#FOTFICS July challenge

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Week 3 - Feast

And this is the ending of this story as well...

Thank you for reading!

Prompt: Feast

Pairing: Maedhros x Fingon, Fingon & Finrod, Sons of Fëanor

Words: 3 060

Warnings: Nudity, sadness, loss, anger, betrayal, danger

Findekáno stared at the stacks of papers in confusion and dismay; as soon as he’d entered the abandoned study, he’d been overcome by a strange, uncomfortable feeling of urgency, but he was unable to put his finger on its source or sense.

Something wanted to be found—the gnawing, tingling sensation reminded him of his school days when he’d been working on a particularly difficult problem for hours on end, and the solution was teasingly grazing his consciousness without ever letting itself be grasped firmly.

Vanquishing his last scruples, he approached the littered desk, rifling through the documents aimlessly.

Then, as if called by an unseen power, he looked up sharply from the mountains of yellowed paper and gasped.

There, drowned in the dense shadow of the far wall, hung a masterfully crafted painting which spanned most of that side of the room.

“I know you,” he whispered, stepping around the now-forgotten furniture, and lifted his fingers to touch the tall, red-haired man standing at the right side of a slightly older, imperious-looking stranger.

In his single-minded haste, he’d disturbed a precariously heaped stack of notebooks, but he paid no heed to the avalanche of rustling paper as his eyes were riveted on the disturbingly like-like portraits.

Recognition was far less instantaneous than it should have been, but the sight of the broad, strong-featured woman on the other side of the compellingly intense patriarch made Findekáno’s eyes widen, and his mouth fall open.

Even though his gracious host had been a life-altering surprise, the young Prince was only too familiar with the dignified couple at the heart of the purposefully forgotten artwork.

“Where have you gone?” he whispered, overcome with dread and hope alike. He’d only ever seen King Fëanáro and his beautiful, talented wife depicted in banned history books, and yet he was absolutely certain that the people in the painting were indeed that doomed pair which had vanished without a trace so many years ago.

Together, they’d created many marvels that still adorned the palace in which Findekáno had grown up.

“And sons,” he murmured. “You had many sons, fabled to have been beautiful, smart, and exceedingly talented in the art of music and of war. They’ve…disappeared along with you.”

“You must leave,” a cold voice came from the door. “You’re no longer welcome here.”

Whirling around and thereby dislodging another landslide of books and notes, Findekáno discovered his host, now clad in a light dressing gown made of worn silk, standing on the threshold.

Nelyafinwë’s mouth was curled up in a moue of wild anger, but his eyes were dull and dark with grief at the discovery of Findekáno’s abject betrayal of his trust.

“I needed to know,” Findekáno croaked, lifting his hands pleadingly. The mere thought of being banished from a place he’d originally never even wanted to enter was unbearable to him, and—at that moment—he would have done anything not to be cast out.

“You must go,” Nelyafinwë repeated tonelessly. “I shan’t have our sanctuary torn apart by your indecent curiosity and the foolish bravery of your ilk. Leave now and never come back.”

Injured pride and something else—darker and far more painful—stirred within Findekáno’s chest, and he set his jaw stubbornly. “No.”

At once, the pale ghost of a lost line changed strategies in the face of Findekáno’s defiant refusal.

“You cannot stay here—think of your father, of your siblings, of your realm!” Nelyafinwë pleaded in the same forcibly level voice. “You have a life somewhere, far from this accursed ruin, and you must return to it.”

“My realm?” Findekáno exclaimed, letting the conflicting, confusing feelings within him melt in the merciless, purifying forges of his ire. “Don’t you mean our realm?”

Flinching back as if struck, Nelyafinwë stared at him for a long moment, open despair writ plain across his comely features.

“I will not add your misery to the list of my crimes,” he then whispered, waving a despondent hand at the hated mural. “You now know who I am, and certainly, you must agree that it would be better if we were confined to these lonely halls for all the ages to come.”

“I hold no such thoughts,” Findekáno barked and bent down to retrieve a handful of pages, covered in tight, neat script. To avoid detection, he’d not brought a taper, so he had to hold the paper up to the pale moonlight to decipher the writing.

“The answer is not there,” Nelyafinwë said in a warm voice that reeked of pity.

“Tell me then, oh beauteous guardian of an ancient curse. Clearly, you know!” Before Nelyafinwë could refuse him once more, he stepped forward to grab those broad shoulders and give the wilfully secretive man a good shake.

“Share the secret of your curse with me,” he purred into a visibly blushing ear. “And your own wish shall be granted—I will leave.”

As once before, Findekáno braced for the onset of crushing culpability as the lie passed his lips—he would indeed walk away from the castle, but his plan was to seek out whatever was needed to break the malediction and return posthaste.

“Forgiveness,” Nelyafinwë confessed in heart-wrenchingly forlorn accents. “We would have to earn and be granted forgiveness to be freed. It’s a hopeless endeavour—even you cannot deny that. Now, I’ve honoured my end of the bargain. Will you flee this prison?”

Inclining his head, Findekáno decided that he had nought to lose and everything to gain, so he pushed himself up on the tips of his toes and pressed a tender kiss onto that grim mouth which had just handed him the key to his happiness.

Nothing was clear or decided in this world, he knew, but he was convinced that—if only he could deliver this living, breathing phantom—he could obtain bliss beyond his wildest dreams.

“In the morn’”, he murmured against Nelyafinwë’s lips. “Grant me this one night to be with you before you force us to part ways.”

He could see how much the other wanted to deny his request, but—in the end—he found himself nestled against Nelyafinwë’s bare chest in the bed he’d been allotted so generously, absent-mindedly counting the freckles speckling his warm, smooth skin.

“I forgive you,” Findekáno whispered, unsure whether his host had fallen asleep or if he was still contemplating their imminent farewells. “Meeting you was worth being cold, scared, and tired. I pardon you for your gruff manner, your bad tea, and your overdrawn anger.”

He could feel more than hear the mirthless chuckle rumbling through Nelyafinwë, so he changed his tactic, embroidering his nascent affection and unwavering faith onto that pristine flesh with fervent kisses.

“I forgive you,” he breathed, “for following your father’s folly to your ultimate doom; I forgive you for disappearing and leaving the realm in disarray; I forgive you the crimes for which you still castigate yourself.”

When his mouth brushed against a sharp hipbone, he looked up. “Can you forgive yourself? Can you pardon your brothers for the part they’ve played?”

“They deserve no blame,” Nelyafinwë repeated the lie he’d told himself a thousand times.

“Yes, they do,” Findekáno objected kindly. “But they also deserve forgiveness. When I’m gone, please try to extend the same grace to yourself you’re so eager to bestow upon your siblings. And…learn to make a better cup of tea, all right?”

The night faded too fast—it always did.

“You must away,” Nelyafinwë whispered urgently.

Dark shadows lay beneath his beautiful eyes as if all the tears he had refused to cry had pooled in lakes of black ink atop his chiselled cheeks.

“You turn back when the sun comes up,” Findekáno whispered, extending a trusting hand. “I’d see it if you’d let me!”

Before his very eyes, the charming, alluring youth in whose strong, lean arms he’d spent an excitingly sleepless night morphed into a hulking creature, covered in reddish fur and poised to tear any foe to shreds.

“I recognise your eyes,” Findekáno gasped, awe-struck and undaunted, as he let his fingers comb through the long, shaggy pelage of the beast. “And your hair. I bet you wish one of your brothers had been turned into a brush, huh?”

Nelyafinwë threw back his massive head and uttered a vicious, resonating snarl that Findekáno only understood as laughter when tiny tears dropped from the corners of those eerily human eyes.

“Despite my unlawful intrusion yesterday, I’m a man of honour, so I shall keep the word I’ve given. Goodbye, dear Nelyafinwë. Think of my words!”

Unable to resist, he leaned forward one last time to bury his face, hot and tight with unshed tears and unspoken confessions, in that luscious fur and kissed the top of a fearsomely fanged snout lovingly.

Then, without daring a last lingering look for fear that he’d change his mind, he left the castle unimpeded.

Driven by the visceral scream of agony churning in his throat, Findekáno almost ran through the fray he’d hewn and only broke out of his delirious flight when he heard the approaching sound of hooves.

“Halt! Who goes there?” he called, lifting his sword laboriously. His arms were shaking, and his breath was short, but he was ready to defend his secret lover against all who’d seek to harm him.

“Finno? Is it really you? How have you escaped?” Not even taking the time to rein in his horse, Findaráto vaulted off the animal’s back with the grace of an acrobat to embrace his cousin. “We were prepared to slay a thousand fearsome enemies in your name.”

“No,” Findekáno roared, extricating himself almost violently. “No, you shall not harm a single hair on his head.”

“Finno? Are you quite well? You look fevered,” his cousin said in a softer tone, peering into his flushed, bloated face with alarm. “Have you been crying? What have they done to you?”

“You don’t understand,” Findekáno gasped, collapsing against the other’s chest with sudden weakness.

At that, Findaráto held up a staying hand, signalling thus to his hunting party that they’d settle down under cover of the nearby forest for a short halt. “Tell me everything.”

And so, Findekáno did. Warring shame and decorum made his account choppy and incoherent at times, but his cousin had known him for too long not to follow his disjointed narration easily.

“Do you believe Fëanáro to be…dead?” Findaráto finally asked, tapping a slender finger against his full lips pensively. As the oldest son of the minor family branch who never expected to ascend the throne and preferred it that way, he did not waste any time pondering the inevitable changes to things like the succession and the crown. “He was a dangerous individual.”

“He’s gone, one way or another,” Findekáno sighed. “Can you help me?”

“I am your father’s representative,” Findaráto chirped with a shrug. “And you are his heir. When we speak, we speak with the voice of the King in the name of the realm. Do you want us to go back and extend a royal pardon?”

Even though he was doubtful that such a negligible gesture would be anywhere near enough, Findekáno couldn’t think of a better idea, so he nodded tentatively.

“Ah, the colour is returning to your face, cousin, I take that to be a good sign. You must understand that we were on a daring rescue mission rather than a diplomatic one, so we shall have to make a few minor adjustments…”

Findaráto gave him one of his mischievous, lopsided grins. “After all, I wouldn’t want to make a bad impression on the young man who’s managed to capture your heart.”

“My…what?” Suddenly aghast by how open and unguarded he’d been, Findekáno blanched.

“Worry not, your secret is safe with me. Onwards then, brave men and women. We have a potential suitor to convince of our beloved kingdom!” Findaráto said with a confidential wink and stalked away to retrieve his runaway horse.

“I’m not sure you’ll get a warm welcome,” Findekáno moaned.

“Nonsense, I restore his true love to the man—also, unlike many of our kin, I am irresistibly charming. Leave it to me! He’ll adore me!”

Nelyafinwë was wrenched out of his dark, self-pitying musings by the frantic clacking of metal and the dissonant scream of a harp.

“What now? Has someone come to fell us at last?”

Turning his cumbersome frame in a room too small for it, Nelyafinwë joined his brothers at the small, narrow kitchen window, only to espy the telltale cloud of dust heralding a group of quickly approaching horses.

Had he not gained a new appreciation for seemingly inanimate objects, Nelyafinwë might well have dropped the saucer he’d been polishing for the small feast he was presently preparing.

Even though his siblings would not be able to join him in the simple pleasure of eating, they’d all agreed with Findekáno’s assessment when Nelyafinwë had told them about what had transpired during the night.

The idea of having a family dinner once more, truncated and perverted as it might be, had lifted everyone’s spirits, and so Nelyafinwë had tried to ply his uncooperative bestial form as best he could to perform the menial tasks that were required to have such a humble banquet.

As far as he could tell, he’d made good progress, but now, all his efforts would turn out to have been in vain. How cruelly fitting!

The screeching of the harp reached a tremulous crescendo—Nelyafinwë was tempted to swat it from the windowsill, but he refrained, knowing that his fearful hope would turn him into the monster he refused to become. He wouldn’t give in to his basest instincts!

“Why would he come back? I’ve told him there was nought but death and desolation here,” he answered the question echoing through the room as much as through his own racing heart. “He promised.”

Of course, Nelyafinwë remembered that Findekáno had deceived him once before in the pursuit of what he’d deemed to be the “greater good”, and he’d only ever vowed to leave and had never sworn not to return, but that much had been implied, hadn’t it?

As the thundering cloud drew nearer, he could discern the flashing gold braided into the thick, gleaming hair of their recently lost and yet already bitterly regretted visitor.

“No,” Nelyafinwë gasped, and—heedless of his grisly shape—rushed to the door to intercept the interlopers before their wrath could endanger any of his beloved brothers.

Roaring and growling, he burst forth.

“Dear,” Findekáno cried and threw himself off the horse and into his unwilling host's long, twisted arms. “My kin have come to deliver me, but—as I’m already free—we’ve changed plans and shall now free you instead.”

A thousand thoughts and contradicting emotions flashed through Nelyafinwë’s mind—gratitude and disbelief making him freeze protectively around Findekáno’s solid warmth—and he stared at the visibly drawn, exhausted face of his sweetest dream in wordless confusion for a long moment.

“Good day,” Findaráto interrupted their strange and fragile intimacy with cheerful bonhomie. “My cousin tells me you’re in need of forgiveness.”

His gaze—sharp and perspicacious despite his air of good-humoured shallowness—fell on the incongruous heap of miscellaneous tools and instruments by the door, and he bowed courteously.

“You’ve done me no grievous harm, so there’s not much to pardon,” he then went on with a lopsided shrug. “Nevertheless, as Finno here insists, I forgive you for imprisoning my uncle and my cousin. The first is alive and well, and the second couldn’t get back here fast enough, so I dare say that there was no harm done.”

More men dismounted and, under the pressure of their Princes’ demanding expressions, they did their best to conjure up offences and crimes they could forgive.

When nothing immediately changed, Findekáno’s face fell.

“It’s not that easy,” Nelyafinwë hummed comfortingly into his ear. “But I’ve taken your advice—I was just preparing everything for a little feast tonight. Would your party care to join us? It won’t be as grand as what you’re used to in the palace, but it’s the best we can do out here.”

“I’d love to,” Findekáno exclaimed, nuzzling closer to the broad, bare chest of a mystery on which he hadn’t given up yet. “The others can have the room you gave me yesterday; I can spend the night by your side and watch over you.”

He remembered the dark shadows marring Nelyafinwë’s delicate skin only too well. “You need to rest, dear, and I can make sure that your beauty doesn’t go unnoticed.”

“You’d defend and protect me? Your jailor? A walking nightmare?” Nelyafinwë sputtered. It became increasingly difficult to shut out the jubilant clacking of his siblings throwing themselves bodily into the air in a weird display of exuberant joy and characteristic impatience, so he turned to carry Findekáno into the castle.

“Be my guests,” he called over his shoulder, shuddering at the thought of the supplementary teacups and plates he’d now have to wash.

“Yes, make yourselves comfortable,” Findekáno added merrily. “On account of having two hands, I’ll help with the preparations.”

“So will we,” Findaráto interjected suavely and followed the lumbering beast as if he’d not even noticed its terrifying girth.

When, not much later, the table was laid and the candles were lit, Findekáno raised his polished goblet solemnly. “To our gracious hosts and their future.”

“We have no—”

“He’s set his mind on it,” Findaráto cut in when Nelyafinwë tried to curb his guest’s enthusiasm. “He rarely fails once that is done.”

As he watched his siblings, Nelyafinwë felt his heart mellow. Yes, they’d stop struggling—they’d even actively help Findekáno find that healing forgiveness that would restore them to life.

Perhaps, it was time. Mayhap, they deserved to be saved after all.

And, at that very moment, as the light shone bright and a long-lost sense of comfort settled over the party, a flash of lightning cut through the scene.

When everyone blinked dazedly, the various tools—propped up on soft pillows—had been replaced by beautiful, young men who stared at their own hands in amazement.

Outside, the afternoon sun sparkled like a ruby, but when Findekáno turned to his host, Nelyafinwë sat beside him in his precious human form, eyes wide and entirely, gloriously naked.

@fellowshipofthefics This is the end of the third week for me!

-> Masterlist

[cilil]

✧࿐⭑ past events masterlist .*

⭑ collaborations/community events .*

✧.* dappled dapper drabbled pony races

✧.* my slashy valentine 2024

✧.* ainur secret santa (Námo & Irmo, Nienna)

✧.* tolkien pinup calendar (fic & art) (Melkor x Mairon x Gothmog, Manwë, Eönwë)

✧.* lotr secret santa (Eönwë x Gothmog | Melkor x Mairon x Gothmog)

✧.* white oliphaunt (Eönwë x Gothmog, Ori, Maedhros, Fingon, Caranthir)

✧.* scribbles & drabbles (overview here)

✧.* tolkien reverse summer bang 2023: to fan the fire (Orc OCs, gen) the rogue royal wedding (Melkor x Mairon, omegaverse) a reward for loyal service (Gothmog x Melkor x Mairon)

✧.* my slashy valentine 2023 (angbang, 5+1)

✧.* tolkien secret santa 2022

⭑ fandom weeks .*

✧.* ainur week (event blog here): 2023 | 2024

✧.* eönwë week

✧.* angbang week 2024 (event blog here)

✧.* glorfindel week (event blog here)

✧.* feast of horns (event blog here)

✧.* silmarillion epistolary week (event blog here)

✧.* fëanorian week (event blog here)

✧.* manwë week (event blog here)

✧.* lotr week (event blog here)

✧.* tolkien family week (event blog here)

✧.* deadly sins (event blog here)

✧.* silm smut week (event blog here)

✧.* summer stories

✧.* silvergifting week (event blog here)

✧.* angbang week 2023

⭑ prompt events/challenges .*

✧.* dark romance prompts

✧.* screw yule

✧.* all tied up in july

✧.* summer stories '24

✧.* gentle june

✧.* femslash february

✧.* winter drabbles

✧.* dead dove december

✧.* november prompts

✧.* fotfictember

✧.* athelas 20 day drabble challenge

✧.* fotfics april alphabet challenge

⭑ swg challenges .*

✧.* swg tengwar challenge

✧.* swg it comes in threes

✧.* swg meet & greet

⭑ bingo cards .*

✧.* rare pair bingo card

✧.* sweet & spicy bingo card

✧.* fotfics spicy bingo

⭑ holiday gifts for you! .*

✧.* cílil's fantastic ficmas

✧.* silmarillion gift giving

✧.* halloween special!

✧.* march 25th - one ring destruction anniversary 2023

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Week 4 - Critters

Here it is, the Bagginshield chapter :p

Prompt: Critters

Pairing: Thorin x Bilbo

Words: 2 965

Warnings: Danger, wargs, sexual tension, a kiss

Bilbo sat down heavily on the soft mattress and sighed.

His head was spinning with the latest developments, and he could hardly believe that—within the span of a single night—he’d gone from the hard forest floor to one of the most luxurious feather beds he’d ever seen.

His natural curiosity and worrisome desire for adventure had driven him across the world many a time before, but he’d never made any discovery half as confusing and wondrous as this secret society of charmingly short men.

Moreover, he’d never met a king before, and he wondered whether it was normal to be filled with such deep awe and admiration in the face of Thorin’s magnificence.

“Are you all right?” Elya’s soft voice came from the small door beside the fireplace. She had discarded her muddy clothes and was leaning against the sturdy wooden frame in nought but her practical underwear.

“I’m fine, dear,” Bilbo replied, squashing the inkling of guilt that was scratching at his thoughts. He felt bad for insinuating that the King and his subjects had despicable designs on his little assistant when they’d been nothing but courteous thus far.

Mayhap, he now admitted to himself, he was simply projecting his own twisted insecurities upon everyone around him. In fact, he’d seen Elya in various states of undress before, and he’d never batted an eye.

How could he just assume others would harbour dark thoughts?

As he now looked upon her natural, feminine beauty without the slightest shade of desire or possessiveness and saw her soft smile, he realised that she knew.

Elya had probably known from the start that he was not attracted by women—why else would she have agreed to accompany a man that much older than herself on a mission during which she would inevitably be at the mercy of all his appetites and flaws?

“You like the look of that dwarf,” he said. It was not a question.

“So do you,” she retorted with a mocking giggle. “Not the same one, obviously! Thanks to them, neither one of us is dead, so I’d dare say that it’s not a crime to enjoy beauty, is it?”

Pursing his lips, Bilbo regarded her thoughtfully—overwhelmed by the impression Thorin had made on him, he could almost imagine what it would feel like for a “normal” man to look at her.

Elya was not exactly the kind of woman who drew every eye in a crowded room, but she was not an ugly girl by any means either. Cerebral and somewhat effaced, she only ever came alive when a conversation moved past the initial stages of shallow small talk.

“Be careful, my girl,” he finally said. “You don’t know what is going on in his head.”

“Do you think me unable of wilful seduction?” Elya grinned. “Do you need a lesson to tempt that stern King?”

Fluffing up defensively, Bilbo waved his hands. “Go to sleep; you’re talking humbug!” he scoffed, but his cheeks felt treacherously warm, nonetheless.

“Sleep tight,” Elya chirped and disappeared into the adjoining room, whistling to herself softly.

Despite his inner turmoil and the contradicting impulses racing through his tired brain and leaden limbs, Bilbo fell into a deep, dreamless sleep almost at once.

He knew not how long he’d been out cold when a discreet knock at the door made him bolt upright in befuddled alarm.

“Yes?” he called uncertainly, moving his stiff jaw to dispel the thick taste of slumber from his heavy tongue. “Come in!”

“Mister Bilbo,” Ori said as he poked in his head. “I’ve come to tell you that Thorin is waiting for you by the main gate. Fíli will accompany you downstairs so you don’t get lost.”

As he registered the flustered movements of Ori’s fingers tightening spasmodically around the stack of notebooks he was holding, Bilbo’s gaze grew sharp with suspicion.

“And you?”

“I’ve been advised to take Miss Elya back to the gardens so that we may compare notes.”

“Is that what you call it hereabouts?” Bilbo snapped curtly.

“I don’t understand your meaning,” Ori replied quietly—sudden panic had drained his face of all colour and his eyes were dark lakes of unrest. “I don’t seek to harm her; you have my word.” “You take care of yourself, my boy,” Bilbo sighed. “I’d never thought it possible, but Elya might well try to take a bite out of you.”

“Bite me?” Nervous fear was seamlessly replaced by profound incomprehension. “Why would she do something so unreasonable?”

Sighing, Bilbo decided that he was too tired still to be having useless conversations such as the one he found himself enmeshed in now—he’d warned the boy; there was not much more he could do.

Under Ori’s still-dumbfounded gaze, he checked his kit and swapped his sweat-drenched shirt for a clean one before declaring confidently that he was ready to observe and document whatever enigmatical critter the King wanted to show him.

“Wargs also bite,” Ori commented. “Thorin sends this so you may wear it—for your protection.”

The dwarf held out a shimmering shirt of alluringly archaic chainmail that glittered like starlight encased in polished crystal in the wavering light.

“Oh, it will be too heavy,” Bilbo tried to protest, but—when the odd garment was handed over—he had to admit that it was much lighter than it had any right to be.

He couldn’t fathom what good so light a safeguard would be, but he didn’t want to scorn his host’s generosity, so he slipped into the strange shirt before putting on his overcoat.

“I shall thank him,” he said as he walked past Ori out of the room.

“It’s Mithril,” Ori explained. “Light as a feather but surprisingly durable. May it serve you well. Elya—is she…”

“Elya!” Bilbo bellowed, banging his fist thrice against her door as he went. “Your beau is here to look at your sketches!”

And, on that excessively, embarrassingly petulant note, he stomped off towards the glint of gold at the other end of the hallway.

Fíli merely nodded, but Bilbo could see the grin he desperately tried to hold back tugging at the corners of his mouth beneath the luscious moustache.

As promised, Thorin was standing in the foyer leading to the main entrance to his hidden kingdom.

Suppressing a little gasp of dreamy recognition, Bilbo drew closer. Alarm bells went off in his head at the sight of the impressive sword hanging from the King’s belt and the realisation that Thorin was also fully armoured.

“You wanted to see beasts,” the regal apparition of dark blues and flashing silver grinned when he noticed Bilbo. “So, I’m going to give you exactly that.”

Despite remembering that he could never tell another soul about what he’d seen on the island and wondering why Thorin went to such lengths, Bilbo nodded gratefully.

A tiny part of his heart hoped and prayed that the dwarves acted in such an illogical fashion because they wanted to please their guests.

As he was mostly mocked or ignored by the people around him, Bilbo couldn’t help but feel immensely gratified by so benevolent a behaviour.

“It will be dangerous, though,” the King warned him in a soft, insistent voice. “Please stay behind me.”

The feeble, deflecting joke died on Bilbo’s lips when he met those hypnotising eyes of burning azure, and so he merely nodded and followed wordlessly.

Again, he had to wonder why the ruler of a purposefully secret island realm would take such precautions to safeguard the life of an intruder—he stopped dead in his tracks.

“You’re not going to betray me by feeding me to some unholy, toothy creature, will you?” he asked Thorin’s broad back.

Bilbo had expected blustering anger or cold disdain from the King, but—when he finally turned around as one aged beyond his years—there was only a wistful expression of profound sadness on his elegant, sharp features.

“No,” Thorin sighed. “The thought has grazed my mind, I won’t lie, when my nephews informed me of the presence of unbidden strangers camping in the woods. A moment of despicable weakness that reminded me of the failures of my kin which I regret most earnestly, I assure you. No, I’ve invited you to my Halls, and—as my esteemed guests—you are under the protection of my people and my heart.”

“Your heart?” Bilbo squeaked breathlessly.

“Would it be too forward to confess that your arrival, Master Baggins, is the single most intriguing and delightful event that has happened in this forsaken domain for countless years?”

Bilbo shook his head—he could feel his ears warming up with emotion, so he ducked his head and buried his hands in his pockets for fear that he’d fall prey to one of the maudlin, ridiculous gestures of which he’d accused his poor assistant.

The weakness coursing through his veins was only too common amongst humans, and he instinctively wondered whether someone as formidable as Thorin could and would feel the same tingling of aimless anticipation in so compromising and potentially romantic a situation.

For what felt like half an eternity, they clambered over rocks and pushed through dense foliage in comfortable, companionable silence.

“There they are now,” Thorin whispered as he made a complicated, meaningful gesture that sent Fíli scampering away.

“Where is he…” Bilbo hissed frantically. Thorin had brought him to a stony ledge, overlooking a shallow valley, littered with boulders and dry, dead bushes—looking around, the seasoned researcher recognised with a chill that they’d returned to almost the exact spot from which he’d been taken to meet that mesmerising king now squatting low to the ground and pulling him down with him.

“He’s going to rouse the beasts so you may see them in motion,” Thorin chuckled. “Wargs are fearsome creatures, great hunters and ruthless murderers, and we usually try to avoid them.”

By now, Bilbo sorely regretted his careless words—he’d never sought to expose himself or his hosts to unnecessary danger.

“Don’t worry,” Thorin said soothingly. “Fíli is a brave warrior, and he’s young enough to take great pleasure in tugging at an inveterate foe’s tail.”

Before Bilbo could fill the suddenly oppressive silence that fell between them like a corrupting mist, heavy with possibilities and unspoken desires, with inane, breathless babbling, a great cacophony of howls arose from below.

“Here they come,” Thorin husked.

Eyes wide with shock and instinctive curiosity, Bilbo Baggins watched the huge monstrosities leap to their massive paws and snap their frightening fangs warningly at one another.

It turned out that the misshapen rocks he’d seen glimmering in the moonlight had not been mineral in nature; Bilbo gulped as he realised just in how much danger he and Elya had really been when the dwarven scouts had found them.

“Canine?” he whispered to himself, wondering whether this strange animal was more akin to a wolf or a bear.

Thorin frowned. “They’re alien to everything and everyone,” he then simply said and gave a lopsided shrug. “Hostile and dangerous.”

As if to prove his point, one frighteningly big, densely muscled specimen launched itself off a rocky outcrop and lunged at them, its ghastly fangs bared and glistening like tarnished gold in the moonlight.

Before Bilbo could so much as shriek in terror, Thorin had drawn the sword at his hip and brought it down in a silver arc across the deep blue night sky.

Felled mid-air, the beast thumped to the ground with a sickening noise.

“Forgive me,” Thorin exclaimed. “I woefully underestimated their strength and determination—they’re hungry.”

He’d stepped in front of his paralysed guest instinctively, and Bilbo’s mouth went dry for entirely different but no less visceral reasons as he stared up at the strong, majestic profile that was outlined in silver thread against the mesmerisingly beautiful background.

Below them, panicked whining and a few yelps of pain and anger resounded.

“We root them out and chase them off,” Thorin explained, nodding at the now deserted valley. “It makes them desperate.”

Nodding solemnly, Bilbo sighed—he understood that a thriving colony could not tolerate the proximity of so vicious and unpredictable a foe, but he also felt sorry for the dumb beasts that only followed their instincts and the secret call of some dark power beyond their understanding or control.

As he observed Fíli’s tireless efforts to rout the pack, Bilbo heard a low wheeze from behind.

Believing the warg to have come back to life, he whirled around, but the impressive carcass was still motionless, its congealing blood looking pitch black in the strange light.

“Thorin?”

“A minor scratch,” the King barked defensively, pressing one broad paw against his ribs.

“Let me see,” Bilbo demanded, regretting having left the bigger part of his first aid supplies in his room.

Nevertheless, his mother had taught him never to go on any adventure wholly unprepared, so he was able to staunch the bleeding and disinfect the wound he’d laid bare by tugging off the heavy coat and the torn tunic from Thorin’s solid frame.

Somewhere, deep within his belly, he took note of the fact that the King didn’t so much as shiver in the cool air—he merely glared at his unwelcome nurse ferociously while stubbornly repeating that he was perfectly fine.

“You’re right,” Bilbo finally said, sitting back on his haunches. “You’ll live. Now, I’ve seen enough for a night. Let’s get you back to safety—I’m sure your own healers can do better than my impromptu dressing.” At the thought of Óin’s inevitable fussing, Thorin groaned again.

To his delight, Bilbo insisted on staying by his side even though he was visibly exhausted after the unexpectedly exciting and potentially deadly outing they’d had.

“Will you escort me to my bedchamber to make sure that I don’t overexert myself?” Thorin asked with a mix of hopefulness and wavering mockery.

“You can bet your sweet ass that I will!” Bilbo grunted resolutely.

“I do not understand what the taste of my behind has to do with anything, but I’d welcome your company. Will you have a glass of wine with me before I am forced into bed like an ailing doter?” Thorin grinned.

The cheerful, invigorated look of one who’d just survived a brush with death suited him, and Bilbo was no longer sure that it was such a great idea to be alone with someone he’d ogled shamelessly for as long as he’d known them.

It was late, they were tired and yet overexcited—this was far from ideal or reasonable.

The same electric, slightly metallic taste of danger flooded the scientist’s tongue, and—true to his imprudent nature—he followed the siren call of a world-altering discovery fearlessly.

The wine was surprisingly sweet and mellow, and Thorin’s smile grew softer with every passing minute as they sat in comfortable silence in his private chambers as if they’d been friends for years and decades.

Friends…or lovers.

The way the King was eyeing him now would definitely have raised some eyebrows, and—had he looked at Elya in such a manner—Bilbo would have seen himself forced to hit him over the head with something solid and heavy.

“Do you like it here?” Thorin then asked without any introduction that might have explained his mental leap. “Is there anything else you’d like to see?”

Pursing his lips and cocking his head, Bilbo thought about that for a moment. “I’ve seen the wargs, I’ve seen your bare chest, and I trust Elya is knee-deep in flower drawings by now—no, for tonight at least, I’m good,” he then said with a playful wink.

“First you make reference to my backside, and then you bring up my chest—Master Baggins, is such a manner of speech usual amongst your people?”

Bilbo was not entirely sure that he had people, but he’d hitherto considered his offhand comments to be mildly offensive at the very worst.

He shrugged sheepishly.

“I don’t know how long you intend to stay on the island,” Thorin went on, a hint of doubt and tension creeping into the still stilted staccato of his diction. “However, I can promise you that there are many interesting things yet to discover.”

As rumbling and unwieldy as his speech might have been, Thorin’s body and instincts were those of a trained warrior, and so he moved with enviable agility and grace despite his injury.

In the blink of an eye, he’d left his seat and was crowding Bilbo against the backrest of his oversized, heavy chair.

“Thank you for taking such pains caring for me—I assure you that it was not necessary,” he said in a low, thrumming voice as he took Bilbo’s hand and lifted it to his lips.

Overwhelmed with the sensation of the King’s astonishingly soft beard tickling his skin, Bilbo nearly forgot the echoing laugh of the resident healer who’d taken one look at Bilbo’s field dressing and had given him an appreciative nod before simply walking out again.

“It was my pleasure,” he said breathlessly, leaning forward slightly to entice Thorin to move his lips to a more interesting spot.

“Is it common among your people to kiss someone’s hand?” he asked in a half-hearted persiflage of the King’s previous exclamation of confusion and frustration.

“Only the hands of those who have previously commented on one’s physical attributes,” Thorin whispered, and then, those strong fingers clasped Bilbo’ chin and tilted it up a fraction.

Thus far, Bilbo had been too much of a realist to give any credence to idiotic notions like fate and love at first sight, but—when Thorin’s lips brushed against his own with both righteous caution and undeniable fervour—he felt something he grudgingly had to identify as faith arise in him.

@fellowshipofthefics

-> Masterlist

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Week 3 - Gathering

Oh after accidentally posting this to the wrong account...

here we go with chapter 4 of this!

Prompt: Maedhros x Fingon, Fingolfin, Finrod

Pairing: Gathering

Words: 2 090

Warnings: Sadness, betrayal, drama, and fear

“A terrible creature,” Ñolofinwë gasped and waved his hands frantically to impress upon his spellbound audience just how tall and looming his mysterious jailor had been. “With fangs like knives and claws like curved daggers…”

He put all his failing strength into this impassionate speech for he could sense the natural disbelief in the shrewd gazes of his young kinsmen—he could not fault them for believing him to be merely overcome with delirious fatigue. Had he been in their stead, he’d also have struggled to simply accept so lurid a tale.

“It has my son,” he finished his diatribe feebly. “Help me!”

“You are the King,” Findaráto, ever eager to throw himself bodily into any interesting adventure, conceded. “And if this be your command, I shall be more than happy to follow your orders.”

Ñolofinwë smiled wearily; he heard the end of the sentence his nephew didn’t speak out of respect and caution. “Even if I don’t believe a word you say.”—the meaning was there, hovering like a foul smell in the blessedly warm and dry throne room, but the King was too exhausted to take offence to Findaráto’s potentially selfish, reckless motives when all that mattered was the retrieval of his son and heir.

“I’ll be off before morning light,” Findaráto promised. “I shall assemble the best men I can rouse on such short notice. Worry not, Uncle, we’ll bring back my dear cousin. Rest and recover!”

There was deep love and earnest pity in his mellow voice now, and Ñolofinwë sank back against the soft cushions someone had piled around him as if they were afraid he’d collapse without support.

“Very good,” he croaked. “May your road be blessed!”

Nelyafinwë had managed to ignite the damp wood in the old, draughty fireplace and was now sitting back on his haunches, strangely self-conscious of his glaring nudity in the face of one dressed in such torn splendour.

“How did you get cursed?” Findekáno asked, cautiously taking a sip of his bitter, stale tea. He couldn’t fully understand the strange and cruel fairy tale in which he’d found himself, but all thoughts of murder and escape had long since fled his mind.

How could he sustain such absurd musings when the captor he’d expected to be barbaric and brutal had turned out to be a touchingly sad youth of such exquisite beauty that the Prince couldn’t bear to avert his gaze from those long, sculptural limbs for even a single moment?

“My father angered the wrong sorcerer?” Nelyafinwë sighed. He’d agonised over that very question for too long without having come to any satisfactory conclusion, and he was sick and tired of the torturous doubt rearing its venomous head every so often. “He was an angry man—haughty, dismissive, and regrettably short-sighted at times—and he must have crossed one who sought to take revenge.”

“Was? Anyway,I don’t see how that is your fault,” Findekáno interjected pointedly. “Is there nothing that can be done? It was not mere posturing that made me claim that someone will come to deliver me…and I’m afeared for your safety.”

A terrible silence fell. Then, somewhere deep within the labyrinthine bowels of the castle, a clock chimed.

“We’ll be fine,” Nelyafinwë smiled gratefully. “You must be tired; let me show you to your quarters.”

“In the dungeons?” At that thought, Findekáno’s face hardened suddenly, and his gaze automatically sought the sword he’d cast aside earlier. It lay still where he’d left it, but a pair of scissors and a hammer had inched up to it in what he could only interpret as a pose of menacing challenge.

Shaking his head, Nelyafinwë got to his feet once more. His motions were jerky and awkward as if he was no longer used to performing such mundane, unaggressive movements.

“You’ve proven that you’re willing to keep your word; you shall be given a room. I’ll attempt to make sure that all the lighting fixtures are functional—you have my leave to explore our shared prison at your ease. I’d only ask you not to intrude upon the west wing—some secrets are better left undisturbed.”

Even though he nodded, the very picture of amiable compliance, Findekáno resolved then and there to disregard the exceedingly polite and undoubtedly reasonable request.

It was amply clear to him that his host—for Nelyafinwë had supplied much-needed warmth in the form of a blazing fire and a hot drink which warranted a change in title—was reluctant to share the whole truth.

“I’ll save you yet,” the valiant warrior thought stubbornly. He would not wait for the inevitable confrontation in which he would, there was no doubt about it, lose one way or another.

Indeed, he didn’t want to see either his friends and kinsmen or this bewitching contradiction slain before he’d exhausted every other avenue.

Many an ungenerous thing had been said about his father behind his noble back, but nobody could have ever accused him of neglecting the education of his children, so Findekáno was fairly confident that he could and would devise a solid plan to reverse this unholy curse and become a rescuer rather than a mere detainee.

If only his brother or his cousin had been with him—Turukáno’s love for lore and Artanis’s uncanny instinct would surely have cut his research and frenzied cogitation in half.

Alas, all he had at his disposal was his own intellect and a fierce heart, set aflame by the endearing beauty and charm of the tall redhead now fleeing the fire’s revealing glow to plunge into the obscuring shadows of the passage leading away from the dining room.

“Will your brothers guard me?” Findekáno asked as innocently as he could, hastening after the retreating gleam of a long, white back.

“My brothers are a harp, a knife, creaking scales, a hammer, and a pair of rusty scissors respectively,” Nelyafinwë chuckled. “They might keep a screw on you—for lack of actual eyes—but I rather think that they’ll prefer hounding me for my breach of the rules.”

Feeling the biting sting of unwelcome guilt, Findekáno was about to ask whether it would be more agreeable to everyone if he spent the night in the same cell his father had only recently vacated when Nelyafinwë asked a question of his own.

“Do you have siblings?”

Findekáno sighed. “Two younger brothers and a sister. My brothers are quite unlike in temper and tastes, and my sister cannot be compared to another living being without insulting one or the other…”

“What about you? Do you share many traits with them?” Nelyafinwë turned around. The light of a nearby window washed across his sharp collarbones and his almost elfin face in a way that made it so inexplicably hard for the mesmerised onlooker to breathe that Findekáno nearly failed to so much as understand the question put to him.

“They’re much like me in some ways,” he finally said slowly. “And completely unfathomable in others. Turukáno is smarter than I could ever endeavour to be, Írissë is so fearless and independent that she frightens the living daylights out of our parents, and Arakáno is impetuous to a fault.”

“You love them dearly,” Nelyafinwë commented feelingly.

“That I do. I wish you could meet them—they would be just as fascinated by you as I am.”

“You flatter one you barely know. However, you actually might understand better than most that I also have my own brothers’ well-being in mind in everything I do and say. Unfortunately, they’re as different from one another as the seasons or the times of day, and it’s nigh-impossible to make all of them happy.”

As he spoke those words, full of regret and unequivocal devotion, Nelyafinwë halted outside a richly decorated door. “My room is just down the corridor,” he informed Findekáno in a low voice, tinged with embarrassment. “Do not hesitate to seek me out if Káno’s mewling keeps you awake—you shan’t disturb me.”

“Will you be enjoying the fleeting pleasures of your magnificent body?” As soon as the words had left his lips and returned to his own ears in an avenging echo, Findekáno flinched vehemently. “Oh, my mother would have me take nought but bread and water for a week as punishment for that comment. I meant no offence—I don’t know why I said it…like that.”

Caressing the strange and unexpectedly stimulating visitor with an unreadable look, Nelyafinwë allowed himself to display that gentle, cryptic smile that had once driven maidens and squires alike mad with delight.

“Mayhap, it’s considered unrighteous that any living man should inhabit such a dangerously corrupting form for more than half the day—justly so, if I may be so bold—and it’s in an effort to preserve the nutrition and sanity of those around you that you’re perforce deprived of so fearsome a weapon,” he muttered under his breath.

Suppressing what could have been a groan or a fit of giddy laughter, Nelyafinwë pushed open the door. “Justice—as an eternal, immutable concept—is not for us to know or to question. I bid you good night, Findekáno, honourable son, loving brother, and astounding guest. This evening might have been the best I’ll ever have, and my raging regrets have dulled into a sense of bittersweet sadness—I thank you for that.”

With a crisp bow, he withdrew, followed by various metal objects clanking after him in the impenetrable darkness.

“Good,” Findekáno whispered, not even taking the time to enjoy the exceptional beauty of his lodgings, and slipped out again noiselessly to explore the forbidden wing.

He was sure that Nelyafinwë would have to contend with a gathering of irate weapons and instruments of different natures, and he pushed aside the pang of instinctive sympathy and solidarity.

His sister often reproached him for being too loquacious, but—in this instance—he was almost certain that all the conversations he’d prompted since arriving would ultimately lead to a happy resolution of his sensitive but stirring conundrum.

Nelyafinwë didn’t need to turn around to sense his brothers’ presence.

“We cannot keep him here,” he enunciated, trying to dissimulate the note of imminent grief in his voice. “To protect and defend you, I shall set him free come morning. Once he’s seen my bestial form, he shall be glad to leave this place.”

Angry sounds of scraping metal exploded behind him, but still, he didn’t have the heart to face the lacklustre objects. In his mind, Nelyafinwë conjured up the images of his brothers as they’d once been.

Even now, he could easily recall Kanafinwë’s twinkling eyes and Morifinwë’s characteristic blush. Of all the cursed members of this family, Curufinwë The Younger might have been the only one who was relieved to no longer glimpse echoes of their father’s glory in his reflection, but even he surely regretted having been reduced to unyielding intransigence.

Turcafinwë had been cutting in his remarks and actions, and the twins undoubtedly had ever been two blades slashing in perfect synchronicity, but they’d also been warm and funny.

Nobody, not even beings of such ruthless violence as they’d been, deserved to be nought but weapons, forever barred from touch without risking injuring another.

A slow, questioning melody threaded itself into the hum of the others’ discontentment.

“No, there shall be no forgiveness for us,” Nelyafinwë replied. “I just want to prevent any unnecessary bloodshed.”

The harp’s song became more insistent, pleading without needing words.

“Yes, I did enjoy this evening, but I cannot keep him for my own pleasure,” Nelyafinwë sighed. “He has siblings as well—I’d never bereave them of their older brother any more than I could desert you lot.”

A single note, a strident accusation, cut him short. Nelyafinwë winced—he hated being reminded of his attempt to find the one who’d cursed them. Not only had he failed to undo their misery, but he’d also risked leaving his siblings stranded and rudderless.

“I’m here now,” he said, turning to his bed and lifting the sharp-edged tools onto the soft blanket one by one. “It’s you and I, forevermore. I love you.”

He couldn’t bear to close his eyes, so he lay awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to the soft clangour of the resting tools.

Suddenly, an incongruous sound startled him out of his drifting reverie—he slipped off the bed and snuck out, counting the hours until sunrise.

Heavy-hearted and soft-footed, Nelyafinwë apprehensively turned towards the condemned wing to bravely face his oldest and most intimate fears.

@fellowshipofthefics

-> Masterlist

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Week 3 - Lost

Let's go on with the second chapter of this.

I admit that I'm having a good time writing this story :D

Prompt: Lost

Pairing: Fingon & Fingolfin

Words: 1 325

Warnings: Sadness, separation, dread

Findekáno stared at the heavy door, dazed and confused by its oddly perfect state.

Surely, a place so cut off from everyone and everything else should not have been so perfectly well-preserved, should it? There was something distinctly eerie about the polished wood that he couldn’t immediately place in his turmoil of fatigue and excitement.

Looking down at his scratched, bleeding hands as if expecting to find them altered, he realised that he felt as if he’d fallen into a different world—with every step towards the foreboding gateway he took, he sensed that time itself gradually relinquished its hold on him.

Should he knock? Did he even expect anyone to live in this desolate castle?

Resolutely, he shook himself out of the pervading stupor that sought to befuddle his mind and disorient him sufficiently to make him retrace his steps unwittingly.

“Father!” he called loudly. “Father, are you in there? I’ve come to rescue you.”

Something heavy scraped along what sounded like solid stone floors inside the potential prison—a place as enchantingly beautiful as it was intrinsically terrifying—and Findekáno threw himself against the unyielding gate in despair.

The mysterious sound was undeniably moving away from him.

He knew not why, but he couldn’t bear the mere thought of being abandoned by whatever strange creature or entity was inhabiting the impregnable fortress.

“Come back!” he pleaded. “I mean you no harm. Have you seen my father? We need him—the realm needs him. I’m begging you; we can’t have another King disappear into thin air! The people will tear themselves and one another apart in their frenzy.”

It was unlike him to monologue thus at a closed door, but he was heartsick and weary, and he yearned to know that all his selfless, painful efforts had not been in vain.

“If you want him back,” a voice so low it was barely audible whispered through an unseen crack or hole in the solid slab of dark wood, “you’ll have to take his place.”

Findekáno didn’t even need to think about that. “I shall. Just let my father go,” he declared, turning aside to keep a safe distance from the slowly widening gap between the massive, complicated doorframe and the portal to another dark dimension slowly swinging open.

A moment later, Ñolofinwë—haggard and dirty—staggered out and blinked into the fading light as one who’d not seen the sun in days.

“Flee, son,” he croaked. “A terrible beast has captured me! Run for your life!”

“No!” Someone roared from within the dense darkness of a high-walled, spacious foyer. “A bargain has been struck!”

Embracing his father shortly, Findekáno shifted around until he’d put his body between his emaciated father and the terrible gateway. “So it has,” he said calmly. “The Kingdom needs you much more than it needs me, Father. My horse must be somewhere beyond the field of thorns—follow the path I’ve hewn and let it take you straight back to my siblings’ care.”

The tears now welling up in Ñolofinwë’s eyes nearly broke his heart and resolve, but he lifted his chin defiantly and forced a soft smile onto his full, plush lips.

“I’m younger and hardier than you,” he said with frantic valour. “I shall be all right. Now, hasten home and don’t ever worry about me. I shall find a way back to you—I promise.”

Even as the words left his lips, Findekáno knew that he might well have perjured himself by accident or out of sheer ignorance, but his heart was true—he would try to return to the familial fold.

“You can’t escape them,” Ñolofinwë warned, making his son and heir look at him shrewdly. Thus far, the bedraggled King had only mentioned one beast, and the suggestion that there were several of them chilled Findekáno’s blood.

“If need be,” he said with wavering bravado, “I’ll tear the castle down or rebuild it to its former glory.”

He could feel that his time was running out as his future jailor’s patience wore thin; consequently, he threw his arms around his father once more and hugged him tightly.

“You’ve been an excellent teacher and role model,” he whispered. “I shall follow your example and do what has to be done, even if it means standing in as the pitiful replacement for a bigger man.”

When Ñolofinwë snorted, Findekáno’s grin grew genuine. “Don’t worry. I’ll see you soon. Now go! I’ve let Turno in charge, and ‘Rissë might have murdered him by now for having tried to convince her of a sensible match!”

Peering into the beckoning obscurity beyond the threshold, Findekáno squared his shoulders and stepped into the castle without hesitating or dawdling.

To his astonishment, he found himself utterly alone. In the distance, he thought he saw a flash of gleaming red, reminiscent of a huge, hunkering creature scurrying away much faster than could be expected of a being of that enormous size and girth.

Unnerved by that nonsensical vision, he gave chase at once.

“Hello?” he called, his voice echoing through the clean but empty hall. “I have done as you’ve asked—I’m at your disposal.”

Behind him, the door closed with an ominous creak, shutting out the last rays of guiding sun—he was now immersed in an inky blackness such as he’d never experienced before.

Still, he moved forward brazenly, always extending his foot cautiously before setting it down.

In the distance, he thought he heard the mournful song of a single harp. “You’re lost,” it seemed to wail. “You’re alone, and nobody will come to save you.”

Findekáno bared his teeth at nothing and no one in particular as he pushed ever-onward—he knew that this phantom melody was mendacious and refused to be led astray.

There had to be at least one other living, sentient being in the impenetrable gloom ahead of him. His father had been held against his will and consequently released, so there had to be someone at the root of both the unlawful imprisonment and the sudden deliverance.

“Show yourself,” he demanded, but all his overwrought senses could make out was the metallic whine of a blade being dragged along a hard surface and the persistent tune of the invisible harp.

Suddenly, after what felt like hours of aimless wandering, his eyes—now attuned to the ambient darkness—picked up a sliver of silver light, cutting across what looked like a landing some distance away from him.

Focused on his every step still, Findekáno noticed that the cold, bare stone floor had given way to thick, soft carpets, and he was mindful not to be tripped and felled by carelessly rumpled edges or slippery tiles between rushes at the last moment.

“Hello?” he repeated in a lower, more tentative voice. He was starting to feel rather foolish, and he wondered whether he should not try to make his way back to the door and flee.

Within his heart of hearts, though, he knew that the unseen and yet undeniable presence haunting these wide corridors and domed halls would not let him escape their grasp.

“Am I amusing you?” he scoffed and flinched when a sound akin to various tools and weapons clattering against a wooden cabinet resounded, tearing apart the treacherously opaque veil of oppressive silence in which his blind exploration had shrouded him.

The white beam of muted light broadened as he approached, and Findekáno could now make out an intricately decorated door just ahead.

When he extended his hand, the wood was smooth and warm against his damp palm.

He slipped into the room noiselessly and found himself in an archaic dining hall which appeared to have been deserted for long years—there were no signs of recent use, and even the smell of lit candles and fresh, steaming food had long since evaporated.

Instead, there was a lone figure, outlined starkly by the moonlight.

Before he could speak up, it turned around slowly.

@fellowshipofthefics

-> Masterlist

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Week 3 - Fields

New week, new story.

This time a Beauty and the Beast-adjacent AU...

Enjoy!

Prompt: Fields

Pairing: /

Words: 1 750

Warnings: A curse, slight injury, sadness, despair

Findekáno groaned.

If it wasn’t for the subtle signs telling him that his father had indeed passed through here, he would have turned around long ago.

He’d braved fields of fire and clouds of stinging, winged beasts to come this far, and now he was staring at a seemingly endless tangle of thorny bushes—his valiant heart sank as he gripped his sword harder, ready to cut his way through without consideration for his garb or skin.

So close to the destination he’d sought and pursued with dogged determination, he was unwilling to relent.

Already, he could almost feel his father’s presence, and, thus heartened, he began his last, long labour before the much-awaited reunion that would crown his heroic journey.

Ñolofinwë, ever-careful patriarch, had set out to treat with a remote ally ten days ago and failed to come home in a timely manner.

His line had only inherited the throne by questionable happenings—namely, the disappearance of the legitimate King and his own heirs—and it was ever vital to recruit and court potential sympathisers to help them maintain the fragile peace.

Many and more had since started whispering that, if Ñolofinwë hadn’t been betrayed by these potential supporters, he’d surely been waylaid by the weird phantoms haunting the lesser-travelled roads in these parts.

As the oldest of his siblings and the de facto protector of his House, Findekáno had seen no other option than to strike out on his own in hopes of locating and retrieving his father. After all, the realm and the family needed him.

Of course, he’d not naïvely ignored the danger of perishing in the wilderness, but he’d deemed himself more expandable than Ñolofinwë, and—if there was but a minute chance of restoring the acting King to his throne—he had to take the risk, no matter what might become of him.

In the same cold, calculating way had the young prince determined that—no matter how much his heart yearned for a companion on this treacherous mission—he could not accept that any of his friends or kinsman join him.

If the worst were to happen, their people needed heirs to bear the crowns and responsibilities of their lost or aged fathers, and Findekáno couldn’t possibly weaken the volatile Kingdom in his attempts to restore the tottering balance before all could crumble to dust.

By virtue of his birth and nature, he felt that he owed both his father and that suspiciously absent King of yore this much.

“I need you to stay here,” he’d thus pleaded with his younger brother who, as much as he tried to deny it, was the next in line to inherit the throne. “You need to rule in our absence and pursue a suitable match for our sister. Until I return—if I make it back at all—you’re in charge. Can you do this for me?”

Headstrong but profoundly dutiful, Turukáno had nodded reluctantly.

Thus reassured, Findekáno had slipped out of the castle before his cousin Findaráto could set in motion one of his sneaky, reckless plans and follow him unseen.

No, this was his challenge to overcome, the brave heir to a perpetually threatened throne thought as he started hacking down thorns and dried, gnarled wood with renewed fervour.

Nelyafinwë swatted a broad, clawed paw at the insistently bobbing knife that was presently slashing through the air and his neatly piled-up papers with urgency.

“Nobody can make it here,” he tried to assuage the animated weapon which promptly somersaulted and buried itself deep within the scored wood of the desk with terrible emphasis.

“I’ll take care of him,” Nelyafinwë promised and turned away to take refuge in the narrow window frame. Here, he was sure, none of his cursed siblings could suddenly pop up in front of him with desperate pleas and frustrated demands to which he never found a satisfactory answer.

Forsooth, for all his confident words, he knew not how to deal with the unexpected, unwelcome guest presently screaming at the damp walls of the disused, deserted dungeon deep within the bowels of the crumbling castle.

His eyes—still bright and beautiful as polished silver—swept over the field of thorns, apprehension roiling in his gut at the sight of the trail of wilful, unrelenting ire some foolish stranger was hewing into the protective labyrinth.

The sun was already going down as well, and he felt unwelcome sensations and desires flood back into his stunted consciousness with burning intensity.

Nelyafinwë moaned softly—as much as his brothers loathed having been imprisoned in household items—he was intimately convinced that his fate was more torturous by far.

Doomed to pay the price for their late father’s folly, they’d been struck by a peculiar, almost whimsical curse, which would bind them to the ruins of their previous life until they found forgiveness.

How laughably simple and yet unachievable a concept for the likes of them!

From the corner of the room, the soft squeaking of the intricately adorned scales that had once been his younger brother brought him back to the painful reality of his surroundings.

He’d never expected that thoughts such as “I need to oil Moryo” or “Káno has broken a string again” would ever cross his mind, but here they were.

Ever Tyelko’s shadow and his right-wing-tool, Curufinwë was now tapping impatiently against the firstborn’s knuckles. On account of him having been turned into a hammer, this was not a painless interaction.

“He won’t make it through,” Nelyafinwë repeated even as he watched that path of righteous anger eat through the brambles unstoppably. “Whoever this fool may be—he’ll soon turn around.”

The only good thing about being imprisoned in a decrepit fortress with his slowly decaying siblings had been the unadulterated peace and quiet, only ever disrupted by the occasional sign of fraternal disagreement or necessary repairs.

Hitherto, Nelyafinwë had—naïvely as he now admitted—believed that the terrible malediction kept them hidden from sight by obscuring the very existence of their abode from even the most inquisitive of minds.

After all, what punishment sought to be undone?

The arrival of the weary traveller, wild-eyed and ragged with fatigue, had taught him better.

Ñolofinwë had thought himself saved, but that short moment of weightless relief was at once destroyed by the gruesome sight awaiting him on the other side of the heavy, forbidding door on which he’d knocked so fervently in his hour of need.

In his folly, he’d ignored the subtle warning signs that would have told a more perspicacious traveller that he’d entered hostile, dangerous territory and needed to flee.

Even now, in the intimacy of his own chambers—faded with wear and torn by his earliest fits of helpless frustration—Nelyafinwë remembered the expression of pure horror on the drawn, pale face of the valiant wanderer.

The sun had hung, high and merciless, in the sky, and the hour of deliverance had been so far that its mere existence was of no consequence in that one fateful moment.

Clapping his dirty, bloodied fingers over his mouth, Ñolofinwë had stared at the towering monstrosity covered in thick, reddish fur and baring its sharp, glistening fangs at him.

A part of Nelyafinwë now wanted to turn around to face the fractured mirror, standing in the corner of the spacious, gloomy room.

In a rare moment of pity, Curufin had once hurled himself bodily into the glass to deliver his brother from the terrible sight. Of course, there’d been little risk that the solid hammer would come to any real harm, but Nelyafinwë had winced nevertheless when he saw his little brother fall onto the floor with a terrible, resounding thud.

It had been a grand and much-appreciated gesture, even if all Curufin had achieved was to create a kaleidoscope of horror with which Nelyafinwë had grown increasingly obsessed over the months.

Upon his birth, he’d been named for his beauty—a thought that made him snort mirthlessly now that bony horns grew from his shaggy head and long, razor-sharp claws protruded from massive, shapeless paws at the end of long, densely muscled arms.

Yes, he’d been enviably tall and lithe, boasting a luscious copper mane and a charming smile—it was thus no surprise that whatever power of just retribution, having cursed them so, would also have perverted his most cherished gift into his bitterest castigation.

A harp intoned a mournful song and, at once, a gleaming pair of scissors started clacking threateningly.

“Cut it out,” Nelyafinwë moaned. “All of you! You’re no help at all.” It was just like Makalaurë to revel in the drama of the situation, much to the evident, sharp-edged annoyance of the twins who were too down-to-earth to let anyone indulge in self-pity.

Nelyafinwë rubbed his forehead in quiet despair—every day, he impatiently awaited nightfall to take comfort in these fleeting hours of freedom.

Indeed, as soon as the blazing bright sun had retired, his old form was returned to him to walk in the silver moonlight despondently.

That, Nelyafinwë now understood, was also part of his penance. He was given tiny flecks of solace to keep him from giving up and fading into nothingness—he was allowed to see and feel himself once more to pointedly remind him of the crimes he’d perpetrated and the guilt he bore.

He was both—the fearsome, disgusting beast with the aching heart and the deceivingly beautiful youth sneaking out under the cover of darkness.

He was just as frozen as his brothers were, and yet, they played pretend every day.

Now, that there was movement and novelty, though, not one of them thought of salvation and the end of the curse.

Instead, they readied themselves for battle—after an eternity of pleading, hoping, and fulminating in vain, they’d finally understood that nothing good or pure could ever find them here for they didn’t deserve it.

The sword-swinging madman had advanced so much in the meantime that Nelyafinwë could make out his high cheekbones and the muted glint of golden ribbons in his dark, braided hair.

Again, his eyes swept to the horizon in instinctive annoyance—for all the time he spent waiting and hoping for the night, he’d have welcomed to face an armed opponent in his ferocious, formidable, frightening form, but it was not to be.

“You stay put,” he barked, resisting the impulse to equip his brothers as weapons. “I’ll fend him off.”

Even as he rushed down, he knew they’d follow.

@fellowshipofthefics

-> Masterlist

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Week 2 - Dreams

And here is the last chapter for Week 2.

I hope you've enjoyed this little excursion into a book I write about less than the others :D

Prompt: Dreams

Pairing: Faramir x Éowyn, Boromir x OC

Words: 2 030

Warnings: Kisses, plans for the future, goodbyes

After this very first excursion on horseback, Boromir understood his brother’s reticence to pick up the phone and establish contact with the outside world a little better.

His little cabin, the surrounding woods, and the absolute peace that filled their days were far too seductive and pleasant to willingly disrupt this fragile dream of peace by inviting in the trials and tribulations of reality.

On the second day since his impromptu arrival, Boromir nevertheless strolled out of the house resolutely under the pretence of getting some fresh air.

Instead, he called their father to learn who owned the rustic cabin in which they currently resided.

"You couldn’t have found another place—a hotel maybe—to play pretend in?” Denethor grunted, evidently still deeply displeased with Boromir’s sudden departure.

“No, I like it,” Boromir replied staunchly. “It reminds me of our childhood. I’ve not spent much time alone with my brother in the last years, and I relish the opportunity to learn about his experiences and discoveries.”

Even as he spoke those words, he realised how dangerously provocative it was to contradict his father, but—drawing strength from the last few hours—he stood his ground.

“As you’ve asked,” Denethor went on in a cold, undeniably cruel tone. “It is I who own the cabin. I cannot readily remember now whether it has been a gift or an impulsive purchase made in my tender youth, but it is mine.”

“Good,” Boromir replied calmly, wilfully ignoring his father’s attempts at getting a rise out of him. “Faramir seems very happy out here, and—had you not admitted that it is part of the family holdings anyway—I’d have offered to buy it from whoever holds the deeds.”

When Denethor didn’t reply, Boromir continued suavely. “I can, of course, still do so. Do you want me to make you an offer?”

“No,” Denethor barked. “You shall do no such thing. I cannot fathom what enjoyment you might possibly draw from a dilapidated hut in the middle of nowhere.”

Acutely aware of his father’s guileful ways, Boromir bit back the hot, hasty retort burning on his tongue—it would have been immensely imprudent to let slip any hint to Drea before he’d learned more about the charming woman he’d only just met the previous day.

“Faramir’s healing well—already, he’s moving more freely, and I dare hope that he might recover completely.”

“And to what is that miraculous change due?” Denethor hissed suspiciously.

“He’s…riding,” Boromir replied hesitantly. He was wracking his brains for a way to cut short this tiresome conversation when he saw Drea and Éowyn walking up the path, carrying a big basket of firewood and an icebox between them.

“I’m ever so sorry, Father,” Boromir said hastily, “but there are visitors at the door I must attend to. I’ll call you back soon. Bye!”

Before Denethor could protest or ask where his seemingly all but healed brother was, the retired soldier had clicked away the call and hastened towards the approaching ladies.

“Ah, Boromir,” Drea exclaimed in an adorably breathless voice that made him feel like a proper hero for relieving them of their various burdens and walking them up to the cabin. “I was hoping you’d be in.”

Not knowing where else he would go, Boromir gave a small shrug that made the muscles in his shoulders bunch in a way that drew even Drea’s polite gaze inexorably.

“If my baby brother keeps getting visits from charming young women, I have to stand by—as a chaperone, so to say,” he joked.

At once, Éowyn turned around and looked at him sharply. “Did that coquettish thing from the ice cream parlour stop by?”

Eyes widening, Boromir realised that he’d committed a faux pas and was quick to backpedal. “Not to my knowledge,” he said hastily. “I meant you ladies.”

His clumsy attempt at flattery made the adventurous horsewoman throw her head back with hearty, unguarded laughter. “I’m many a thing, Boromir, but I hardly think that one would call me particularly charming.”

“A grievous oversight and mistake,” Boromir muttered as he heaved their supplies up the steps to the patio. “May I ask what it is you’re planning for tonight?”

“This old shack has a marvellous fireplace in the back garden,” Éowyn explained with self-assured resolve. “And I thought you might enjoy a good, old-fashioned barbecue.”

Her eyes were gleaming with something that made Boromir’s stomach clench nervously—she knew, he thought instinctively before chiding himself for being so foolish. How could the woman know anything she’d not been explicitly told?

Then again, Faramir was convinced that the wonderful horse farm down the road was a magical place of miraculous healing.

“That’s kind of you,” he said feebly and rapped his knuckles against the doorframe to warn his brother of the imminent ambush.

“Oh, hello!” Faramir appeared, a beatific smile on his sun-tanned, relaxed face. “I didn’t know that we had planned something for today.”

He and his brother had a habit of sitting in comfortable silence while nursing oversized mugs of steaming tea, and—while he enjoyed the age-old, soothing intimacy—Faramir was looking forward to a livelier evening.

When the fire was lit and lovingly marinated slabs of meat sizzled on the old, sturdy metal frame affixed over it, Faramir leaned back in his rickety garden chair with a deep sigh.

“You look better,” Éowyn commented dryly.

“Well, thank you, I guess,” he replied, feigning vexation. “I don’t want to know what you thought of me when first we met then.”

As if to be contrary on principle, Éowyn held his gaze and licked her lips slowly.

“I thought that you were too handsome to look this tired and sad. Your posture was that of a doter, but your expression reminded me of a lost child. It was…heartbreaking.”

To Faramir’s shock, Drea nodded emphatically.

“Well,” he chuckled uncomfortably. “In that case, I must thank you for being so generous and welcoming to so pitiful a wretch.”

“Nonsense,” Drea said calmly. “We’ve all gone through rough patches. I’m just glad you seem more like yourself these days—you look…content.”

“I am,” Faramir exclaimed, staring into the dancing flames. “I wish I could stay here forever.”

A low, shivering sigh passed his lips, and Boromir nearly jumped out of his chair with eagerness—he’d always protected and defended his brother, and it filled him with pride and happiness to be able to do so once more.

“You can,” he said just a smidgen louder than was necessary. “We own this place, which means that you can stay here for as long as you’d like.”

Blinking up at his brother, his role model, his eternal hero, Faramir looked like the very picture of incomprehension. “What do you mean?”

“Father owns this place. It’s just like him to send you off to one of his secret holdings—mayhap, he’d hoped that you’d renovate the cabin for him. Who knows? Either way, am I not right in surmising that you don’t plan on returning to active duty?”

Faramir averted his gaze—he’d always claimed that he’d go back to the armed forces once he’d healed up, but then his recovery had been stalled and delayed for so long that nobody truly expected him to be hale enough ever again.

“You don’t have to,” Boromir said fervently. “You’ve worked so hard on getting better, there’s no need to risk and squander it all. The war is over, and you deserve to reap the fruits of your labour.”

“But father…”

“His dreams are not yours, we both know it, so I forbid you to ruin your life to please one who will never be satisfied.”

“What about you?” Faramir recognised the signs of valiant self-sacrifice in the way his brother’s mouth tightened into a hard line and his eyes became flinty with determination.

“I shall return to the city,” Boromir sighed, holding up a hand to stop the flood of remonstrations and pleas burning on Faramir’s soft lips. “It’s where I belong! I shall take my place at Father’s side and keep him in line.”

His fiery gaze mellowed progressively. “And every so often, I shall flee the grinding machinery to come out here and have beers and barbecues with my little brother and…” He threw a questioning glance at Éowyn.

“You’ll always be welcome,” she said, touching two fingers to her brow. “You’ll find us either here or on the ranch, but I think you suspected as much already. Either way, swing by whenever you like, grab a horse, and heal.”

Boromir nodded gratefully while Faramir stared at the beautiful woman with unconcealed confusion and raw hope.

“Don’t be a fool, Faramir,” Éowyn laughed. “Even you must have realised by now that you’re meant to be here. If you want that, of course.”

“I do,” he whispered insistently, afraid of the magnitude of his own desires. “Oh, how I want that.”

“And if your father expels you from his hut, you simply come over to our place,” she added resolutely and winked.

“Is that…Is that the kind of invitation I think it might be?” Faramir squeaked.

“I’m a horse breeder, Faramir. No need to play coy with me,” she guffawed and boxed him in the rips tenderly. “Just…don’t dither too long. I think I’ve shown admirable restraint and composure, but even my patience will run out at some point.”

“Will do!” Faramir gave back in the clear, sharp delivery of one used to taking orders and fulfilling them to the letter.

“As for you,” Boromir said, turning to Drea. “If you ever feel inclined to return to the urban wilderness and find yourself in need of a job, give me a call. My father is a cantankerous, old fool, but I have the creeping suspicion that you’d know just how to take him.”

“I’m good with stuffy people,” Drea agreed with quiet dignity. “I’m a hard worker, but…”

“When it gets too much…” Boromir promised. Emboldened by all his most cherished dreams being so close he could almost taste them on his tongue, he took her hand. “When you need a break, you send me a memo and we’ll take the company car to come out here. Deal?”

Squeezing his massive paw in her dainty hand, she nodded. “Deal.”

Thus it was decided and so it was done.

In time, Faramir found the courage to linger after the filling even if slightly tasteless and exceedingly heavy dinners Éowyn was wont to prepare.

Éomer, understanding when he was not wanted, gave him another nod—friendlier and tinged with reluctant admiration now—before retiring to his own quarters in one of the sprawling annexes of the main building.

“Your brother has called,” Éowyn said casually as she handed her houseguest a dripping wet plate to dry.

“Oh? He’s called you?”

“Not exactly,” she giggled. “He’s called Drea. Apparently, he’s not only organised a job interview for her but also claimed that he’d found the perfect apartment for her.”

Faramir, who was certain that this mysterious flat was another one of their father’s multiple holdings merely smirked—he’d been right in his initial assessment that Boromir would take an instant liking to the delicate damsel.

“So, Drea is leaving us?” he asked, surprised at the earnest regret welling up in him.

“It’s time,” Éowyn replied kindly. “I suspect that we will see more of her before long. Don’t you?”

Nodding, he stepped back so she could sling her wet, warm hands around his torso and squeeze the irrational sadness out of his hale, strong body.

“Someone else has called, though. I wondered…” she murmured into the space between his shoulder blades.

“Yes, dear?”

“Maybe, if it’s not too much to ask, you might give the young lady a few riding lessons on Frieda? That horse is besotted with you!”

“The horse, hmmm?” he teased.

“I won’t win a fistfight against those hooves,” she sighed dramatically. “The farrier was here only yesterday. I know when I’m beaten.”

Turning around, Faramir kissed her slowly and tenderly dragged a wonderfully calloused thumb along her sharp cheekbone in a loving caress. “You’re my favourite,” he hummed conspiratorially. “Don’t tell Frieda, though.”

@fellowshipofthefics

-> Masterlist

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Week 2 - Storms

Okay, Week 2...How about some Telenovela Faramir and horses?

With eventual Farawyn? How about that?

Prompt: Storms

Pairing: Faramir & a horse

Words: 1 095

Warnings: Injury, PTSD, Faramir is not healing, stormy night

Faramir gritted his teeth, hoping that his old, battered truck wouldn’t get stuck in the mud so close to his destination.

If that happened, he’d walk, he decided as another sudden jolt made his battle wound ache fiercely—there was no way he could free the wheels while being this tired and sore.

As a white-hot wave of annoyance surged through him, he groaned softly.

His father had meant well, he knew, but—now that he was creeping along the slippery road—Faramir couldn’t imagine what good anyone had thought could come from exiling him.

After having been grievously injured in a noble war for his country and family, the young captain had struggled to adapt to civilian life. His physical therapist, dismayed by the lack of progress despite his flesh knitting and skin healing perfectly, had soon started to insinuate that he was suffering from a kind of mental impediment.

Thus, the ludicrous idea of sending him to mend in the countryside, far away from the mundane worries and stressors of his previous life, had been born.

At that point, Faramir had been so exhausted and heartsick that he’d simply agreed, but now he wondered whether he should have resisted more.

He didn’t like the idea of being left alone to rot in isolation, and—in his present state of near-delirious fatigue—he even wondered whether his father had not sought to rid himself of a tiresome burden.

No, he chided himself, he was being puerile and unfair. For all the problems he’d encountered in his relationship with Denethor, he could not believe that his father would be capable of so vile an act of paternal treason.

Moreover, Boromir—Faramir’s older and much-revered brother—had promised to come out as soon as he could to share in the promised peace and calm of the remote cabin that had been rented in their name.

Even though the rain didn’t let up, Faramir conjured up a grim smile as he drove on, his bright eyes fixed on the winding road ahead stubbornly.

When he, at long last, came to a slithering halt in front of a small but impeccably maintained lodge, he gave a deep, shuddering sigh of relief.

Now that he was safe and only a few torturous steps away from a dry, motionless living room, he regretted not having paid closer attention to the fields and farmsteads he’d passed on his way here.

There was, he considered, a distinct chance that he’d spend a considerable time holed up in this refuge, and it would have been wise to take note of his closest neighbours in case of an emergency.

He grimaced as he all but fell out of his vehicle—he disliked thinking about himself in the terms of “invalid” and “damaged”, but he couldn’t deny that every bone in his body was screaming in agony as he hobbled up the few steps leading to a teak patio.

His scarred fingers were stiff and cold as he fumbled for the keys in the thrice-mended pocket of his favourite leather jacket, but he managed to get the door open just as the deafening rumbling of thunder exploded behind him.

“It’s only starting?” he gasped incredulously and stared at the flash of greyish green behind the fogged-up window of his truck. He’d forgotten his luggage in the car, and he was in no hurry to retrieve it.

“Get something warm into your belly,” he heard Boromir’s mocking but affectionate voice in his head. “And the world will look much brighter. There’s no hurry.”

Again, Faramir felt the corners of his mouth droop. His brother was always quick to reassure others that there was no need for rash decisions that would potentially lead to regrettable outcomes, but—at the same time—he was known to be recklessly selfless and stupidly brave when it came to himself.

Looking around, Faramir found the rustic but utterly charming interior of his temporary abode spotlessly clean and well-stocked with firewood and food supplies.

With a soft sigh, he filled the kettle and bargained with himself for a moment—he’d drink a cup of steaming hot tea, and then he’d go get his bag to turn in for the night.

He had no doubt that a place like this one would have a backup generator, but the idea of sitting by the open fireplace while the storm was raging outside had its charms as well.

Wasn’t that the reason why he’d come here rather than stay in his father’s cool, draughty halls?

Thus, he sank to his knees with a loud groan of pain that, for once, didn’t make him flinch guiltily as there was nobody to come running and look at him with badly dissimulated pity and got a fire going.

When he’d emptied his mug and stared at the dancing flames for entirely too long, he discovered that the tempest only seemed to gain in fervour and violence in the meantime.

“Nothing for it, my boy,” he told himself and dashed to the car and back as fast as his protesting joints and stiff muscles allowed.

Despite his haste, he was soaked to the bone when he slammed the solid wooden door shut behind him—he was breathing hard, and it took a moment for him to realise that he was laughing.

They’d wanted him to spend time alone so he might heal on his own terms and in his own time, Faramir thought not without a hint of pettiness, so he would do exactly that.

He doubted that a cleaning lady had been retained on his behalf, so he only hesitated for a single second before discarding his wet clothes, sticking disgustingly to his pale skin.

Shame reared its ugly head but was squashed instantly by Faramir’s sober self-awareness; he knew every wound, every gnarly scar, every ugly bump on his body, and—as long as there was nobody else who had to witness them—he didn’t mind them overmuch.

He returned to his fire eagerly, basking in its healing warmth and letting his thoughts drift as the damp discomfort melted into sleepy solace little by little.

Just as he was about to drift off, though, a sudden noise startled him wide awake once more.

Forgetting about his unfortunate state, Faramir jumped to his feet, ever the soldier, and looked around with deadly concentration to localise an appropriate weapon.

This perfunctory scan let his eyes sweep across the window beside the front door. He gasped.

Outside his lodge stood a fully grown horse, staring at him reproachfully and neighing.

@fellowshipofthefics

-> Masterlist

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Week 1 - Unexpected

And there we have it. The end of the first week.

Please stay tuned for the next set of ficlets on Monday. We'll get to see some LOTR humans :D

Now, let's finish this with the Dork Lords :)

Prompt: Unexpected

Pairing: Mairon x Melkor

Words: 1 055

Warnings: Void, disembodiment, danger, sadness, new beginning

As soon as Manwë had stomped away like a peeved youngling, foiled in his mischief, Mairon slipped out of his hiding spot.

He was too careful to advertise his presence, but he kept a close watch on his former Master’s prison to guard and defend him in case any of his so-called peers sought to do irreparable harm to one unable to fight back.

Oh, he was convinced that—had the Valar known—they’d have been inordinately quick to accuse him of fostering dark intents on account of his loathsome allegiances.

Nothing could have been further from the truth—it was love that kept the fallen Maia bound to the endless abyss of Melkor’s absence.

The same adoration bound him to secrecy and discretion, and so he inched closer noiselessly.

The thought that even evil—and all it entailed in the befuddled, clouded minds of those self-satisfied Powers—could compare to the all-encompassing vastness of his devotion made him chuckle derisively.

He didn’t know or care how long he’d already been staring vainly at the opaque, immutable wall that separated him from his lover, for—at long last—his patience was rewarded.

From where he’d crouched, he’d been unable to discern how Manwë had achieved the impossible, but Mairon had clearly felt Melkor’s unmistakable presence.

Padding closer carefully now, he placed his outstretched hand on the impassible veil appraisingly.

It was weakening—he could sense the minute cracks, invisible even to his keen eyes, that spread ineluctably through a barrier that had hitherto been universally believed to be impregnable.

At once, he deployed all the residual might of his crippled soul, desperately digging metaphysical fingers into the crevices to widen the gaps by sheer determination and willpower alone.

No matter how unexpected this blessing had been, Mairon had not achieved the unspeakable by letting precious opportunities pass him by unheeded and unexploited.

Thus he toiled indefatigably. Overhead, gleaming balls of gold and silver wheeled across the endless canvas of the sky, but his single-minded concentration never once faltered until he’d stretched and shredded the fabric of reality enough to squeeze himself through a ragged tear of his own making.

Something brushed against him, and in that exact moment, Mairon realised that he’d ruined yet another fána as nothing corporeal or real could possibly withstand the transition into a realm of caged potentialities.

He cared very little.

“Master,” he thought, calling out to one he sensed was close by and yet unreachable.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” Melkor replied at once. He was little more than a spot of denser nothingness within an empty sea that would never know a restful shore. “You were safe—you were thriving.”

“I could never be satisfied without you.” Had it been possible, Mairon would have crossed his arms and cocked his eyebrow to underline his fond impatience. “And I get the feeling that I’m not the only one who feels this way.”

The vague shape that had once been the most glorious of the Valar drew back as if Mairon’s words had physically wounded it.

“He came here to unburden himself of his gnawing guilt.” There was disdain and endless hurt in those disembodied words, falling like hail into the bottomless abyss.

“He came here because he misses you,” Mairon contradicted stubbornly. He loathed Manwë, but he wouldn’t hesitate to use him and his power to get his lover back. “It’s not the same without you—things are…in disorder.”

Even now, having transcended the very barriers of existence, Mairon found it ironic that without Melkor—Master of Chaos—the perfect order the others had dreamed up and fought for so ruthlessly kept falling apart.

The fact that his brazen intrusion had succeeded was just another sign that this illusory ideal was undeniably crumbling around them.

“Come away with me,” he pleaded fervently. “The fabric is torn; the gate is open. Leave this Eru-forsaken place.”

Even though he refused to speak the actual words, his desire to be reunited with the one he loved and cherished above everything else was evident in the slight tremor of his gradually fading voice.

Already, the Void was tearing at him, dissolving his memories and deflecting his will.

Mairon resisted.

“I must not,” Melkor replied vaguely, sounding muffled now as if he’d wrapped the layered and yet formless nothingness around him like a shroud. “I’m condemned to stay here until—”

“Someone comes to release you? Has not your brother come hither in search of you? Am I not here even now?”

Unable to argue with that irresistible logic, Melkor let himself be drawn closer to the gaping tear in the prison wall by the intensity of Mairon’s determination.

He could feel the cool, biting air brush against his essence, and he yearned.

He’d almost forgotten about sensations and experiences in his long abiding during which memories had been but flat thoughts, devoid of emotion or texture.

Now, though, the world was full of colours and desires once more, and he surged towards liberty with that renowned and dreaded self-absorption that had led him down this doomed path in the first place.

“Yes,” Mairon hissed and flung himself—his undeniable love, his mental acuity, and his terrifying persistence—against the dark splotch, outlined against the bright day of another, forbidden world. “He’s called you—all you did was answer.”

Laughing and sobbing, they tumbled onto soft grass, rebuilding their former physical forms from the thrumming lifeforce in which they now basked shamelessly.

“Finally,” Mairon cried out as his hands slid into dark hair, and his lips slid over warm skin once more. “I’ve waited so long for this.”

Only too soon, though, they noticed the sharp, cutting wind biting into their newly made flesh and tearing at their swirling hair.

“Come,” Mairon urged. “Only you can prevent the senseless destruction the Elder King is about to unleash now!”

Melkor hesitated; he knew that Manwë hadn’t earnestly sought to free him, and he was loath to be returned to his prison so soon after having escaped its cold confines.

Mairon’s pleading eyes—burnished gold and finest crystal—ultimately swayed him.

Glorious and unapologetic in his nakedness, he strode forth resolutely to reclaim his place at his brother’s side, hoping that henceforth they would temper one another’s follies and heal each other’s hurts.

“Home,” he sighed.

@fellowshipofthefics That was Week 1 from me!

-> Masterlist

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Week 1 - Reflections

Let's start this little ficlet with the event that kicks it all off!

Prompt: Reflections

Pairing: Manwë & Melkor

Words: 1 005

Warnings: Sadness, confusion, visual hallucination

Manwë stood at the edge of all things that were, half-expecting to melt and dissolve into the nothingness before him.

He yearned for his spouse’s light to dispel the dense mist of non-existence that rippled as if alive before his all-seeing and yet woefully blinded gaze.

Distractedly, he wondered whether Varda even knew where he’d gone and his instinctive wish petered out like a candle in a strong breeze—it was better that she stay blessedly unaware of his weakness.

This darkness, without and within, he had to brave on his own.

He took another step; he could now feel the draw of the void pulling at his limbs and soul, and he revelled in that rare taste of impuissance that marked the limits of his considerable powers.

And then, he sensed movement on the other side of the barrier—he couldn’t perceive it per se, but he knew, nevertheless.

Suddenly, he could discern his distorted reflection in the wall of shivering emptiness before him. He stepped back in shock and horror.

Had he gone too far? Had he been torn apart without noticing?

Vanity as such was not in his nature, and so he never dwelled either on his glory or on the way it struck those around him dumb with awe.

Thus, seeing nought but himself presented an unfamiliar, not entirely comfortable challenge.

Brother.

Manwë blinked. It was known that no sound could transcend the impermeable frontiers of the Void. How could he have heard this one word so clearly then?

Even as he shielded his face in anticipation of a terrible blow that could never come, the Elder King felt the echo reverberate through every fibre of his eternal being.

It could not be, it was known, and his mind was reeling with the contradiction between his axiomatic knowledge and his screaming, writhing senses.

The immaterial boundary smoothed progressively, and he could now make out his features, frozen in apprehensive incomprehension, with crystalline clarity.

Free me!

Stumbling back even further, Manwë lifted a shaking hand to his pale cheek as if to prove to himself that he was alone. Already, his certitude was wavering and fading, and he dug taloned fingers into bleeding palms to ground himself as the whole of creation seemed to shift and transform beneath and around him at a dizzying speed.

The boundary wall of smoky illusion, created by Eru’s infinite wisdom, seemed able to warp reality in unexpected and alarming ways.

Even what had hitherto been considered to be known and accepted was suddenly no longer so certain.

Manwë focused—he could not be washed away by treacherous fancies and devious delusions. Not he. Not here.

The flowing mane of cloudy white, usually surrounding his stately head like a halo, melted into spiralling tendrils of ink in front of his eyes, and his nobly pale countenance struck him as grey and lacklustre in that accursed, untrustworthy mirror of polished abyssal vacuity.

It took a long moment of existential fear and confusion, but, at last, he recognised the face staring back at him. It was so intimately familiar and yet ever-foreign to his gentle mind, and yet he’d have known it anywhere.

“Melkor,” he gasped, lifting his fingers to the reflection carefully. “Are you there?”

Even as he spoke those words, he was painfully aware of how silly it felt to reach out to one who’d been banished beyond the confines of his influence. Still, he yearned for that eternal stranger who complemented him in wondrous and woeful ways.

Manwë had never felt quite whole since their bond—precious tension that maintained the balance of the world—had been torn asunder by fate and history.

How could he be the shore if there was no sea, how could he write the story that unravelled when there was no ink of dark foreboding, how could he stand on a mountain without there being an abyss to counterbalance it?

Since the very beginning, every consciousness had been aware of all the ways in which he and Melkor were not only different but opposites, and Manwë had to wonder whether no one but him perceived that they were indeed one.

Spellbound by the flickering image, flashing in and out of existence, he felt that terrible truth echoing fiercely through his heart.

Melkor was there—always beside him, around him, within him. He was in the unexpectedly sharp curve of his usually placid smile and the ominous gleam of his clear gaze.

The Lord of Darkness and Desolation could never truly fade from view as long as every fruit of the trees of triumph and steadfast devotion in Valinor turned to bitter ash on Manwë’s leaden tongue.

Brother!

With a sad smile, the Elder King disentangled himself from the corrupting spell and turned aside.

Yes, he’d keep finding vestiges of his brother’s undeniable reality in every corner of his own self, but that was all he’d ever get until the end of time.

“Goodbye,” he whispered at the now opaque, black wall that would keep them sundered forevermore. “It was good to feel you even only for a moment.”

As he walked away unsteadily, unsure of who he was and battling the surge of impuissant irritation, born from profound incomprehension, Manwë felt the senseless fury of his other half batter the impenetrable wall that kept them apart.

A vain effort, he knew, but he could not draw satisfaction from his superior wisdom when his heart beat a solemn dirge within his motionless chest.

The more he tried to suppress and contain his inner turmoil, the harder sudden winds seemed to tear at his robes and whip his luminous hair about his lowered head.

Someone would have to pay, and—as Melkor was beyond reach—Manwë would find another to help him carry and weather out these turbulent emotions that threatened to tear him apart.

The luxury of companionship was a rare and precious one—one that had been wrenched from Melkor along with his body.

“WIFE!” Manwë bellowed demandingly. “Where are you?”

@fellowshipofthefics

-> Masterlist

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Week 2 - Waterside

Ah, here's Boromir's arrival, an excursion, and a tad of romantic tension!

Prompt: Waterside

Pairing: Faramir x Éowyn, Boromir x OC

Words: 2 320

Warnings: Denethor is an ass, Boromir is sad, growing pains, trauma

When his phone rang, Boromir held up a staying hand, much to his father’s visible displeasure.

He’d wondered how his brother had settled in, and Faramir’s prolonged silence had started to stir apprehension and guilt within his heart—Boromir knew his brother too well not to worry that he’d be miserable on his own.

It was not so much that Faramir was exceedingly social—he was definitely not—but rather the quiet certainty that his younger brother preferred having at least one trusted person around to whom he could talk periodically that burdened Boromir’s heart.

He was afraid that they’d done more harm than good by sending Faramir away to rot in the countryside.

Denethor, the esteemed patriarch of their family, had just been plunging into a long diatribe about some irrelevant but aggravating subject or other, and he didn’t appreciate being interrupted before he’d said his piece.

Boromir cared nought—he’d been about to inform his father that he was leaving active service and was glad for every distraction.

It would be a disagreeable discussion, fraught with guilt and reproach. Understandably, he wasn’t eager to broach the subject, preferring to throw himself wholeheartedly into a hopefully pleasant exchange with his beloved sibling.

“Hello little brother, how is the wilderness treating you?” Pointedly ignoring the way Denethor drummed his fingers on the dinner table impatiently, Boromir refilled his wineglass and leaned back comfortably to listen to a much more interesting exposé.

“A horse you say?” he interjected after having heard of the fascinating first night Faramir had spent in his new abode. “Frieda, my bad, please proceed.”

Humming and hawing at appropriate intervals, he was then treated to the impeccably succinct and detailed account of a former captain about the lay of the land, the people Faramir had dined with, and the small town in which he’d purchased “the best boots” he’d ever possessed.

A jumble of emotions arose within Boromir’s mind—he was proud of the meticulous manner in which Faramir, ever the military man, had taken stock of his surroundings, but he was also touched by the genuine fondness that coloured his every word.

“I’m relieved to hear you speak so highly of it,” he finally said when his younger brother had finished his tale of violent storms, cheeky horses, and beauteous women. “We’ve been worried you might feel abandoned and isolated.”

Even though he said “we”, everyone knew that Denethor had probably not second-guessed his own decisions and plans a single second.

“Are you still stationed?” Faramir asked in a sly tone Boromir knew only too well.

“No, I’ve just had dinner with Father. Why do you ask? Do you miss me already? Despite all the ladies—on two or four legs—that positively throw themselves at you to care for your old bones?” Boromir replied with patient amusement.

“Indeed,” Faramir, who’d never been one to play games, acquiesced readily. “I might have insinuated that you’ve considered visiting me in my exile, and everyone seems very eager to meet you!”

Glancing at their father’s dour face, Boromir let the idea take root in his mind.

He could stay here and play along for the old man’s sake—Denethor would speak of things he was sure Boromir would achieve and his devoted son would pretend that he’d accomplish the impossible in his father’s name.

Or…

Or he could escape. This time, he’d not claw himself through the army ranks in a desperate, covert bid to free himself of his father’s crushing expectations, though. No, this time, he’d openly and undeniably run away to a land of rolling, verdant hills and wayward horses.

“Boromir?” Denethor asked sharply, for he knew the expression of grim determination now settling on his firstborn son’s face only too well. “What is the matter? Is Faramir quite all right?”

“So he says,” Boromir said gravely, covering his mobile phone with his entire palm to stifle any sound coming from the other end of the line. “Nevertheless, I’d gauge his actual state of mind with my own eyes, if you could dispense with my company for a while.”

“But you’ve only just arrived!” Denethor exclaimed, scandalised.

“If I find Faramir in good health and spirits, I shall return before you’ve even noticed I’d been gone,” Boromir promised in a tone that brooked no argument.

Retracting this hand, he consequently informed Faramir that he expected to arrive at the cabin around noon of the following day.

“Oh, lovely!” Faramir exclaimed. “Miss Drea, Éowyn, and I had planned a picnic by the waterside. It’s not an easy trek, but—with a bit of luck and enough apples—we’ll make good time.”

In his mind, Boromir was already establishing a list of what to pack, and so he only fully processed what he’d been told after he’d said goodbye to his brother.

Trek? Apples?

With an unexpected jolt of pleasure, he realised that he’d probably meet this mysterious and enchanting Frieda, and that laughably frivolous but wonderfully innocent idea gave his tired spirit wings.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Father,” he exclaimed heartily. “I must away—there’s much to be done yet and so little time.”

“Extend my warm greetings to your brother,” Denethor grunted in the coldest tone available to him.

“Will do,” Boromir called over his shoulder as he all but flew out of the dining room.

Even without pouring rain obscuring his view, Boromir had to admit that the drive was far from easy or pleasant, but he only allowed himself a few short naps in the driver’s seat before pushing on relentlessly.

The picture his brother had painted sounded so alluring that he couldn’t wait to arrive and ride out through endless fields of green and blue.

As a trained soldier himself, he was used to sleepless nights and the nascent fatigue settling behind his eyes barely dampened his fervour.

When, at last, the sun came up and the landscape morphed from miserable, grey highways into soft, muddy roads, he sighed a breath of relief and let his mind wander.

A short time later, he espied his brother—his hair blowing in the wind—standing at the foot of a short driveway, leading up to a cosy, little cabin.

“Right on time,” Faramir cheered and waved him up the uneven path with astonishingly expansive gestures.

Boromir had been used to the small, jerking motions that would have suited an aged doter better than his young, forceful brother, so he was taken aback by this renewed vigour in Faramir’s movements.

“I’m afraid I only have a single bedroom, but you can have the couch, or maybe Éowyn and her brother can put you up in one of their guest cottages,” Faramir prattled on cheerily as they walked back the way they’d come to turn into the main road.

“I’ll be all right,” Boromir laughed. He found that his brother’s restored joyfulness was infectious, and so he was grinning broadly when they ambled into a wide, roundish courtyard.

“Ah, you must be the brother,” a warm voice called.

Boromir turned sharply on his heels and saw a young woman, tall and straight as a reed, walk towards them. She was wearing riding leggings and high, scuffed boots, but even that lacklustre attire couldn’t mar her natural beauty.

Her smile was as generous, sunny, and open as the land she inhabited, and the way she smiled at Faramir made Boromir’s skin tingle with the premonition of wedding bells.

“Boromir,” he introduced himself, bowing smartly.

“I’m Éowyn,” she replied with easy grace.

“I thought the lady of Faramir’s heart was called Frieda,” Boromir joked, and—as if recognising her name—a tall, well-shaped dappled mare trotted out from one of the stables, her saddle hanging lopsidedly on her back.

“Blasted equine cow,” a man cursed, racing after her. “You could at least wait until you’re fully dressed, you debauched beast!”

“Ah, there she is,” Éowyn laughed, intercepting the runaway horse and tightening the straps with the ease of habit while grinning at the two handsome brothers. “Drea should be ready soon too. Are you a solid rider, Boromir?”

Boromir shrugged sheepishly.

“Oh, it would be ever so comforting if—for once—I’d not be the worst,” another voice came from behind Boromir, and, once more, he whirled around.

In the glaring light of the midday sun stood a woman after his own heart. Where Éowyn was high in colour and ruthlessly competent, this lady seemed wreathed in the demure magic of days gone by.

Her light hair was bound into a neat braid, and her elegant facial features were arranged into a bashful smile that made his heart skip a beat.

“My brother, I have no doubt, shall guard you like a hawk,” Faramir grinned.

“Oh, I can hold my own,” Drea riposted firmly but without anger.

“I don’t disbelieve that but throw the old boy a bone. In the name of friendship, I’m begging you to share in the burden of his ever-mindful regard.”

Shooting a disapproving glance at his cocky brother, Drea turned to Boromir and inclined her head charmingly.

“I’d be delighted to keep you company—Éowyn and Faramir have a tendency to become quite absorbed in their little spats, so we shall have plenty of time to get to know one another better.”

Having been relieved of the ungrateful task of getting Frieda ready, Éomer had turned his attention to the other mounts and was now leading two placid-looking horses by the reins towards the waiting group.

“Allow me,” Boromir said gallantly and gave Drea a boost onto a black-and-tan mare who didn’t move an inch during the undeniably clumsy ordeal.

“I can manage,” he then said to Éomer who was attempting to keep the gelding he was still holding from prancing around in anticipation.

After he’d swung himself up in the saddle, he caught his brother’s mocking gaze. They’d had riding lessons as children, and Faramir—of course—remembered that Boromir had never displayed quite the same amount of enthusiasm when watched by a sour-faced riding master than he had now when the gleaming eyes of a beautiful young woman were trained on him.

“Don’t say a word,” Boromir whispered urgently and watched Faramir heave himself into Frieda’s saddle without any assistance.

Was this the same man who, not so long ago, had barely been able to get out of a chair without groaning in pain?

“You could have told me that you’ve made so much progress,” Boromir said accusatorily when the infamous Frieda pulled up beside his horse.

“I wanted to call you; I’ve resolved to do it a thousand times, but something always distracted me,” Faramir admitted shamefacedly.

“Someone, you mean to say?” Boromir jeered, jerking his head at Éowyn who took an impressive leap to get atop a huge, brown stallion.

Faramir merely rolled his eyes. “Try to keep up, old man,” he cheered and raced out of the courtyard, making Éowyn grunt in frustration and give chase almost instantly.

“As I said, stick with me,” Drea laughed and clicked her tongue gently.

It was a pleasant ride, taking them over wide fields and through dense forests, and Boromir felt the compounded stress and fatigue of his deployment, his reunion with Denethor, and his headlong drive slough off his bones little by little.

This was in great part thanks to Drea who was witty without being crass, charming without being coquettish, and shy without being pathetic. All in all, she was a perfect conversation partner, and Boromir caught himself wishing that their journey would go on for hours yet despite his aching backside and cramping thighs.

Alas, it was not meant to be.

“The river is just ahead. We better dismount and lead the horses,” Éowyn announced in a loud, assertive voice.

Boromir did not miss the fact that his brother leapt off Frieda to assist their guide, and he decided to emulate his chivalry.

“Watch this,” Drea whispered conspiratorially. “Frieda doesn’t even need to be led; she’ll just follow the man around like an overgrown dog.”

Doing as he was told, Boromir observed his brother’s bond with both the beauteous equine lady and her owner with a strange feeling that he only identified as envy when he looked back at Drea.

It had been too long since he’d last been able to rely on anyone so genuinely and innocently—in his line of work, he had to trust others because his life depended on it.

He’d not told either his father or his brother of the monumental change about to overthrow his life yet, but—for some unfathomable reason—he felt the overwhelming urge to confide in this patient, gentle woman by his side.

“This place seems to be doing him a world of good,” he started hesitantly. “Mayhap, I should consider extending my stay.”

“Oh?” Drea’s soft lips formed an almost perfectly round “o”, but she didn’t press him to go on. She simply allowed the distance between them and the potential lovers ahead to widen progressively.

“I was a soldier,” Boromir confessed without daring to look up.

“Was?” she prompted cautiously.

“I’ve decided to pull out while I still can,” he went on, giving her a short, thankful smile. “Faramir’s injury made me realise that there were hopes and dreams I’d buried for a brighter day. It now seems to me that his day might never come if I don’t actively work towards it. Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “We’re not so different. I’ve also recently given up a career on which I’d wasted many years, countless tears, and the better part of my sanity.”

With a low, melodious chuckle, she lifted her water bottle in a persiflage of a toast. “To new beginnings and brighter days ahead, yeah?”

Hearing her laugh, Boromir thought that he could well be closer to that lofty aspiration than he had only a day ago.

“To us,” he nodded.

@fellowshipofthefics

-> Masterlist

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Week 4 - Music

Back to the roots for me...

Have a multichapter story about Dwarves. Remotely Tarzan-y :D

Prompt: Music

Pairing: Bilbo & OC, Fíli & Kíli

Words: 1310

Warnings: Threat, fear, bad soup

“Keep your eyes open,” Bilbo Baggins warned his assistant as they broke through the dense foliage of the native forest to gracelessly stumble into a wide clearing.

Elya sighed—she’d signed up for this mission, a once-in-a-lifetime chance, to explore a hitherto untouched island and discover exciting new specimens of fauna and flora. Thus far, all they’d found were a few highly interesting trees and a vicious breed of stinging insects.

Her heart sank. She liked the adorably fussy little man waving her closer; Bilbo was incomparably enthusiastic about his work and so knowledgeable that she could have listened to him for hours on end—nevertheless, she’d hoped that they’d have more to show for their efforts after having trudged through the unchartered wilderness for over two weeks.

“Maybe we can set up our camp here for the night and go on tomorrow?” her superior proposed gently when he saw her disheartened face. “We are now very close to the secret heart of the island—I can feel it.”

Nodding, Elya let her heavy pack slide off her sore shoulders. She’d come this far on faith alone—she could and would not falter now so close to the finish line.

Bilbo, with his gentlemanly habits and perfectly polite speech patterns, had turned this haphazard trip into an amazing experience, and she felt bad for repaying him for his boundless generosity with ungrateful moping.

She trusted him, and so she’d gladly trek on for many another gruelling day without complaining if that was what her expedition leader had in mind. 

With calm efficiency, they went through the usual motions without another word, and soon, the odd pair was sitting by a small campfire, nursing insipid but nourishing broth out of steel mugs.

An oddly peaceful nocturnal hush settled on their surroundings, and they were just about to relax into their never-changing evening rituals when an unexpected, entirely incongruous sound cut through the fragrant air.

Music.

Strange, enchanting, and distinctly foreign, the melody was nevertheless undoubtedly the result of a conscious effort.

“But—” Elya whispered, her dark almond eyes wide with incomprehension.

“The island is said to be deserted,” Bilbo agreed under his breath. “However, there has never been anyone to confirm that until now!”

They waited with bated breath, unsure whether they wanted the mysterious musicians to find them or not.

When she looked over, Elya found that Bilbo’s eyes were wide and unmoving with shock while his hand felt blindly along the uneven floor in search of any kind of weapon.

In the end, he grabbed the iron ladle firmly and held it up like a sword in front of his face.

Elya could only suppress a nervous giggle at the very last moment—neither she nor Bilbo were anywhere near accomplished fighters.

Of course, they’d been warned before setting out on their own; two scientists, as small in stature as they were vigorous in mind, were not the kind of people one liked to allow to trundle off on their own.

Especially not if one of them was the renowned and respected researcher Bilbo Baggins, but the stout professor had assured Elya that he anticipated no serious dangers they couldn’t foresee, prevent, or at least eschew easily.

And she had simply believed him.

The minutes ticked by—the forest didn’t move, but neither did the music fade.

“Is it growing louder?” Elya asked breathlessly as she followed Bilbo’s gauging look to the smoking fire.

They were not only woefully exposed, but they were as good as advertising their exact position. Even though a bright fire might have helped keep potential nocturnal predators at bay, it would undoubtedly only attract sentient, intelligent life forms.

Just as she was pondering whether a particularly evolved species of apes might have developed the ability to build crude instruments, the bushes to the right of her parted, and two silhouettes detached from the opaque shadows beyond the glare of the fire.

Elya did not scream; she merely sucked in a sharp breath and shrank back against Bilbo.

As they drew nearer, the formless, hulking shades consolidated into humanoid forms, and her rational mind took over while her heart raced frantically.

The two strangers were seemingly male if their luscious beards were any indication, and—although shorter than most men she’d ever met—they were stocky and densely muscled.

One, the leader by his deportment and stern expression, strode forward and nudged their empty bowls with the toe of an expertly crafted boot.

He grunted something at the other in a language Elya didn’t understand. A quick glance at Bilbo reassured her that this was not due to a lapsus in her academic training but rather to the fact that probably nobody had ever heard it before.

The man pointed at himself slowly. “Fíli,” he declared and then pointed at his companion with a crooked grin that suggested intimacy and deep affection. “Kíli.”

“I dare say, those are their names,” Bilbo whispered and imitated the ponderous gesture by introducing himself and his assistant to the unlooked-for inhabitants of the island.

“The music hasn’t stopped,” Elya whispered back. “There must be more.”

In her mind, horror visions of thousands of faceless strangers, armed to the teeth and battle-ready, arose and abated again—the two that had come forward were visibly wary of them, but they’d not displayed any aggression or otherwise menacing behaviour.

Meanwhile, the seemingly called Kíli had actually crept closer and was presently sniffing the bowls distrustfully. The sound of disgust he uttered didn’t need a translation, and Elya felt herself bristle.

“Listen here, Mister Kíli,” she exclaimed, snapping like a rubber band that had been pulled too far. “We do neither know nor trust the plants in this forest; we have to make do with what we’ve brought from home.”

Home, she thought longingly, wondering if she’d ever see it again.

The way he frowned at her made it exceedingly clear that he didn’t understand a single word of what she’d said.

Extending one hand, palm outward towards them, he signalled that they should wait, though what they were waiting for was not instantly understandable by his curt gesture.

Another short exchange with the first man ensued, and then he disappeared back into the dense foliage without a sound.

“Do not make any rash movements,” Bilbo warned her, his voice tense and his eyes bright. “He seems to be armed.”

“He doesn’t strike me as very belligerent or hostile, though,” she retorted in the same hushed tone, keeping a strenuous grip on her flourishing imagination of wild men and dark secrets.

Despite being profoundly terrified by the humanoid non-dinner guests, and rightly so, she could also not deny that a part of her was elated to, at last, have discovered something worth writing home about.

Discreet rustling and a yelp of pain alerted the researchers to the approach of newcomers, and they both looked up in spellbound anticipation.

“Hello,” a soft voice resounded from beyond the barrier of light. “I’m Ori.”

The words came slowly and carefully as if the speaker was merely trying to emulate sounds he’d heard once or twice before.

He was almost at once interrupted by loud whispering, and then he gave a long, exasperated sigh.

“Kíli asks why you eat brackish water. Do you not hunt?”

“Hunt?” Elya scoffed. She was a woman of many talents, but catching, killing, and dressing wild animals were certainly not among them.

“Are you…hungry? Come!”

When neither Bilbo nor Elya moved, the hitherto unseen speaker of their own language stepped closer.

Elya’s mouth went dry. The two first specimens of this yet-foreign race had been handsome even by her era’s and society’s standards, with their chiselled features and sparkling eyes, but this creature was positively breathtakingly beautiful.

“Come!” he repeated and, when they didn’t move, promptly started to pack their things.

@fellowshipofthefics Here's one for the last week :D

-> Masterlist

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Week 1 - Camping

Day 3, another prompt to completely disregard and twist...

Have some annoyed Vairë and brave Námo.

Prompt: Camping

Pairing: Námo x Vairë / Námo & Irmo

Words: 1 005

Warnings: Sadness, light injury, some weird thread magic

Vairë’s hands did not still even though her mind was reeling. Rivers of thread ran steadily and unerringly through her fingers, coalescing into a cloud of shimmering black before her wet eyes.

Her task was the mere recording of history—it was her husband who’d pass judgment on all that was said and done, and yet her heart quailed at the picture taking form under her rhythmically weaving digits.

So Manwë had gone and found nought but emptiness that now devoured his soul.

Impuissant anger rose within her at the thought of the Elder King’s suffering—surely, Námo could have warned him about the bitter price he’d pay for his noblest intentions.

Every fibre of her essence, braided of the colourful strands of deep love and honest devotion, yearned to lay down the bobbins and rest, but a new sense of urgency overcame her.

Little by little, greyish purples and faded blues bled into the swirling vortex of utter darkness, and she sighed in relief.

She recognised the diaphanous blotch of hope within the warring obscurity of the Judge’s verdict and the endless nothingness of Melkor’s penalty.

Irmo.

Even on canvas, her husband’s young brother couldn’t be tethered by the filaments from which he’d been created—Vairë looked on, flabbergasted, as the tiny moth appeared in one corner of her opus as by magic.

Had she drawn the light silver thread all the way from the centre of the piece to its confines? She could not remember having done so.

Nonetheless, Irmo was there—undeniably, inescapably there, and she knew not how to recall him to the place where he was most needed.

“Wife.” She heard the word, thrumming through her soul, before it had been thought.

Even though she oft failed to understand the motives and desires of her husband, she could read his needs as easily as the strings curling around her hands.

Námo was a creature of many worlds to whom time meant nothing, but his wife was inexorably bound to an eternal present, made up of tiny increments that unravelled into a past she could and would not consider.

Thus, she was akin to a blind person who only ever perceived the world in haphazard sequences of disjointed snapshots.

“You seek your brother,” she said before his greeting could be vocalised. “He’s not here.”

“I know,” Námo replied gravely, stoking the fires of unjustified frustration in her ample bosom.

He came to stand behind her, his hand bony and yet heavy on her strong shoulder as he surveyed her latest work.

His low, reverberating hum grated on her nerves, but she kept her peace, knowing that her spouse had other worries than her displeasure.

“I shall go out to find him,” Námo declared. “For the task Nienna has given us, I need his help.”

Nodding solemnly, Vairë looked back at her ruined craft. Even while her focus had shifted to Námo, the battle between pitch-black and stubborn grey hadn’t subsided, and so she didn’t need to ask for clarification. The matter was gruesomely clear in its stark simplicity.

“You’re to pacify Manwë?” she asked, swallowing the sharp-tongued addendum that she found it doubtful that anyone other than Nienna and Irmo would find comfort in the mysterious, hermetic bond the Fëanturi shared.

In lieu of an answer he knew to be superfluous, Námo bent down and breathed a tender, conciliatory kiss onto the crown of her head. “I shall return as quickly as I can. Worry not for me, beloved.”

Vairë simply lifted her hands, chafed raw with the speed and insistency of the threads racing through her palms. “I won’t. I shall watch and see.”

She listened to his footsteps as he retreated.

“On the third hook from the right,” she said softly. “I’ve finished it recently.”

Only when she heard the muted swish of a brand-new cloak, big enough to serve as a tent and blanket and infused with her sincere, unwavering love, did she return her attention to her oeuvre.

Annoyed and exasperated as she might have been with the incomprehensible ways that dictated her lover’s decisions and actions, she’d never forsake him in his hour of need.

In secret, she wished she could bind him to her, so he’d never leave her side, but she knew better than to attempt the impossible.

No, her place was here—watching, witnessing, working indefatigably.

Traces of Veridian, bleeding into the Gardens' green and the mountains' dark violet, appeared on the canvas.

Vairë smiled. Soon, Varda’s stars would add sprinkles of gold and silver to the top border to light Námo’s way as he fought his way through the fields of black in dogged pursuit of the elusive moth.

While he didn’t exactly have to rest, Vairë nevertheless hoped that he—who rarely left his hallowed Halls—would take the time to bask in the beauty of the open sky and the sweet night air.

Her eyes travelled longingly along the wall covered in bobbins of every imaginable shade; she yearned to recreate a panorama of dark greens and deep blues in which her bewildering and yet beloved husband would be but a darker blotch, melting into the ambient twilight.

When a dusty purple materialised beside her, she bowed her head in silent gratitude. Námo had spread the cloak, made by her very hands, over his gaunt shoulders and was admiring the flowering, free lands rolling like solid waves beneath his feet.

Already, the little speck of grey was within reach, and Vairë’s fingers moved faster and more fluidly now as she transcribed the seemingly immaterial tale of fraternal reunion faithfully.

She was still unsure whether Manwë would find solace in her in-laws’ unity, but the knot of roiling black defacing her art was slowly dissolving into a kaleidoscope of various splashes of fading obscurity.

Nuance, she thought serenely, that was what was needed in this situation, and—between Námo and Irmo—there would be enough genuine light to dispel the gloom that had seeped out of the Void like a poison.

@fellowshipofthefics Day 3 of Week 1. I am on track :)

-> Masterlist

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Week 4 - Sweets

And on we go...

Prompt: Sweets

Pairing: Bilbo x Thorin, Ori x OC

Words: 2 365

Warnings: Tension, fear, seductive cake

“Welcome,” the King greeted, and—even though he’d spoken in a calm, measured voice—his voice was booming across the mostly empty chamber.

The two hitherto taciturn men hastened to his side. A short, hushed conversation ensued, and then the King turned back to his potential captives.

“I’m informed that you were found trying to camp in a warg-infested region,” he said, his tone heavy with disapproval. “Very bad idea.”

Elya cocked her head; his inflexion and speech rhythm struck her as odd as well. It seemed to her that the King and their handsome guide had acquired the language by studying an old book, only ever practising amongst themselves, but she was only surmising. Mayhap, it was only disuse or misplaced gravitas which made him speak in such a stilted, cautious manner.

“What is a warg?” Bilbo exclaimed, taking another eager step closer to the throne.

Only when three sets of brows drew together warningly did he realise that he’d better not rush towards a foreign dignitary as if he were a common merchant in his festival stall.

“A dangerous beast.”

More whispering. The King frowned in visible disbelief.

“Where can I find one? I’d be very interested in studying—” Bilbo went on, but was interrupted by a massive, beringed hand being raised commandingly.

“You’d meet them only once,” Thorin chuckled. “Ori can show you a drawing and explain. After you’ve eaten. Kíli tells me you’ve only had smelly water?”

His brow wrinkled again as if he was unsure about his halting translation.

“It was broth, thank you very much, and it was quite nourishing,” Bilbo replied sharply.

“Cakes then,” the King said with a careless shrug. “Fíli?”

At once, the golden-haired warrior turned on his heels and exited the hall.

“They’re quite good,” Ori whispered into Elya’s ear. “The King honours you.”

Twisting her head this way and that, Elya—overtired and overwhelmed by the recent developments in her first and foreseeably last research mission—struggled to pinpoint what it was that irked her about the strange people who’d effectively captured them.

When the King stood, it hit her like a punch to the gut. They were all uncommonly short for men of such brawn and overall physiological structure.

“Dwarves?” she whispered under her breath before she could stop herself. Her fingers itched to fumble in her backpack to retrieve her sketchbook once more.

“Ah! Yes, that is the word!” Ori cheered with a bright smile. “Dwarves. Yes!”

Elya’s eyes almost bulged out of her skull—she’d always imagined dwarves as small, old men with long beards and pointy hats, carrying lanterns and spades while digging holes in people’s back gardens.

She’d never considered that even the silly ornaments theoretically could have been young and gorgeous before ending up harassing cats and tripping burglars in the dead of night.

“May I draw you?” she asked breathlessly, turning around to face Ori again for two very good reasons. First, the way Bilbo was staring hungrily at their host made her stomach churn uncomfortably, and second, she found that she was inherently desirous to look upon that pale, freckled face as much as she possibly could.

“Me? I—yes, if that is your desire. Unfortunately, you shall not be allowed to take your art when you leave. Nobody, as you were told, must learn of our existence.”

At first, Elya had found that imperative ludicrous and had fostered not even the slightest intention of respecting it, but as she now stared up at the invaluable riches displayed on and in every wall, she started to understand.

Thus, she nodded with more conviction than before.

“Tell me about your studies,” the King demanded, going as far as to step off his dais and join his unexpected, improbable guests at the foot of his throne. “What are you searching? Have you found it?”

“I feel like we’ve found more than we’ve bargained for,” Bilbo muttered under his breath. “Things we didn’t expect to find anywhere, let alone on a deserted island.”

As she was a reasonable woman and thus was standing very close to the only person she knew and could trust, Elya had no problems making out his words, though, and so she lifted her hands and conjured up her blankest, most innocent expression.

“I’m a mere assistant,” she said in a breathy, whistling voice. “There is very little I could tell His Majesty.”

Whirling around, Bilbo gave her a dumbfounded, distinctly suspicious look.

Thorin II hummed pensively and opened his thin but sensual lips to reply when the door swung open with a bang and an impossibly rotund man strolled in, carrying a platter heaped with sweetmeats and cakes.

“Impossible,” Bilbo commented under his breath; he couldn’t help doing the math in his head and coming to the conclusion that it was not possible that a single man could lift, let alone bear, such a weight.

Moreover, the newcomer didn’t even appear to be strained in any way.

“Ah, there comes Bombur,” the King announced and waved his hand in a generous gesture of invitation. “The cakes are made with a local fruit—Ori will show you a picture of it so you might recognise it—that is quite tart when eaten untreated but very sweet when stirred into a dough and consequently baked.”

Both Elya’s and Bilbo’s eyes narrowed—in their experience, it was unusual that a royal would know not only his cook but also the ingredients of his meals by name.

Instinctively, they both bowed, eyeing the offered treats uncertainly.

On the one hand, they’d not consumed anything but insipid broth and stale biscuits for weeks, but, on the other hand, taking food from strangers was dangerous in more ways than one.

“They are digestible,” Ori promised in a quiet voice.

“How would you know? You’d also claim that this tray is easy to lift,” Elya replied in a discreet hiss without taking her eyes off the impressive figure of the King who was presently entirely absorbed by Bilbo’s stammering explanation of their doomed expedition.

“A pebble could not carry Bombur’s platter, but they could eat themselves through the cakes. Trust me!”

Despite not understanding how rocks could do either of the described things, Elya realised that she wanted to believe the one who’d brought them out from the cold, windy wilderness into a warm, beautiful underground kingdom.

Hence why she extended a grimy, slightly trembling hand and picked up a dense bun, covered in a sticky, fragrant syrup—her mouth was watering instantly.

“Elya!” Bilbo said warningly, but it was too late. She’d already sunken her teeth into the fluffy pastry and was moaning indecently at the countless unknown flavours bursting across her tongue like fireworks shooting across a night sky.

“Oh, it’s so good,” she mumbled, embarrassed by her shameless behaviour.

“My girl!” Bilbo chided. “Did I not warn you to refrain from actions that might get you entangled irreversibly?”

“They said they’re dwarves, not fae,” Elya chuckled, wondering whether her undeniable, witnessed fall would entitle her to another sweet. After all, if she’d bound her soul, hand, and heart unwittingly to this strange folk by partaking in the sugary feast they’d laid out, what difference would it make whether she ate one or ten?

As she reached out slowly, Bilbo’s eyes followed her every movement, but he didn’t object any further.

Feeling the King’s intensely blue eyes on him, he squared his shoulders and joined his assistant—after all, he knew how important it was to show appreciation and interest for any potential host culture.

“So, Ori has admitted that we’re dwarves?” Thorin asked calmly as he watched Bilbo chew cautiously. “I didn’t expect him to be quite that forthcoming. How peculiar…and interesting! I wonder what other secrets my nephews and the little scribe might have entrusted you with.”

Ori flinched; he was evidently afraid to have committed a faux pas. His ears were turning dark red as the princes, also eyeing the pastries longingly, exploded into raucous laughter once more.

Bilbo nodded cautiously. “They had to tell us something about you and this Kingdom to convince us that they were not merely trying to catch their evening meal.”

At that, the King visibly bristled. “We do not eat the poor souls that find themselves stranded on our shores.”

His handsome features tightened. “However, you were not washed astray, were you? You purposefully set out to find us here. May I ask why?”

Bilbo shook his head vehemently. “No, we were searching for new species of plants and animals.”

“To steal them?” Thorin’s voice was sharp and accusing now, making Elya wither where she stood. She was unsure whether to step closer to her boss once more or whether to seek refuge behind the ginger dwarf who was still watching her with a small smile.

Blowing up his cheeks and rubbing his nose, Bilbo kept his peace. He instinctively felt that he didn’t want to lie to this mystical ruler if he could avoid it.

“Only if we had the feeling that our finds might change the world for the better.”

He’d discussed the potential risks with Elya on their long voyage, and they’d decided that—except if they were to find the cure for cancer or an ingenious solution to pollution—they’d disturb as little as possible.

“Do you know where you are?” Thorin interrogated sharply. “If I was to toss you back into the ocean, would you find your way back here?”

Bilbo swallowed thickly before exchanging a meaningful glance with Elya who shrugged sheepishly. She’d been the one to take most of the day-to-day notes, but neither one of them was a trained sailor.

“There has been an element of luck,” Bilbo then admitted. “We’d had our sights set on a group of islands…”

“You would not have liked the closest one,” Thorin grumbled. “The pointy-eared savages might well have tried to poison you. The rivers running through their lands are sluggish with dark enchantments!”

“As I said, luck,” Bilbo repeated.

When Elya nudged him in the ribs discreetly and coughed into his ear several times, he went on, “Also, we’ve already been informed that we’re not to take anything from this island. No specimens, no recordings, no notes—thus, robbed of our meticulous archives, I dare say that we’d never find our way back here. You are safe.”

“You’ll remember, though,” Thorin commented provocatively.

“Not if there is a nifty potion baked into these treats,” Bilbo joked, earning another thunderous gaze from the dwarven ruler.

For a while, the hall was eerily silent except for the soft sound of enthusiastic chewing.

“I respect your inquisitive mind,” Thorin finally said. “You must be tired. If you’re willing, I shall arrange for you to be awoken at dusk. You can accompany me, and I’ll attempt to show you a warg if you’re still so eager to see one.”

“That would be wonderful,” Bilbo exclaimed, his scientific curiosity once more overruling his sense of self-preservation.

He was about to shake hands with Thorin when another gnawing doubt overcame his mind.

“What about Elya? She’s been acting very foolishly, but I’ve yet to see another woman in these halls. You won’t…abduct and imprison her for her impudence, will you?”

Thorin’s dark brows drew together in earnest vexation. “There are many things you’ve not yet seen, Bilbo Baggins. If you give me your word that you won’t breathe a word about them to another soul, you might, in time, discover all you’ve been wondering about. As for the young lady, no, we shall not detain her against her will.”

Relief drove a peal of laughter up Bilbo’s throat, but it never burst forth. Once, he would have confidently vouched for Elya’s unwillingness to be left behind on a deserted, wild island. Now, he was no longer so sure.

“Worry not,” he said instead. “There are few that would even want to hear from us or believe us. Your secrets are safe.”

“I doubt that,” Thorin muttered, his expression mellowing into something neither Bilbo nor Elya could describe or fully understand. “Now, Balin will take you to a suite of rooms where you can rest.”

They’d been so focused on the breathtaking spectacle of the King that they’d completely missed the discreet, noiseless entry of a white-haired, aged dwarf who now stood a little distance off, wearing a richly embroidered tunic and a beatific, welcoming smile.

“Come,” he crooned in a low, melodious voice. “The young ones have done well in bringing you here. Follow me!”

Sensing their nervous confusion, the old dwarf gave them another reassuring grin.

“We are an old people, and we honour our traditions, but you mustn’t be afraid that we’d do you any harm.”

His speech was more fluid and sounded almost natural, Elya noticed.

When she brought it up, he gave a flattered chuckle. “Thorin and I have been abroad. The young ones were born in exile. I might have practised more than the King has, though.” Again, he chortled merrily.

Exile! The word echoed through Elya’s mind, but she decided against probing further as the memory was visibly painful to their stalwart guide, leading them unerringly through the endless, sombre tunnels.

“But…”

“Ori is my apprentice,” the creature called Balin explained kindly. “He’s a good lad and eager to be of service.”

“I’ve noticed,” Elya replied carefully, throwing a vain glance over her shoulder in hopes of seeing that luminous creature lurking in the ever-shifting shadows only to be disappointed.

“What dread are you seeking?” Balin asked.

“No, nothing.” Elya felt herself blush furiously. “I—Will I see him again? He’s insinuated that he could show me a few drawings.”

At that, the wizened, bearded dwarf gaped at her in open, genuine surprise. “Did he now? How uncharacteristically brazen of him! Do you want this to happen? I can arrange for him to meet you after your repose if that is your earnest desire.”

“I’d like that very much,” Elya blurted out, earning another unfathomable look from Bilbo who’d never believed her to be easily impressed with men.

“So be it then.” Balin grinned cheerily. “That will surely cheer the old boy greatly!”

@fellowshipofthefics

-> Masterlist

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Week 4 - LOVE

And this was it for this month from me! <3

Grand finale...Ori, my darling boy!

Prompt: Love

Pairing: Ori x OC

Words: 2 235

Warnings: Sexual innuendo, nudity, nascent love

Elya awoke slowly to the sound of a muffled conversation from the next room—before she’d even fully opened her eyes, her mouth melted into a soft smile.

Bilbo. The mere thought of the meticulous little man filled her with boundless tenderness, and she rolled over to let his voice lull her back to sleep.

She’d almost drifted off once more when his loud, impertinent call made her jump out of the corruptingly soft featherbed and drove her across the room.

When she pulled the door open, though, there was nobody in sight but Ori, clutching a few worn notebooks to his chest.

As soon as he saw her, though, his whole body went slack, and the tomes fell to the stone floor with a muted, accusing thud.

“I—the gardens, my notes,” he stammered as his eyes grew wider yet with shock and helplessness.

“Isn’t it a bit dark outside to look at flowers?” Elya mumbled, rubbing her eyes, and knelt to retrieve the booklets he’d seemingly completely forgotten in his alarm. “Why don’t you come in? I’m eager to see your renditions and hear your explanations first.”

Elya remembered the ocean of colours and shapes they’d crossed on their way here only too well, and—while her academic mind was ever ready to discover and inspect new plants—most of her sleepy, heavy body yearned for rest and comfort still.

“Lady Elya,” Ori said carefully. “Are you quite well?” His eyes went to the brightly burning fire in the hearth. “Are you too warm maybe?”

Confused, Elya asseverated that she felt perfectly fine.

Suddenly, Bilbo’s warnings came to her mind, and her face mellowed. “Is it improper for you to be alone with me in my chambers?” she asked kindly.

“Not as such,” Ori replied cautiously. “Nevertheless, I must confess that your present attire strikes me as unusual.”

At last, Elya looked down and found that, in her haste, she’d rushed to the door in her underwear.

After weeks on the move with Bilbo, she’d apparently lost the virtuous habit of never appearing undressed in front of another, and she now regretted that lapse in moral behaviour bitterly.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t think,” she exclaimed hastily, throwing the notebooks on a nearby table and diving to the chair on which hung her hastily discarded clothes. “Surely, you must have seen other women undressed, though.”

She didn’t know why she’d said that, but the choked noise escaping him sounded distinctly unpromising.

“Indeed, I have not,” Ori declared stiffly.

Elya, who’d imagined recluse island-dwellers to wear plaited-grass skirts and seashell necklaces, grimaced as she recalled the layers of sturdy leather and thick wool in which the dwarves were clad.

“Are your people beholden to some religious virginity cult?” she inquired, unable to quell her natural curiosity.

When she turned around, Ori stared at her, mouth agape and eyes bulging.

“I do not believe so. Dwarven ladies are rare and precious, and—as a mere scribe—I’ve not had the honour to secure a wife.”

Keeping her face professionally blank, Elya pondered in secret whether she’d considered the necessity of having a spouse to enjoy carnal pleasures an example of an archaic virginity cult or not.

Despite knowing that she could not publish a single word about this lovely creature, she couldn’t help contemplating, labelling, and categorising every new bit of information he let slip.

Suddenly, his undoubtedly excellent drawings were no longer quite as interesting and alluring.

“So you’ve never seen a woman in her undergarments?” she asked breathlessly.

“Is that what those were? I am inconsolable—I should not have intruded. Forgive me!”

Elya waved away his frantic apologies.

“No,” he then admitted. “I have not.”

“It is I who must be sorry to have offended your sensibilities,” she then said dejectedly. She’d had lovers, but even the men whom she’d welcomed into her bed and body had never pretended that she was a great beauty or the kind of woman with which they’d want to spend more time.

“Not at all,” Ori expostulated. “I—It was very pleasant even if wrong.”

“How was it wrong?” Elya probed mercilessly. Age-old insecurities and barely healed wounds pulsated within her sheltered heart, and she could not forego this opportunity to hurt herself by dragging cruel words out of one who’d been nothing but kind to her.

“You are so delicate,” he sighed. “We have a flower like that on the south side of the gardens. I shall call it “Elya’s flower” from now on.”

When she didn’t react, he finally fully entered the room and flipped through the pages of his notebooks to find the blossom he’d been talking about.

“It took a month to do the sketches,” he explained under his breath. “At the merest disturbance, the petals close.”

“I won’t wither and die because someone looks at me—I might not be as sturdy as your people, but I am far from fragile,” Elya declared confidently.

Acting on impulse alone, she grabbed his wrists and pulled him closer until she could feel the edge of his book digging into her ribs, right beneath her chest.

“Are you allowed to touch the flowers?”

“Oh no!” Ori exclaimed, struggling weakly against her grip.

Elya knew that—had he wanted to do so—he could easily have torn her arms from their sockets, so she was thankful for his valiant but purposefully ineffective attempt at shaking her off.

“See? I’m nothing like that bud of yours,” she grinned. “For—as far as I’m concerned—you’re not only allowed but very welcome to lay your hands on me.”

Somewhere within the depths of her mind, she remembered Bilbo’s warnings, but—in the face of such tremulous, blushing beauty—she couldn’t resist the temptation to see this experiment through.

Despite having only had the time to throw on a light camisole, Elya felt her body heat up unbearably under the wavering but unmistakeably intrigued gaze caressing the bare skin of her legs in broad, irregular strokes.

“I…couldn’t. It wouldn’t be right. You’re a guest in these halls—I mustn’t do anything to discomfort you,” Ori muttered feverishly. “Oh, but you’re so beautiful and—”

“So, you are saying that the King would not make a move on Bilbo? Gosh, the old boy will be sorely disappointed by that,” Elya grinned, holding Ori’s starry gaze with almost cruel determination until he let his eyes drop to his fidgeting hands in defeat.

“I—Of course, I cannot speak for the King,” the “mere scribe” then explained cautiously.

Amused, Elya noted that—upon defending his honour from her open desire—he’d spoken fast and fluidly, but now, his speech had promptly reverted to the halting and overly formal pattern behind which he tried to hide his true feelings.

“You are a living creature—you’ve been conceived, carried, and born, right?” Elya asked, fully ready to accept a negative answer to her shockingly callous question.

“Evidently. It’s not…It’s not a lack of inclination—believe you me—but the fear of making you unhappy or drawing the displeasure of your minder,” Ori tried to explain, wringing his beautiful, pale hands nervously.

“Bilbo?” she guffawed. “He’s my superior and my friend. He’s afraid I’ll end up on a spike, nothing more!”

Leaning forward a little, Elya lit up at his sharp intake of breath as she let one finger ghost along his pale, freckled cheek tentatively.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t be overly aggrieved by purely scientific endeavours,” she grinned cheekily. “Besides botany and zoology, we take a vivid interest in anatomy, you know?”

Slowly, Ori seemed to get wise to her antics—his eyes narrowed suspiciously as he took her hand and held it cradled in his own carefully.

“I suspect that—in broad strokes—we’d be much the same as you,” he husked, aware of the peril in which he’d inadvertently found himself and yet unable to escape the ever-tightening bonds of the trap she was laying out so brazenly. “Two arms, two legs…”

“I was informed that you’d never left this island,” Elya retorted with a note of wickedly gleeful triumph in her voice. “How would you know? No, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather convince myself with my own two eyes. And, as you’ve seen me undressed, I think it would only be fair if you’d allow me to satiate my intellectual curiosity.”

Astonishingly dark, dense lashes flattered against heated cheeks for a moment, but then Ori nodded.

“I can’t discern any other reason why a pretty lady like you would ask for such boon other than scholastic inquisitiveness, and both Thorin and Balin did encourage me to do whatever it takes to make you happy…”

He didn’t look entirely convinced yet, but he set down his hefty notebook calmly and stood to discard layer after layer of knitwear and leather until he wore nothing but a pair of long underpants.

Elya stared—she knew that she was being unforgivably rude, but she’d never seen anyone who looked so irrefutably solid and yet so ephemeral at the same time. White as fresh-fallen snow and dusted with the finest flecks of gold she’d ever beheld, Ori exceeded even the most exotic of blossoms and the wildest of beasts in his understated pulchritude.

“As you can see,” the object of her spellbound study mumbled, “there’s not much to gawk at.”

“You’re mistaken,” she groaned and sprang to her feet to pad around his motionless form, overcome with a bare, ruthless hunger that might have put even the elusive creatures Bilbo went to witness to shame.

She wanted to touch him, but she knew better than to startle a strange, potentially dangerous lifeform inadvertently.

His shoulder blades, drawn together defensively, reminded her of vestigial wings, and her mouth watered with greed—at once, her mind was filled with visions of all the deliciously depraved things she could do to a body like that.

“Wait—Did you insinuate that Master Bilbo wants the King to…do impolite things to him?” Ori suddenly exclaimed, the colour pulsating in his cheeks darkening alarmingly. “Are you in the habit of acting in such a manner on your research excursions?”

“No,” Elya admitted haltingly as she breathed in his alluring smell shamelessly. “We didn’t expect to find sentient life on this island—all of this is new and exciting for everyone, I dare say. Do you find this exciting?”

“It’s…nerve-wracking,” he admitted with a self-deprecating chuckle that travelled down her spine like lightning. “What would you have of me, dearest Elya? I’m sure I’d be willing to do almost anything you’d ask. I’m no stranger to the thirst for knowledge, and I’d help you any way I can if you’d just ask.”

Thus invited, Elya slipped. She fell into him as one tumbled into a hidden ravine—almost against her will and despite her better knowledge, she pressed her lips against the soft skin at the base of his throat and moaned softly.

“As all I’ll be allowed to take away from this place are memories,” she whispered against his fragrant, firm flesh. “I’d ask you to help me some I shall never forget.”

Before she could draw back, horrified by her own indiscretion, his strong hand had cupped her face and tilted it up to receive a coy, strangely ceremonial kiss that felt as if it sealed a bargain she’d not consciously or explicitly agreed to.

Having discarded most of their garments beforehand turned out to be a blessing for no mere fabric could have withstood the firestorm of long-denied and not entirely appropriate passion that consumed them.

Bilbo, the King, and their respective expectations and visions of decorum faded from thought as those demure mouths—hitherto devoted to the dispassionate recital of facts and thoughts—sought one another clumsily.

“The walls are thick,” Ori confessed breathlessly. “Nobody will hear…”

If he’d thought this to be a warning to dissuade Elya from her wanton behaviour, he’d fatally misjudged her, though, for she threw back her head and let loose a vibrating moan that bound him tighter than many a rope could have.

“Good,” she grinned, pressing one last tender kiss onto the twitching corner of his mouth before devouring him whole.

When she awoke, days and nights having lost all meaning in this weird world, Elya found herself tangled up in warm, solid limbs that made her think of the impervious stone halls in which she’d found pleasure unlike any other.

Thoughts of blossoms and beasts swept through her mind like ghosts.

Surely, she thought hazily, Bilbo and she would have to extend their stay for purely scholarly reasons that had—they’d swear on all that was sacred to them—nothing to do with the indescribable dwarves they’d met at the world’s end.

Ori lifted his head drowsily, his hand sliding up her bare thigh as if to reassure himself that she’d not dissolved into thin air.

“Interesting findings,” Elya hummed, trying to dissimulate the contradicting, upsetting feeling rising within her by taking refuge in humour. “Let’s see if we can recreate the results.”

“Double-checking seems expedient, indeed,” he smiled, tilting up his sweet face to receive the first teasing kisses that would lead to his inevitable doom. He had to tell her, he knew, he just didn’t know how to confess that, if she ever left, Elya would take away the better part of his heart.

@fellowshipofthefics

-> Masterlist

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Week 4 - Garden

And we go on with this purely self-indulgent story! <3

Prompt: Garden

Pairing: Bilbo x Thorin, Ori x OC

Words: 1 515

Warnings: Fear, danger, a night-time trek

Carefully, this unlikely angel put their things neatly into the negligently discarded packs, his hair shining like polished copper in the dancing glare of the firelight.

“I’m Elya.”

He looked up, a soft smile turning his eyes into pools of shimmering ink. “Ori,” he repeated gently. “The King wants to see you. There will be food.”

Elya interlaced her fingers to keep herself from reaching out and checking his teeth just in case his mastery of their common language had led to an unfortunate misunderstanding, and she was meant to end up on the plate to feed a horde of pointy-toothed savages.

“We know the woods,” he explained slowly. “We can give you good food. Meat.”

That, unfortunately, did nothing to assuage her doubts or calm her fears.

“King?” Bilbo interrupted her mental downward spiral resolutely. “There’s a monarchy in place?”

Ori nodded, beaming with pride, as he jerked his thumb at the outline of a mountain, bathing peacefully in the moonlight, some distance ahead. “The King under the Mountain. You’ll meet him soon!”

He then bobbed his head at the first two men to find their camp who were still standing at the edge of the clearing like mute sentinels. “These are the princes, his nephews,” Ori declared, pride and earnest fondness turning his voice warmer yet.

Afraid that she’d been hexed, Elya hesitated, digging her heels into the soft ground.

Only then did his alert gaze register the hint of unease in their expressions.

“We won’t hurt you,” he promised solemnly. “It’s not safe out here at night; we’ll take you to safety. Come now! Trust us! We wish you no harm!”

He stood and slung one of the packs across his back as if it weighed nought more than a sack of dry leaves and tossed the other to the one called Kíli.

Then, he extended a hand and pulled Elya to her feet.

At once, she was overcome with admiration for his unexpected strength and the warmth of his silken skin—before she could bethink herself of her morals and good breeding, she instinctively wished he’d hold her hand for a little longer.

As soon as that thought sank in like a stone to the bottom of a dark lake, she withdrew her hand.

“Don’t fear,” Ori reasserted, but she could see she’d vexed him with her brusque motion.

“Who are you?” Bilbo interrupted yet again as they were shepherded, wedged between Fíli and Kíli with Ori taking the rearguard, deeper into the forest.

Soon, there was no light other than the moon overhead to guide their steps, but their attendants seemed to know the way by heart and didn’t hesitate or falter.

“We’re the Khazâd,” Ori supplied from behind. “Who are you?”

“We’re researchers,” Bilbo replied readily. “We’ve come to explore this virgin island which doesn’t seem to be so deserted after all.”

Chuckling under her breath, Elya found that his unshakeable humour and verve did much to calm her frayed nerves. She’d trust Bilbo as she had since the beginning of this venture, and they’d certainly end up as right as rain.

“We’re…secret,” Ori informed them tersely. “We can show you, but you can never tell.”

At that, Bilbo visibly withered. This could have been his life’s work. Then again, he’d never write another paper anyway if they were beheaded or left to die in the wilderness by that mysterious king they were destined to meet before the sun came up.

“All right,” he said hesitantly.

“The King will explain,” Ori promised.

As they walked, Elya noticed that their surroundings shifted and changed nigh imperceptibly—little by little, the greenery seemed to grow less dense and suffocating and more ordered in its wild, mesmerising display of textures and shapes.

The sun had crept over the horizon slowly, now bathing the scene in a pale golden light which revealed a blinding array of vibrant colours that positively took her breath away.

“A moment, I beg,” she exclaimed, tugging her notebook from a side pocket of the bag on Kíli’s back and hastily sketching the charming curves and constellations of a cluster of flowers onto the next free page.

Someone snorted good-humouredly.

“Do you like Thorin’s gardens?” Ori’s careful, well-modulated voice cut through the haze of her concentration, pointedly ignoring the unequivocally needling comments from his fellows.

“That’s a fascinating language,” Bilbo observed. “Your drawing seems to have elicited a surge of hilarity. If I’m not very much mistaken, they are mocking our translator, though I’m not yet sure what particular element strikes them as so amusing.”

Elya looked up from her pencil sharply—the forcibly neutral tone of Bilbo’s voice made her narrow her eyes in an instinctive fit of embarrassment.

“I—No!” Ori squeaked while blushing furiously. Evidently, he either was much more fluent in the common tongue than he’d let on or Bilbo’s provocative purr had been universally comprehensible. “It is a good likeness,” he went on with strenuous equanimity after clearing his throat a few times. “If you want, I can show you my own sketches of the gardens in the cold season.”

By that time, the two presumed royals were laughing so hard that they were clutching their bellies as they bent over.

“I would love that,” Elya replied with as much dignity as she could scrape together in her disadvantaged position. “We could look through my notes. Maybe you could give me a few pointers and explanations?”

To her astonishment, Ori’s complexion grew ever darker, making the golden freckles covering his cheeks and nose gleam like stars fallen into a sunset ocean.

“It would be my pleasure,” he whispered curtly but earnestly.

“Careful there, old girl,” Bilbo mouthed when he finally managed to catch his assistant’s eye. “If you’re not mindful of your words, you might well end up married to the odd chap before we’ve even made it to our audience.”

Elya, who’d stubbornly escaped matrimony by disappearing into her scientific and academic endeavours, grimaced as she realised that this ludicrous idea was nowhere near as distasteful and horrifying as it should have been.

She mulled over this uncharacteristic impulse, hardly paying any attention to her surroundings, and gasped in shocked astonishment when she found herself suddenly faced with an intricately carved portal that had been almost entirely obscured by the deceptive layers of greenery.

“I’m sorry,” Ori piped up. “You must be tired, but the King will certainly want to see you first.”

“You better let me do the talking,” Bilbo impressed upon her insistently. “I’d rather not catch up on our lost sleep in a dank cell.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m not a complete brute,” Elya hissed back, vexed to the core by his insinuation.

“If you had told me that yesterday, I’d have believed you,” her superior smirked knowingly. “However, I’ve now seen you make eyes at our poor guide and guardian, and I’d rather not go home empty-handed, tight-lipped, and an assistant short because you pledged yourself to a whole tribe of strangers!”

Elya scoffed and rolled her eyes.

“Please,” Ori, blessedly ignorant of their little aside, whispered, waving at a set of heavy double doors.

With a minute shrug, Bilbo stepped forward, shielding Elya with his body and nodded at their confusing would-be-saviours.

As soon as the doors opened, his pulse slowed and then picked up all at once. The room beyond the doors was unexpectedly, amazingly beautiful.

Bilbo knew not what he’d imagined, but—never in a thousand years—could he have foreseen to find a hall carved out of living rock and adorned with precious stones and rare metals.

“Not a jungle hut then,” Elya breathed behind him, apparently less tongue-tied than her boss.

Giving her a sharp glance that was at least in part meant to be punitive, Bilbo felt his head swivel back almost against his will.

At the end of the long, spacious room stood a throne on a raised dais, and—on that massive chair—sat the most enchanting being he’d ever seen.

Now, Bilbo had discovered, labelled, and catalogued his fair share of quasi-miracles, but he was nevertheless struck dumb by the apparition in front of him.

Here was a king and no doubt about it—everything, from the dark, luscious locks to the thin-lipped smile in a sharp-featured face, spoke of a kind of nobility Bilbo had believed to have died out a long time ago.

He’d never seen eyes that glinted like enchanted sapphires in the chiaroscuro of the torch-lit hall or a frame that promised as much elegance as raw power.

Suddenly, Elya’s. sudden weakness seemed less ludicrous to Bilbo who realised, with a pang of wordless shock, that he would only too gladly have succumbed to the mystery that was this enigmatic king on his throne of black stone.

Instinctively, he quickened his pace until he was almost running towards the crowned, bearded stranger in his eagerness to reduce the agonising distance between him and the most glorious find of his life.

“King Thorin II, son of Thráin, son of Thrór,” Ori declared with resounding finality.

@fellowshipofthefics

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