#Ourwinterfeast

[whenimaunicorn]

Knifepoint

Our Winterfeast prompt #4

Galadriel x sub!Adar - here I am adding to the pile o fics playing with the dinner scene... femdom is not usually my wheelhouse so I hope I did this ok! @baddybaddyadardaddy did not exactly ask for this but it's dedicated to her and @wowstrawberrycow anyway just for being encouraging to me tonight.

She shouldn’t have drunk the wine. Galadriel trusted that Adar has not poisoned anything upon the table, but wine was still wine, and now she was distracted by … thoughts … that she would prefer not to be thinking right now. Adar was doing his best to convince her of a strategic alliance against Sauron, and she should have been listening for the words between his words, gleaning his true intent.

Instead, as he drew close, all she could think about was the look on his face when she had held him at knifepoint. Both when he was her captive, and she his, his reaction had been the same. An unsettling stillness, a passivity that was not fear, but not vacant either.

When she held a blade to his throat, it was like everything else disappeared for a moment. In his eyes, there was only her, and her will, and he seemed utterly prepared to accept that will. Certain that she was offering something other than death.

What was it, that he was so sure she had to offer him?

“I had not yet met you,” he said, and there was something in his eyes that had her transfixed, yet made her want to look away, in shame, in refusal, in unreadiness.

She would not answer any of his questions, could not commit to either agreement or refusal. But when he spoke about her pride and placed his hand upon her wrist, she slammed her other hand upon his, gripping his wrist at just the right angle to break his grip, to twist and control the limb – unless he was insensitive to pain. She feared that he might indeed be, given the evidence of the scars written across his face, but the Uruk bent as she twisted. She was not sure she could call the intensity that flashed in his eyes “pain,” but he succumbed, letting her keep the cruel grip on his wrist as she stood from the chair.

He was taller than her, but so were most males, and she threw all the fire and command she could muster into the glare that she shot up at him. “My pride is not the problem here,” she hissed.

Adar’s eyes drifted down to the gooseneck grip she had on his wrist. He spoke mildly, soft and low like a lover into the short distance between them. “Will you break my arm and run from me?”

“Perhaps my pride demands it,” she shot back. Then her other hand snatched the dagger sheathed at his waist and stuck the point beneath his chin. “But I think you prefer this to broken bones.”

Adar held her eyes. “And what would you do if I said that I do?” the intensity in his gaze now threatened to swallow her whole. And something inside her answered that darkness.

Galadriel watched his pupils widen as she drew the cold steel along his jaw. A thrill was gathering  deep in her spine, a luxurious uncoiling of something as her blade drew along his cheek, over his lips. They parted for her, and his tongue darted out and licked against the blade.

Something in her that she didn’t even know she had been holding back snapped. She dropped his overextended wrist to grasp him about the neck instead. Adar’s breath caught, though she had not squeezed hard enough to block his airway. Yet.

“What are you thinking about doing with me, filthy Orc?”

“Uruk.” His voice rasped even more past the constriction of her fingers. “Nothing that you would not allow.” He pushed his weight down into her, just a little. “And anything that you might command.”

Heat exploded through her as she realized what he was implying. She could scarcely believe that she wanted this too, but she did and so she did not question it. Galadriel was always unapologetically herself. “Kiss me,” she demanded, dropping the knife from his lips just far enough for him to be able to reach her.

His lips brushed across hers, rough and thin and much too tentative for her liking. Galadriel pulled him in and deepened the kiss, until she felt something begin to melt in him, an unwinding that she wanted to follow until it finished with him writhing at her feet.

Maybe then, after she’d reduced him to his essence, they’d be able to plan a proper alliance.

[withallthatisleftofmyheart]

hey there I would love to see your ideas for this:

”Gothic horror Maidar set during Morgoth's imprisonment in the Halls of Mandos”

Thank you, @gingeragenda 🖤 I had a lot of fun writing this.

I took the opportunity to have a go at the Our Winterfeast prompt: Haunted

There's nothing explicit in this, but Adar is very much mind-prisoned, so cw for psychological torture and compulsive behaviour.

The Ghost of Angband

Each time Adar awoke, he lined up thirteen pebbles. That morning, or day, or night (it was impossible to tell this far beneath the earth), was no different. He arranged them in order of size, from smallest to largest, left to right. They clacked against each other as he worked. He did his best to replicate the same volume and tone with each pebble. It always took some time to get it just right. A particular pattern of markings needed to be lined up correctly across the pebbles. These rules were self-imposed but critically important, though, he could not recall why.

Once the pebbles were satisfactorily laid out, he tapped each one against the stone floor. For each pebble, he spoke a name. For each name, he pictured a face. The last name and face was his own. He then repeated the process thirteen times. Adar could not remember who the other names and faces belonged to. They were spectres of a past life, tangled in the frayed edges of his mind. It had been this way for quite some time, but through this ritual, he grasped onto the scraps of what had been.

On this occasion, something was amiss. The names felt strange in his mouth. Each vowel was sticky against his tongue, and the faces were not quite right. Even his own name sounded strange to his ears, and he was sure his eyes had not always been quite so far apart. He wondered if this change, this disruption, could be an ill omen, or was he jumping at shadows again? Someone used to tease him for his superstitions. Their laughter rang in his ears. Soft and bright, like tinkling bells.

Adar stood up and moved over to the jagged mirror shard that hung on the wall. The light in his quarters was dim, but his eyes were well used to the gloom. Tarnished dark splotches obscured his reflection, but he could make out a face, his face. It was as he remembered it. Wasn’t it? There were his grey eyes, his scarred cheeks, his sullen brow. For a few minutes, he stared at his features, waiting to catch them shifting. But they held firm. He sighed and ran a comb through his hair thirteen times, reciting the names with each stroke, until it was slicked back and tucked behind his ears. With a deep breath, he told himself that all was well, then dressed. 

He wore a long black robe with voluminous sleeves that gathered at cuffs of a deep shade of red, embroidered with silver flames. A matching band ran around the garment’s waist. Each time he went to sleep he folded the robe away in a chest. Each time he awoke he found it draped over the end of his bed. Many times he tried to stay awake to see who it was that moved it, but heavy slumber always descended upon him before he had the chance. Eventually, he gave up trying. Though he continued to put the robe in the chest each night. He would not let his routine be disrupted by mysterious forces. 

As he fastened his dagger belt around his hips, a flash of red moved in his peripheral vision. His eyes darted to the entrance. His quarters had no door, those were reserved for servants of higher rank. All he saw was the carved archway and the empty corridor beyond. His fingers tightened around the jewel-encrusted hilt of his dagger. Another flash of red caught his eye. He looked down at his sleeve cuff. Red. That must have been it. He held his breath, counted thirteen heartbeats, then exhaled. With his nerves settled, he stepped out into the corridor.

Adar skulked through Angband. Cold flames cast gyrating shadows against the high stone walls. His footsteps echoed around him, cutting through the heavy silence. It gave the illusion that he walked among many others. While he was certain it had not always been the case, Angband was now deserted. Adar would not abandon his duty, however. Melkor rescued him from unspeakable horrors so he would wait patiently for his master’s return. Perhaps when the Dark Lord returned, he would be rewarded for his loyalty. How long had it been now? Adar could not be sure. The passing of time was strange in Angband. Years slipped through his fingers like smoke. 

The sprawling subterranean fortress was far too large to cover even one level in a single day. He tried it once but passed out on the cold stone floor and awoke in his bed. He supposed he could have walked back in his sleep, but the possibility that he had been carried deterred him from straying too far. It was dangerous to show weakness here, even if he had not seen another living soul in quite some time.

Sometimes there would be a sudden blistering heat or frigid chill as he passed through the corridors. Each time it occurred, he checked the walls and floors for gaps through which a draught could blow. Even if he did manage to find a hole, the temperature difference was never enough to explain the phenomenon. Still, he would always go and collect rubble to fill in the cracks. 

Occasionally he witnessed streaks of greyish-green colours that hung in the air. They twisted off into the distance or sprang towards him. Sometimes he thought he could make out faces. There was a familiarity to them that caused an uncomfortable tugging sensation at his sternum. It was as if they were messengers from beyond, ghosts of a forgotten past, or portents of doom.

Adar came to the throne room. It was a colossal chamber with a ceiling so high it could not be made out through the darkness. Large obsidian pillars were evenly spaced throughout. At the far end of the chamber was an enormous throne of ornately carved stone that sat atop a high dias. A smaller throne sat to the left of the larger. It was made from intricate gilded metalwork. Adar could not recall who it belonged to, but for a moment, he thought he caught a glimpse of a figure sitting upon it. He tapped his forefinger against his thumb thirteen times, muttering the names and recalling the faces, then surveyed the throne room. It was vacant. All was still.

“Adar,” a voice rang out sweetly. Strangely, it did not echo.

“Hello?” Adar’s reply bounced up the walls and disappeared into the gloom.

He could not remember the last time he heard a voice that was not his own. He remained still, ears keenly listening for any sound of movement. All he heard was the thumping of his heart. He took thirteen careful steps forward, then stopped again to listen.

“Adar,” this time the voice came as a whisper inside his skull.

A sharp pain stabbed at his eyes. He winced and blinked it away. His vision blurred into a gloomy swirl of dark stone and torchlight, then coalesced into a beautiful face. 

The being’s visage was so bright, it burned to look upon them, but Adar endured. He could not bear to shut his eyes and deny himself the sight. So he stood there, frozen in awe, as the being reached out a hand and tilted up his chin. The touch sent a shiver through Adar as he looked up into eyes that glowed like embers. 

“Do you remember me?” the being asked.

“No,” Adar breathed. He could not imagine being acquainted with a being of such sublimity. 

“A pity,” the being replied with a sigh. “No matter, I have come to rescue you from your torment.”

“I-,” Adar stammered, “I do not require rescue.” 

 “Is that so?” the being’s full lips twisted into a smirk, “Look around you, Adar, does nothing seem amiss?”

Adar’s eyes darted about the throne room. “Where is everyone?” he asked in a low voice.

“That is not the question you should ask,” the being replied. 

It did not take Adar long to think of a response. He had a wealth of questions and a dearth of answers.

“Where am I?” he asked again, louder this time.

“Well done,” the being praised, brushing their thumb against Adar’s cheek, “You are trapped. Not quite here, not quite gone. It is in my power to free you, but I require something in return.”

Adar took a shuddering breath. He could not think what he had done to deserve such a mercy.

[wowstrawberrycow]

Nose🖤

So no one asked for this. I discovered our winterfeast before I could could submit a prompt or claim one. But here I am. I wanted to participate anyway I hope this is ok🖤🖤🖤

*I don't own the music. But it did help me paint this 🖤

Happy Solstice everyone!

Every time an uruk child is born their nose is booped with that of their parents.🖤🖤🖤

[whenimaunicorn]

Lacuna

"Our Winterfeast" prompt fill #1 (I hope to do one per day!)

@valar-did-me-wrong I chose angst.

Elven memories do not dim, but there are holes in Adar’s. Chasms they are, ripped wide, as surely as Melkor and the Valar had rent the very rock of Middle Earth. What memories he has are still as clear as yesterday, but the spaces between them…

He doesn't know if others as old as he experience the same, or if this is an effect of Utumno. Rarely does this concern him. With so many recollections of pain, of torture and guilt and loss he usually considers it a blessing that he doesn’t remember every moment of his accursed life.

And yet. There are wisps of something other than suffering, lingering in the depths of his mind.

He knows he had life before Utumno. Those memories feel like they happened to someone else—the few that remain. And they are shattered. An impression of cool water on his skin, silver Elfin hair streaming in the breeze. The stars, brilliant in the dome of a sky devoid of any competing heavenly bodies. His chest softens when he contemplates these things, and this is dangerous. Weakness is powerlessness is pain.

Always, he wanted so desparately to live. He remembers that much. He remembers raging against hands extending from the dark. Must keep them off, keep them away from…

What. What was it he was protecting? Why does his chest tingle and ache, why do his arms long for something small and warm that clings to him, that should be there?

Adar presses his eyes shut, wishing these final fragments would fade with the rest. Then he leaves his tent. He will go and check on the Uruklings for a while.

[gingeragenda]

Thank you @withallthatisleftofmyheart

This is such a wonderfully atmospheric piece of writing, I love how Adar’s compulsive behavioural affects everything he does. Always adore an ethereal depiction of Mairon ❤️‍🔥

hey there I would love to see your ideas for this:

”Gothic horror Maidar set during Morgoth's imprisonment in the Halls of Mandos”

Thank you, @gingeragenda 🖤 I had a lot of fun writing this.

I took the opportunity to have a go at the Our Winterfeast prompt: Haunted

There's nothing explicit in this, but Adar is very much mind-prisoned, so cw for psychological torture and compulsive behaviour.

The Ghost of Angband

Each time Adar awoke, he lined up thirteen pebbles. That morning, or day, or night (it was impossible to tell this far beneath the earth), was no different. He arranged them in order of size, from smallest to largest, left to right. They clacked against each other as he worked. He did his best to replicate the same volume and tone with each pebble. It always took some time to get it just right. A particular pattern of markings needed to be lined up correctly across the pebbles. These rules were self-imposed but critically important, though, he could not recall why.

Once the pebbles were satisfactorily laid out, he tapped each one against the stone floor. For each pebble, he spoke a name. For each name, he pictured a face. The last name and face was his own. He then repeated the process thirteen times. Adar could not remember who the other names and faces belonged to. They were spectres of a past life, tangled in the frayed edges of his mind. It had been this way for quite some time, but through this ritual, he grasped onto the scraps of what had been.

On this occasion, something was amiss. The names felt strange in his mouth. Each vowel was sticky against his tongue, and the faces were not quite right. Even his own name sounded strange to his ears, and he was sure his eyes had not always been quite so far apart. He wondered if this change, this disruption, could be an ill omen, or was he jumping at shadows again? Someone used to tease him for his superstitions. Their laughter rang in his ears. Soft and bright, like tinkling bells.

Adar stood up and moved over to the jagged mirror shard that hung on the wall. The light in his quarters was dim, but his eyes were well used to the gloom. Tarnished dark splotches obscured his reflection, but he could make out a face, his face. It was as he remembered it. Wasn’t it? There were his grey eyes, his scarred cheeks, his sullen brow. For a few minutes, he stared at his features, waiting to catch them shifting. But they held firm. He sighed and ran a comb through his hair thirteen times, reciting the names with each stroke, until it was slicked back and tucked behind his ears. With a deep breath, he told himself that all was well, then dressed. 

He wore a long black robe with voluminous sleeves that gathered at cuffs of a deep shade of red, embroidered with silver flames. A matching band ran around the garment’s waist. Each time he went to sleep he folded the robe away in a chest. Each time he awoke he found it draped over the end of his bed. Many times he tried to stay awake to see who it was that moved it, but heavy slumber always descended upon him before he had the chance. Eventually, he gave up trying. Though he continued to put the robe in the chest each night. He would not let his routine be disrupted by mysterious forces. 

As he fastened his dagger belt around his hips, a flash of red moved in his peripheral vision. His eyes darted to the entrance. His quarters had no door, those were reserved for servants of higher rank. All he saw was the carved archway and the empty corridor beyond. His fingers tightened around the jewel-encrusted hilt of his dagger. Another flash of red caught his eye. He looked down at his sleeve cuff. Red. That must have been it. He held his breath, counted thirteen heartbeats, then exhaled. With his nerves settled, he stepped out into the corridor.

Adar skulked through Angband. Cold flames cast gyrating shadows against the high stone walls. His footsteps echoed around him, cutting through the heavy silence. It gave the illusion that he walked among many others. While he was certain it had not always been the case, Angband was now deserted. Adar would not abandon his duty, however. Melkor rescued him from unspeakable horrors so he would wait patiently for his master’s return. Perhaps when the Dark Lord returned, he would be rewarded for his loyalty. How long had it been now? Adar could not be sure. The passing of time was strange in Angband. Years slipped through his fingers like smoke. 

The sprawling subterranean fortress was far too large to cover even one level in a single day. He tried it once but passed out on the cold stone floor and awoke in his bed. He supposed he could have walked back in his sleep, but the possibility that he had been carried deterred him from straying too far. It was dangerous to show weakness here, even if he had not seen another living soul in quite some time.

Sometimes there would be a sudden blistering heat or frigid chill as he passed through the corridors. Each time it occurred, he checked the walls and floors for gaps through which a draught could blow. Even if he did manage to find a hole, the temperature difference was never enough to explain the phenomenon. Still, he would always go and collect rubble to fill in the cracks. 

Occasionally he witnessed streaks of greyish-green colours that hung in the air. They twisted off into the distance or sprang towards him. Sometimes he thought he could make out faces. There was a familiarity to them that caused an uncomfortable tugging sensation at his sternum. It was as if they were messengers from beyond, ghosts of a forgotten past, or portents of doom.

Adar came to the throne room. It was a colossal chamber with a ceiling so high it could not be made out through the darkness. Large obsidian pillars were evenly spaced throughout. At the far end of the chamber was an enormous throne of ornately carved stone that sat atop a high dias. A smaller throne sat to the left of the larger. It was made from intricate gilded metalwork. Adar could not recall who it belonged to, but for a moment, he thought he caught a glimpse of a figure sitting upon it. He tapped his forefinger against his thumb thirteen times, muttering the names and recalling the faces, then surveyed the throne room. It was vacant. All was still.

“Adar,” a voice rang out sweetly. Strangely, it did not echo.

“Hello?” Adar’s reply bounced up the walls and disappeared into the gloom.

He could not remember the last time he heard a voice that was not his own. He remained still, ears keenly listening for any sound of movement. All he heard was the thumping of his heart. He took thirteen careful steps forward, then stopped again to listen.

“Adar,” this time the voice came as a whisper inside his skull.

A sharp pain stabbed at his eyes. He winced and blinked it away. His vision blurred into a gloomy swirl of dark stone and torchlight, then coalesced into a beautiful face. 

The being’s visage was so bright, it burned to look upon them, but Adar endured. He could not bear to shut his eyes and deny himself the sight. So he stood there, frozen in awe, as the being reached out a hand and tilted up his chin. The touch sent a shiver through Adar as he looked up into eyes that glowed like embers. 

“Do you remember me?” the being asked.

“No,” Adar breathed. He could not imagine being acquainted with a being of such sublimity. 

“A pity,” the being replied with a sigh. “No matter, I have come to rescue you from your torment.”

“I-,” Adar stammered, “I do not require rescue.” 

 “Is that so?” the being’s full lips twisted into a smirk, “Look around you, Adar, does nothing seem amiss?”

Adar’s eyes darted about the throne room. “Where is everyone?” he asked in a low voice.

“That is not the question you should ask,” the being replied. 

It did not take Adar long to think of a response. He had a wealth of questions and a dearth of answers.

“Where am I?” he asked again, louder this time.

“Well done,” the being praised, brushing their thumb against Adar’s cheek, “You are trapped. Not quite here, not quite gone. It is in my power to free you, but I require something in return.”

Adar took a shuddering breath. He could not think what he had done to deserve such a mercy.