#The more I think about this the angrier I get | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

marshmellin · 2 days ago

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What’s the Elvish Word for “Fine”?

Rated I for (angry) Idiots in Love: 5.8K words, Thranduil x unnamed/undescribed mortal woman, 2nd person POV, no use of y/n Rated mature for language only, "arranged marriage" in a political sense with consent between willing adults, they’re big mad but is it anger or just being stupid?

No beta, we die like Thranduil's first wife who is not mentioned

You rounded the corner and stopped suddenly. Thranduil was sitting on Carasta’s desk. Sitting was the wrong term. Lounging. “Hello, wife.” He was in dark, silvery robes without his crown, his long legs propped up against a chair. With a far-too-broad smile on his face. Something stupid was happening.

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“It is infuriating that you keep putting up this long –” – slam – “ – infuriating – ” – slam – “ – show – ” – slam —. “I can not want you in the way you want me.” Cold blue eyes stared at you, waiting for the outburst, the anger he so desperately wanted to bloom across your face.

When Thranduil started to feel something – anything – stirring in his chest, he started a fight. You noticed the two of you fought often. More so now than at the beginning of your not-quite-a-marriage two years ago. You did not think it a coincidence, but what the hell did you know?

You’d thought you’d entered a partnership with someone civil.

Nodding almost imperceptibly, you kept your face still. “And what, exactly, makes you think I want you, Thranduil?” You let just a little sarcasm creep in.

He narrowed his cold eyes, evaluating you.

The issue was, however: You did want him.

In the last two years, you had come to want him very much, though you admit you are unsure how it started given his general demeanor.

Well, that’s a lie. He’s an elf. And he is particularly attractive for an elf, at that. His face alone gives his behavior a pass for the first three, maybe four encounters.

But this behavior was not one of his better looks and you’d have no issue turning this version of the Elvenking down for the rest of your very mortal life.

White hot fury flashed across his face. “You know what I mean. Constantly, you show it. And I can not — will not — respond the way you want!”

You leaned back in your chair. “I do not know what you mean, Thranduil” you said firmly, shaking your head exaggeratedly. “What is it that I show you?” --You weren’t showing him sex or physical affection, certainly so – “What is it that you claim to see from me that you can not respond to, Thranduil?”

The more you said his name, the angrier he would get, which is why you kept doing it. Thranduil all but snaked his way to gripping the desk across from you, leaning over your papers. Curtains of snow-white hair hanging between you as he glared down at you. Not exactly giving you "the high ground” so to speak, but the fact that he came this close to you meant he was already on his back foot.

“You…are….constantly…HERE. You ask after me, you bring me food, you manage to interrupt me during every letter I’ve written in the last four weeks. You bring me books you think I might like, you leave me letters about your work. I do not know how to respond to you. I have been alone in these chambers for centuries and yet you are HERE. I do not want this and I do not want you. And I do not know why you continue to make this arrangement so difficult by pretending.”

You blinked at that, tilting your head. Slowly. You were giving him time to suss it out on his own.

But his rage was icy, bathed in wine from dinner, and he didn’t seem to know how to do math in the cold.

You set the quill down and steepled your fingers, elbows resting on the desk as you looked up at him looming above you.

Fine.

“Everything you have just ‘accused’ me of is what spouses do, Thranduil. Husbands and wives. Partners. Bluntly, you bought yourself a wife, ThranduilI, through an even exchange: you have a skilled negotiator and queen, my uncle’s people have food and protection.”

Muscles in his jaw worked and he opened his mouth, “That is not–”

You held up a hand, cutting him off. “Ah-aht, no, Thranduil. No. You said what you wanted to say both tonight and many other nights. And now you will let me do the same.”

The look on his face didn’t change, but his mouth snapped shut.

It might do him some good to shut up for a moment, even if it gave you heartburn to demand it.

“It weighs on my heart that someone asking after your wellbeing startles you so,” you said steadily, fingers tapping against the desk as if making an observation that it was raining outside – but the truth of it stung you.

It did hurt that he was so…that he thought someone making sure he ate was…

It was heartbreaking.

But, it was becoming increasingly clear, his heart was not yours to mend.

You sighed again. At this point you were sighing more often than breathing. “Thank you for this final, clear message that you take no pleasure in our” — marriage? Partnership? It had never been one — “contract. I will make my thoughts equally as plain: I have one job in Greenwood. It is to be your wife and queen. And in truth, it’s a shitty job, but I’m going to do it as best as I can, Thranduil. I agree, our quarters are not ideal and I will leave for another part of the palace within the week.”

Thranduil held your gaze. You cocked an eyebrow. You thought you saw another muscle in his jaw twitch, but you weren’t sure.

When he finally spoke, his tone was softer, which you had not expected. “I do not want to…put on a show….”

Your eyebrows shot up at that. You were done being lectured. “You purchased a fucking show, Thranduil. Now you are angry when it’s performed for you? Fine. That is your choice, and I am happy to stop acting like this is a working partnership.” You snorted and broke eye contact, reaching down to pick up your quill.

Head down, squinting at the parchment, you did your best to dismiss him. It had taken you an extraordinary amount of effort to say all of this to him, for several reasons, and you could not look him in the eye any longer.

Firstly, fuck him for coming in to your study, knocking books around and talking too loudly after you both just sat through an entrant for Arda’s Most Boring Banquet award and smiled as his queen was supposed to. King Amdír’s son Amroth wasn’t exactly the best conversationalist and yet, converse you had with the obnoxious Silvan.

And you were feeling quite unappreciated at this moment, considering you’d also negotiated an agreement for open trade of leather goods from Amroth’s father during the dinner. While Thranduil drank — a reminder that he is, at least, two glasses in — and muttered every time you stood near him at a respectful distance.

Secondly, this was the only time you had ever thought about your relationship with Thranduil as a contract that he did not seem to understand.

You knew what was being exchanged. The elven-ness of it all had been jarring at first, yes, but you knew from a young age you would enter a political marriage and you had been raised for one. Binding your family and your people to the largest local realm ruled by a nearly-immortal being was a solid strategy to ensure your great, great, great-grandchildren would be protected and fed -- and it was the equivalent of a 10-year contract to someone like Thranduil. You had no qualms about this, and you entered the agreement with him with open eyes, as equals.

Yet, you had not probed deeply into his understanding of it until today. Of what partnership meant to him. In any way.

Leaving behind a book he may find interesting? About a topic, if you recalled correctly — and you know you did — he discussed during dinner once and noted he wished to understand better.

That was too much after two years of knowing each other? Of knowing each other in any capacity? Even just as a member of his court, much less his wife?

If so, he had a very weak understanding of any kind of partnership, marriage or otherwise, and you truly had expected more from him.

Thirdly, you did not want to leave his chambers or stop asking how he was or stop bringing him books he may like or leaving notes about your day. As irritable and obnoxious and, honestly, unpleasant as Thranduil could be….

You found him endearing in those milliseconds he allowed himself to feel anything but anger. All together, he was many negative things, yes. But he was also protective of his family and his people, wise in how he negotiated relationships with neighboring kingdoms and the High Elves. He was well-read and, when he allowed himself to show it, he had this wonderful wit and charm that was…well, he was charming.

You had been charmed.

And over the last two years of this arrangement, you learned you wanted to be his wife in more than just contractual terms. You think you’ve fallen in love with him. And you know you want him to want you in return.

But.

He just said plainly that he did not want that. That he did not want you.

And if this is where you were, then this is where you were. Your options were limited, your contract signed, and your choices made.

You had not expected to find love here. Confirming it was absent didn’t change a damn thing, and at this point it did not sting. Your job was to negotiate contracts on behalf of Thranduil Oropherion, the Elvenking and to attend events as his Queen.

That was it.

Leaving him books or being pleasant was not part of the contract you signed.

Your thoughts drifted aimlessly, landing on the question of how you would like your new chambers laid out — since a large takeaway from this conversation was that spending time in the same room — palace — realm — continent — with you angered him.

The conjoined study layout here was not ideal. Thranduil had a tendency to shout profanities at his correspondence before replying in a more civil manner. You had grown accustomed to it — even smiling on occasion when he invented new ways to swear at Thorin or Celeborn — but perhaps it was best to avoid that distraction now that you were....

Well, if Thranduil is not near me, it doesn’t matter if the rooms are conjoined or not.

With a small sigh, you noted that request with an asterisk to return to later.

You were halfway through the next line when you realized he had. not. moved. At all. Not even an inch. He was still staring at the top of your head as you wrote, long hair falling into the space between you.

Why? This conversation, much like your illusions of ever having a civil working relationship, was over.

You set the quill aside gently as you looked up to meet his eyes. "Yes, Thranduil?"

“So, that is what it was, then?”

Furrowing your brow, you shook your head in confusion. “I don’t ... wait, what?” Your gaze met his. All the ice in his eyes had melted, but the rest of him moved stiffly as he leaned back, letting go of the desk.

“Fine.”

He spun on his heel, hair flaring around him, and walked out.

“Fine!” you shouted after him, half rising from the desk to make sure it carried to the next room.

You weren’t sure why you were shouting at him, but you’d make sure you’d be the one to shout last.

The next morning, you asked a courier to take your note to Thranduil requesting new chambers on the far side of the Halls. 'Note' was a generous term: it was a list of items for him to approve, signed with the first initial of your name.

Warm, it was not.

But the courier said he had been instructed “not to deliver messages to King Thranduil at this time, my lady. His majesty requests your presence in the throne room.”

You arched an eyebrow at that.

“Very well, thank you for letting me know.” You waved your hand to dismiss the courier.

“Ah,” he said softly, shifting uncomfortably.

Thranduil. Are you familiar with an old saying from the lowlands? Bite my ass? If not, then it is unlikely you’re familiar with that phrase’s cousin, Go fuck yourself. I am happy to teach you both.

“Your majesty, I would be honored to, um, guard you as you travel to the throne room,” he ended weakly, because guarding a queen while she walked in her own halls was a ridiculous thing to suggest.

Thranduil was doing something very stupid. You weren’t sure what, exactly, but you could sense it.

“I appreciate the offer, Lieutenant, but I am not going to the throne room today.” Thranduil had, at least, taught you a few tricks for leadership. Or, more accurately, intimidation.

The young ellon looked very torn, as if repeating hierarchy structures in his head and continually arriving at the conclusion that Thranduil was at the top. “Your maj—“

“You’re dismissed, Lieutenant.” Yes, the Elvenking was at the top of all of those hierarchies, but you rested just beneath him.

…Well…

The guard left.

So you used this opportunity to take the scroll he would not deliver to Thranduil, and went to look for Carasta, Thranduil’s private secretary. Walking from your section of your chambers through Thranduil’s, your goal was getting to Carsasta’s work table on the far side of the suite. You would provide him with the list of your requests. If Thranduil didn’t want to accept your request from Carasta, that was fine. You would find the nearest builder and take the walls down yourself, but you were not spending one more minute sharing your chambers with Thranduil than either of you wished to.

You rounded the corner and stopped suddenly. Thranduil was sitting on Carasta’s desk. Sitting was the wrong term. Lounging.

“Hello, wife.”

He was in dark, silvery robes without his crown, his long legs propped up against a chair. With a far-too-broad smile on his face.

Something stupid was happening.

“King Thranduil,” you said, inclining your head.

“Melethnín,” he said softly, his eyes going wide. “What brings you here? I hoped you would join me in the main hall.”

My love? You cocked an eyebrow. “I am simply leaving a note for Carasta regarding my chambers,” you said evenly, reaching around Thranduil’s long form to place the scroll on Carasta’s desk. You didn’t even want to guess how he made it from the throne room to Carasta’s desk that fast.

Was he even in the throne room or did he know you’d ignore him?

“Ah, I am eager to read this,” Thranduil said happily, picking up the scroll and opening it.

It took everything in you not to snatch it from him. Even though he had been the original recipient.

Icy eyes skimming your notes, he tsked loudly. “Ah, melethnín, this is not sufficient. Not at all! I would not have you move so far from our shared quarters. Mmm, no, we shall draft a new plan together. It is only right for a queen to have a full suite for her study and work, verinya.”

My love. My wife.

So, something very stupid.

You sighed. “Thranduil. I am moving my chambers to the other side of the Halls.”

He shook his head, his face the picture of innocence as he rolled up the scroll and hid it away in his robes — where, you didn’t know, because his robes were almost skintight. “I do not want you to leave our chambers.”

“I’ll write another request, king.”

“I’ll intercept it, queen.”

“Thranduil.”

“Melethnín.”

A long pause.

“You asked me to leave you alone.”

He shook his head firmly. “No, I said you were always here.”

“You shouted that you wanted space.”

He cocked his head, arrogance on his face, as silver hair cascaded over his shoulder. “I did not. I acknowledge I raised my voice in a very unrefined way, for which I do truly apologize. But I did not demand space apart from you. And on either account, I find I have changed my mind, verinya.”

My wife.

“You will find I have not, veronya.” You spun on your heel and walked out.

You heard him raise his voice mockingly, calling, “I haven’t interrupted your day, have I, my love?” at your back as you left.

“No. You’re fine,” you gritted out loudly as you stomped out.

“Fine,” came the muted reply from three rooms away.

Two months later, and Thranduil had not stopped yet, though his tone had grown less mocking, at least.

He came to you for every meal — and he managed to carry on many thoughtful conversations despite the one-word replies you often gave. He brought you books — frustratingly, the titles were interesting, and he had clearly listened to you at some point to pick them out. He came to ask you questions while you wrote letters and arranged new trade agreements — his comments were obnoxiously helpful and pertinent.

Thranduil seemed to think that acting pleasant toward you was a punishment of some kind.

And it was, because it felt like a perverse game. He was showing you what you could have if you…if he….

Well, you weren’t sure what. Something you could not have? He had been very clear. And, you knew, he could be very petty.

Thranduil also seemed to be playing more than one game, particularly by calling you every pet name devised by Elves or Men — and you think you caught a Dwarven term of endearment or two in there as well, so clearly he was not aware of the origins of the term or he never would have uttered it in his halls.

And yet you did not know why he continued this game for so long. But you suspected the other shoe would drop at some point.

It was the second time that evening he had scooted his chair closer to yours, the two of you practically sharing a desk.

“May I suggest you add another clause here — we can’t be held responsible for orc raids. Transfer of ownership occurs when the wine leaves our barges, even if within our borders. I have spoken with Celeborn on this point already, and told him it was not up for discussion.” He tapped a long finger on the side of your paper and looked down, eyes crinkling as he smiled. “Don’t let him go around us, melethnín.”

He kept breaking your heart with this game, and you were done.

“Thranduil, stop.”

The smile slipped from his face. “Ah. Of course. I’ll leave you to it,” he murmured gently, turning back to his side of the desk.

When did we pick sides of the same desk?

You sighed and stood, creating some distance between the two of you.

You were done. It was done now.

“You have made your point. I understand. You think it’s suffocating. That I am suffocating. I understand. I understood this two months ago when you told me that you would remain married to me — unwillingly — if I left you alone. And I have moved to limit our interactions since then. I understand what you want.“

You held back a scream, but did not manage to stop a snarl from escaping somewhere deep in your chest. “I will never send you a book ever again, on my oath to Varda and Manwë, I will never speak to you outside a royal function ever again. Please, just stop.”

Thranduil stood as well, rising fluidly and pausing to gently place his chair under his half of the — under the desk. He was, well, patient as he turned to face you, a surprising softness in his eyes.

“I changed my—“

“— yes, Thranduil, you changed your damn mind about the damn rooms. I heard you. I have not changed mine. I am not asking you to alter our marriage contract here, okay, this is a small thing. I want to move to my own study — per your request — and I cannot understand why you have fixated on this so strongly.”

He did not want you to leave this space. Yet he did not want you to stay in this space.

No option was good enough for him.

You crossed your arms. You had seen him be petulant before but two months? You finally met his gaze and it was exactly what you were expecting. Anger blossoming across his face, that one small muscle in his cheek that always twitched.

“Contract.”

“Fine. Contract.” You threw your hands up in frustration and started rummaging through the desk. “If you want to read the damn thing to ensure I’m following it, I’ll tell you right now there are exactly zero requirements around—”

“Carasta’s files are much more organized,” Thranduil said icily.

You looked up, letting the papers in your hands scatter to the desktop. “Marry Carasta then, goddamnit. I don’t care.” You were so tired it came out as a flat statement.

Taking a deep breath, Thranduil seemed to try again, looking for patience in himself you had never seen him find.

“I don’t want to be married to Carasta,” he said simply, managing to keep his voice steady. “I want to understand.”

You furrowed your brow even more. He wasn’t making sense.

“You aren’t making sense.”

A small growl escaped him. “What is it that you want? You…I didn’t understand what you meant by…” he huffed and managed to do so haughtily. “Was it a show or not?”

“Was what a show?” You looked around the room, as if expecting to spot the audience, and let your hands drop to your legs in a clapping sound. “The only person complicating this is you. I have stopped reaching out, as you have asked. Why are you fighting—“

“So it was.” He spun on his heel again.

Oh, I think the fuck not. You were absolutely not doing this for another two months. You were a patient woman but you had limits. Honestly, one limit. And you had reached it.

You snatched at his arm, grabbing a layer of his cape, which allowed him to walk several more feet before feeling any resistance.

“Stop. Oh, for fuck’s sake, just stop.”

“I am stopping,” he replied through gritted teeth, hair swinging as he jerked his head to look at you. “I am done.”

You imagined you heard the sound of the other shoe dropping on a marble floor somewhere far away.

You both stood still for a long moment, your hand holding the edge of his cape like an awkward flag between the two of you. His eyes were still white flame, staring into the distance, not meeting yours. The set of his shoulders and the jut of his chin said he wanted to argue again.

That he was feeling something.

Why? Done with what?

“What are you done with?”

Thranduil shrugged your hand off his cape and swept it dramatically behind him. “This. Because you...I thought you did not and then I thought you did, and now it is clear my first impression was correct and you do not. I have approached this incorrectly twice now. I will not attempt it a third. You have been clear.”

You cocked your head at him. The two of you hadn’t used a meaningful noun in quite some time during this argument. You knew that was the type of risk that had to be corrected immediately.

No one was ever on the same page the first time.

But you had a suspicion.

“Define ‘this,’” you all but whispered.

“Absolutely not. I am done speaking of it. I will not allow you to mock me.”

Your eyes narrowed. “I’m not mocking you, I’m asking you a question. We have strayed so far from the start of this conversation that I fear we are saying the same thing and don’t know it.”

He glared at you. “That can’t—“

“Why has your behavior been so different the last two months?”

Thranduil shifted almost uncomfortably, but managed to keep venom in his tone. “You indicated this is the behavior of those who are partners.” A small pause, his voice turning sullen. “Of husbands and wives.”

It took all your focus not to move a single muscle in your face. “You indicated several times that you did not care for me to be your partner or your wife.”

“Yes,” he hissed, “But I changed my mind because I thought I had misunderstood before, and I do not know how to show that to you properly now.”

Thranduil started pacing, his long legs turning the study into two, maybe three steps at most before he spun again. His robes barely fit the space.

No. This— No. You felt a laugh somewhere deep in your chest, but you forced it down in case he misunderstood.

Which you both seemed to be doing often lately.

“Tell me, specifically, what you are trying to show me,” you asked cautiously.

This was not a time for miscommunication. You would stay here the rest of your mortal life if needed, but you would walk out of this room knowing what the fuck he meant.

Because you thought you already knew.

He shook his head, silver hair glinting in the firelight.

“Thranduil.”

He was still shaking his head, glaring at the hearth, nearly shaking in anger. But he hadn’t left or slammed any doors, which was a good sign.

One of the first things you had learned about negotiating, years ago when you first followed your uncle to his council meetings as a child, was that the party who named an honest, earnest number first was on their back foot. Yes, it was possible to put out an offer first and still make more from it than expected or hoped for — and sometimes, offering first was both a wise and generous way to proceed — but generally speaking, it took extraordinary skill or luck to argue for more after naming the first number.

So generally speaking, the party who moved first was not in the strong position.

Generally speaking.

But, you had an extraordinary amount of skill — that’s why you were in this room. At the same time, you hadn’t felt particularly lucky lately, but…you would still name a number first.

Fine.

“Melethnín.”

That got him to turn with inhuman speed, his face a mask of rage. “I said do not mock me.” His icy eyes locked with yours.

“I am not mocking you.”

His brow furrowed. “Then why,” he said quickly, crossing the study in two large steps to loom over you, “did you call me that?”

“Why,” you challenged back, “have you called me that for the past two months?”

Thranduil's pale eyes had not yet left your face, inches away now, searching you for any hint that you were lying or mocking him. His gaze did not waver and he finally leaned back, satisfied. “You do not know what it means. You are mocking me.”

A harsh chuckle at that. “I know exactly what it means and I am not mocking you.” You put a hand on your hip at the implied insult that you, the goddamn Queen of the Silvan Elves of the Greenwood, wife of the Elvenking, did not know the most basic endearment your people use to address their spouses and children. “Well, correction, now I am mocking you….you’re questioning my understanding of vocabulary? Well, how good is your Khuzdul, again, Thranduil? Zigil’ûl is a Dwarven term of endearment; I’m surprised you deigned to use it.”

He hadn’t noticed “silver stream” was not in Quenya? Even with the accents?

His eyes softened, but still anger flashed across his face as he stared down at you. “You have not answered why you are using an elven term of endearment to refer to me right now.”

You thought about pushing back. But something very fragile in his eyes made you pause. It felt like a risk but…you were willing to name a second number.

Fine.

A sigh. “I used this Sindarin term because it’s how I refer to you in my head.”

Thranduil cocked his head, looking at you curiously now, some of his rage fading. “How good is —“

“— I am fluent in Sindarin. We speak it fifty percent of the time we are together instead of Westron. Stop it, Thranduil.”

He did stop at that, at least for a moment, as thoughts started churning in his head. His pale eyes flicked around the room, looking at everything but you.

A surprising sign of vulnerability from a king who would lock eyes with Manwë himself and never blink, if given the chance. If able to take that chance by force.

“No.” Thranduil shook his head again, still refusing to meet your gaze, speaking to your bookshelf. “No, I will not stop until I understand. You said I had purchased a performance and that you would stop performing it. You just looked for the contract to show me what you were required to do as my wife.”

A pause as he turned his head toward you, but stayed facing the other direction — ready to run.

“But, if your past behavior was a performance, then…I do not understand why you would call me melethnín in the privacy of your own mind, especially now,” he ended with a noise between a sigh and an irritated groan, still not meeting your eyes.

You saw the issue now. He thought you showed care for him in the last two years because it was what was expected of you.

A performance.

Not because you actually gave a damn about him as a partner or as a husband.

And then, you pulled back from him. Because he asked you to. Because he did not understand that caring about him was something you genuinely wanted to do. Enjoyed doing. Thranduil had not wanted to be part of a show because he….

He thought you were being cruel to him. As you thought he had been to you for the last two months.

He was that wrong for two years?

You looked up to meet his gaze. Thranduil hesitated, seeming to have the same revelation, but finding himself much less confident in the outcome. “So, please explain it. Why would you call me your love today?” he asked again, his voice so soft you barely heard him.

Naming the third number in a row was too large of a request to concede, even for him. Even now that you understood. You needed an assurance of some kind first.

“A counter-question, first. Have the last two months been a performance on your part, Thranduil?” Some vulnerability entered your tone, too, though you wished it had not. “I will not allow you to mock me, either.”

A pause. “The first two days were, yes.”

You raised an eyebrow at that, but he met your gaze unflinchingly. “And then I found I…I preferred it. I enjoyed being closer to you and hearing your thoughts. And I noticed the quality of your contracts improved.”

You crossed your arms. “Mmhmm,” you grunted at that.

Thranduil cocked his head, his eyes soft now, his tone surprisingly sweet and earnest. “So if you’ll forgive those first few days, melethnín, then no, I have not been false to you once in these past months.” A brief hesitation. “Was it…Before. How you showed that you cared for me. Was that an act for you?”

You paused, considering carefully. “For the last two months, any modicum of patience I’ve shown in your presence has been an act. But no, nothing before the night…we last fought,” you ended simply.

“Oh.” A faint blush rose to his cheeks.

You both stood there, staring dumbly at each other.

Thranduil dipped his head in embarrassment. “It is rare, but I find even I need time to learn.”

You nodded slowly. He was telling you that he had misunderstood. Maybe he was telling you he loved you. But he remained frustratingly vague.

You were struggling between the urge to kiss him or punch him. You tried to calculate your odds at both and concluded you’d need to do it in a specific order for it to work. Kiss first, then punch.

A knee to the groin was the only way he won’t see it coming until it’s too late. But you also had a growing interest in that area…

No matter what you chose, you weren’t going to be fast enough. Maybe while he slept.

“So, to summarize,” you started slowly. And then your mouth shut gently. You opened it a few more times to speak but nothing came out, so you stood there with your hand on your hip, moving your mouth like a fish.

The politician and jackass in Thranduil got there first. “To summarize, you have been in love with me since the day we met, and over the last two months I’ve learned that there are certain merits to being the recipient of that love.”

You felt your eyebrows shoot to your hairline, and your mouth did open at that.

The arrogance.

“The arrogance. Absolutely not. Revise it.”

A small smile played at the corners of his mouth but he remained silent. This was him teasing you. You’d enjoy it thoroughly in any other context. “No, you do not get to be this way with me after all of that, Thranduil…”

The smirk grew as he leaned closer to you. “I will no longer answer to that name when you use it. You’ll have to try another, melethnín.”

Fine.

“Heconna.” Bastard.

He raised an eyebrow at that one. “Fluent, indeed. But I have time and I can wait for you to find the correct term.”

“Pellopë.” Jackass.

The smirk never left his face. “Yes, we’ve established that you know and use words in both Sindarin and Quenya that most Eldar would blush to hear. I’m sure this vocabulary is useful when you swear at local merchants and drink in their bars — a very queenly activity.”

He was still teasing you. He finally had come close enough to snake his hands low around your hips, craning down at you, nothing but a blend of absolute mischief and arrogance in his pale eyes. “Mmm, I’m happy to give you a hint, wife.”

This was the most surprising day you had experienced since coming to Greenwood. And you were going to use it to your advantage as much as you could.

Too many things were still unspoken.

You shook your head and pulled back — gently, you still wanted him badly and your resolve was weakening the more he leaned into you. Gods, he smelled good. “Absolutely not. Not until you revise it.”

He sighed, his long fingers splayed across your lower back as he nudged you closer to his chest in return. “To summarize: Your caring behavior toward me was never an act or obligation on your part, and neither was mine. We seem to," he hesitated a beat, "Love each other, though we are quite ineffectual at speaking plainly with each other.”

Thranduil reached out to tuck back a strand of your hair, his finger gently tracing the rounded shell of your ear as you fought to repress a shiver. “With this new understanding in mind, our marriage no longer needs to remain contractual alone, if you wish to become closer. As I do.” His fingers brushed against your face, trailing down your neck softly to trace your collarbone. His other hand kept you close against him. “Is this revision more to your liking, melethnín?”

You frowned, hands coming to rest on his chest. “Yes. But you owe me an apology for more than the last two months.”

“Yes,” he agreed softly, his forehead coming to rest against yours. “Would you like me to begin reciting my long list of sins now? Or would you prefer we kissed instead? I have a rather clear preference, but,” he shrugged over-casually. “I will make time for both.”

You hesitated. “Both.”

“Fine, verinya,” he murmured, gently tilting your head up towards his.

“Fine, veronya,” you whispered back against his lips.

// AN: I'd have to leave you on a cliffhanger, so:

Túra in Quenya means "big, or great," which would capture "fine!" well enough.

Dail in Sindarin means "lovely," which I imagine can be sarcastic af coming from Thranduil, the petty bastard.

The difference in these two languages, for purpose of these idiots in love, is snobbery. Quenya is high-brow, Sindarin is what all normal people speak. He says he loves her in common tongue but calls her wife as high-brow as possible to be a jackass. Mission accomplished, Thran-daddy.

// If you enjoyed this, check out ✨The Director's Cut✨ masterlist with quick links to all my TROP/LOTR content and AO3 profile.

#thranduil oropherion #thranduil fanfiction #thranduil x you #the hobbit #the hobbit fanfiction #the elvenking #mirkwood #thranduil #thranduil x reader #thrandaddy #star and stone

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venusswhite · 16 hours ago

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A Thousand Years | Arcane Vi x Fem Leitora (Part. 5)

After losing everything, [Name] tries to rebuild her life. But what happens when a ghost with pink hair returns?

notes: English is not my first language, and I initially wrote this fanfic in Portuguese. With the help of online resources, I rewrote it in English.

Part. 4

"they mistook my kindness for weakness" - Lana Del Rey

We stayed there for a while, holding each other, pretending everything was fine. I feel her warmth, the beats of her heart, her scent, the sensation of her clothes against my skin… all of it was comforting. It was like being a child again, as if nothing bad had ever happened.

“I need to go find Jinx,” I whisper against her chest, breaking the silence.

“I’ll go with you,” she says determinedly.

“No, Vi. It’s better if you don’t,” I pull away, looking into her blue eyes.

“Why not?” she asks, cupping my cheeks and tracing every spot and mark on my face with her fingers.

“She’s my sister,” she insists.

“I know, but she’s not the same. Just… let me talk to her first,” I place my hands over hers, leaning in until our foreheads touch.

She sighs and closes her eyes for a few seconds. Then, she opens them and nods.

“Alright. I just want the two of you back,” she steps back and kisses my forehead.

“I promise I’ll do my best to get a little bit of what we had.”

She smiles.

“I know you will. And so will I, I promise.”

I stop in front of Silco’s office, take a deep breath, and open the door, walking in with heavy steps. He’s sitting there, staring at the large round window behind him, drinking—probably something alcoholic.

“Guess what,” I say, pulling him from his thoughts. He turns to face me and huffs, probably already knowing what I’m about to say. “I never believed in ghosts, but today I saw one.”

“[Name]…” he begins.

“Shut up,” I shout. “You had no right to lie to me and drag Jinx into this mess.”

“I did it to protect you both,” he argues firmly.

“No. You did it because you knew I’d never help you if I knew Violet was alive. You manipulated me and used Jinx to help you.”

“And if you had known? What would you have done? Gone after her?” he stands and sets his glass on the table. “You were a defenseless child. Have you thought about what could’ve happened to you… to both of you if I hadn’t helped?”

“I would’ve figured it out…” I reply, defeated. He was right—what would I have done? I didn’t even know where Vi was, and even if I did, how could I have gotten her out of prison? The more I thought about it, the angrier I became.

“Would you? Are you sure?” he raises his eyebrows.

“That doesn’t give you the right to hide it from me,” I yell, slamming my hands on the desk to get closer to him.

“No. It doesn’t. But it was the best choice. And I didn’t know she was in Stillwater. Marcus didn’t tell me that.”

“That bastard,” I yell again. “This is all his fault,” I slam my hands on the desk again, then grab his glass and smash it on the floor. It shatters, shards flying everywhere. I collapse into the chair and bury my face in my hands.

“So… you went to see her, didn’t you?” he breaks the silence, sitting back down.

“Got your men watching me?” I lift my head, then take a deep breath, trying to calm down. “Yes, I went.”

“And?”

“And what?” I snap.

“How was it?” he asks, folding his hands in his lap.

I fall silent, thinking about everything I felt when I saw her. The way my heart raced, the overwhelming joy that hit me, but also the doubt and uncertainty. Seeing her grown face after all these years, hearing her voice again, smelling her scent, feeling her touch—it all awakened something in me. It brought back long-dormant emotions.

“It was… intense. Like I was dreaming.”

“That’s why I hid it all from you,” I frown at him. “Love makes you weak.”

“You’re wrong,” I stand again, anger surging back through me. “Her return only made me stronger, more determined to get what I’ve always wanted.”

“Oh, really?” he says mockingly. “And what have you always wanted?”

“A better Zaun. An independent Zaun. The Zaun Vander wanted and fought for,” I stare into his eyes. “And I’ll fight for it.”

I leave the room, slamming the door behind me, not waiting to hear his response.

“Jinx?” I step into her ‘room.’ She’s working on her weapon with loud music playing, humming, and dancing.

“That’s me,” she says cheerfully, turning to look at me. She leans over to turn down the music coming from somewhere under the table, then focuses back on her weapon.

“Can we talk?”

“About what?” she asks, still humming her tune.

“Silco.”

She stops and looks at me again.

“How did your talk with Vi go?” her expression shifts from cheerful to disdainful.

“She’s back for us, Jinx. The Enforcer,” she flinches, “got Vi out of prison, as you already know. Vi trusts her.”

“Why would she help someone from the Lanes?”

“I don’t know yet, but it doesn’t matter. Now we can fight, we can continue what Vander wanted.”

“You want to betray Silco?” she concludes angrily.

“I know he’s done a lot for us, but at what cost? Look at what Zaun has become.”

She pauses to think and then goes back to working on her weapon.

“What do you plan to do?”

“Make a deal between Zaun and Piltover.”

“Just like that?” she mocks.

“No. That’s just the end goal. We still have a long way to go. We could use the Enforcer for the deal.”

“Use her as a hostage?” she laughs.

“No! I think she has some influence topside.”

“A Piltie helping Lanesfolk—you used to be smarter,” she picks up a piece from the floor.

“Vi says we can trust her, so I trust her.”

“I still don’t trust her, but I’ll give you a chance,” she walks over to me. “But I won’t betray Silco.”

“Jinx…”

“We owe him, [Name]. Vi needs to prove she won’t disappear again, and you need to prove you won’t abandon me to be with her. But don’t worry, I won’t tell Silco about your plan.”

“Thank you. I’ll fix everything, I promise,” I hug her. “Oh, I almost forgot.”

I open a small pouch on my belt and pull out the blue orb I picked up during the fight, handing it to her.

“Thanks,” she smiles and goes back to her weapon.

After the conversation with Jinx, I went to my room. My mind was racing. Uncertainty, fear, and doubts surrounded me, but I wanted my family back more than anything. I wanted at least a piece of what we had.

“You got Silco worried,” I jump and sit up, seeing Sevika standing in the corner.

“How long have you been there?”

“Not long… So, what’s your plan?” she asks, walking toward me.

“Plan?” I pretend not to understand.

“Silco said you talked about fighting for what Vander wanted,” she says and sits at the foot of my bed.

“Is he afraid I’ll betray him?”

“You could say that.”

“I only agreed to work with him because of Jinx. I never agreed with anything he did.”

“I know that, but don’t be stupid. He’s stronger than you.”

“I know. I won’t act without a plan.”

“You’re lucky I’ve grown fond of you, kid. I’ll talk to him, try to convince him you’re not going to betray him, but know this—if he finds out, things will get ugly.”

“He won’t find out.”

“You’d better hope he doesn’t.”

“Did you know Vi was alive?”

“No, but I suspected. She came after me, wanting to know where her sister was. The girl’s grown up…” she shows her damaged robotic arm.

“She’s tough, huh?” I smile.

“She is,” she sighs. “Take it slow with everything, alright? I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Thanks, Sevi,” I hug her. “I like it when you act like a mom.”

“Go to sleep,” she stands up and pushes me back onto the bed. She leaves, closing the door. I smile, seeing a small smile on her lips.

With Jinx and Sevika’s help, Silco believed I wouldn’t betray him. I kept doing what I always did: monitoring Silco’s illegal operations, collecting money from the addicts, checking shipments coming in from Piltover…

I was also trying to meet with Vi as little as possible. Silco was on her tail, so she was hiding out with the Firelights.

The few times we did meet were to discuss our plan, which was to take down Silco and all shimmer production, gain the support of the people of Zaun, and then strike a deal with Piltover. We planned to catch Silco alone and unprotected, but killing him would cause problems with Jinx.

We didn’t know what to do.

We couldn’t take control of the Lanes with him around, but we also didn’t want to lose Jinx’s trust.

We were lost, unsure of what decision to make.

#vi x reader #arcane vi x reader #Vi league of legends #violet arcane #arcane fanfic #arcane x reader #vi smut #vi arcane x reader #arcane league of legends #arcane #vi x you #arcane X you

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re-re-redline · 2 days ago

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I am so glad you asked

What a Convo Between the Two Looks Like:

Rider: “……”

Saber: “………”

Rider: “……”

Saber: “………”

Rider: “Look, I’m so—“

Saber: “For the good of Rome, kill yourself.”

Rider: *Stunned silence.*

Rider: “…A-Alter. Just listen to me, I—!”

Saber: “Unnecessary. I already know and I don’t care.”

Rider: “………”

As you can see, Alter just cuts Constantine off anytime he speaks directly to him. He wants to hear nothing from him and is 99% sure he knows exactly what his creator is going to say next, and funnily enough? He’s actually right on the money most of the time.

Now, the contents of what he does say to Constantine vary depending on whose in the room with the two of them. He’s not going to say anything particularly inflammatory or cut deep with his insults if anyone else is around—Master especially—because he knows that someone’s going to jump to Constantine’s defense and that could start a fight. Hence he keeps it on the down low in public.

But in private? Oh, he’s not holding back. Alter constantly tells Constantine to off himself because, thanks to Alter now being here, Constantine is no longer needed in Chaldea.

Think about it. Alter is the ideal that Constantine made up of himself, he is THE BEST Constantine there is purely because of the fact that Micheal sees him that way (or saw due to Constantinople’s interference making it not so anymore.) So why would Master need someone like Constantine (Rider) when Constantine (Saber) now exists, hm? And if that’s not convincing then compare kits. Alter actually does damage and can survive way longer than Constantine can and ever will. And that’s all that matters to Master, right? Damage and survivability.

You see the picture I’m painting here? Alter constantly attacks Constantine’s insecurities when they both happen to be alone because he absolutely hates Constantine for giving Constantinople the material she needed to create him the way he is now.

And all poor Constantine can do is just stand there and take it because he knows Alter’s right about most of what he said. The one thing that Constantine will never ever concede to Alter is the fact that he is needed. Master NEEDS him and he knows that. His predecessors and the Holy Progenitor need him. His friends: Don Quixote & Sancho, both Vlads, Johanna, and so, so many more need him. He knows for a fact that there will be a Constantine shaped hole that cannot be filled if he were to end himself like Alter wants him to. And Micheal could never hurt the people he loves like that ever. …Unless he were giving his life for them, of course.

But yeah, Alter is not shy about showing his contempt. He just dials it down when other people are present to keep the peace. Though you can tell that he’s slowly getting angrier by the second when his sword starts emitting that ghastly cursed red aura from it. It starts off dim but gets to be an almost crackling and bright flame on his sword when he’s at his limit, it’s that apparent.

Thankfully for everyone, Alter doesn’t start on his own so the two can awkwardly sit in silence in a room together and nothing will happen. The two will just be sitting in envy of each other until one leaves.

Constantine is envious of Alter’s stoicism and ability to shake things off. He always tried to be that person when he was alive but just couldn’t hold himself together because of the immense pressure and stress he was under during those four years of his reign. He wanted to be the man his people deserved but could never truly fulfill that lofty standard he set for himself and that only led to his strong self loathing after death.

Alter is envious (as much as he can be) of Constantine’s ability to feel as well as his having memories of his family and friends in life. Alter wants to cry, to be afraid of dying and to feel weak or inadequate—he wants to feel all of the negative crap that Constantine loathes because that’s what completes a person. He also very much wants to feel joy and contentment like Constantine does. Maybe then when he finally gets his emotions back, he’ll understand why his chest tightens slightly every time he sees a family having fun. Maybe he’ll understand why he can’t bring himself to get new earrings, or why the person who gave them to him is so important to him. Maybe he’ll understand why he feels the ever so slight need to watch over Master like a hawk when they get sick. Maybe he’ll understand why…

See, the two of them envy what the other has not realizing that it actually sucks more than they think it does. They both simultaneously understand each other the most and the least out of everyone and it’s just… UGH! It’s both riveting and infuriating to watch these two interact for that reason. Ugh… These two need to reconcile so bad. You’d probably need to use a Command Spell to get Alter to not cut off Constantine mid-sentence and actually listen to him. You also would probably need to give Micheal a big pep talk so he can have the courage he needs to actually say what he’s really feeling. It’ll be messy but it is possible!

Endnote: I hope I answered your question! Alter’s pretty difficult to write dialogue wise because of how utterly dry he is, but that only adds to the tragedy of his existence. He could be more in that department but he just isn’t because he can’t be anything more. But you could definitely see on his face that the contempt runs so, so deep. Hence why he solely stabs at Micheal’s insecurities whenever they get to talk alone. A precise set of strikes that tells Constantine all he needs to know about what Alter thinks of him.

Alter would probably explode in anger—and yelling at the top of his lungs and grabbing Constantine by the collar and shaking him kind of anger—if they weren’t in Chaldea. The walls are thinner than they look and Alter, yet again doesn’t want to start anything with anyone else to keep the peace. That’s Alter at his most animated, otherwise he’ll be snarling and fuming at his creator. Shooting him dirty looks when he thinks no one’s looking and what not.

But that’s all I got for now. Thank you for your kind words and sharing your thoughts! I loved answering.

Have a good day, and I’ll be seeing you!

—Redline, over and out!

Constantine XI Alter (Saber)

>Spoilers for Constantine’s Interlude<

Foreword: This was supposed to be a sketch, I swear. But on another note, I am alive! Just slowly working up to writing after a few hectic weeks. But the train is moving, just very slowly which I imagine is nothing new. One thing I HAVE been getting up to is my painting of portraits of my blorbos for their birthdays. I suck at drawing anything festive, so I hope the quality of the piece makes up for it, hehe… I have Constantine’s done and I am extremely proud of it.

Buuut that’s in February, so let’s get into my explanation and thoughts on this hypothetical of my boi! Starting off with…why he looks like this.

(I would also like to note that I haven’t ran this through TTS yet so there probably is some grammatical errors and for that I will apologize in advance, I will iron them out soon.)

On the Subject of Appearance:

Alright, obvious and iconic Alter color palette aside, what’s up with the vast amounts of white? Because… Our guy wears black mostly in his first ascension and then dies it down in his second by adding a LOT of red, so it’d make sense his alternative would be set apart by having him wear and have the color white. Plus it illustrates just how DIFFERENT he is compared to Micheal, how opposite or perhaps…opposing he is. But more on that later. (Also I was planning on this being just a sketch so I wasn’t really thinking of coloring anything until his second ascension when I realized I would have to in order to communicate how different he is from Constantine and it kinda snowballed from there. Oops…)

Now…about the, uh, cracks on his skin. THAT is marble. Sections of Alter’s body are petrified marble with a few dry cracks in the skin. Why? Because of the legend circulating after his death of him being a marble statue. It’s like how Hans has mermaid scales and how Okita will forever have tuberculosis, Alter’s body along with several other things were affected by how people saw him. I’ll get into it more later.

But! There are some cool things, or not cool rather, to note about the marble patches on his body. Like how a lot of pain he’d feel is nullified by it thanks to lack of, y’know, nerves. This also goes for sensations in general as he wouldn’t know if you were tapping him on the shoulder or were pouring boiling water on that spot. So yeah, sections of his body cannot feel but can still move just fine. It doesn’t impede his movement at all! It just…cracks a lot.

If you ever see him stretch and pop his spine, you will not only hear the snapping of bones but also stone splitting. Don’t worry, it’ll fix itself so you don’t have to worry about him sustaining major damage from just moving around. It’ll just take some getting used to.

Now. You may have noticed that the marble patches grow more the further into his ascensions he is, to the point where his armor receives patches of marble on it too. Now this wouldn’t even be something to mention if not for the fact that I’d like to think that anything new he wears in his 2nd and 3rd ascension starts petrifying slowly over time. Not all the way but enough to the point where it gets to be a chore doing laundry.

But yeah, that’s all I got for his design so far. On to the next!

On The Subject of Class and Gameplay:

If you play JP or have Clairvoyance then you already know why its not the obvious choice. Because his legend mentions specifically that the angel who wakes him up will give him the sword he used on his final day. So it’d make sense that his class would change to Saber.

Now. In this hypothetical where I’m the one designing him as a unit. I’d imagine his gameplay to be like so:

2 Buster Cards with 5 hits, 2 Arts Cards with 4 hits, and 1 Quick card with 3 hits. Same card numbers but different hits.

His NP would be an Offensive Buster NP that does the following: Increase Buster Card Effectiveness for 3 Turns, Increase ATK for 1 Turn, Inflict Curse, Deal Major defense ignoring damage to one/all enemies, Restore HP by 2,000 (effect increases with Overcharge), Apply Resistance to Death by 5000% for 1 time (non-stackable) and Apply a stackable Guts for 5 turns that restores half of Constantine XI Alter (Saber)’s HP upon Death.

That is one hell of an NP that not only hits hard but also provides major survivability which is what Constantine is all about. Now, I could quite decide if he should be a Single Target or an AOE but I do imagine his gameplay to be your awesome clutch soloist unit for CQ’s, Advanced Quests or boss fights. Is this really cool hypothetical NP is a showing of my massive bias? …Maybe. But that’s not important, onto the skills!

Skill 1: The Ends Justify The Means (A) [Cooldown at LV.10 is 6 Turns]

Increase Buster Card Effectiveness for 3 Turns, Increase ATK for 3 turns for All Party Members and Apply Target Focus to All Party Members Excluding Constantine XI Alter (Saber) for 3 Turns.

Skill 2: Demise Privilege (Alternative) (C) [Cooldown at LV.10 is 7 Turns]

Increase NP Gauge for Self by 50%, Gain crit.stars per turn for 3 turns, Remove 2,000 HP from all Non-Roman Party Members and Restore HP by 3,000 to self, Apply Guts to self for 3 Turns.

Skill 3: Legend of The Marble Emperor (EX) [Cooldown at LV.10 is 6 Turns]

Apply a State Where Upon Hitting an Enemy, Inflict Curse (1,000 DMG) and Disastrous Curse for 3 Turns, Apply Special ATK to enemies with Curse.

As you can see, Alter is a very selfish DPS that drains HP from his non-Roman allies to keep himself alive along with inflicting curse stacks for damage over time. He’s be a nice pair up with Van Gogh for that last thing. And much like his NP, he really wants to live and it’s going to be difficult to kill him. So yes! Soloist in the form of a Saber.

Is his kit too cracked? …Maybe. Maybe not. I’ll let you all tell me what’s what.

On the Subject of Composition:

Constantine XI Alter is a Saber class servant comprised of three parts.

The first and the largest portion—the base, if you will—is Constantine’s ideal self, dreamed up during his final years of life in the late 1400s. As we are aware, Constantine utterly despises how weak he thinks he is. He hates the fact that he feels like he wants to breakdown and cry so much, he hates the fact that he’s terrified of dying, and most of all he hates that he isn’t strong enough to take the current crisis in stride like he believed his idols would have. Thus, Constantine saw his ideal self as a man who would not feel fear in times of crisis, would not cry when he was losing, and would not break under pressure. A truly stoic and strong leader that can handle any sort of disaster, that is to say: an emperor who wins and survives.

The second part that makes up this servant are the wishes of the people of Constantinople. After Constantine death, a rumor floated around that the emperor had not died. He was rescued by an angel at the brink of death and turned into a statue. He would then sleep in a hidden cave underneath the Golden Gate of Constantinople awaiting the call of an angel who would restore his form and give him the sword he used in the final battle. It was a lovely thing to hope for and believe in, thus that rumor turned into a legend backed by the hopes and dreams of the people. It is this that would have completed this variation of Constantine had it not been for…

The third and final part is less of a ‘part’ per se and more of a distortion of what already existed. A wild, vengeful anger and grief corrupted what would have been the lovely culmination of the ideal self of Constantine plus the people’s hopes and dreams and twisted it into a cold automaton hellbent on continuing the existence of Rome as he knew it no matter the cost. These intense negative emotions came from the one and only Constantinople herself. When our favorite emperor perished and the Ottomans took over, there was no one as throughly stricken by grief—if we ignore George and Constantine’s remaining family—as Constantinople. It was pure agony to watch her people be murdered, enslaved and violated for days with the subsequent rebuild and installation of new buildings hurting too. But the most painful thing of all was watching her subjects slowly disappear one by one: people she watched grow up and live life for centuries on end vanishing never to return until all that was left was a large group of strangers who now occupied that space. It was maddening to say the least. The result was a lot of time passing and the events of Constantine’s interlude (yes, I read a summary of it and it could not come sooner for me.) While Constantinople WAS forced into slumber through the battle, much like the emperor she is so deeply connected with, Constantinople made a final last ditch effort to have her and Constantine’s wish come true. Thus creation of an Alter of Constantine XI as well as a new singularity set shortly after the death of the real Constantine came to be.

On The Subject of Personality:

Alter is barely like the man we are familiar with, he would be practically unrecognizable if his face and voice were different. The most glaring difference is the lack of any expression on this man’s face. The muscles on his face only move for three reasons: he’s speaking, blinking, or the boiling rage underneath his skin has erupted upon the mention or appearance of the Ottomans. He just carries that same deadpan expression no matter what happens, good or bad. This is due to Constantine’s wishes to be a truly stoic man down to his core. Though, thanks to the distortion caused by Constantinople, most of his other emotions have been muted to make room for the, and I quote: “Boiling Rage™ that is 100% necessary and important to the restoration and maintenance of the Byzantine Empire. Yup, totally required. Why? Because screw you that’s why!”— Constantinople, circa Right Now. I jest, I jest. But really. Alter is either having tiny tinges of emotion flittering around in his skull sometimes—you know like the alleged to exist fruity taste of La Croix—or pure and absolute anger, no in between. Thankfully, for masters, the percentages of the anger is incredibly low unless for some odd reason you have Ottoman Turks that keep appearing left and right in your area.

Unlike our friend Micheal, or any sapient being really, Alter doesn’t really…have opinions. He’s just neutral about most things in the world and mostly shrugs at whatever he’s interacting with. Good weather? Okay. Great food? Okay. Amazing friends? Okay. The milk went bad and the store’s closed right now? Okay. You stepped on the corner of five different Lego blocks on your way to the bathroom? Okay. Your pillow is scorching hot and you can’t sleep? Okay. Several hundred people just died in utter agony? O—you get the point. I’m sure you know the one exception that Alter has, but allow me to provide you with one and we’ll get into another in the next section. The red earrings on his ears, cracked beyond belief yet still hanging just fine… Yes, Alter likes those. That’s why he hasn’t taken them off or removed them. Why? Well… He vaguely recalls someone important to him gifting him these. That man, after helping Constantine put his on, took out another similar pair and placed them on his own ears. He then said: “Now we match! Plus, I’ll be able to pick you out in even the most dense of crowds, my lord, as these earrings are one of a kind.”

(Yes, I headcanon that George gifted Constantine his iconic red earrings and has a matching blue pair for himself so that they both kinda match but hold their individuality all the same. A nice little thought that warms my heart.)

On The Subject of Speech:

The way this man talks is so dry and bland that one would think that Alter is bored out his skull by simply existing. His voice is so flat and borderline monotone, no effort to emphasize anything or even to make digesting the info easier. And to make matters perhaps worse he doesn’t talk much and tends to make what little he does say compact. It’s a flavorless way of communication that only changes when, you know, the Boiling Rage surfaces.

You know how in Constantine’s Bond Profile #1 it states that he “sometimes speaks more roughly in times of duress?” (Or “a more crude tone” if we’re reading the fan translation.) Yeah, well that’s no longer a sometimes. He still doesn’t talk much but man is he swearing and being rude as hell when he is pissed. The imperial decorum that our Micheal lives by has gone out of the window and will not be seen again until Alter calms down. No, he won’t apologize to anyone. Don’t bother, it’s a fruitless endeavor.

On the Subject of His Knowledge:

Alright, what does Alter know about himself? He knows that he was crafted by Constantine to be the ideal version of him. He knows about the legend surrounding his death and that being the reason for the petrification on his body. And he knows about Constantinople messing with his Spirit Origin and his current reason for existing and the objective that comes with it. …That’s it. That is all he knows.

Nothing about his personal life or his family or his best friend who had his back throughout it all, nothing. In its place are vague and fuzzy vignettes of familiar people he can’t put a name or face to that appear in his mind’s eye from time to time.

Now, as for his opinions on what he knows… Uh, I’ll just get the one with the least words on it out of the way first. The petrification thing? Yeah, he could not care less. The patches of marble on his body don’t limit his mobility any and yeah, the petrifying of his clothes is kind of annoying but it’s slow enough to where it’s not that big of a deal. It’s whatever.

Now. As for his creation—that being Constantinople messing with him and him being Constantine’s ideal self—he has a…not very good opinion on the two. And by that I mean he absolutely hates them.

He hates Constantinople for twisting his already good spirit origin into what it is now and placing within him an undying anger. He also hates her for basically using him as a tool to get what she wants all because the ‘real’ Constantine rejected her wishes, essentially using him as a replacement. Not good.

He hates Constantine for cursing him with the ridiculous traits of being stoic down to his core as well being the ‘perfect’ emperor for his people. Because of that, not only does he not FEEL anything at all but he also has this immense pressure in his very soul that he MUST have Rome survive at all costs and that he must solely devote himself to that cause with every fiber of his being. Yes, the severity of those traits were caused by Constantinople’s anger and grief distorting him but the base traits were all on Constantine.

Now, in Constantine’s defense (because I am a Constantine defender), he had no idea that this would happen let alone that an Alter of himself based on what he saw as his ideal self, the emperor his people deserved and would suit them best, even existed in the first place. It was a dream to him. A dream of a man who was much better than he was, doing way better than he is and winning all at once. That is all that Alter was to him then and what he was to Constantine before the singularity.

Endnote: Whew… That was a lot! But I think that was I’ve got on Alter. As you can see, I’d been doin’ a big think on him and he was a very fun character to design both artistically and in writing. I h Endnote:

Whew… That was a lot! But I think that was I’ve got on Alter. As you can see, I’d been doin’ a big think on him and he was a very fun character to design both artistically and in writing. I hope you don’t mind the crumminess in the piece, if you can even call it that. I wasn’t joking when I said it was supposed to be a sketch hence the noticeable climb in effort across the ascensions.

In other more exciting news… I have 10 followers! Ten whole people! That’s enough to get one of those long tables at the fancy restaurants with!

It’s quite the milestone, one I was not expecting. So, to celebrate, I’m going to bypass the order of things I WANTED to get through with before I did this sort of thing—since I didn’t think I’d get 10 followers, honestly. But, I will be dropping a poll sometime soon—before the day’s end Nope, way too sleepy right now.—of a few headcanons you guys can choose from for me to do next! And not JUST for Constantine, Mehmed, or Sannan—no, no. I will also be tacking on my two other blorbos that I have neglected to mention, them being Hajime-chan (my strongest Saber) and Izou (my strongest Assassin.) So it’ll be Multi-Core Headcanons (haha), five people in one list. And don’t you worry, it won’t be like, one paragraph long or anything half-assed. That shit will be long, like 4k minimum per person which would—if I strictly hang around that number—would be a 20k long HC list.

So case in point! It’ll be a celebration and I implore you to vote.

But yeah. That’s all for this post. I’ll also be posting something else shortly after that is NOT the poll but a nice occurrence for lil’ ol’ me. If you have questions, comments, a desire for elaboration or a keyboard smash of your thoughts, let me know! And I’d like to thank you all for indulging my delusions today and before today and I hope you all have a great day.

—Redline, over and out!

#i love how‚ apart from his np‚ alter’s survivability hinges on his allies taking the blows #it’s like odysseus’ skill‚ except more selfish #i wonder how he’d react to constantine in‚ say‚ his my room lines #would he plain out be snarling? hold nothing back and let constantine know of his contempt for him?#or would he temper himself? his poisonous words like an active volcano that constantly teases the point of eruption?#this is a really well-made and interesting alter btw!! :d #<-prev tags #kōnstantînos xi #constantine xi #constantine xi fgo #kōnstantînos xi fgo #Constantine XI alter #K��nstantînos XI Alter #re-re-reblog

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