#Let Camnir go back to his maps

[justavoiceinthevoid]

ROP Underdog Event: Day 1

Prompt: Hope/Despair

Character: Camnir (hints at Camnir/Elrond)

The room is small, stifling, some ways off from the healers' main chambers. A simple cot is tucked into the corner, his cloak and map-case tossed atop the covers. Camnir resists the urge to pace. It would only make a mess - his boots are still caked in mud and grass. He has adamantly refused to remove them.

He's starting to feel uncomfortably like a sullen child.

"I don't understand. You know I'm fine, you saw it yourself. I ran all the way back here with you, did I not?"

Elrond leans against the doorway, a not-so-subtle obstacle to the exit.

"The healers still need to monitor you," he says firmly, "Just in case." He's set to leave within the hour, with the urgent task of reaching Khazad-dûm in time. Camnir knows he intends to go alone. It is - frustrating.

He tries to keep his tone in check, not let it dip too close to a whine. "The healers have far more important things to do, as do we!"

"Camnir - "

What would I tell them, anyway? The truth?" That he had felt his own wound knit back together, watched it heal before his eyes?

A grimace. Camnir had not realised the extent of Elrond's distrust of the rings, but it's more than obvious now. "If you must. But you should remain here regardless."

Camnir's frown deepens. In truth, there is little he can do. He has known Elrond far too long. Behind his eyes, he has already decided.

Camnir drops his gaze. "I wouldn't slow you down. I can keep up, I promise."

There is a pause, before a warm hand comes to rest on his shoulder.

Elrond's voice has softened. "I know you can. This..." He sighs. "If I am honest, this is more for my sake than yours."

"What?"

"We could have lost you out there, mellon."

Camnir blinks, and for a moment he feels sharp, staggering pain, hands pulling him down, covering his mouth.

He breathes through the memory. "I'm fine - "

"You almost weren't." The words slide towards pleading. "Allow me to be selfish, just this once."

It's hardly fair. Elrond asks for so little, it is near impossible to refuse him when he does.

In all this time, Camnir has never managed it.

"You shouldn't go by yourself," He says anyway, though he is sure that Elrond can sense his resignation. "Not after what we just saw."

"I have made the journey many times, I know the safest route. And I am less likely to attract attention on my own."

Elrond reaches up, both hands on his shoulders now, and he walks Camnir backwards until they reach the cot. With all the obvious reluctance he can muster, Camnir lets himself be pushed down to sit on the edge. He can feel himself starting to pout, and quickly reigns it in for the sake of his dignity. At least Elrond doesn't feel the need to mention it. He just steps back slightly, lets his hands drift down to clasp Camnir's.

"I must go," he continues, "I need to speak with the High King again before I leave." His grip tightens briefly, before he moves to head for the door.

Camnir cannot stop himself. "My liege."

Elrond turns back, his expression edging into exasperation, the way it always does when Camnir uses the title. Camnir worries at his lip. The bubbling unease he's been forcing down since they returned to the city is crawling back up his throat.

"Do you think - " he stutters, starts again. "The orcs are already so close to Eregion. Should the Dwarves refuse to help us, what are we -"

"Put that thought from your mind," Elrond cuts in swiftly. "Prince Durin is a steadfast friend of the Elves. I trust him with my life. Together, our forces can drive back Adar before he ever breaches Ost-In-Edhil's walls."

He draws closer, waits for Camnir to meet his eyes.

"Trust in this," He says, softer. "We can still protect Eregion, I know it."

The words ring with such certainty, Camnir has no choice but to believe them.

***

There are stars overhead by the time he reaches the survivors' encampment. It is sparse, even more so than he expected, the barest of essentials cobbled together for the trek to Khazad-dûm. Camnir threads his way through the group as quietly as he can - many are trying to sleep. Those who aren't watch him go, the tear-tracks on their cheeks painfully clear by the firelight. Camnir cannot hold their stares for long.

He finds Elrond near the boundary line, bent over a fallen tree like a war table, studying a rubble-stained map alongside an elf Camnir doesn't recognise. Their words are hushed, the lines of their faces harsh in the torch glow. There is a dark smudge of something like mud or oil under Elrond's cheekbone.

The other elf notices him before Elrond does. He has a warrior's stance, a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder. The carving of his armor is not a design Camnir has ever come across in Lindon. He looks up at Camnir, his brow slightly furrowed. At his pause, Elrond lifts his head.

His lips part in surprise.

"Camnir," he breathes.

Camnir swallows. His hands are shaking. "My liege."

Silence stretches. Camnir cannot find the words to fill it. He should try, he knows, he should try for them both, but it is too much. He doesn't know how to start.

Elrond's companion looks between the two of them. "This can wait until morning," he says quietly, gathering up the map. Elrond jolts at the movement.

"I - that is -"

"The night is upon us. I think we have talked long enough. Come find me before we set off." It is hard to read the elf's eyes, but his expression seems to have softened.

"Yes - yes, of course." Elrond's voice hitches, almost a stammer. "My thanks, Arondir."

Arondir's lips press up, not quite a full smile. Tucking the map under his arm, he turns to leave, giving Camnir a nod of acknowledgement as he goes. Camnir hurries to return it. He watches the archer carefully weave his way through the huddles of survivors, before Camnir's gaze is pulled back to Elrond.

He looks so tired.

Even so, he speaks before Camnir. "What are you doing here?"

"Bringing help and supplies."

"From Lindon?"

He nods. "Some of the healers were determined to ride out to you." He allows himself a sad sort of half-smile. "It is a dangerous journey. I offered to escort them."

It's the wrong thing to say - Elrond is staring at him. Camnir does not like the hollowness he finds in his eyes.

Elrond shakes his head weakly. "That was reckless," he starts, and Camnir lets the smile drop. "You're not a soldier, Cam."

That hurts more than it should. "I'm as much a soldier as you are."

"You don't -"

"What would you have me do?" he says, sharper than he intends. His voice trembles and he hates it. "Stars above, Elrond. Where else should I be, if not beside you?"

"You should be somewhere safe! Far away from -" Elrond bites back the words, but Camnir takes a step towards him.

"Away from what?"

"Away from me."

Camnir cannot hold back his flinch.

He stands frozen, searching for some kind of reply before the unbearable silence seeps back in. He doesn't mean - surely he doesn't mean -

But then Elrond's lower lip quivers, and his chest heaves suddenly on a breath, and the sob he chokes out has Camnir rushing forward, arms around him before he even realises what he's doing.

"I failed."

The words come cracked, halting, as Elrond clings tight to Camnir's cloak. Camnir pulls him closer, forces back his own tears.

"No, you didn't."

"I failed him. I failed them all."

Camnir winds a hand through Elrond's curls. "This wasn't your fault. You did everything you could. No one could ask for more."

It is not enough, not nearly enough, but it is the only answer he has. Everything else is too tangled in untouched anger and pain.

"It wasn't your fault," He says again, gently tugging Elrond towards the crook of his neck.

"Camnir."

Elrond sobs again, and Camnir tightens his hold.

"I'm here. I have you. I'm here."

[finchinmoria]

Spice Week 2025 Entry (Adar/Camnir)

@rivendellwatch (Thank you for putting on this event!!)

Title: The Sweet Spot

Pairing: Adar/Camnir

Rating: M (Mature) just to be safe. I love reading smut but I am terribly rusty at writing it so though sexual encounters are referenced and recounted there's nothing explicit on page. Camnir ends up covered in oil though.

Blurb/Summary: Adar can't feel Camnir's touch because of his scarring and nerve damage, but a little bit (or a lot a bit) of cinnamon rectifies the situation.

Tags/Warnings: Established relationship. The Uruk are semi-permanently settled and Camnir lives with them. Adar lives of course. References to scars and body damage but no explicit descriptions. Author is disabled and chronically ill/disabled Adar is my jam. If we are going to call Camnir a cinnamon roll, Adar should get to lick him like he is one. Not smut, just playfully sexual. I wasn't going to write anything but then I got this idea and just had to so it is not very long but I'm happy with it. Uruk OC's Mocdul and Draga mentioned. I think that's it, get on with it:

Since becoming his lover, there was nothing Camnir enjoyed more than touching Adar. Camnir was a cartographer after all and he treasured the gift of such delicious topography that pulsed with life beneath his hands.

However, it didn't take long for him to figure out that his touches were not always received as vibrantly.

Adar had been forthcoming in the fact that his body had been through cruelties that had left parts of him deformed and numb. But the extent to which he had lost sensation was revealed more slowly.

Adar tried to hide it at first. But it was difficult to hide from Camnir. Never before had Adar experienced such an attentive lover intent on traversing and mapping every inch of his body so lovingly. Camnir caught on pretty quickly that Adar was much more interested in watching Camnir touch him than the actual touches. And when Adar wasn't looking at where Camnir's hands landed, he didn't respond at all.

This wasn't surprising considering there were precious few places Adar's skin wasn't webbed or notched. Indeed the tracks of some of Adar's scars were nearly an inch deep and Camnir could fit his fingertips into them easily at the top of Adar's shoulder and follow them down in a claw like motion the length of Adar's entire back. Finally Adar confessed, to both Camnir as well as himself, that he felt none of it.

But, Adar explained, just because he couldn't feel Camnir superficially didn't mean he couldn't feel him in the ways that were important. He could feel heat. And pressure. Two very key things that made their sexual encounters more or less the same as anyone else's—other than they took things slower and there had to be decent lighting, whether that be firelight or sunlight, so Adar could see what was going on.

One day, however, the Valar blessed Camnir with a tool that allowed Adar to feel his touch.

Well, actually, it had been an accident. And an innocent one at that.

It started when the weather turned cold. Even though he was an elf, the rougher lifestyle of the Uruk took it’s toll on Camnir in various ways. One of those was that Camnir’s lips became dry and cracked in the cold air.

The Uruk healer in camp, Mocdul, had various tinctures and salves for burns and other ailments. But these were developed for the Uruk biology, and Camnir was fairly certain the ingredients were mostly toxic to elves and he'd be poisoned if he tried to use any of them, especially on his lips.

Thus he had to invent a cure on his own. A simple lip balm would do.

He procured some sweet cooking oil from the best cook in camp, Draga, and added in some ground cinnamon he had in his personal stores. (Much like medications, Uruk tea was hostile to Camnir’s sensibilities so he was on his own when it came to brewing and flavoring his tea.)

After he boiled and cooled the concoction, he jarred it up and let the balm settle. When he was done he had a good sized jar of oil he could use and not worry about dying.

The first kiss he received from Adar while wearing the lip balm was meant to be a quick, chaste greeting when Adar retuned to their cabin after a long night with a scavenging detachment. But something activated when their lips met and a sensual burn blossomed over Camnir’s lips. Adar felt it too and the next thing Camnir knew they were kissing again, deep, devouring, and toppling onto the floor, all weariness (and the fact they had a perfectly good bed in the corner) completely forgotten in favor of pleasure.

The next night, Camnir decided to try using the balm on other places in addition to his lips. He applied it to the tips and lobes of his ears, his neck, and his wrists. Adar took some time licking each spot thoroughly, but as soon he moved to unite their bodies, they were both done in less than thirty seconds.

The next night, Camnir coated his hands in oil and splayed them across Adar's back, massaged his neck, caressed his chest, thighs, and everywhere else he could touch. As their encounter progressed it turned into the loudest, most sensual session they had shared in their history together. They were both grateful the Uruk settlement had been able to build small homes and cabins because there would have been no way Adar’s children would have not overheard what was going on if they were still using tents. As Adar drifted into sleep he confessed to Camnir that it had been the first time he felt touch that burned with sweetness instead of pain.

After that night, Camnir used his entire store of cinnamon to make several more jars of the balm and Adar and Camnir used it every time they made love.

Which was almost every day, but sometimes things were hectic enough that they were interrupted for a few nights. On one such dry spell, Camnir retired to their cabin early, resolved to not allow another night to go by without any action.

He grabbed a fresh jar of the cinnamon oil.

It started simply enough. He applied the balm to his lips, of course, and then around his ears, under his jaw, and along his collarbones.

He then stripped off his clothing and added oil to the important parts: his nipples and the insides of his thighs. The spiced scent and the dull burn that spread over his sensitive spots ignited his eagerness. Before he knew it, Camnir was slathering the oil on every inch of himself he could reach.

He only stopped because his hands had become so coated in oil that he couldn't hold onto the jar anymore. It slipped through his fingers and landed with a thud at his feet. None of it spilled only because there was too little left in the jar to spill any.

It was then Camnir realized he had taken things too far. His brain halted. He had never been naked, completely soaked in oil, and turned on out of his mind, all at the same time. He didn’t know how to proceed.

His mind was so muddled he didn't even hear Adar enter their home.

When Camnir looked up his wide, panicked eyes were met by Adar’s gaze, a look mingling between desire and amusement.

They stared at each other for a few moments until Adar took a slow step, then another, until he was close enough to Camnir to take a deep, warm inhale of the sweet cinnamon radiating off his lover's body.

When Adar spoke, his voice was even more low and graveled than usual.

“It seems,” he said, lifting one hand and gently pressing his index finger on Camnir's nose.

"You’ve missed a spot."

The end…. whatever you imagine happens after this is between you and Eru.

Thanks for reading <3

(Also, I'm still writing the Adar/Camnir story that I posted a snippet of during Cuddles Week, I have not forgotten about it, I promise I'll tag everyone who expressed interest when it is finished.)

[lordgrimwing]

On the Road to Eregion

Camnir gripped his satchel of coded maps the lore master gave him scarcely half a day ago. He could do this. He was doing this. He was going to lead a party of soldiers under the King’s herald across the old roads and to Eregion. Every elder he bumped into in the libraries impressed upon him the importance of speed and stealth and shared as much wisdom as he could fit in his head and notes. He could do this.

The lives of thousands of elves and the whole of Middle-earth hung in the balance. 

No pressure.

He was going to be sick.

Elrond set them at a brisk jog up the mountain and didn’t let them break to eat until the sun was far past her zenith. Everything was going fine so far, even if he nearly choked on his spit every time Commander Galadriel snapped a question his way. He was going to mess up terribly and lose precious hours getting them back on course—and she’d be judging him the whole way. 

He’d heard stories about the commander of the northern armies. 

The lump of dense bread and dried meat in his stomach churned threateningly.

 “Eat.”

Camnir looked up from where he was sitting on a fallen log.

Vorohil, the strawberry blond soldier, stood over him. “Eat,” he repeated, gesturing a sword-calloused hand at the food he’d abandoned. 

“I can’t,” he murmured and looked down.

With a sigh, Vorohil sat next to him on the decaying log, adjusting one of the swords that hung from his belt, so it didn’t whack the original occupant. He picked up the bread and pressed it into Camnir’s empty palm. “Eat,” he exhorted. “You won’t keep up this pace if you don’t feed your body. And you’re the one person we can’t leave behind.” He snorted at the end and his voice became less somber. He was being encouraging.

Embarrassed by his doubts, Camnir admitted, “I fear I’ll be sick if I try.”

Vorohil clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Then you will join the ranks of fine men and women who threw up on the eve of their first battle. A noble fellowship.”

What an easy thing for him to say.

Camnir knew Vorohil. Well, they hadn’t met before today and this was the first time they spoke, but he’d read about him in Lindon’s libraries. This whole venture probably felt no different than a walk along the shore to a warrior of the first age. He fought in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, survived the Fall of Gondolin and the Sinking of Beleriand. It was a small thing for him to be brave.

But Camnir hadn’t seen any of that. He’d been born in Mithlond in the second age, apprenticed to a dock master’s scribe and recently come to work for the king’s cartographers, and his highest aim was to become a scribe in the royal libraries—and if he was feeling very confident or maybe had more wine than was good for him, then maybe one day he might be a lore master himself. 

He’d never even seen an orc.

“Enough,” Elrond’s voice rose sharply from the other side of the small glade they stopped in. He didn’t look happy about whatever Commander Galadriel had been talking to him about. “Camnir,” he said, turning on his heel and striding over. “Are we still on the right path?”

Camnir swallowed and his mouth was suddenly very dry. Why hadn’t he drunk more water? “Yes,” he managed. “We can keep this course until we’re over this mountain.”

“Good. Let’s go!” He barked at everyone else.

Vorohil heaved a sigh and braced his hands on his knees as he stood. “Put that in a pocket,” he admonished. “You’re going to be hungry.”

///

As the sun sank below the tree line, Camnir was both nauseated and hungry. Which didn’t make much sense. Oh, and his feet were wet. 

The only blessing he could find was that this wasn’t his first time navigating by starlight. 

He jumped at every unexpected sound, half convinced that a slovering orc would lunge out from behind every other tree. It was foolish, but even knowing Rían, Daemor, and Vorohil had started ranging out further to ensure no enemies were near did not reassure him. He hadn’t been this scared since—well, ever. If he survived this, he was never going to leave the safety of Lindon again if he could help it. 

He jogged past a large pillar of stone half hewn from the mountain side. Long forgotten by now dead hands, the white stone still stood out in the night. He’d read several discourses on the pillar and the people who tried to claim it. They were mostly speculative and fascinating. 

“Wait,” Camnir called softly, slowing to a stop just beyond the landmark. 

The soft footfalls of his companions fell silent. Elrond looked at him, expectant.

“The stone marks a change in the path,” he explained in a hush, opening his satchel and fingering through the scrolls. “I need to check the maps.”

“Rest for a few minutes,” Galadriel said with authority. 

Camnir knew there was tension between them, but he was too busy fishing out scrolls to notice the sharp look Elrond threw at Galadriel.

“Yes,” he said. “A brief rest only. We must reach Eregion as quickly as possible.”

Squinting at a map, Camnir twisted around, trying to find a spot with more star light. The lines of the map were faint and obscured within a code. In theory, the design was such that if the maps fell into unfriendly hands, they would be unusable so the secret ways would remain safe. In practice, it made reading them by night extraordinarily challenging. 

“Here,” a voice said from just over his shoulder.

He dropped the map, swore in the same startled breath, and caught the parchment before it hit the ground. Spinning around, he found Vorohil holding out a hand. In his palm sat a smooth, flat gem, similar to a river stone. It emitted a soft glow, enough to gently illuminate the soldier’s features.

Heart pounding somewhere above his head, Camnir accepted the stone and held it trembling against the velum. 

After triple-checking with two other maps, he surrendered the stone. “This way.”

And they started off again.

///

They didn’t rest again until the sun climbed overhead, offering them safety under her light. 

Camnir undid the laces of his soft boots and pulled them off his feet. Mouth pulling down in distaste, he tugged off the wet socks. They were so encrusted that they perfectly held the shape of his feet when he finally got them off. 

He really, really wanted to throw them as far away as possible or burn them on a bone fire. He settled for shoving them down to the very bottom of his light rucksack. 

Fresh socks and sunlight improved his mood remarkably. 

They made it through the night unmolested and unlost. He felt like he could eat a whole harvest feast by himself this morning. Maybe he actually could get them to Eregion. Now, where did he put his food?

“Hey now, let’s not be revealing my embarrassment in mixed company,” Vorohil chuckled, drawing Camnir’s attention to the conversation going on next to him.

“Mixed company?” Rían repeated, brandishing her bow.

“Careful,” Daemor said, removing their hand from the pommel of one of Vorohil’s short swords and shoving him playfully. “She’s slain more orcs with that bow than I can count.”

Vorohil brushed loose strands of his golden hair out of his face. “That isn’t so hard, friend,” he countered. “I meant the scholar.” 

Camnir looked down. “I’m not a scholar, officially.”

Vorohil looked unbothered by the technicalities of academic titles. 

“Anyone who can recite the history of a crumbling aqueduct in the middle of the night is a scholar,” Rían judged.

So, he might have gotten a little passionate about the ruins of a Mannish hamlet they passed through. He’d just needed a distraction from everything going on, and when no one shushed him after the first few sentences he carried on until the broken aqueduct was far behind them.

“I have yet to publish—” he tried to explain, but the conversation had moved on, leaving him to fumble off balance in its wake.

He really was the odd one out. They were warriors forged in combat. He wasn’t much of anything yet. 

Perhaps he wouldn’t have felt so apart if he could talk with Elrond. The herald had studied under the scholars before finding a place at the king’s side. He’d thought that between the moments of panic, he might be able to speak with him about where his interests lay in the libraries. He would benefit from having an acquaintance in the court who saw him as more than someone who could fetch documents. But his hope was for not.

Every time they stopped or slowed, every time he tried to approach Elrond with anything other than course corrections, the way was blocked. Sometimes because Commander Galadriel had ensnared him in hushed, sharp conversations, sometimes because the tension between the pair was so thick he thought he would smother under it if he got near them. Whatever was going on, he didn’t want to get in the middle of it.

So, he sat on the edge of the soldiers’ quips and felt very far from home, indeed. 

Reaching into his satchel, he pulled out maps for distraction. With any luck, they’d be through the barrowdowns, Tyrn Gorthad, tonight and in sight of the road to Eregion by the next evening.

///

Camnir stood on the moss-covered mound where they placed Daemor’s sword in place of the body they couldn’t find. Rían and Vorohil stood with him, the three of them standing in silent vigil. Elrond and Commander Galadriel didn’t stay with them.

A few days running through the forest was not enough time to get to know someone. Cold grief still gripped at him. He didn’t need to know where Daemor was born or what family they claimed. He didn’t need to know the battles they fought in, the victories, the narrow escapes. He didn’t need to know more than that Daemor was a good person, loyal, and they gave their life for their people—and they died because of him.

He’d led the group into the barrowdowns. He hadn’t known or forgot what kind of dangers lurked there. Surely, that information had to be in the libraries somewhere. It couldn’t just be the evil power of Sauron as Galadriel suggested, could it? Either way, Daemor was dead.

He had little stomach for breakfast this morning. No one did.

Rían knelt with one knee on the ground, eyes on the partly buried sword standing upright before her. She crossed her arms as her lips trembled noiselessly. Was she entreating the Valar to greet their lost companion kindly in the Blessed Lands, Camnir wondered. She was a Sinda, like him. How could she have faith that a Vala would care?

Vorohil stood across from them, completing the triangle. He held a dry leaf between his hands, tracing it with his thumbs. He knew Daemor, there was enough talk during breaks to gather that much. They were friends, good friends, for a long time. He set his face in quiet contemplation as he looked upon the small monument. 

Mist drifted across the gorge. In the distance, crows called to each other. The sun hid behind a gray sky.

Vorohil looked up as the black birds winged about above them.

Camnir wished he could say something, but he had no words, and no right to offer comfort.

Eventually Rían stood. She opened her mouth. 

They heard the first deep note at the same time. Camnir felt it in the soles of his feet and in his teeth.

Drums.

In an instant, Vorohil had his swords in hand and Rían had her bow, an arrow notched and ready to draw. They turned toward the drumbeats.

“Go,” Vorohil mouthed to Camnir. 

Camnir turned on his heel and hurried toward Elrond and Galadriel.

[dragon--ashes]

Camnir & Elrond Fic

Hello there! If you like these two, feel free to have a read of my self-indulgent comfort fic, set after s2 ep1 so that we can take the comfort we can while we still have it.

Fun fact, I am so tired, I had to post this twice because I forgot to insert the link.