now, you need to rest.”

You nod, though your mind is already turning toward the battle still to come. 

Just as the silence between you and Adar settles, the tent’s entrance flares open, and Maela strides in, her expression grim and urgent. She bows her head briefly to Adar before her eyes settle on you.

“Apologies for the interruption, my Queen,” she says, her voice taut. “There is news from the battlefield.”

The tension in the air thickens. You struggle to sit up straighter despite the pain still gnawing at your side. Adar is there in an instant, supporting your arm and shoulder and helping you settle against the bed behind you. His gaze flicks between you and Maela, his face unreadable but alert.

“Speak,” you command, your voice steady even though your body protests.

Maela’s eyes flicker with something—grief or regret, you aren’t sure—as she begins. “Eregion has fallen. Our forces overwhelmed the last of the elven defenses. Celebrimbor…” She pauses, as if weighing the weight of the words. “Celebrimbor is dead, slain by Sauron himself.”

The words hit like a blow, and though you have no particular love for the Elven smith, the significance of his death can not be denied. Adar’s jaw tightens, though his reaction remains controlled.

“And Galadriel?” you ask, your voice low.

Maela hesitates. “She fell from a cliff during the battle. We do not know where she is, or if she even survived. Some say they saw her fall into the river, but there has been no sign of her body.”

A knot forms in your stomach. Galadriel, for all her arrogance, is a formidable force. If she is dead, it would have been clear by now. If she is alive, her vengeance will be swift.

“And the losses?” Adar asks, his voice hard but quiet.

Maela’s face darkens further. “We lost many, both Uruk and mages. However, the elves suffered greater casualties. The Uruks and our forces have integrated well… better than expected. But the weight of the battle has been heavy on all.”

You glance at Adar, noting the tension in his shoulders. The fight had been brutal, and though the combined forces have survived, the war is far from over.

“Elrond,” Maela continues, “he and a small group of elves wait nearby. They wish to discuss terms to cease the fighting, though their numbers are few.”

A brief silence falls over the tent, the weight of the news settling on your shoulders. Eregion has fallen, but the battle is far from over. Sauron is still out there, as are his new loyalists—Uruk, like Glûg, who betrayed everything Adar stands for- and you by association.

“What terms?” you ask, your voice sharp, cutting through the tension. “They come seeking mercy when they are the ones who brought this war to our doorstep.”

“Perhaps they realize they have no other choice,” Adar mutters, his eyes dark and reflective. He turns to you, his expression unreadable. “Elrond knows what’s at stake.”

You think of the Elven Lord waiting nearby. Elrond has been a voice of reason to many in the storm, but reason has not saved Eregion.

“I will hear them,” you say finally, though your tone is edged with steel. “But no mercy will be offered unless it is earned.”

Maela bows her head. “As you wish, my Queen.” She hesitates before adding, “Shall I have them escorted to the tent, or would you prefer to meet elsewhere?”

You exchange a look with Adar. The decision weighs heavily on both of you, but there is little choice. The elves have come to bargain, and you will make sure they understand the cost.

“We will meet them here,” you reply, your voice firm. “Let them see what their arrogance has wrought.”

As Maela turns to leave, you catch the sense of unease in Adar’s eyes. He remains silent, his thoughts unreadable, but you can sense the conflict beneath his exterior. You both understand what it means to truly be at war—with the elves, with Sauron, and perhaps even with yourselves. It is a heavy burden to bear.

[suzannahnatters]

Wellp. The Rings of Power season 2 ep 8 has come. There are many eulogies to deliver in the coming days (and trust me I will) but for now, there is a certain someone who requires a proper sendoff. SPOILERS BELOW

They fulfilled my one true wish: we got to see Fair Form Adar (and my goodness he did not disappoint). And then they exploded my insane crack theory, sunk my ship, and killed him off. Oh well. At the same time, I'm so grateful for what we got. Adar wasn't Celeborn, but they didn't try to make him some other Big Name from the Sil that only 0.04% of the audience would recognise. It was a bit rushed, but the entire episode was sadly rushed and I felt that his sendoff was one of the few moments that did get sufficient screentime. He didn't get the redemption arc I was trying to manifest through sheer willpower, but the way he died fit the story while also extending a moment of grace and hope for the character. This was not Ben Solo in TROS; it was not the Darkling in Shadow and Bone, being gutted as his killer hisses "there is no redemption". And for that, I'll always be grateful. Meanwhile I'm going to spend the next week just staring into the distance, thinking about how the orcs recapture Galadriel and drag her into the presence of their lord, and he's down on his knees giving her his back in a posture of utter vulnerability. I'll be lying on the carpet thinking about how she was the only person he could show his face to. (I may have been wrong on Adarborn but I DID correctly predict that we'd get to see his fair-form). I'll be chewing on broken glass thinking about how when Sauron offered Galadriel a ring and a position healing Middle Earth at his side, she tried to stab him, but when Adar offered Galadriel her ring back and proposed a partnership...she accepted. SHE ACCEPTED. Oh, and? the probability that in all likelihood Sauron saw that happen. (and yep, I also predicted a callback to s1).

*high-pitched fangirl keening*

Anyway, my chums tell me that in the BTS segment for this episode, Adar was originally slated to die much sooner, but Simon Tolkien advocated for the character to be continued. Let's all raise a glass to Simon Tolkien, who is obviously continuing the Lord's work here. And let's admit that even though Galadriel seems to be stuck in the worst possible version of Middle Earth Bachelorette, in which her actual husband is lost and her boyfriends are a hit parade of Middle Earth's Most Wanted (stay tuned for s3, when we all watch in mind-boggled fascination while Galadriel romances Ar-Pharazon!) in hindsight the fact is that this was supposed to be a supporting character who ended up dominating much of the show almost by mistake. I can't imagine how they'll manage to outdo Adar when they bring along Actual Celeborn (unless they cast Dev Patel! I'm sure he's not got anything important scheduled!!!! THE PEOPLE DEMAND A HOT DESI CELEBORN), but if Adar was a mistake, he's a mistake I wish many more shows would make.

In conclusion: yes, I will be writing an Adariel fix fic, filing off the serial numbers, and self-publishing it. It will be titled AUTUMNTHRALL. Stay tuned.

[mai-komagata]

re: sexy stabbings

im writing this very long meta on how galadriel x sauron and silvergifting dynamics help an audience recognize different forms of seduction in a relatable way (including queer forms of seduction, which audiences are normally blind to), and how recognizing these ships isn't about "crack shipping" but about the text using the language of sexuality/eroticism/seduction to convey concepts that would otherwise be vague and not-understandable like temptation to a metal object or wounds that cannot heal or possession by an alien being as well as concept of "men in a fantasy/magical/superhero setting are not just power levels" -- ie. the strongest man should always win. Galadriel is *integral* to this because most characters in tolkien are male and audiences are pre-disposed to ignoring emotional dynamics in men other than anger and violence -- the contrast with a female romance lets an audience be like "these people, adar, galadriel, celebrimbor are more alike than distinct". (wow maybe i don't need to write it, anymore!). But since that is taking me very long to write and i keep running into queer-erasure every day i'll just say this: the reason we don't see Sauron torture Galadriel in the same way she tortures Celebrimbor is not because his relationship with them is cosmically different (obviously its different bc they are different people). Galadriel is not more "pure" or "loved" than Celebrimbor. Neither is blameless (i.e. both were ambitious) and neither is deserving of torture (nobody deserves that, even Sauron). It's because there is different symbolism to the way they are being hurt. Arrows being used as martyrdom is a millennia old way of showing homosexuality. Stabbing is metaphorical of penetration. He intended to kill both of them for denying them the Nine. Because Sauron is bad at impulse control, he takes and believes he is wiser than he is. If he wants something he will take it and then regret that he broke his favorite thing. (note he doesn't regret killing other people he doesn't twistedly love, like mirdania, or the orcs).

Galadriel had Nenya (i.e. Celebrimbor's magic, untouched by sauron) and Elrond was able to save her (love and light win the day). Celebrimbor died as symbolic for what happened to Eregion (he was alone and eregion fell).

This doesn't mean BOTH scenes aren't meant to be erotic. The stabbing is hot and the caressing of the arrows are hot. But they are hot in a BDSM/noncon way. "Do you understand what it's like to be tortured by a god?" sorta way.

Pragmatically, though, the reason we don't see more graphic galadriel is because it would make audiences uncomfortable. You can be way more graphic with gay shit and people won't be squicked than if you are graphic with m/f abuse. As i said, a good 50-70% of the audience won't even NOTICE the gay shit and think its just standard fantasy violence. The closer you make it to outright rape, the less compelling it is, because Sauron needs to both be APPEALING and EVIL in order to understand why people are drawn to the rings of power and why it is essential to oppose it.

[disclaimer: this is not anti galadriel x sauron, it is just in favor of seeing the ship in a dark way as part of the larger narrative. When I talk about shipping them in a dark way i don't mean simply its my kink, i mean this is a dark seduction story at heart. The actors are very hot, their acting is very sexy, but the function in the larger story is to display the different ways sauron tempts and corrupts people, including galadriel, celebrimbor, adar, and how sauron himself was corrupted by melkor].

[cyanorhis]

Thinking about Galadriel making an alliance with Adar (my beloved...) and Sauron appearing in "jealous ex" mode and just killing him in front of her dramatic-revenge-like... I'm sorry but it was kinda hilarious and peak of him. Poor Adar... Narratively though... It was a bit too sudden... Adar deserved better ndfjvndkfvj

On the same note I kinda get why their encounter was the way it was given what was happening to them prior. If I had it my way they would be in a different mental state for better convos and such but well...

Sauron was having an identity crisis after taking a hit from Celebrimbor and finally taking over his dark lord persona (which he didn't do as directly before in my eyes. It was always a confession of sorts you know. It felt like Sauron was finally back in town), so he was acting more... Edge lordly (? I'm having trouble expressing it)... Whereas Galadriel just had her date ruined. She was literally getting herself a hot ally and an army (which is kinda her love language) and he RUINED it. I would be pissed as well idc.

He was so over-the-top, challenging her with his deliciously annoying persona and teasing her with all that shapeshifting. There wasn't as much place as I wish there was for vulnerability and conflict, sadly. And then he binded her to him like "ok so you don't want my poorly done offer? Alright girlie girl we'll do it my way then" *stab stab* dfnvjkfdnvjkd and I love that for him. Hopefully, we'll get scenes where they can be more emotional... Please I want my angst.

Also the way the episode ended talking about things that cannot be recovered... haha... Many Thoughts on that ngl.

[baddybaddyadardaddy]

Funny/angsty ficlet request: pre-Forodwaith, Sauron keeps Adar in line by slipping him a love potion. Adar… doesn’t take it well when he finds out where his lovesick devotion stems from.

HAHAHAHA OKAY so this did NOT turn out funny....

but here you goooooo:

“What troubles you?” Sauron’s breath is a sharp flame, licking against the back of his neck. The maia stands close—too close. Adar clenches his gauntleted hand, shrugging away, countering around the opposite side of the large, stone table. The ample fire crackles within the hearth, sending black and amber shadows dancing and writhing across the chamber walls. The maia flashes him a smile that does not reach his eyes. “You look in need of rest,” Sauron’s eyes roam unhurriedly over him, always assessing, and Adar’s eyes fall to the goblet in his hand. “Drink this,” Sauron says, and it is a command, not an offer. “It is a tonic,” he adds, seeing the aversion in Adar’s eyes. He had suspected, for some time now, that Sauron has been… tampering… with his mind. His memories of the last weeks in the fortress are… muddied. Recalling them is like gazing into a brackish pool, the bottom of which is illusory and vague. All he has are flashes—mere glimpses, impossible to decipher: hands grasping desperately, a vice-like grip around his throat, fever-hot breath against his ear, and always—always—a slavish sense of yearning. He feels it now, though he does not wish to, gazing at the maia’s pale face, his red hair, perfectly kempt, the careful, intricate embellishments on his tunic. There is an order to him that demands to be disrupted. Unbidden, Adar’s fingers flex, as though desperate to claw at Sauron’s perfect collar and sink his teeth into the maia’s alabaster neck. He shakes himself, snarling like a wolf. “What have you done to me?” Sauron’s eyes flash, a dangerous warning. “I simply offered you a respite,” he says, his silky voice dropping low. Cat-like, he stalks around the table, one measured step at a time, pinning Adar beneath his gaze. “You were in such anguish after the war. You wanted an escape from the pain. I gave it to you.” Coming close, he leans in, pressing his lips against Adar’s ear. “I can give it to you again,” he says. “Will you drink?” Disgust curdles to desire in the pit of his stomach. Shuddering, Adar takes a single step back, just enough to look into Sauron’s golden eyes. Without a word, and without breaking eye contact, he reaches for the goblet. He presses it to his lips, and drinks it all.

also calling this to the attention of @brynnmclean , JUST BECAUSE

[elvenqueenofmischief-blog]

How many times did I watch this?!?!? Drink me dry, daddy!

[rey-jake-therapist]

I mean if they get a man as hot as Sam to play Adar who had fab chemistry with Morfydd then I’m sure they can find a handsome white man with a silky golden wig for Celeborn but I doubt he’s going to be as sexy as Sauron tho

Maybe Adar will turn out to be Celeborn? Problem solved. It'll take me a lot of suspension of belief and a few rants on Tumblr to accept it, but... I guess I could get over it. Not to mention that I find the idea that Celeborn and Galadriel wanted to fuck the same man and discussed how life is now "dull and grey" without him absolutely hilarious...

Sauron will always be hotter than everyone tbh.

[crownedwithstars]

Galadriel in Rings of Power, Part 2: War trauma or awful personality?

This post continues my analysis of Galadriel as she is portrayed in the Amazon series The Rings of Power - and why I think it is so very bad. Part 1 focused on the the portrayal of her being a warrior, and the many problems it creates for her character and possibly even for LOTR. Read part 1 here. In this post I will examine the common defence of her behaviour: that she is a traumatised war veteran who keeps lashing out at everyone.

I will post my arguments in a few different posts, because that should make the whole much more readable. I will use the tags #anti rop and #anti rings of power for the benefit of those who may want to filter my posts.

If you like Amazon Rings of Power, I have no issue with that; I only take issue with how a character I've loved for over a decade is portrayed in this show.

2. ROP!Galadriel's unlikeable personality disguises as war trauma.

ROP!Galadriel is a brash, hot-tempered, arrogant, impulsive and rude person. Sometimes she seems downright evil. Despite her great age, she has not accumulated any wisdom through her experiences. She treats even her friends in an unpleasant way and is worse towards strangers. She goes as far as threatening a bound prisoner with torture and genocide against his people - which is outright villaoinous, no matter how evil Adar is. Her anger issues are severe and it is hard to find even a single redeeming quality about her. If this is the show's creators' attempt to show that Galadriel, if she "turned to the dark side", would be as terrible as Sauron, is not well done. In my opinion she has already gone over.

Arguments made in the defence of this portrayal boil down to the idea that ROP!Galadriel is a traumatised war-veteran who lashes out because of her awful experiences. I don't find this compelling, considering that ROP shows Galadriel being aggressive and violent even as a child, never mind the justifications of assaulting a bully. If the show had shown her as a gentle, happy or sweet child, and then made it clear that it was her war experiences that changed her, this might be acceptable. However, it is not the case. ROP!Galadriel always was angry, violent and volatile. Because of this it rather feels like ROP!Galadriel uses her "trauma" as an excuse for her horrible personality. It is also very telling that she would rather spend centuries consumed by vengeance than go looking for her husband (who in the show went missing long ago). 

If the basis of portraying Galadriel as a warrior is shaky, this characterisation of a traumatised survivor has even less to do with how she is actually portrayed in the legendarium. The canon Galadriel has not horrible war experiences, but she does go through traumatising things, like the Kinslaying at Alqualonde, the many deaths of her kin, and the crossing of Helcaraxe. So, the canonical version of Galadriel has seen her deal of suffering. But if anything, in canon she seems to remain careful and collected after these experiences, because she is able to stand Melian's scrutiny, retain her presence of mind and not reveal the truth about the circumstances of the return of Noldor to Middle-earth. Therefore portraying Galadriel with these anger issues and lashing out is very much out of character.

Even if the portrayal of Galadriel as a traumatised war-veteran made any sense, there are other questions and problems about this. The show takes place at the end of the Second Age, when the events that supposedly traumatised ROP!Galadriel, including Finrod's death, are already long past. In other words, Gil-galad has all this time maintained a high-ranking commander who constantly lashes out, has no eloquence or diplomatic skills, can't fulfill a quest she's been at for centuries, is defiant against her superiors and seemingly does not care about the lives of her subordinates. Is this the best Lindon can get to lead the realm's armies? Does Gil-galad think that all it takes to be a commander is to have a big sword and be able to hit real hard? Or that his soldiers would consent to following this extremely volatile and unpredictable leader for centuries? They have had this whole age to do something about it but nobody has thought to try and help ROP!Galadriel to deal with her trauma, even with all the skill and subtlety Elven healing supposedly has? Has the Elven society developed at all or found ways to help its members? Or, if they just accept her behaviour for centuries and don't try to help her to get better, it implies that this is her personality and the Elves of Lindon have just resigned to it. Considering how out of line ROP!Galadriel is and the amount of time that has passed since Finrod's death, it seems quite unbelievable that her obsession about vengeance hasn't already backfired long ago and seriously enough that Gil-galad would have had to deal with her. Moreover, if she is so consumed by vengeance that she cannot understand his reasoning about the dangers of her quest but needs to be put on a ship and sailed away to be somebody else's problem, then she is not fit to be a high-ranking officer and never was. 

ROP!Galadriel has no more proof of Sauron being out there than she has of Celeborn being dead. The fact that she chooses the option of vengeance, and holds on to it for centuries, instead of choosing the option of looking for her spouse and carrying on with her life, reveals what is important to her. It also shows how deeply rooted violence and aggression is in her character. 

I believe this shows that the show's creators have not taken their time to consider the differences between Elven and Mannish psychologies. What is described above might make sense if we were talking about a human character whose experiences took place only a few years ago. However, Galadriel is supposed to be a mature Elf at the time she gets to Middle-earth in the First Age, and at that point she has already seen horrifying things. But this canon Galadriel is very different to the one ROP shows, spending centuries in a volatile state of mind but gaining no wisdom from it and receiving no help to deal with it, although the Elven society is supposed to be much more sophisticated than its Mannish counterparts.

[caffinated-and-sleepy]

Day two of my writing challenge

Sorry forgot to post also posting 3 today need to write 4 yet

Soulmate AU: everyone is born with heterochromia, one eye is their soulmate's color and the other is theirs. What happens when two soulmates meet?

~

Everyone always dreams of meeting their soulmate, their other half. Meeting my soulmate was once my dream, but I’ve given up hope. My soulmate's eyes aren’t exactly the rarest color, although they were beautiful that’s for sure. Their eye is an arctic blue with strokes of baby blue. Compared to my simple hazel eyes theirs were truly magnificent. So in general it’s nice having such a beautiful eye, but every other blue eye I see is lifeless and dull compared to my soulmate’s. Sighing in frustration I shake my head to clear my thoughts, now is not the time for daydreaming, I’m about to be in Paris. The city of love it’s quite ironic huh? Stepping onto the train platform I take a deep breath in and smell food nearby. Looking around I also admire the train station's architecture, it was much better compared to what we had back home. While looking around I start to become dizzy and lean against a pole. I start to rub my temple to attempt to get rid of the dizzy spell, but a man suddenly appears in the corner of my vision. Blinking at him I notice he was quite tall he then asks in a somewhat raspy voice “Are you quite alright my lady?” No one says my lady, but I brush it off and notice he looked like Ian McKellen, he had eyes that sparkled with mischief and an impressive beard. Nodding I respond to him “I apologize for that sir, I’m just becoming very dizzy.”

Yet when I go to once again look at his eyes I find him studying mine.

I then hear “It’s her.” I am about to question what he meant by the remark but before I could I feel myself falling. Screams erupt from my mouth as I get beaten up by tree branches on the way down. When I hit the ground I start to feel tears form, but I push it down. Getting to my feet I realize I’m shaking and my right arm is numb. Muttering profanities under my breath I limp to the base of a tree and begin to take in my surroundings. I’m surrounded by black dying trees that were corroding to who knows what, but I did not wanna find out. Continuing to look around I wonder how the hell I got into this situation. Okay, I was at a train station in Paris and got dizzy then an old ma- wait it was that old hobo man that looks like Ian McKellen! Now that I think of it he looked like Gandalf, yet even I knew he looked too friendly!

Before I go to look around more when I hear a voice “Don’t move or the arrow will lie in your head” I go to speak but instead process the voice. Then it hit me he sounds like Legolas!

I respond “Sir I’m sorry for whatever I did, but I don’t even know where I am.”

Then I am interrupted by a person behind me “Lay down your bow Legolas Greenleaf, she is with me.”

Wait a minute that is the cheap Ian McKellen copy! Quickly turning around I point at the man cosplaying Gandalf “You! You, Homeless hobo, are the reason I’m here I could be in Paris right now drinking wine in the Eiffel Tower!”

He acknowledges me and says “I understand that my lady,” but then he turns to the man that also looked like a clone of Legolas and says “see look at her eyes, mellon nin.”

The Handsome copy of Legolas looks at my eyes as mine nervously dart around, but looking at his face, his expression shows one of surprise “She has Adar’s eyes…” He then turns to the other cosplayers and says something in elvish, to which the other cosplaying elves nod. The man cosplaying Legolas grabs my arm as we start to walk. If it was anyone else I wouldn’t have allowed it, but he’s hot so one exception. As we walk the large trees start to gain life the closer we got to whatever destination. ‘Okay this is weird as shit’ I think, but when we near a twisted wooden structure I realized.

“I’m not on earth any longer am I?”

I was really questioning myself, but the actual Gandalf agrees with a laugh “No my lady instead you are on middle earth.” Oh god I feel like throwing up, it definitely doesn’t help when I walk in and everyone looks at me. We walk through twisting halls and finally to what seemed like a throne room, nervous about falling off the edge of the path I practically cling onto Legolas, who in return gives me a curious glance. Once we reach the large platform I relax a bit, okay no dying via falling off a path edge.

Legolas then speaks “My King there is someone here to see you.” he lets go of me and I look at him as if he’s nuts and shake my head quickly.

I just want to go ho- “Is that so Legolas, tell me who is it.” My throat goes dry, but when I turn around I am met with the most beautiful blue eye and a hazel one. The tall elf with my eyes that I’ve identified as Thranduil walks down the steps and stops right in front of me. He is so close that I can feel his breath.

I say the only thing I can think of at that moment “Your eyes are beautiful.”

[permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88]

Old Town Road | Halbrand/OC (part 4)

Summary: It was supposed to be a simple arrangement. Give up her freedom, and save her family home. The ultimatum was one Tilda had grown to accept, given that she could stay as far from her would-be captor's presence as she wished. But when chance forces her into closer proximity with the man known as Halbrand, she will find that her patience is not the only thing being tested. Particularly when what he seems to desire most, now, is her heart. (Yellowstone-ish AU).

Warnings: alternate universe, original character(s), house fire, death of a parent, burn scars, toxic relationship, Stockholm syndrome, angst, allusion to smut, unrequited love, enemies to lovers.

Other: Please let me know if you would like to be added to a tag-list!

Part One Part Two Part Three

From the moment he opens his eyes, Adar knows that something is very, very wrong.

He sees it first in his daughter. Even before he had managed to claw his way free of the haze that held him trapped beneath the veil of unconsciousness, he could feel it in her presence at his side. Tension. Grief. Fear.

All of those things had seemed to coalesce around her, as she sat in the chair beside his bed, forming a strange sort of shield through which he could not hope to reach her. He had felt it, as fear moved to the forefront, causing her to stand.

It had been that movement that had finally enabled him to pull himself free of whatever kept him half in the waking world, and half asleep, but now, all he could discern was how she stood, frozen, staring into the hall beyond a room he did not recognize, her apprehension nearly palpable.

He tries to call out to her. Tries to utter her name, but the words die off in his throat, a searing sort of pain suddenly possessing him with little else aside from the ability to generate a singular, ragged groan. Though the pain causes his vision to darken, narrowing in from the corners, he can see, just beyond where Tilda stands, the shadowy frame of a man. Tall. Clothed in black.

Again, Adar tries to move, whether in an effort to pull his daughter back, or to draw the man's attention to himself, he honestly cannot tell. But the effort fails almost as soon as it begins, whatever strength he might have possessed dwindling in an instant as another flare of white-hot pain sears at him from the inside out.

It is then that Tilda turns to him, the shock she must feel over his awakening rendering her incapable of keeping her reaction to it a secret, even from herself. He watches as a myriad of emotions flicker across her features, from surprise, to worry, to something else, a thing he had never wished to have her know.

Unimaginable, and unbearable pain.

He could have predicted the way in which Tilda would scramble to rearrange her expression. The way she would draw herself inward, as she had always done, before, when confronted with the thought of another sensing her distress. Whatever emotions had been warring for control are now replaced by a thin veil of resolve.

In seconds, her hand is reaching for his own, and he can feel the trembling that rests, just beneath her skin. Her teeth come out to worry at her lower lip, a flash of white against his vision that seems to darken and lighten in uneven fits and spurts.

Desperate to remain with her, rather than returning to the foggy haze that he had been suspended in, before—a fog that, even now, fights to drag him back under—Adar clings to Tilda's hand with all of the strength he possesses, limited though it may be. He watches as an errant tear slips, unnoticed, down the skin of her cheek.

His free hand reaches toward her as well, desperate for all of the contact he can obtain, particularly as another effort to speak leaves him nearly paralyzed by renewed pain, but his daughter shushes him. Her brow furrows with something not all that far from concern, and she gently presses that hand that had yearned to brush against her cheek back to the bed at his side.

For a moment, he wonders at the action, blue-green eyes searching for answers in the familiarity of her own, but Adar finds nothing. Nothing save for a maelstrom of unreadable emotion that he doubts Tilda will ever grant him the capacity to understand.

Her mouth opens, and then closes, her throat working convulsively as though words are as reluctant to leave her lips as they had been his own, but before he can make any attempt at discerning what it is that has her struggling, another sound reaches him. That of someone coming to stand just inside the door.

It is a presence that has his daughter tensing all over again, whatever vulnerability that he might have sensed in her bearing long gone.

The instinct to protect rises within him, sharp and unrepentant, and Adar tries to push himself to sit, but the fire that sears its way through every last nerve ending prevents the act as swiftly as if he had been cut off at the knees. Another groan escapes, and he collapses backward onto the rough mattress and thinness of the pillow.

Again, Tilda is at his side in seconds, hand tightly clasped around his own. And it is then that he takes note of the other presence in the room for the first time. The one that had rendered his daughter so uncomfortable he can practically feel the discomfort radiating from her very bones.

"How long ago did he wake?"

"A—a few minutes ago, but I—"

"Have you told him anything?"

The inquiry sparks some curiosity, and Adar finds his half-lidded gaze flitting between the doctor who is now so clearly tracking his vitals to Tilda, and back to the doctor, again. The sensation he had noted before—that something was wrong—returns, and he finds the powerlessness that renders him incapable of doing anything to discern what that something is to be akin to torture.

He watches, as his daughter shakes her head, something not all that far from guilt taking form behind her eyes. Rooting itself in the thinning line of her lips. A muscle twitches against the fine line of her jaw, her fingers tightening almost possessively around his own, and it is then that he realizes it. In the time since he opened his eyes, his consumption with Tilda's presence and his own pain has robbed him of the ability to recognize the now-conspicuous absence of two others.

His wife and son.

The thing he sensed had to do with them. With their absence. Adar knows that, now. And finally, painstakingly, he attempts to speak once more, this time determined to push through whatever fresh agonies may await him as a result.

"Where are—where are they?"

As soon as the words are spoken, barely above a whisper while flames lick at his throat, Adar feels the gentle pressure of Tilda's hand wrenching itself from his own. He recognizes the choked sound that escapes her, not all that far from a sob.

Her eyes shine with the unmistakable sheen of tears as she favors the man straightening on Adar's opposite side with a look that can be described as nothing short of scathing. And then he knows. Or at least, he thinks he knows. The only reason his daughter would be so hostile to another would be if she believed that person was being deliberately callous. If the individual in question was somehow a threat to the well-being of those she cared for.

Something must have happened to his wife. Or to Bain. Or, more likely, both. Another observation of Tilda's ashen features all but confirms it. And although he knows, somehow, that another attempt to rise will be futile, it is not enough to stop him from trying to claw his way upright once again.

By some miracle, and in spite of how his daughter's hands almost immediately move to try and waylay him, Adar succeeds. The pain very nearly blackens his vision entirely, but he sits upright, fists curled in the thin fabric of the sheet that covers his frame.

Breath after ragged breath drags through his still-burning throat, his chest heaving as he struggles to remain alert. As he forces himself to remain awake, despite the pull of the blackness that moves toward him like the soft call of a lover long missed.

His gaze fixes upon his daughter, desperate for answers. For the truth. The very thing he can tell, somehow, that she is entirely too reluctant to give. The growing horror in her eyes over his obvious comprehension of her omissions only spurs his desire to attempt to speak.

"Where are—they?"

Tilda opens her mouth. Shuts it. Opens it and shuts it again, and Adar would be a fool to pretend he does not know the reason behind her sudden inability to speak. He can feel it seeping like a poison through his veins the longer his gaze remains locked upon her own. And with the reality of his daughter's hesitation all but confirming his suspicions, Adar finds that he is now powerless to resist the pull of the scathing pain that holds him in its relentless grasp.

Combined with a truth he never wished to face, it drags him under, into the black reprieve of unconsciousness yet again, until he knows no more.

The next time Adar wakes, he does not fall prey to the same sensation he had before. Where there had once existed dread for the thing he had learned, its certainty now robs him of any feeling save for a boundless grief. Weighing heavily upon him, it keeps him nearly motionless. Trapped in the bed he'd found himself in, so that he is nearly drowning in it.

It fills him with a bitter feeling. The taste of bile lingers at the back of his throat. And as the pain that had dragged him under its sway resurfaces, Adar finds himself wishing that the flames that had consumed his home had managed to take him with it.

He is aware, of course, of his daughter's lingering presence beside him. Though she cannot seem to meet his gaze head-on, Tilda seems entirely reluctant to leave his side. All of the fight he has always known in her seems to have fled, leaving her hollow. Empty. A shell of her former self, even if he is not blind to how she is hardly alone in her vigil.

Elendil's son is there often enough, talking in hushed tones with Tilda, though more often than not she remains silent. Dimly, Adar finds himself grateful that she will not be alone.

In the days that follow his first awakening, he learns that while Bain had, despite his initial belief, survived, his wife—his Freida—had not. The grief hangs over him—over his daughter—like a shroud of darkness neither of them can escape.

Tilda is every bit as consumed by it—by guilt—as Adar is, himself, though she had no part in everything that had transpired, and not for the first time, he catches himself wondering if it might not have been better for his daughter to have stayed away.

At least, if she had, she might have been spared a bit of pain. The pain that would come in knowing his own stubbornness had all but sealed their fate.

He cannot speak the words. Even now, they all but choke off in his throat, despite the fact that the pain that assailed him when he spoke upon first awakening has dulled. He cannot tell his daughter that his own mistakes have cost them everything.

She would hate him for it. For refusing to take the deal the stranger had offered. The man with a dark suit, and a clear desire to possess all of the land of value within their town's borders. The man had offered him everything in return for a parcel of land that Adar had grown to love. That he felt was a part of his very being, now, where before he might have cared little for its fate.

Though he has no proof, it seems reasonable to suspect that this man was behind the destruction of his home. After all, Adar was no stranger to tales of other, similar happenings in neighboring ranches. Offers of purchase made, and when denied, punished swiftly. Severely, though the absence of proof of the cause of those punishments, and their perpetrator, was always notably absent.

The spectral presence of the man in black that he had noted upon his first awakening all but confirms Adar's suspicions, but he can do little about that now. He cannot voice them aloud, when to do so would mean bringing his daughter to face the truth of all his failures.

Instead of speaking, he sits in his silence, balanced between the waking world and that of sleep, but his dreams are hardly peaceful. In them, he faces the flames again and again, sometimes even managing to save the home that he loved, but each time that he awakens again, he realizes he is a fool for ever believing it to be possible at all.

The days pass in the same repetitive pattern. Wake, and keep a watchful eye on his daughter when he is conscious, desperate to put an end to the uneasy silence that rests between them but unable to figure out how. Sleep, and shy away from the horrors of his dreams when exhaustion and lingering pain overwhelm his will to remain alert.

Always, when he opens his eyes, his daughter remains beside him, and Adar counts himself unworthy of such devotion, the more so because he cannot begin to think of how to tell her the truth. The same thing that had kept her silent when she knew of her mother's passing now winds its way around his own tongue, paralyzing it and keeping it still.

Again, he wishes she could have been spared from this. That she could have lived her entire life immune to such pain, but he knows there will be nothing he can do to spare her for much longer. And whether it is foolish or not, that is what encourages him to keep his silence, even though his voice must surely become hoarse with disuse as a result.

If that is the price he must pay to prolong the moment where his daughter's looks of concern change to looks of abject horror, then he will pay it, knowing that to do otherwise would mean inevitably losing her, as well.

As soon as she is certain her father is asleep, Tilda withdraws her hand from his grasp, standing to her full height on limbs that tremble with exhaustion so that she can exit the room into the hallway beyond.

The days having blurred together since the night of the fire, such that she is hardly certain of how long it has been since she last left her father's room. Only her bones, infused with a dull ache from intermittent sleeping in a chair, can tell that tale, and it is not a story she is particularly interested in hearing. It is a story that will serve as nothing more than a reminder of why she never should have considered leaving home.

It all seems so stupid, now. Leaving. Letting something that had clearly been a tradition for far longer than she, or her parents had been alive put a wedge between them, causing her to lash out. To say the most hurtful thing she could ever think of, and watch as her father's features had tightened the moment the words left her lips.

She'd done what she always had, before. Spoken without thinking. Without considering the consequences. And now?

Now, her mother is dead. Her father is still not out of the woods, despite waking on his own. The doctor had informed her in no uncertain terms that the burns covering her father's skin render him almost fragile. Vulnerable to infection, and death, and Tilda is not blind to the fact that the two of them have so very much to work through, even if he is to survive.

In truth, she hardly knows where the two of them are to begin, when it comes to making some sort of attempt at getting back to the way things used to be. But Tilda does know that she wants that with every last fiber of her being.

It is an endpoint that she would give absolutely anything to achieve, no matter the cost. Even if she doesn't have the faintest idea of how to begin.

The thought provokes a sigh as she begins to meander down the hall, not entirely sure of where she is going despite being possessed by an almost unavoidable need to move. Whatever energy she hadn't been spending while remaining in the chair beside her father's bed now propels her forward, as though the idea of remaining still is suddenly untenable.

Her nerves seem to buzz with it the longer she is upright, and mobile, and she can feel her heart beginning to pound against the cage of her ribs, picking up, beat by beat, while her breath begins to come in sharp gasps. And as the growing panic that takes over at the thought of being unable to discern exactly why such a thing is happening becomes more apparent, Tilda can do little else aside from allowing her faltering steps to turn into a jog, the need to get air rising above all other thoughts she might possess.

Air that should be plentiful exactly where she is, but it isn't. At least, not for her.

Lungs burning, Tilda breaks into an all out sprint as the hospital's main entrance comes into view. Her throat feels as though it is nearly constricted while tears burn at the corners of her eyes.

As she bursts through the doors, and the chill of the night air overtakes her, a choked sob escapes. First one, and then another, and another, until she is nearly crushed by their invisible weight. The tears that finally spill over threaten to blind her as she staggers toward the blurred outline of a nearby bench.

Sagging onto it, she crumples. Bends forward, until her elbows are resting on her knees, her head held between both hands. The sobs that had started in uneven intervals completely take over, dragging her under until she fears she might drown, and even then, they do not show any sign that they will stop.

In the back of her mind, Tilda wonders how this came upon her so suddenly. How emotion all but overwhelms her, now, where before, she had been capable of keeping it all in check.

It makes little sense. In truth, everything about the current situation makes little sense, and the uncertainty rises to mix with her lingering guilt, until it is nearly choking her every bit as much as the sobs that still wrack her frame.

The longer she remains where she is, the more her thoughts drift back to the moments before she'd left her home, one year prior. To the words traded with her parents, ultimately leading to her departure. Her resolve to resist all desire for turning back.

Not for the first time, Tilda wonders if things might have been different, had she stayed. If she could have done anything differently to change the way things were. Her heart aches with the reality of never knowing, and her entire body seems to tremble with the force of that reality when it finally lands.

As the sobs that tear through her begin to calm, albeit only by a little, she lifts both hands to dash at errant tears. The task is, admittedly, an impossible one, the wind that tugs at loose strands of her hair causing the wetness on her cheeks to cool until gooseflesh prickles against her skin.

Slowly, Tilda straightens her spine, leaning back against the wood of the bench resting behind her, as she attempts to force her breaths to slow, inch by careful inch. And by the time some semblance of normalcy has returned to the hollow pounding of her heart within her chest, she comes to the realization that she is no longer alone.

"I am—I am so sorry. Has he passed?"

"What?" Tilda breathes, dashing at the last of the tears that escape, while her eyes flit to the stranger now standing before her. Though she tries her best to prevent it, she is all but certain that her surprise must be making itself known upon her features. How could it not, when her heart stammers to a near stop inside of her chest as recognition dawns?

For a moment, she seems incapable of further speech. Of anything, save for staring at the man, while the self-same panic she'd felt inside the hospital walls threatens to resurface and drag her under. Though his stance is innocent enough, she cannot shake the memory of him standing outside of her father's room. She cannot stop wondering why he'd been there, in the first place, much the same as she cannot fathom a reason for him to be here, now.

Her gaze remains locked upon his own as he risks a step or two closer, her fingers curling into the bench beneath her until she fears she might leave indentations from her nails as a result. And when he addresses her again, his voice is soft. Almost gentle, though it provokes no sense of comfort within her, either way.

"Your—father, is it?" He begins, that same softness in his tone only compounded by a look of something not all that far from pity in his eyes, "Forgive me, I—I simply assumed—"

"My father is still alive."

The words are almost defiant, despite how they come out in something that is not all that far from a croak, and Tilda recoils just a bit as the man moves to sit on the empty space of the bench beside her. In her bones, she feels that something is not right about this. About him. But before she can consider what, exactly she is to do about that fact, she realizes that he is offering her an almost patronizing smile.

"As I said, please, forgive me. I assumed, given his condition when I saw you with him last—"

"You assumed wrong."

"Would it be wrong of me, then, to assume that forgiveness is out of the question?"

Rendered speechless, yet again, by the man's shift from a clear display of earnestness, to this brash attempt at what could only be described as humor, Tilda purses her lips to refrain from issuing a response that could be deemed as brash, her gaze shifting from the man, to the hospital, and back to the man once more. Since the panic that held her in its sway has, for the most part, passed, she wants nothing more than to get back to her father, though to do so now would likely only mean that this stranger beside her would seek to come along, as well.

Somehow, that is a thing she knows she likely cannot afford.

It is difficult to explain. The innate feeling of distrust she feels toward a man who, save for startling her with his presence twice, now, has shown no outward desire to do her any harm. But regardless of what she should or should not be feeling, it is a thing that Tilda cannot shake no matter how hard she tries.

"I'll take your silence as a no, then."

"Do you know my father?" Tilda inquires, hardly caring if the question might be deemed too intrusive, given that, in her mind, at least, the man's actions thus far could truthfully be considered the same. Uncertainty still weighs heavily at the forefront of her mind, and despite how it may appear, she allows herself to shift just a fraction of an inch away from the stranger as a result.

An act that has an amused half-smile tugging at one corner of the man's mouth before he replies.

"I suppose you might say that. Though, I'm not entirely certain your father would openly admit to such a thing if you asked him."

"Why not?"

"Perhaps we might call it a—fundamental difference in opinions."

"Opinions over what?"

"You're a curious one, aren't you?" The man muses, favoring Tilda with another look that she cannot entirely read, no matter how fiercely she might try, "He really never told you of me?"

Though she hardly wishes to give this man any sort of advantage over her, Tilda can do nothing more than shake her head in response to his question, her teeth worrying at her lower lip as she watches something glimmer behind the darkness of his eyes. It unsettles her, in truth, though she does what she can to straighten her spine and give off the impression of the opposite.

She cannot make sense of it. Of why this man had been lingering outside of her father's hospital room if he did not know him, as much as why he had not made any attempt at coming closer if he did. And even when his expression all but declares openly that her attempt at bravado is something he can see through rather easily, like the thinnest wisp of smoke, it is not enough to persuade her to stand down.

"Perhaps he had good reason."

"I'm sure he believed that he did. Though I'm not so sure that will do him any favors, now."

"What do you mean?"

The question is phrased more as a demand than anything else, yet another thing that seems to provoke the man's amusement, this time in the form of low laughter that sends a shiver of apprehension down Tilda's spine. Another few moments of observation give her no reason to believe he actually intends to provide her with an answer.

In next to no time at all, he is standing to his full height, his gaze never once leaving Tilda's features in a way that has her heartbeat racing beneath her skin. And even as he reaches inside his pocket to hand her a small card, emblazoned with gold lettering, she cannot shake the sensation that this meeting, such as it was, is a thing she ought never have allowed to begin with.

"You might wish to share this with your father, when he is well enough," The man instructs, his fingertips brushing against Tilda's skin for a moment, before withdrawing completely, "For his sake, I hope that day comes soon."

Barely sparing a glance at the card in her hand as the man begins to walk away, Tilda moves to stand, her feet carrying her a few steps forward before she can summon the wherewithal to stop. She knows, on some level, that this is foolish. That what she is preparing to ask for is a thing that, if she remains ignorant of it, might do her more good than the alternative.

Some sort of instinct at the back of her mind all but screams at her that she does not, in fact, want to know any more of this stranger than the little she already does. But that is clearly not enough to waylay her from calling out after him, the slight pause in his movements as he turns back to face her satisfying her far more than it truly should.

"You never gave me your name," She says, brow furrowing as she realizes how plaintive the statement sounds, as though the lack of knowledge is something that can adversely affect her in any way at all, "If—if I am to mention you to my father, it might help to know it."

Again, the man provides her with another low laugh. A sound that pulls her toward him far more than is truly wise. And although the silence that stretches between them for a moment has her, once again, doubting whether or not he intends to provide her with an answer, Tilda finds that this time, at least, his clear tendency for baiting her will not play a part in his decision either way.

"You can call me Halbrand."

[lonesomedreamer]

The Rings of Power Liveblog: “Adar” (Episode 3)

In which the wheels finally come off this cart. (But not because Galadriel rides a horse.)

I just don’t care about Arondir being captured by Orcs.

“Halbrand” is so punchable. Ugh.

These sailors must be Númenóreans, right?

I love how secretive the captain is being…surely Galadriel recognizes the uniforms/insignia, even if the audience doesn’t. Reverse dramatic irony, if you will.

“The island kingdom of Númenor.” Surprising absolutely no one who knows their Tolkien. Still, nice cinematography and design work in this sequence.

this is probably not how I would design Númenor, but it is gorgeous. I said “wow” out loud.

While the design’s a little on-the-nose, I appreciate the obvious visual links between Númenor to Gondor.

“Is that an Elf?” Elves—both canonically and in this series—do not look so different from Men (especially Númenóreans!) that some dockworker would look at Galadriel, with her messy hair and days-old plain white shift, and immediately go, “Oh, must be an ELF!”

Really liking the Mediterranean vibes of the city architecture.

“In time they broke off all contact [with Elves].” Did they? They envied the Elves’ immortality, and eventually, goaded by Sauron, they tried to sail to Valinor and were therefore destroyed…but this seems like a stretch for the sake of Drama.*

I’m sorry, the subtitle said this dude is Elendil??? (Whose name literally means “Elf-friend”, btw.)

Wow, so subtle. No foreshadowing at all.

It’s giving Constantinople.

They’re taking Galadriel to meet the queen and no one thinks to offer her a new dress or even a cloak to wear??

Actually, they might be leaning too hard on the Mediterranean/Byzantine aesthetic…Númenor is an island, sure, but these people don’t look like they inhabit the same universe as the characters we’ve met in Episodes 1 and 2 tbh.

Not Halbrand telling Galadriel, who is more or less an Elven princess and who was born in fucking Valinor, that she should kneel in front of royalty!!!

And of course it turns out that he’s wrong about that, lmfao.

Why are they so instantly antagonistic? The queen’s hostile, Galadriel’s defensive—why??? Frankly: why is everyone in this Middle-earth so overtly racist all the time?

This would be a nice time for a history lesson: tell the audience that Númenórean royals are descended from Elros, Elrond’s brother, which means they’re also descended from Elves (specifically, from Lúthien Tinúviel, his great-grandmother). However, I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that they will not bring that up…

Again with an Elf (Galadriel now) being in an unreasonable hurry…three DAYS? That would be literally nothing to her!

I don’t understand the writing/adaptation choices made here. Elendil? Isildur?! They lived almost two thousand years after the titular Rings of Power were forged! @ the screenwriters: pick a LANE. You can tell the story of the forging of the Rings (S.A. 1500-1600) OR the events that led to the Last Alliance of Men and Elves (S.A. 3430), but how can you look at the source material and say “why not both????”

I love a good naval/shipboard sequence, and the shots of the sea are breathtaking. It’s just that all the stuff related to Isildur is wasted screentime.

I can’t believe they’re actually going to acknowledge that “Elendil” means “Elf-friend” as a way to show the queen as a narrow-minded bigot, lol…

She’s written/acted as a Cersei knockoff.

Helping/bringing an Elf to Númenor is treason? Please be serious.

He’s kind of hot, help?

“The sea is always right.” What a dumb catch phrase.

“And that’s how Elendil came to possess Narsil!” Give me a big fucking break. Warriors have swords, and in legends, many swords have names. Not everything needs an origin story!

[record scratch] So this—after the awful exchange between Elendil and the queen and the equally bad Orc torture session with Arondir—was the point when I realized: I need to change the way I approach this show if I want to keep indulging in all the eye-candy. It’s not and cannot be Tolkien, or even a proper adaptation, in any meaningful sense. It’s an especially pretty but still “edgy,” borderline grimdark fantasy show loosely based on Tolkien’s work and set in his universe. Fine. Let’s go.

Galadriel knows parkour!

I want to be mad, but it’s all so pretty.

The way Galadriel has more chemistry with Elendil than with Halbrand, oof.

How big is this island, exactly? I always pictured the Valar having to sink something like…Sicily-sized, not Great Britain/Japan-sized, lol.

Oh, it’s the infamous slow-mo horse ride that pissed off so many people online. What’s the big deal?? It lasted for about ten seconds! Jackson relied on a ridiculous amount of slow motion in the LOTR films, and people have called those “cinematic masterpieces” for decades…

[Redacted] is supposed to be a master manipulator—think a charismatic cult leader type. Halbrand is…well, not that.

Wow, is the guy who just single-handedly murdered and mutilated a bunch of grown men (after he stole from them and was confronted about it) going to turn out to be a villain? Who can say??

“You knew Elros.” By all rights and internal logic, Elros should be the Númenórean featured in Season 1 rather than Elendil. But hey, Elros is mentioned! Cool! I asked for that, after all. (Now tell us who he was and why he matters.)

Shocker: they do not tell us those things.

“I was always closer with his brother.” He’s my son-in-law. Galadriel and the writers: Celeborn whom? (And wasn’t Galadriel righteously pissed at Elrond just a few days ago?)

Yeah, definitely hot.

“By [Morgoth’s] successor.” When I was little, my dad simplified deeper Tolkien history/lore for me by calling Sauron Morgoth’s “son”…it took me years to unlearn that, lmao.

Look, I love the Harfoots and am not ashamed to say it. They’re fun and charming, plus I’m actually invested in Nori and her story arc. I almost fast-forwarded to find out when they would show up! But the whole “anyone who falls behind gets left behind” mentality makes no sense.

“You’re just a child!” Marigold could’ve piped up with that when the entire community was threatening to abandon Nori and her family…

The way Isildur is written to be a slightly whiny, thoroughly twenty-first century teenager is fascinating. Like a car crash.

“There’s nothing for us on our Western shores.” Foreshadowing!

I’m not interested in Elendil’s family drama. And regardless of how lovely she is to look at, I don’t care any more about Galadriel’s massive error in judgment wrt interactions with Halbrand any more than I do about Arondir and the Orcs. This entire Númenor subplot was a mistake!

I was wondering when the Stranger would do something help the Brandyfoots. The actors playing him and Nori do excellent facial work, too. My heart broke a little when he said, “Friend.” Though he’s not Gandalf, not the real Gandalf, he’s still kind of lovable.

And instead of ending on that shot, they throw in some more grimdark Orc content. Skip!

The Good:

The music and visuals are still great. I’m a sucker for seascapes and great architecture. All the little details in the streets and palaces of Númenor were incredibly impressive, and the visual connections between Númenor to Gondor (presumably for the sake of non-readers who might not know) were nice. Many of the costumes were also beautiful. The visuals are where the show’s ultra high-budget reveals itself.

Shout-out to great-great-great-great grandpa Elros!

Elendil’s kind of hot. Galadriel’s gorgeous. We’re already so far from the light of Valinor that Galadriel should ditch “Halbrand” before they even get involved and hook up with Elendil instead.

The actors playing the Harfoots—Nori and Poppy in particular—and the Stranger are killing it! This show should just be about them. They continue doing a lot with very little.

The Bad:

Everything else? Where to begin…

The decline of the writing is noticeable. The dialogue is significantly worse, the foreshadowing is clumsy and obvious, and of course as an adaptation of the source material, this episode threw out both bathwater and baby. Elendil and Isildur are included for the same reason all kinds of IPs now include legacy characters: instant name recognition = (in theory) a dopamine hit for the viewer.

To make this even worse, I think the writers bungled Isildur’s character in hopes of making him “relatable” to appeal to a younger audience, I guess? He’s the Wesley Crusher of TROP.

Elros is mentioned…but the audience learns almost nothing about him, not even that he was the first king!

The entire Númenor arc is, in fact, a waste. The queen is two-dimensional. No explanation is given for the Númenóreans’ dislike/mistrust of Elves. Isildur’s storyline is a coming-of-age/family drama arc this show did not need, never mind that neither he nor Elendil should be alive for another two millennia (!) anyway. Halbrand sucks even more than before without becoming any more interesting. Galadriel doesn’t shine here, either. And despite the impressively detailed sets, even the Númenórean costumes seem visually unrelated the rest of the show’s own universe.

In short, it almost feels like Galadriel was dropped into a different fantasy world for this episode.

I mentioned him, but Halbrand gets his own bullet point again.

Arondir and his gory, violent imprisonment storyline…thanks, I hate it! It’s anti-Tolkien! It’s grimdark! It sucks!!!

The Harfoots’ beliefs and customs are inconsistent and confusing. Nomadic people and hunter/gatherer societies don’t just abandon people who need care! But they’re still the high point of the show imo. Not a compliment to the writers.

It’s almost funny…my opinions on this episode are diametrically opposed to most of the IMDb reviews I read. I like the Harfoot subplot in spite of its problems, I adore Nori, and I don’t hate Galadriel (either the character or the actress—God forbid women do anything) despite the weak writing. I also couldn’t care less about Arondir and found the Orc scenes totally unwatchable for several reasons. Go figure! This show’s not really worth it even for its beauty, but now I’m sort of invested.

*I went back and looked through the Appendices after I finished this episode, and eventually (many years after this show supposedly takes place…) the Númenórean kings, jealous of the Elves’ immortality, did “turn away” from them and even “punished” people who spoke their languages in public—after which the Elves “came no more to Númenor,” understandably. But it’s at least 700 years in the future if this show is set before the Rings were forged! This kind of unnecessary time compression in an epic, multi-season TV series makes no sense to me.

[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

Fortune Teller: Adar

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Relationship: f! reader x m! monster (Tabaxi)

[Also I am not familiar with tarot cards and palm readings so I did some research on it and hope it makes some sense.]

-

“Tarot and dreams are two dialects in the language of the soul.”

― Philippe St Genoux

-

The days were hot, days longer and lives lived longer.

Though even with the heat that swelled and radiated through the city of sand, it was known that fortune came to those who sought it.

With destiny that you thought a 'trial' awaited, you needed answers. Needed answers that would fall on false hopes and dreams; for it all to be wafted lies that anyone would have to pay double in seeking.

You did not pay for it luckily, with your parents and their pleas for you to seek 'professional help' in your dilemma, you found it in the eyes of fates, fates that lay within the flick of a card.

Adar was his name. Adar the Sahir. Adar the Seer of Fates. Yet, you had to be the judge of that.

You found his spot in the market easily: situated between the two stone walls of other buildings, his was smaller and made from sticks and heavy cloths, telling you it had been put up with haste and less in need of protection against the elements.

Off to a good start, in thinking this person and their job was real. You sulked, making your way over, ignoring the staring, and the whisperings that came from drawing your name. Many thought of you as odd, leaving you to yourself as they whispered and mocked.

When you stood a few inches from their open entrance, you gave a harsh knock to the wooden panel holding the structure together, and popping their head out was the one you sought that was known as Adar.

The palm reader was that of a Tabaxi, and though you had seen few of them in your lifetime, you had been familiar with them roaming the lands, tending to keep to warmer temperatures, though some preferred the cold.

You were familiar that many were different from one another: ones with dark fur, light fur, ones big and small, stripped or with spots. Though you had never seen one like himself. He looked like a caracal: small and lithe, standing almost an inch taller than you. He's dressed in cooling clothing: an open white blouse, with tailored purple and bold trousers, his long legs wrapped in dark linen that acted as 'shoes' to protect the soles of his paws from the heated cobbles and boiling sands.

"You must be my new customer? I am Adar, a palm and tarot card reader. You are familiar with my work?" You liked his voice immediately: velvety and pleasantly soft, mixed with a sweetened accent.

"That is correct, yes." You awkwardly spoke, he was charming, and the way he looked at you so kindly made your stomach flutter.

"Come, come, you are welcomed inside." You're shuffled inside the small hut with sweeping rugs and colour cloth that was as bright as him and his clothing. When he passed by you, you got a hint of jasmine and plum, a scent sweet that surprised you yet suited him well.

You entered his small hut, a richness of Sandalwood and Patchouli filled your nostrils, candles lit in the unlit room as you followed the Tabaxi to the table in the middle of the room. It was instead an eyesore, an controlled mess. Cards filled the table with crystals of all sorts of colours, mainly amethysts were scattered across his table of all shapes and sizes.

"Excuse the mess," Adar spoke cheerfully, "I need rearranging."

"It is quite alight. My ma is always telling me I must tidy after myself."

"You live with your parents, correct?" He shuffled around the table to sit, you following in the chair opposite him, nearly being engulfed by the plush cushions. "It is not a judgmental question," he eased, "it helps me to know you better and with the cards."

"Ah," you awkwardly laughed, trying to get comfortable. Maybe it was the ease of him, his aura, but you grew a bit more and more comforted. "Forgive me, I've never done this before."

"That is quite alright," Adar reassured smoothly, and your stomach twisted with glee. "I will go through everything with you, and what everything means." Your eyes lit up as you watched him smoothly stack the tarot cards, shuffling them as if they were nothing but leaves and he was the wind, guiding them with a sound that was a delight to anyone's ears.

"These are tarot cards, all different but will tell of your story and what will come. Look at them, and pick which ones look like they call to you. Pick three, and I shall go through them one at a time."

Seems easy enough. You thought, heart racing. They were just cards, it couldn't have been that hard. You eyed the cards, all facing down, and you carefully picked out the three. With a flick of his wrist, Adar swiped the deck away with a smooth motion, the deck stacked once again and neatly placed on the side of the table.

"The first card represents what you can do to surrender to the change in your life." He flipped the first card over, revealing the plain picture of a horned monster, sitting on a throne, above two naked and chained individuals. "The Devil is upright, which can mean shadow self, attachment, addiction or restriction."

It could mean a few things: how the way you had been completely controlled your entire life, dictated by your parents to suit their needs and please them. The ever-dutiful daughter, silent and obedient.

You didn't dare say what you had thought to the Tabaxi, instead, nodding along as the next card was flipped.

"The second card offers direction on caring for yourself during this process." It was a depiction of a knight on a pale horse, offering aid to a kneeling and begging priest, surrounded by others either begging or lying dead.

"Death." You read aloud from the card, but Adar was quick to interject. "It is not foreshadowing your demise," he laughed comfortingly. "The card can mean endings, change, transformation and change."

Oh, that seemed better than it threatening my death. You thought dryly. "So, death is giving advice?"

"Exactly." Adar grinned a toothy smile, before flipping the final card over. "This final card serves as a guide for centring yourself amid this change."

Two individuals, naked as the day they were born, in a loving embrace.

"The lovers can represent love, harmony, friendship, values, alignment and choices." He spoke before looking over to you. "Perhaps there is someone in your life you can look to for help in a situation that is troubling you."

"Perhaps," you thought, fully knowing there were only a handful of friends you could rely on, but they were rarely sighted in your hometown, instead, venturing off to seek a new life elsewhere. "There may be someone."

Adar smiled as he removed the cards away to stack with the remaining deck. "These are just speculations. I do not truly know the inner conflict that goes on inside my customers, so these cards should be of help."

You nodded, believing there was some aspect to it you could understand a bit better. "What about palm readings?"

Adar's eyes lit up with glee at the mention, "Ah, I'm glad you asked, it is after all included in my session with you today!"

After moving around things on his table, he placed his hands stretched, the claws in his paws had been retracted and not showing out. "Again, I will go through the process of how this works."

You shakily placed your left hand in his, aware that you had been sweating profusely when you were about to touch a handsome stranger, your body rigid as he took your hand into him to 'inspect'.

"You have very soft hands," he laughed to ease the tension.

"Thanks, you too." His paws were soft and warm, a contrast to the hands of humans when the fur on him was soft and short. "So how do palm readings work?"

Adar smiled at this as if the topic was a lifetime hobby of his joy from a youngling. "Think of your hands as portals- shedding invaluable insight. It is the art of analysing the physical features of the hands to interpret personality, and characteristics and to predict future happenings."

He inspected your palm closely, and you had to ignore the way it felt so comforting to hold his hand. "Your sun sign is fire, but the shape of your hand is that of an air sign." He spoke after some silence.

"And that means?"

"It means that you have a lack of nuanced insight into the complexities of your personality. You can be easily distracted, anxious or on edge."

He pressed into the bottom part of the palm below your pinky, "This mount of Luna reveals an individual's empathy, compassion, and imagination. And here," he points to the base of your middle finger. "The mount of Saturn reveals you have a hidden yet deep understanding of the ups and downs to life, hidden wisdom some would say."

"Some hidden wisdom, huh? Couldn't say I've heard that before." Your cheeks rouged.

"Meanwhile, your lifeline-"

"It doesn't determine how long of a life I live, does it?" You laughed nervously.

He smiled easily, "No, it doesn't." He squeezed your hand teasingly. "It reveals your experience, vitality and zest. Your line isn't deep, meaning you there is not have much experience. Your line is long, however, meaning you have had much influence and little independence."

How interesting. For not believing in any such thing, the cards and readings did an exceptionally good job in your predicament. It was as if Adar had been there for every aspect of your life, chipping away at your shell to find the crux of your issues.

"I hope this gave you some more insight. Is there anything else you wish to ask me before our session ends?"

"Yes, I do actually, just one thing." You braced yourself for the rejection, the hopes and dreams to be crushed. "Have you ever dealt with anything to do with curses? Or even if the cards could solve them?"

"Curses?" He queried.

Nerves wracked through you as you told him. "I've been told all my life one thing: make my family proud, and not in education but in marriage. I had to find a cordial spouse who had strong blood and good fortune. I had to be compliant, dutiful and quiet, yet the older I got, the more I was told how... undesirable I was becoming. How no husband would want me."

"And who told you this?" His long ears twitched.

"My pa."

His eyes locked onto yours, and it had felt as if he stared not into your eyes, but through the window into your soul. It was uneasy, and jarring to stare back, uncertain of what he saw staring back at him. The silence was palpable, before Adar gave a long hum, releasing your hand as he stated. "Well, there's nothing wrong with you. You're perfectly fine, not cursed I may add."

"Are you certain? I've been told this my whole life. The readings could not be picking this up."

"The cards and readings never lie, sweet thing, and nor do I." His smile was lopsided. "Maybe listening to the wise words of your pa aren't something you should consider."

You could've laughed, could've thought that all of the nineteen years of living had come to being told it was all a lie. That being told a horrible thing would stick with you for the rest of your days: a challenge to your approach to living when it had all been for intimidation.

"So, I've never been cursed?"

"Never before and never have." Adar gave a sympathetic smile. "If what you're going through has been any foresight into the cards-"

"They have, to some degree," I answered. "I want to be independent of my family, but I fear I will never be able to."

"Breaking a harsh cycle is a lot for anyone," spoke the Tabaxi softly. "But if you need anyone to talk to, you know I would be there in a heartbeat."

Your cheeks rouged, words jumbling in your throat. "Is... would I need to book another session?"

His laugh was a sweet thing: a melody so fine. "No, not for me, sweet thing. Free of charge if you wish to have someone to chat with outside of my work."

"Then, I shall be seeing you again, correct?"

"Of course."

[andthebubbles]

soooo rop 2x01

DAMN that was good. so i wouldn't say galadriel brought back sauron, i think? he seemed to be handling his comeback all on his own

sauron is squid ink pasta underneath!! who knew!!!

what's with the rings always needing to be thrown down some deep pit, then having a failsafe like 'yeah nah you can't chuck me, i'm too good to be chucked!' bringing out everyone's inner hoarder

sauron talking to dogs! or whatever. i am obviously not pumped up on lotr lore. was the end goal just for the dog to eat waldreg, or is the dog now eating everyone in the orc village, or... // eta: WARG

the part where adar got sauron v2 to kneel was kjfngkfjg you could tell sauron was thinking 'fuck man, the last time i knelt to you it didn't turn out so hot but fuck'

okay i have questions; i believe the cart that sauron hitched a ride on was driven by a woman? (might be wrong, i don't remember exactly and i cbb checking rn.) so... he gained a body out of that? out of eating her? should he not be in a woman's body then? IS HE WEARING HER CLOTHES

elrond is precious bby

gil-galad is such a meme?!?!?? i was laughing at so many of his lines. i also find him deeply annoying, but like, in a meme-worthy way. so, i guess he does have some value

i find the stranger/gandalf and nori (and poppy) to easily be the most boring storyline so far. also i thought poppy was already going with them from the end of s1, but i guess i remembered wrong. (gandalf go get your stick!)

anyway i'll add anything if i missed it later. might just watch ep 2 tomorrow, i think. and ep 3 the day after. these eps are pretty long.