#arien speaks

[urwendii]

Trying to fit my Mairon was supposed to be the Valar of fire HC in canon lore is pretty much a lot of Lets Roll With It. But also if spirits of fire had been sorted according to their elemental Valar then I'm laughing so hard at Olórin being one of Mairon's Maiar. The way they'd be unable to get along 😭

[cilil]

As someone who has been hurt and traumatized a lot by toxic masculinity in real life, I cannot express how much the men in Tolkien's legendarium mean to me (there are many examples I could cite, but I'm going to stick to a few that mean the most to me personally and also don't get talked about as much).

I love how Manwë's first reaction is never anger. He is the Elder King, King of the Valar, King of Arda and he's not afraid to cry in public, to be worried and saddened and therefore show "weakness" instead of fluffing up big time and being angry just so he can pretend to be The Man. He's compassionate and believes in the good in people even when he shouldn't.

I love how Ulmo decided to help those he cared about, even if the people in question were not perfect to say the least and officially he was not supposed to be helping at all. He is neither afraid nor ashamed to care.

I love how excited Aulë was for the arrival of the Children (so much so that he made his own), how much joy he finds in teaching and being creative with others instead of wanting to be The Best At Everything and how he speaks up for other creatives too, trying to help others understand their mindset.

I love how polite and warm Eönwë is, giving a rather cordial greeting to someone who was technically trespassing in his home. He's a hero to me not because a line was included that he's the best warrior Maia, but because he's kind and wise, sparing Maedhros and Maglor because he knew the senseless violence had to end. And yes, I also love how old lore Fionwë was crushing on Arien/Urwendi.

So yeah, just some examples, but these are among the ones that stuck with me.

[rachelillustrates]

"Five Orcs, among Many"

(in response to "The Rings of Power" season 2 finale. Spoilers ALL over the place below.)

(place setting inspired by HelenaMarkos' "Splint.")

(Orc Mom's name from @meilas )

~

His eyes snapped open.

He coughed, expecting blood – black bile, which should, HAD been pouring from his lips from his lungs from the myriad wounds his children (his children) had given him. Penance, for his folly, in falling once again for Sauron’s manipulations.

But the pain was gone. He breathed clean air.

Groaning, he sat up, the echo of that torment and his heartbreak still alive within him. The sky above him was an odd twilight. Starless, and grey-but-bright, as if Tilion had guided the moon to cover Arien’s bright sun. Black sand sifted through his fingers as he pulled himself to his knees and looked around him.

There was a light in the sky – something large and like Anar, but not – just at the horizon. He felt it…. pull at him. And he almost stepped forward.

But on the sand….. on this beach, for there was a darker grey expanse of water (ocean? a lake?) beyond the patch of grains, there sat many figures.

Familiar figures.

They all turned to look at him.

Uruk. His children, the ones that had already…..

Oh.

Adar moved to turn around, knowing he’d find more of the same in the expanse behind him, and his face connected with a raised fist.

He swore, nearly toppling over again as the punch threw his momentum. Instinctively he reached for his blade, but found it was gone – indeed, he was in a rough approximation of his own chosen clothing, from life. But no tools. No weapons at all.

That was over, wasn’t it?

He looked up, his nose – unbroken, unbleeding – still aching. And saw a face he’d last seen as a severed head, in the hand of the Troll Damrod, then tossed at his own feet. The Uruk was seething, their entire body taut with anger, but an unfathomable grief threatened to leak out of their eyes.

“Kathotar,” he whispered in the Black Speech. “I – I’m….”

Kathotar went to hit him again, and he stood to take it, but the action came out weakened. Several others had gathered to watch now, but stood stoic, unmoving, letting their sibling work this out on behalf of all of them (it would seem).

He would take it. He had never meant to hurt them. But he would take it.

After only a few more swipes at him, Kathotar sagged forward and against his chest. He caught them, firmly holding them although he felt he had no right, after everything that happened.

They sobbed together, sinking to their knees as one.

~

His eyes snapped open, and his hands scrabbled desperately at his chest, his throat.

The pain was gone. Why was the pain gone?

All around him was the strangest light, and beneath him….. sand? Was this the ocean? Where was he?

He sat up, staring numbly at the light at the water’s end, hearing its call but not understanding.

“Glug,” a familiar voice called from behind him.

His eyes bulged, a noise of torment (regret, anger, rage, pain, loss, regret) hissing from his entire being as he turned – looking past the multitude of his kin all sitting there, waiting – to gaze at his Lord Father.

Adar sat slightly up the sandy expanse, where the loose earth gave way to rocks, and even taller rocks rose like a cliffside above them all. Several other Uruk were settled around him, though it looked like none of them had been speaking.

Glug and Adar stood together, each walking forward to close the space between them, but Glug stopped a few feet away.

He had killed him.

He had killed him.

He had been so angry. He deserved to be angry – Adar had…… he had betrayed them all, even after claiming to love them. His children. Him, their father. And he, a father himself – oh, his child. His…..

His eyes closed again on the image of his mate, and their tiny, defenseless sprog. How long would they be safe in Mordor, now that Sauron had proven false?

He should have believed Adar.

He should have…. but he was so angry, and Adar had…..

One of his siblings that had been sitting closest to their father before he’d stood to come to him looked over at them both, then locked eyes with Glug, nodding slightly. That was….. oh.

“The Elf was right,” Adar said, so softly, as if to keep from startling a rabid animal. His expression was pained, but resigned, his hands empty and limp at his sides. “I was meant, by the designs of another, to bring us all to our ruin. To sacrifice you, my children, right back into his hands. He wormed his way back into my thoughts, and I did not see. I did not protect you, and I am sorry.”

“He fooled us all,” Glug whispered back, though the rage still sang within him – easier to bear than the terror he felt for those he’d left behind. “He told us he’d protect us, now, and that we’d find purpose and glory and safety under his rule. In his service.”

“Yes.”

“But there is none. Not anymore.”

Adar sighed. “I know not what this place is. Our penance, perhaps? Kathotar and the others say that sometimes, one of them gets up as if in thrall again, and vanishes out into the water. Into that light. And that pull, within, do you feel it too?”

He nodded.

“It feels like redemption.”

He nodded again, feeling uncomfortable.

“But for now…… we are here, with our deeds, and our regrets, and all we can do is wait.”

“What of the others?” he demanded. “He has them now – like you said he would! They are – they will -“

Adar carefully seized Glug by the upper arms, pressing their foreheads together. “I know. We cannot help them now.”

“You were right,” he shouted, finding his tears unable to fall (so, so angry), “Adar – lord father, you were right, and we -“

“No, I was not. I walked right into his trap – he meant for me to bring you to him, that he could ensnare you again. As I had already been ensnared, again.” Tears did fall down the ancient Uruk’s cheeks, though his voice remained steady. “I am sorry, Glug. I did betray you.”

Glug shook his head, his hand raising to hold his father’s in place. “What – what do we do now?”

Adar just looked at him sadly, and they both turned to look in shreds of mournful desperation at the light across the sea.

~

Her eyes snapped open.

Something had happened. Something was wrong.

Beside her, their baby wailed. And wailed. And wailed.

Sitting up, she realized that all the babies were wailing. Every single one, in every single home. The other parents that had been left behind – at least, the three in particular that shared her dwelling space for the moment while some of them were off to war again – had sat up too. One, standing at the fire pit with their soup’s spoon frozen over the cook pot, the others rigid as if they’d been struck, one now on their feet.

Just as she was.

“Garsemi,” one of them hissed. “What is wrong?”

She stared back at them, then grabbed her knife, shoving it roughly into place at her belt. She scooped up her child and strode outside, looking up at the sky for any clues. Looking around. But nothing had changed.

Still, the children wailed. And the others left behind had all noticed….. something.

Others looked at her askance, worried, curious, some hands going to their weapons as they all tried to gather their bearings again.

Something had happened. But what?

She tried to swallow the dread building in her chest as she shushed softly, trying to soothe her screaming offspring, and simply breathed.

[hobbitwrangler]

last line tag game

thank you @starsuncounted for tagging me! <3

Finally got inspired to write a bit today. It's yet another wip (unfortunately), this time about Arien (yay!):

They sat together in the murky gloom of Morgoth and did not speak.

tagging @thebitchkingofangmar @elvain @imakemywings @konartiste @sotwk if you want to do it!

[wordsofmaeve]

My OCs in Lego form ✨ Arien left, Rian right

Excerpt from chapter 2:

"She's waiting for you," Vidar said as Arien approached the final door at the dead end of the hallway.

Vidar turned, summoning golden enner in the palm of his hand and connecting it to a spot on the door where a doorknob would typically be. Two clicks came from inside the door before it creaked open, revealing a room with curtains drawn and no lamps lit.

It took a moment for Arien's eyes to adjust as she stepped through the doorframe. When they did, she made out the hunched figure of the Peacekeeper, sitting on the floor against the stone wall. The Peacekeeper hadn't looked up when the door opened. Her chin-length hair hung limp in front of her downturned face, and her bandaged hands lay palm-up on top of her sprawled-out legs.

Vidar sent two swirling orbs of golden enner into the room. They bathed it in warm light that seemed reluctant to touch the slumped Peacekeeper, who hadn't moved to acknowledge her visitors. Despite the lack of decor, the room was as nice as any in Istmoril. There was a small but soft bed in the corner, covers unruffled, and a full dinner tray on a small desk. The only disturbed area was a stack of papers and several bottles of ink and pens scattered around the Peacekeeper. None of the papers Arien could see had anything legible written on them, but she was intrigued by a poor attempt at what looked like a highly complicated transport figure.

"Miss Rian Zedk," Vidar said, making Arien snap her eyes away from the papers, "Lady Arien is here to speak with you."

Rian slowly lifted her head, and Arien swallowed a noise in her throat as bloodshot eyes shone menacingly in the dark. She wasn't sure what attitude she'd expected from the Peacekeeper, but it wasn't malice. Just as she'd thought this, the expression vanished from Rian's eyes, leaving behind an emptiness.

[woe-begotten-spirit]

So I know not a lot of people in the world have a strong opinion on who is best to ship Middle Earth’s Sun with but I am obsessed with The Lost Tales era Eonwë/Arien (or Fionwë/Urwendi) and the parallels with Elwing and Eärendil. 

The Arien/Tilion thing of Moon in love with the Sun of course makes sense in a sort of collective unconscious mythology type way but something about a romance between Bird and Celestial Body is just 🔥

In both versions our bird flies through the air seeking lover lost at sea

Manwë sent Fionwë his son, swiftest of all to move about the airs, and bade him say to Urwendi that the bark of the Sun come back awhile to Valinor, for the Gods have counsels for her ear; and Fionwë fled most readily, for he had conceived a great love for that bright maiden long ago, and her loveliness now, when bathed in fire she sate as the radiant mistress of the Sun, set him aflame with the eagerness of the Gods. (LT I, VIII)

Indeed for a while mishap fell even upon bright Urwendi, that she wandered the dark grots and endless passages of Ulmo’s realm until Fionwë found her and brought her back to Valinor (LT I, IX)

For Ulmo bore up Elwing out of the waves, and he gave her the likeness of a great white bird, and upon her breast there shone as a star the Silmaril, as she flew over the water to seek Eärendil her beloved. (Silm, ch 24)

who sails in a hallowed ship through the Door of the Night. 

Ulmo draws the galleon of the Sun before the Door of Night. Then speaks Urwendi the mystic word, and they open outward before her, and a gust of darkness sweeps in but perishes before her blazing light; and the galleon of the Sun goes out into the limitless dark, and coming behind the world finds the East again. (LT I, IX)

But they took Vingilot, and hallowed it, and bore it away through Valinor to the uttermost rim of the world; and there it passed through the Door of Night and was lifted up even into the oceans of heaven. (Silm, ch 24)

And then our birds Eonwë and Elwing end up being the ones to deliver the Silmarils to their fated places (from Elwing to Eärendil to Air, from Eonwë to Maedhros and Maglor to Fire and Water)

And thus it came to pass that the Silmarils found their long homes: one in the airs of heaven, and one in the fires of the heart of the world, and one in the deep waters. (Silm, ch 24)

There are several more similarities like the early idea that both Eärendil and Arien encountered mermaids while they were at sea (LT I, commentary on The Tale of Qorinómi and LT II, V) and Tilion originally chasing Eärendil instead of Arien (LT II, V)

And also I just think Eonwë should be allowed to do the apocalypse as revenge for his girlfriend because come on:

For ’tis said that ere the Great End come Melko shall in some wise contrive a quarrel between Moon and Sun, and Ilinsor shall seek to follow Urwendi through the Gates, and when they are gone the Gates of both East and West will be destroyed, and Urwendi and Ilinsor shall be lost. So shall it be that Fionwë Úrion, son of Manwë, of love for Urwendi shall in the end be Melko’s bane, and shall destroy the world to destroy his foe, and so shall all things then be rolled away.’ (LT I, IX)

[melestasflight]

Throwback Thursday

summoned by the lovely @sallysavestheday. Here's a throwback to Elrond the poet, Elrond the besotted, Elrond who comes home, at last.

On this day, a day he had not dared dream in his long winter, Elrond finds himself in Celebrían’s home. She had not waited for him upon the docks of Tol Eressëa with Elwing, nor welcomed him with fresh bread and sweet water beside Idril. He stands now in Celebrían’s small house, a green-roofed cabin between the trunks of ancient trees. All windows and doors are open wide as if inviting any beast of the wood to dwell as a guest here. There are few things but the house does not feel empty. A neatly folded piece of paper sits on the small table in the only room. It is for him, Elrond knows. Winters and summers Will come and go but      You will come to me. The world shall change And the roads curve but      You will come to me. None shall remember The people we were but      You will come to me. Tho Tilion descends With Arien from the skies      You will come to me. His hands shake by the time he reads the last verse. And when he looks up from the paper, she stands there watching him, renewed and more beautiful than in any of Elrond’s memories. I have no poem for you, he wants to say but does not dare speak, afraid that he shall shatter this moment and never regain it again. ‘I knew you would come to me,’ his beloved says and spreads her arms wide. Elrond lets his heart open and be slowly filled with wonder and delight as he steps forward to fall into Celebrían’s embrace. They do not need words for this.

For more Celrond poetry: filled with wonder and delight

@polutrope @elentarial @eilinelsghost if you'd like, give a snippet of something that's been standing on the shelves

[swanmaids]

Idril knew her husband very well. 

She knew that Tuor was the best of men. He was unfailingly kind and gentle with her, despite having spent so long receiving no kindness from anybody. He still had so much love to give — and she loved him all the more in return for it. 

She knew too that she was not the first Elf to have loved him. When he had told her, shyly, of what he had shared with Voronwë as they made their perilous journey to the hidden city, he had fretted over her reaction. But Idril had not been upset. After all, she knew the feeling of another’s jealousy over her, and had no wish to inflict the same unpleasantness on him. And she was not especially surprised – Tuor was easy to love.

Later, before Tuor joined her in bed, she realised that there was perhaps another reason that she felt so blase about it. The more she pictured her lover and the mariner together, the more her pulse rose and the more she felt warm all over, snaking a hand between her legs. It was the contrast, she thought afterwards, breathing hard as she lay back against the pillows; Tuor’s golden hair against Voronwë’s dark, Tuor’s thicker body against Voronwë’s lither form. They would make a beautiful picture together. When Tuor joined her, she found herself climbing into his lap and grinding against him until they were both panting and desperate. 

Idril wondered if the two men had truly left their feelings for each other behind Gondolin’s walls. She saw the way that Voronwë sometimes gazed at Tuor – she thought it was the same way that she herself looked at him. And she saw the way that Tuor’s hands would sometimes linger, when he touched Voronwë in friendly greeting. 

She knew Tuor well enough to know he would never speak of it to her – he would be too afraid of losing her. He still needed convincing, sometimes, that she wasn’t planning on going anywhere. 

So Idril had to take things into her own hands. It was not especially difficult. In the end, all she needed to do was to summon Voronwë to her private gardens at a specific hour of the evening, when Arien had sunk well beneath the clouds. Then she made sure that she and Tuor were in the same spot, just a few minutes beforehand. 

“Ah!” Voronwë stammered, when he came upon them, Idril sat in Tuor’s lap and kissing him hard. “My strongest apologies. I will come back – later –”

“Not at all,” she smiled, a pleased shudder going down her spine at the way Tuor’s eyes widened in the darkness. “You’re just in time.”

[pluralquotebook]

Arien💠, who definitely knows what Friday is: what is this..."fry day" that you speak of?

Aviva🎭: bffr dude *slaps him with a fish*

.

[hergan416]

@shreddedleopard has tagged me in another 6 sentence "sunday"

The less this is Sunday the better it is tbh

True tumblr meme right here

6 sentences of a wip + tag 6 people

This is from something I started for the "merchandise" prompt of Sherly week and never finished... and also is 7 sentences for completing the thought

Sherlock Holmes (the man) was tall and lean with an over-exposed neck. His mouth was constantly open, whether it was to smile too-widely in glee over nothing, or to jabber about useless topics that Louis drowned out more often than not: forensics and medical science and chemistry, his latest monographs and cases, difficult formulas and criminal psychology. Once he even discussed musical theory with his brother for over a day. And his eyes were a bright, sparkling blue that could put a sapphire to shame. 

Sherlock Holmes (the toy) was stout and round, with stubby limbs added only as an afterthought. He had no neck to speak of, his mouth was sewed shut in a thin-lipped smile, and his eyes were made of dull, lifeless, black thread. He was soft and supportive and quiet and gave good hugs.

No-pressure tagging hmmmm I'll try for different people than last time @straycrayoncrypt @eternallaughter @shinyphoenix @millenni-em-tauk @arielxlazarus @arien-elensar

[searchingforserendipity25]

Vigil. idril & aredhel. ao3.

TW: references to kidnapping, implied/referenced sexual assault.

"Aunt," said Idril, rather stiffly, where once she would have used her name, and would not have asked at all. "Might I join you?"

Aredhel fought the urge to bare her teeth, and kept her eyes on the crowded clouds above.

Pink-washed and round-bellied, west-bound. The wind was fierce with currents only clouds and birds sailed, but the courtyard Aredhel had chosen for her rest was well-sheltered, the stone rich with heat.

It had been some effort, to go the long way alone; but she had a cane, and a son to lean on. She had been weary and pained enough to send the son gladly away; and be gladdest of all to be alone.

She heard Idril come, her silver feet making their familiar song upon the mosaics of Gondolin's courts. That was more kindness she was used to in Nan Elmoth, where many things scurried, and few gave a warning of their proximity.

A glorious warmth seeped into her bones. She had been so cold, in Nan Elmoth. Not a first - but it was a damp mist that sank through the skin, a dizzying weariness. Sunlight - only occasionally. Eöl kept to the starlit-ways. 

Aredhel had kissed Arien Sun-Star once, and crowed to voicelessness when first she saw hard land, and thawing frost. She had missed this - it made her angry so. What a waste of years she might have spent otherwise.

And still Idril was waiting. It was not kind, to set a test upon her; but Aredhel could not do otherwise. And it was good to know Idril would wait; that she was not so changed as to have lost her persistence.

"Sit, if you like," Aredhel said. "I am not your master, to tell you what you might do."

Her voice sounded rough with long illness to her own ears, but she took her time gathering it in her throat, made it strong. In her sujourn under the curling boughs of Nan Elmoth, it had been needful to speak, and always it had been done with effort. She might have forgotten the sound of her own words, let them fade entirely.

Was he your master, then, Idril thought. Were you not free to do as you would, even to sit in the sun?

Aredhel did not hear it, but she knew her niece. The same wisdom that kept Idril's thought away from the walls that Aredhel had raised about her mind would make her draw conclusion. 

Not the wrong ones. They spoke in Sindarin. Aredhel was not certain yet she would speak the language of her people again; if she could, even inside the high walls of Gondolin, where Quenya was used in the market, in the king's chambers, in songs of devotions.

Gondolin's benches were wide and sturdy enough; two might lay abreast, and not touch.

Idril's hair smelled of laurel and honey, still. Few things had made Aredhel's eyes sting on her return to Gondolin. The white stone shimmering in the heat had been a great relief, but an indifferent one, as a hunted beast might feel at the sight of a cave or a tall branch. Now only did Aredhel feel - how familiar it was. This smell, Idril's closeness, the whirring machinery of her mind close enough they might have shared a moment of wry understanding, as they had so many times before.

They did not touch.

Now a small army of cirrocumulus overhead, sweet clouds all following on one another. She had tried to teach Lómion the different cloud names, but he had not the love for the skies that she did. Her son was busy in the forges. He had found his source of warmth, learned at his father's side. Aredhel had loved him less the day she understood he would not need to live as she did.

Possibly her measuring scale of love had grow skewered. O, now Turgon never would allow her out! But the worst of it was that she was tired. Not her wound alone caused it, though that healed slowly regardless.

 She willed herself to see it - herself on horseback again, crossing fields of clover, narrow passes. Her body thrummed with exhaustion at the thought of it. 

The high noon sun pressed against their lids, turned the world to a blinding gilt. Idril surely felt Aredhel's fever rising, the warmth that rose from her skin; but Idril was wise, and knew how to measure her silence. Aredhel had forgotten a little, how worthy her niece was.

At times dark shadows swirled overhead through the clouds. Slow, broad wings high above, coming from all corners of the mountainside.

The vultures that fed most often by Amon Gwareth had flown days ago to the city walls for a feast: Eöl, they cried. Eöl is dead. More and more came, eager, hungry.

 As a widow she had woken from near-death, knowing with rare foresight that her body would not be her own, and whole and hale again, until Eöl was eaten entire, bowels and eyeballs and marrow. Aredhel of Gondolin waited.

It was a good wait; long enough to learn the skies again, to be sun-warm all the way through.

She touched her fingertips lightly to Idril's, when it was done, and felt her stir, her thought turning to Aredhel, a constrained joy and grief and relief. But Aredhel was in no hurry, and did not wish to open her heart again, nor leave to return to her chambers; not till the last birds of rapine were borne slowly away in the wind.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Day: 4 @eonweweek

Prompt: Romance

Pairing: Eönwë/Arien

Themes: Epistolary form (letters) | Medieval AU

Warnings: Just two people all loved up, your honor  

Word count: 800+ words

Summary: Eönwë writes to Arien, thanking her for her gift.

Letter from Eönwë to Arien:

25th August 1453

To my most beloved Lady Arien, greetings.

Not long ago, I received your letter and your gift of a saffron ribbon richly embroidered in golden thread. It pleases me to hear of your prosperity and good health, and I accept the present that you have bestowed upon me with a glad and willing heart. If it would not offend, I will wear it upon my person whenever opportunity allows.

My lady, the continued demonstrations of your affections oblige me to love and honor you always. Such things I do not consider a burden, for what burden is there in serving the one whom I desire over all others? I shall treasure your words and your tokens, and I pray that I will continue to be the recipient of your esteem; there would be no greater punishment than the loss of it.

I compete next in the tourney at House Shield. Lord Tulkas has welcomed all, and the king himself will take his place in the lists. I yearn to see you there, and perhaps, if it pleases you, I could entreat you to join me in more private amusements, far away from the prying eyes of others.

I must now end this letter, my lady, for a lack of time, but know that I wish you well and that you are in my thoughts always.

Written by the hand of your most humble servant,

Eönwë

Letter from Arien to Eönwë:

02nd September, 1453

To my most beloved knight, greetings.

Your letter came to me on the swiftest of swings, and it was received with much joy. I made haste to write in answer, for the weather is slowly beginning to grow colder, and our birds do not fare well when it becomes even more so. The cold makes them weak, and too many of them become easy prey. Come winter, my letters will be a rare thing, but I will more than make amends for it when we are blessed once again with the glory of spring.

It would not offend me in the slightest, my lord, if you wore my token upon your person. And it honors me, truly, to know that my tokens and my letters, trifling things as they are, will always be treasured by you. Your words of devotion humble me, my lord, and I pray that I will always prove myself to be worthy of it.

I too will travel to House Shield, for the ladies I serve desire to witness the spectacle of the tourney. Lord Tulkas will see to it that no expense is spared, especially now, when the king himself wishes to contend with other knights. As for the other matter, that of my joining you in more private amusements, my answer is yes, my lord. I will be glad to do so.

For now, my love, farewell.

Arien 

Letter from Eönwë to Arien:

11th September 1453

To the Lady Arien, my beloved companion in all things. Greetings.

Thanks, and thanks, and thanks again, my love, for your letter. Preparations are nearly complete for our journey, and the king has sent word for us to depart on the last day of this very month. The days will be long and hard and tiresome, but such struggles will be soon forgotten when I am finally able to see you and take you into my arms once again.

I too understand the difficulty that comes with sending letters during the winter. The road to Ilmarin is nigh impassable; the wind howls violently like a living, breathing beast and only the boldest, or perhaps the most foolish of hearts, attempt to ride up paths hidden beneath thick drifts of snow. Perhaps, my lady, you will consider wintering in Ilmarin before returning to Green Grove in the spring. You will find that the royal palace is warm and well-appointed even during the coldest and foulest of months, and you will not lack for any comfort. His grace the king has already consented to my request, and I will gladly speak to the ladies you serve on this score if you were to give me leave to do so.

By the hand of your most faithful companion,

Eönwë

Letter from Arien to Eönwë:

19th September, 1453

Most treasured companion, greetings.

My lord, I heartily accept your invitation to while away the winter months in Ilmarin. The ladies whom I serve will readily assent to your plea, and I gladly give you leave to speak with them when you see them next. I am told that Ilmarin is most beautiful during the cold months, with holly and sprigs of evergreen and gilded lamps wrought in the shape of stars adorning its chambers and halls. I have always longed to see such beauty with my own eyes, and I am forever grateful to you for granting me this.

I shall put down my quill for now, but please know that you are in my thoughts and prayers always.

Written by the hand of she who is always yours,

Arien

tags: @cilil @asianbutnotjapanese

[pvrkacciosan]

ACOTAR Next Generation

Kids

ACOTAR Next Gen. Masterlist

NIGHT COURT KIDS

RHYSAND + FEYRE

NYX: The Oldest Son and heir to the Night Court. Nyx resembles his father in appearance and is known to share his mothers kind human heart. Nyx shares his fathers ability to make his wings disappear and appear again as he so choses. When it comes to power, Nyx took after his fathers gifts.

SORAYA: The second oldest child and second in line to the Night Court. Soraya or Raya as her family know her, is of a harder nature then her older brother. She is more cunning and willing to manipulate others to get what she wants. Whilst her brother is train to take over the night court, she has trained to be a body guard of sorts, despite being the younger of the two she is a force to be reckoned with.

KYLO: The youngest son to the High Lord and Lady, Kylo is by far if the gentlest nature. With at least six years separating him and Soraya in age, Kylo is the most protected. He prides himself on his flight maneuvers. Having permanent wings unlike his two siblings.

CASSIAN + NESTA

EIRIAN: The eldest daughter to the Lord of Bloodshed, she is as one might expect. Been wielding weapons since she could walk. Eirian is sharp tongued and is very loyal to her friends at fault, whilst she shares the stubbornness both her parents posses.

TANA: Tana is of a far softer nature then the rest of her family, she is deadly in her own way, but she does not posses the sharp nature of battle strategy. With small Illyrian wings, Tana tends to hide away from everyone that isn't her friends and family.

AZRIEL + GWYN

ELION: The oldest of the twins, Elion is bold and a far better fighter then his brother, he posses the built lean figure of his father, but shares many features with his mother beside the hair. He is determined to get things done, and refuses to give up a task until he has given it his all.

ARIEN: The youngest twin, Arien takes after his father. He walks in shadows his quieter nature was the calm to Elion's wild spirit. Arien always prefers to approach a situation with knowing all the information first, growing up when the children would get into trouble, Arien would always be the one to calculate ways for them to outsmart the situation.

WINTER COURT KIDS

KALLIAS + VIVIANE

CAELUM: He is the first born son and heir to the Winter court. He resembles every resident of the winter court with his fair skin and snow whit hair with the same piercing blue eyes of his father. He inherited his fathers gifts and is a gentle soul thanks to his mothers input.

EIRLYS: other wise known as 'Eira', she is the only daughter to the Winter court. She is known across her court for her kind heart and ability to inspire all she speaks, with envisions for the future, ruling and advising her brother should he ascend to the High lord position.

DAY COURT KIDS

LUCIEN + ELAIN

QUINCY: The only child to Elain and Lucien, she lives out her days in the warm of the day court, she heavily takes after her mother, loving the outside warm natures of a garden. She learned to hunt and live off the land from her father and loves when her cousins come to visit from the Night Court.

[doodle-pops]

Sunshine In The Rain

Erestor x human!reader

Request: Hey my favourite tumblr writer! If it’s not too much trouble, may I please request either a fic or headcanons with Erestor x human reader who is a scholar who Elrond envites to study in Imladris and they have a bit of a grump/sunshine troupe were reader is all sunshine while Erestor is... Erestor. Perhaps just life between the two of them in the libraries, also can be completely platonic! Like begrudgingly best friends but denies it even though everyone knows they’d die for each other. Thanks! - Anon

A/N: I decided to take a platonic approach for this fic 😊.

Warning: fluff, humour, annoying Erestor

Word: 1.6k

Synopsis: A day unlike any other never went without annoying your favourite grumpy librarian and telling him how much he meant to you.

“Do you deny it?”

“Would be so kind as to pass me those manuscripts to your right, the ones on Quenya linguistics, please.”

“Erestor, do you deny it?”

Exhaling, he kept his head afront, focused on arranging the manuscripts in chronological order and not messing up. He had heard your question loud and clear, but choosing to focus on his work before him, he continued adjusting the old scrolls and books to make room for the ancient artifacts. They were brought from Lindon and arrived two days ago, since then, Erestor had spent day and night with his nose buried deep within the pages, marvelling at the hidden beauty of the language of the great Eldar of the West. The complexity of such simple words was as beautiful as the dawn to him— the thoughts of a true admirer of the ancient languages.

Your stance beside him fell into a silent stare the longer Arien moved across the sky. Arms folded behind your back, sleeves overlapped due to the elves' fascination with appearing as though they floated on air, hair neatly swept into a single braid, back straight, eyes shining with mirth and lip eagerly being chewed on, you stood on your toes and leaned in closer. Craning your neck, your robes hung off your figure and left you with a drowning appearance in greys, blues and browns. The colours wonderfully complimented your eyes and skin tone which were enhanced the moment a gust of wind ripped the curtains apart and Arien’s rays fell on you. Breaking into a smile, from your point of view, Lord Erestor seemed to be engrossed in sorting the manuscripts to notice your approach.

You had the most interesting habit of engaging in any activity the elven Lord was set on accomplishing. Even if it meant standing on the side and conversing for the area was out of your expertise— being a scholar who specialised in medicine. Your time spent with Lord Erestor over the year and a half you were welcomed into Imladris were the greatest moments experienced. There was never a dull moment with him no matter how grumpy he appeared. His grumpiness was a beacon to you.

“My Lord, are you ignoring me? Lord Elrond requested you to assist me with gathering information from manuscripts in the archives on mugwort and eucalyptus...” you sang as you inched yourself closer to the ladder and looked up at him. His face was set, and his eyes fixated on the shelves before him, not once did they dip in your direction.

A slight frown marred your face.

“Are you still planning on writing your book?” his voice piqued up from the empty silence the library had fallen into it.

You jolted at the shock of his deepened voice. It was rare he used that tone when communicating with you. “So he listens and speaks? I thought for a moment you were deaf?” you chortled.

Shaking his head slightly and closing his eyes, Erestor sighed at your so-called humorous antics. To think that within the year and a half flew by, he would have been accustomed to all of them by now, it appeared as though you had a few stashed up your sleeves. Reopening his eyes, his hand reached for another script and placed it beside the others. Though his eyes were stern, his lips were loose and friendly. The corners were lifted. “I’ve told you time and time again, when working, speak work matters,” he reminded you with a lack of seriousness in his voice.

“But wouldn’t that make your work boring… Ah, right, right, Of course. How could I forget?” you snickered. Your head nods at the recollection of why he was boring as the others claimed him to be. Not receiving any feedback, you turned away from him, and cast your attention on other objects scattered across the room; the single table that held a vase with a single flower, the empty bookshelves, the stacks of hardcover books and the rolled-up rug in the eastern wing. The twins had spilt wine on the rug one evening when they came to annoy you and Erestor. You remembered watching the poor librarian catch a stroke as he scolded them. Breaking into a smile and then a small chuckle at the memory, it caught his attention.

Caught between placing the last script on the shelf and observing your shaking figure, he fumbled around before inquiring. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone mad? Laughing at yourself now or perhaps you’ve seen a comical ghost as your human stories have it,” he probed. Brows arched and body half turned in your direction, awaiting your fascinating response. His eyes were no longer strict and were now relaxed, gazing with curiosity.

Whipping your head around to notice him patiently waiting for an answer, you squinted your eyes and pursed your lips. Running your eyes down his body, down the ladder and across the floor to meet your feet, you tilted your head deep in thought. “…I thought when we are at work, only work-related matters?” You threw his own words at him, a smirk growing at his baffled state once he realised he had gone back on his words. Sputtering a few noises as his frustration grew, not liking the idea of being caught, he gave an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes.

“This is why I don’t like speaking with you! You make everything complicated,” he accused with annoyance laced in his voice. You on the other hand were rolling with laughter. It wasn’t often you managed to trick the Lord and force him into awkwardness.

“Oh, come on Erestor! It was just a joke! You know I’ll inform you anyway,” you consoled. At that moment, you walked over to the ladder and looked up to flash him a sympathetic look, hoping he bought what you conveyed. To your unamused self, he scoffed at your attempts and looked away with a light tint of red peaking at the tips of his ear. The sighting only prompted you to laugh with more gusto.

Hand on your stomach, you curled in to release peals of laughter throughout the library, disrupting the tranquil ambience. If Erestor was in his librarian mode, he would have scolded you for obstruction of peace by now, but he was far busy with covering his ears and adjusting his composure. Huffing and puffing as the sound of your voice diminished into squeaks and large intakes of air, he scowled, “Why must you always be like this? Is there ever a moment when you’re not making things awkward?”

Through your fit of laughter, your gaze turned to him and transformed into foreign shock. A hand over your chest and the other on your stomach while your lips parted to inhale and exhale exasperatedly, you gawked at him. “What do you mean ‘why am I always like this’? …Am I not supposed to be jovial around my friend? I mean, I apologise if I make things awkward, but it’s just how I am when I'm around people I’m fond of. You should know,” you proclaimed. A brilliant smile had made its way across your face and touched your eyes.

Erestor couldn’t help but remain still as he listened to your words. He had heard them from Lord Glorfindel before, but they sounded different when emitted from you— a little warmth and sunshine, glad tidings and mirth. With his stillness as he remained perched on the ladder, leaning against the shelf, he stared at you and wonder what he could possibly say to counteract your words. He always had some quirky remark, but instead, he remained voiceless. Tightening his grip as he motioned his body to move down the ladder, his thoughts raced with the ulterior motive behind your words. You considered him your friend, as if he didn't know, but refused to admit. What were you attempting to do?

“Are you alright Lord Erestor? I didn’t say something to offend you? I mean, I know you elves have a different concept of expressing emoti—”

“— No you did not.” He paused at the base of the ladder before shifting to stand before the desk filled with scrolls and parchments. His cheeks were hurting from the stress of resisting to form a smile— he was touched. Calling someone a friend was a high act of affection and it was odd for anyone to consider him given his cold exterior and persona— Glorfindel not included. “It’s just…you consider me a friend.”

Quizzically chuckling, you walked around to greet him at the front of the desk and corrected him. “Not ‘a friend’, ‘my friend’. And yes, I do! What, you think that after spending a year and a half around you I wouldn’t consider you my best buddy? Yeah, you’re grumpy, but I can live with it!” you assured with a brilliant smile and shrug.

Lifting his head to turn his smile into a frown at your choice of words, he grumbled, “I am not grumpy! I simply lack the will and strength to lift my facial muscles to produce a joyous appearance.”

“…Hm, that sounds right. You are complicated, but at least you’re my complicated friend.” You shook your head and frowned at his complexity. You could feel the headache coming on.

“This is exactly why I’m not friends with you in the first place. You bully me,” he announced casually with a disappointed shake of his head as he strutted towards the exit. From your angle, you couldn’t see the smirk on his face at his joy at teasing you.

Gasping at the absurdity, you did not hesitate to trail after him, robes flowing behind you dramatically while you bored a look of disbelief. “How dare you accuse me of bullying you! Especially after all that we’ve been through! Get back here!” you exclaimed as you waved your fist in the air.

All Erestor did was roll his eye and shook his head tediously while he stood at the door holding it open with an unamused look. “You're the reason I question my sanity.”

Masterlist

Taglist: @eunoiaastralwings @noldorinpainter @ranhanabi777 @spidergirla5 @lilmelily @someoneinthestars @mysticmoomin @aconstructofamind @floraroselaughter @singleteapot @the-phantom-of-arda @rain-on-my-umbrella @asianbutnotjapanese @ilu-stripes @justellie17 @justjane @silverose365

[ironwoman359]

A Thief's Gamble - Ch.5

The Renegade from Cyrodiil

Previous: Ch.4 - Bedlam and Burglary || Next: Ch.6 - Unhindered Insights Fic Masterpost

Fic Summary: Brynjolf is certain that the only way the Thieves Guild will return to its glory days is by bringing in new, talented members. Unfortunately, Mercer doesn't agree, and it's not like Brynjolf's latest attempts at recruiting have gone well. But when he meets a stranger in the marketplace one morning, he's willing to take the risk and bring her on board....only time will tell if his gamble pays off.

Chapter Summary: Brynjolf learns that Ariene has been hiding who she really is, and he is forced to confront her before she endangers the Guild.

Content: Brynjolf POV, Thieves Guild quest spoilers, game typical violence.

Ships: Brynjolf x Dragonborn OC (slowburn)

Word Count: 3,857

Check the reblogs for a link to read on AO3!

--- --- ---

Sometimes, Brynjolf wondered what his Ma would think of him today.

She’d wanted him to join the merchant’s trade when he was a lad, but he’d refused, complaining that he didn’t want to spend his life stuck behind a desk filling out paperwork and speaking with boring noblemen. He wanted to do something exciting with his life. 

He’d always been a schemer, inventing wild tales to scam the other kids out of pocket change and sweets, and as he grew, so did his ambition. His targets grew bigger and his plans became more elaborate, and soon he caught the attention of others who operated on the shadier side of the law. He made some new friends, acquired some new skills, and before he knew it he was being offered a position in the Thieves Guild. 

Finally, he had the life he’d always wanted, far away from the daily drudgery of ledgers, bookkeeping, and his Ma’s boring expectations. 

Thirty years later, as he sat at his desk keeping books, balancing ledgers, and reading correspondence from boring noblemen, he was certain that she was looking down from Sovngarde and shaking her head at him. 

It turned out that running a Guild required just as much paperwork as being a merchant. And while not all of the contacts he kept were boring noblemen, sometimes he thought that actually made things harder. 

Merchants didn’t have to encode half their messages to keep the guards from discovering their movements, and shopkeepers didn’t have to keep two sets of ledgers, one with real figures and one with numbers that were faked. 

Sometimes, Brynjolf regretted being so eager to prove himself to Gallus and the other higher ups. While he did prove that he was an exceptional thief, he’d also proved that he had a good head for numbers, and more and more of the Guild’s administrative work was passed on to him, especially after Mercer took over the Guild. He still managed to keep his more interesting skills as sharp as his daggers, but there were definitely days when he felt more like a merchant than a thief after all.  

Today was one of those days. 

He’d been cooped up in the cistern for what felt like ages, reading over reports from his agents across Skyrim. It was important for the Guild to keep a finger on the pulse of what was happening in each hold, and while most of their clients had dried up, Brynjolf had managed to ensure that his contacts still sent him news about any notable changes in the country. 

The most concerning news was the rumors of a dragon attack in Helgen. Brynjolf had received reports on what had happened near the southern border, but it had been right before the situation at Goldenglow had escalated, and he hadn’t paid much attention to the rumors. There were, after all, more pressing matters to deal with. 

But now it seemed that Helgen really had been destroyed, and that not long after there’d been another attack in Whiterun. Only about a day later, by the accounts he was reading. He was only receiving the report now because his contact had feared traveling across the Rift with dragons on the loose. 

Brynjolf wasn’t sure what to make of the idea of dragons. He had initially thought the reports about Helgen were written in some kind of code, but once he’d disproven that theory he’d simply written them off as mere rumors. This latest report from Whiterun implied otherwise though, and Brynjolf couldn't help but think back to the stories his Ma had told him as a boy, about dragons and fire and the end of times. 

Still, despite the existential threat that the return of the dragons posed, he found something else in the report from Whiterun to be even more surprising.

He was sitting at his desk, staring down at the letter in disbelief when Delvin walked up to him. 

“Brynjolf, you’re never gonna guess who I just got a message from.” 

Brynjolf blinked, then shook his head. 

“Sorry old man, what was that?” 

“You got wax in your ears or somethin’?” Delvin asked. “I said I just got a message in from Whiterun, and you’re never gonna guess from who. Olfrid Battle-Born himself. Says he’s heard we were active in the city again, and that he’s got a job for us. We haven’t had a break like this in months.”

“We haven’t,” Brynjolf muttered, more to himself than to Delvin, and the old man snapped his fingers in front of Brynjolf’s face.

“You awake in there, Bryn? What’s got your head in the clouds?” 

Brynjolf just passed the Whiterun report to him, and pointed at the last paragraph that he’d been reading and rereading for the past several minutes. 

Delvin huffed, but took the paper and read aloud:

“A final note: word is that you’re making moves in Whiterun again. Be aware that the jarl has appointed a new Thane to his court, an imperial by the name of…Ariene Anneius? It is unknown at this time how amenable she is to persuasion, or whether or not she will seek to take Justice into her own hands. Proceed with caution.” 

Delvin lowered the paper and stared at Brynjolf. 

“I know,” Brynjolf said, his mouth a grim line as he took the page back.  

“Why on earth would a Thane join up with the Guild?” Delvin wondered aloud. “Could she be tryin’ to take us down? Gather evidence against us?”

“I wondered the same thing, but if that were her goal then she’s seen more than enough to incriminate the lot of us. Instead, she just…keeps doing jobs,” Brynjolf said. 

“Besides, if a Thane were to try and take us down, why would it be one from Whiterun?” Delvin added. “We haven’t had a strong foothold there in years, and it’s only because of her that our reputation is gettin’ stronger in the first place. Maybe she wants somethin’ from us? A cut of the action in exchange for her silence?” 

“Maybe…” Brynjolf trailed off, something Delvin said sticking out in his mind. “Except…wait a moment.” 

He pushed a stack of papers aside, digging through the older pile of reports until he found what he was looking for. 

“Except she’s not from Whiterun. I knew I’d heard that last name somewhere before. Look,” he said, passing over a crumpled note bearing the Imperial seal. 

Delvin took it and read aloud again. 

“Wanted: Renegade Imperial Soldier Ariene Anneius. It is believed she is headed for the northern border with Skyrim. Likely armed and dangerous, DO NOT ENGAGE alone. If spotted or captured, inform the nearest Imperial outpost.” 

He let out a low whistle and passed the note back to Brynjolf.

“This came in around three weeks ago, but I didn’t give it much attention.” Brynjolf said. “By the time I saw Ariene in the market and offered her a job, I’d already forgotten about it.” 

He shook his head in disbelief. 

“No wonder she was so nervous about Maven knowing her name. Maven’s ties with the Imperials are well known, if Ariene is on the run from the law in Cyrodiil…” he trailed off as another thought came across his mind. “Hang on. If she’s a wanted renegade, then-” 

“How on earth did she end up gettin’ named Thane of Whiterun?” Delvin said, completing Brynjolf’s thought. “Jarl Balgruuf is a man of honor, so much so that it makes things difficult for us on occasion. He wouldn’t just award a wanted criminal the highest position in his court without a damn good reason.” 

“Whatever the reason, I don’t think we should send anyone out there to meet Olfrid Battle-Born just yet,” Brynjolf said. “Not until we get some answers.” 

Delvin nodded in agreement. 

“And how do you intend to get those answers?” he asked and Brynjolf grimaced. 

“The only way I can. I’ll have to ask the lass myself.” 

— — — 

Brynjolf found Ariene in the training room. He stood in the entryway, hovering just out of sight and watching her with renewed curiosity. 

She stood in the center of the room, her bow drawn and an arrow knocked at the string. She took a deep breath, then in one smooth motion she lifted the bow up, pulled back the string and fired, not even waiting to see where the arrow landed before reaching back and drawing another. Over and over, she let the arrows fly through the air, her movements quick and fluid and her face a mask of cool concentration. 

Brynjolf edged closer, tearing his eyes away from her to look at the targets, each with a mass of arrows clustered around the bullseye. Not a single shot had flown astray, and his mind drifted back to her wanted notice.

Possibly armed and dangerous, DO NOT ENGAGE alone. 

“How long are you planning on skulking there in the shadows?”

Brynjolf tensed, but Ariene’s tone was light and playful, and as he turned his attention back to her, he saw her bow was lowered, the quiver empty at her back. She was smiling an easy smile, and Brynjolf took a deep breath. 

“How long did you know I was there?” he asked, stepping into the room, and Ariene smirked. 

“The whole time. You’re not as stealthy as you think you are, Brynjolf,” she said, and Brynjolf raised an eyebrow. 

“Or maybe you’re just more observant than the average mark,” he countered. 

Ariene laughed, and Brynjolf found a part of himself wishing that he could just ignore the mysteries of her past and enjoy her company for the sake of it. 

But he knew that if he did that, he’d never quite trust the lass again, and that would be far worse in the long run than whatever fallout would come out of this confrontation. Better to face the issue head on while he still had a chance to. 

“Got a problem, lass,” he said, forcing his voice to remain even. “Was hoping you could give me a hand.” 

“Sure,” Ariene said, stowing her bow over her shoulder and looking at Brynjolf expectantly. 

Silently, he pulled the folded wanted slip out of his pocket. He passed the paper over to her, and carefully watched her reaction as she unfolded it. Her shoulders tensed and her eyes darted around the room, lingering for a moment on the daggers on Brynjolf’s belt before settling back on his face. 

“The criminal organization have a problem with criminal pasts now?” she asked, a challenge in her tone.

Brynjolf couldn’t help the half smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth at that, and he shook his head. 

“No, lass. And I’d be a damn hypocrite if I said otherwise. Your past is your own business, so long as it doesn’t affect the rest of the Guild.” 

“So what’s the problem? Have you decided the price on my head is greater than the amount of gold I can make you?” 

“No, it’s nothing like that,” Brynjolf said. “You’re not the only member with a bounty, and the Guild never would betray one of our own for coin. The problem is this.” 

Brynjolf pulled out the Whiterun report, and Ariene narrowed her eyes. She grabbed the paper and scanned it quickly, and when she looked up, her expression had gone stone cold.

“I still don’t see the issue,” she said evenly, and Brynjolf scoffed. 

“Then you’re not as good a thief as I thought you were. We’re all entitled to our fair share of anonymity, but this? This is something I needed to know about, especially before I let you take a job in Whiterun.”  

“I don’t owe you an explanation-” Ariene began, but Brynjolf cut her off.

“You don’t owe me an explanation for how or why you’re wanted by the Imperial government. That’s not my business. But secretly being a member of a Jarl’s court? Even if it’s in another hold, that could affect the Guild in any number of ways. And that means that it is my business.”

“You make it sound like it’s some crazy conspiracy,” Ariene growled. “Maybe I just like my privacy.” 

“A normal thing for a thief to say; a very odd thing for a Thane to say,” Brynjolf countered. 

Ariene glared at him and he tensed, fighting the instinct to reach for his daggers. Her quiver was empty; as deadly as she could apparently be with a bow, the weapon was useless to her now. He glanced quickly at her belt, where her own dagger sat in its sheath. He’d never seen her use the weapon before, and had no idea whether her skill with it matched his own. Even if he couldn’t stop her alone she’d likely be bottlenecked in the cistern, but he’d still prefer to keep his blood inside his body, thank you very much. 

Still, Ariene made no move to attack him, or to try and escape. Instead, she folded her arms over her chest and kept her glare trained on him. 

“Who says I even wanted to be a Thane?” she demanded. “Why would I come to Riften in the first place, break the law multiple times and crawl through a sewer to join a failing Guild if I was set for life in another hold?”

At that, Brynjolf forgot his apprehension and glared right back at her.

“That,” he said, his voice low. “Is exactly what I’d like to know.”  

Ariene sighed and turned away, walking over to the archery targets. She began pulling the arrows free and Brynjolf tensed, but she still made no hostile movements. She stowed the arrows back in her quiver and glanced back at Brynjolf, raising an eyebrow. 

“You’re not going to be satisfied until you get an answer, are you?” she asked. 

Brynjolf folded his arms. 

“I’ve had questions about you since the first day you showed up here,” he admitted. “But there’s a difference between personal curiosity and business. This isn’t about me, lass. It’s about the Guild.”

Ariene leaned up against a bale of hay that one of the targets was standing on and gave him a long look. Silence hung heavy in the air between them, the tension in the room a nearly physical thing before she let out a breath and looked down at her boots. 

“Fine. What do you want to know?” 

“Why are you here?” Brynjolf said immediately. 

“Here in Riften, or here in Skyrim?” she asked, then she shook her head. “No, I suppose that doesn’t matter. The answer is the same either way. I’m running.” 

Brynjolf raised an eyebrow at that.

“Running?” he repeated, and Ariene rolled her eyes. 

“Well, trying to, anyway. It seems no matter where I run to, I find something else to add to the long list of things I’m running from.” 

She looked distant for a moment, and Brynjolf waited for her to continue. After a spell, she shook herself, and held up her wanted page. 

“I’ve been on the run from the Imperial Legion for nearly two months. I tried to cross the border into Skyrim a few weeks ago, but I got tangled up in an ambush that the forces here had set for the Stormcloaks. I was captured, and very nearly executed.”

Her expression was casual, but there was a detectable tightness to her voice, and despite everything, Brynjolf couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for her.

“They execute folks for deserting now?” he asked, and Ariene huffed. 

“For deserting, for illegally crossing the border, for what I did before I deserted, maybe for all of it wrapped into one, who knows. It doesn’t matter anyway. I escaped Helgen and-”

“Wait,” Brynjolf interrupted suddenly. “You were at Helgen? When?” 

Ariene grimaced. 

“If you’re asking that, then you already know the answer.” 

“So you saw a-”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Believe it or not, I’d be dead now if it weren’t for that dragon. I was able to slip away during all the confusion, with the help of one of the other prisoners. We laid low with some relatives of his for a day or so, but the price for their hospitality was a message to Jarl Balgruuf about the dragon attack. I took the message to him and was going to just move on, but he offered me a contract to retrieve an item from an old barrow in the mountains. And as much as I didn’t want to waste my time dancing on a jarl’s strings…well, the Imperials took my money, and all my gear. I didn’t really have a choice.”

“You don’t expect me to believe he named you Thane because you ran one job for him,” Brynjolf said, and Ariene rubbed her eyes. 

“No. No, he named me Thane because right after I returned from fetching the artifact for his wizard, there was another dragon attack.” 

Brynjolf’s eyes widened at the implication. 

“Are you saying that…you killed the beast?” he asked in disbelief. 

Ariene gave a wry smile. 

“Not alone, no. But my contributions to the fight weren’t insignificant. I’m sure you noticed, but I’m a hell of a shot.” 

Brynjolf nodded, a smile of his own tugging at the edge of his lips despite himself. 

“When the battle was over, my, ah, prowess was noted by the other guards, and that is when Balgruuf named me his Thane. I left the city not long after.” 

Brynjolf stared at her, trying to wrap his head around the revelation. He’d assumed the lass was capable in combat– she’d made it out of Goldenglow, after all– but taking down a dragon…that was something else. No wonder the jarl had ignored her criminal past and given her a title. A thought occurred to him then, and his brow furrowed.

“There’s something I still don’t quite understand, lass,” he said. “After all of that, why leave Whiterun at all? Why come here?”

The smile slid from Ariene’s face, and she fiddled with the hilt of the dagger at her hip. 

“Whiterun was never my planned destination. And Balgruuf…” she sighed, and a look somewhere between a smile and a grimace crossed her face. “He’s an honorable man, for better or for worse. If an imperial officer tried to capture me there?” she shook her head. “I can’t be certain he’d refuse them.” 

“So he doesn’t know about your criminal history?” Brynjolf asked, and Ariene shrugged.

“I’m not sure what exactly he knows, but to be honest, it doesn’t matter. Regardless of whether I’d be safe from arrest there, I’m not too keen on spending the rest of my life carrying out the orders of yet another man who thinks he can use me for his own gain.”

She tilted her chin up and looked straight at Brynjolf.

“Like I said,” she said evenly. “One more thing to run from.” 

Brynjolf read the challenge in her eyes, but he held her gaze.

“And that running took you here, of all places,” he said. “Why?” 

Ariene raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not as though I planned it. I ended up in Ivarstead, and had no desire to go back around the mountains, so I headed east instead. I’d planned on spending a day or two in town here to scrape up enough money to hire a carriage north, but then–”

“Then I offered you a job,” Brynjolf finished. “At this point I’m surprised you said yes. It sounds like following orders isn’t high on your list of favorite activities.”

“Maybe not,” Ariene admitted. “But you didn’t give me an order, you gave me an offer. One that was my choice to accept. Besides,” she added with a half-smile. “You were right. My pockets were pretty light on coin. And in my experience, larceny is the quickest cure for that particular ailment.” 

“Aye,” Brynjolf agreed with a chuckle. “You’re not wrong there, lass.” 

There was a beat of silence, and Ariene shifted her weight so that she was no longer leaning against the hay bale. 

“So…” she said carefully. “What happens now?” 

“Now?” he repeated, and she nodded.

“That’s it. You gonna run me out of the Guild or hand me over to the Imperials now?” 

Her voice was light, but she carried a tension in her body like a coiled spring, still ready to run or fight at a moment’s notice. Brynjolf watched her for a long moment, then he shook his head no, and she blinked in surprise.

“I said it before, lass. We don’t turn in our own for gold.”

“But if I lied about my background–”

“Look. The only thing that worried me was the question of your allegiances,” Brynjolf explained. “If what you’ve told me is true, and you joined the Guild because you honestly wanted to, no ulterior motives besides getting rich? Then that’s no longer a concern of mine.” 

Ariene nodded slowly. 

“My allegiance has always been to myself, first and foremost,” she said. “Never to the law, either in Cyrodiil or Skyrim. But the Guild’s done right by me, which is more than I can say about the Legion, or…anyone else, really. So I intend to keep doing right by the Guild, as long as it’ll still have me.” 

Brynjolf inclined his head to her, letting an easy smile slide onto his face. 

“And we’ll keep doing right by you, as long as you do the same for us,” he said. 

Ariene nodded, then looked at him for a moment, her expression thoughtful. 

“There’s more you want to know, isn’t there.” 

It was not a question, but a statement; one they both knew was true. Brynjolf’s mind was turning over all the information she’d given him, throwing up dozens of questions in response.

Why had Ariene fled to Skyrim after deserting? What had she done that made the Imperials so determined to hunt her down? Hell, why had she, who bristled at authority and walked her own path wherever she went, joined the Legion in the first place? What was she– someone who could hold her own in a fight against two dozen men and take down a dragon– really running from? 

Each question fought to jump forward to the tip of his tongue, but Brynjolf pushed them all down with another smile. 

“Like I said, lass. This isn't about me. Unless there’s something else that would affect the Guild, there’s nothing more you need to tell me.” 

“That,” said Ariene, giving him a pointed look, “was not a no.” 

“Aye, it wasn’t,” Brynjolf agreed with a chuckle. “Sharp as ever, aren’t you lass? But I meant it. Your business is your own, and my curiosity is mine. You’re under no obligation to satisfy it.” 

Ariene regarded him for a moment, then a smile– small and more than a little cautious but there nonetheless– spread across her face and the tension finally bled out of her posture. 

“Well,” she said. “Maybe one of these days, I’ll tell you the rest of the story…if you don’t mind telling me a story or two about yourself in return?” 

Brynjolf grinned.

“You know lass? I don’t think I’d mind that at all.”

--- --- ---

Previous: Ch.4 - Bedlam and Burglary || Next: Ch.6 - Unhindered Insights

Author's Note: Sorry this chapter took awhile! Things have been busy at work and I haven't had a lot of energy lately, BUT I'm back at it and more excited than ever about where this story is going! Hope you enjoyed a peek at our Dragonborn's backstory! Please reblog if you liked it, it'd mean a lot to me! <3

[sauron-kraut]

For the ship asks: Mairon/Eönwë and/or Mairon/Arien. I'm curious ^^

Oooooh my, this has been sitting in my inbox forever and ever, I am so sorry.

You really made me think with this one bestie; thank you for that!

Mairon/Eönwë:

I have never really shipped them actively and I still don't to this day. I guess the explanation here is quite simple; it's basically because Eönwë has never really caught my interest as a character; probably because there's few characters that I'm invested in who are not villains in some way. BUT on the other hand I'm not opposed to the hero/villain dynamic in general. AND bestie, YOU, yes, YOU made me much more curious about Eönwë as a character AND the ship with how your write them together, it's delicious (yes I am talking about that one fic). I will happily read any Mairon/Eönwë fic you throw my way in the future.

Mairon/Arien: This one really made me think. First of all: I do not ship them but when I see the ship on my dash or in fic I might still enjoy the art/meta/hc/fic etc. I see why people ship them (the fire spirit thing and them embodying different aspects of the concept, for example), I personally just never thought of it. One of the reasons for that might be that I generally prefer m/m ships for Mairon (I have one f/m ship for him but generally speaking that's more of an exception). Another thing which might be at play here is a not so pretty self-realization, and that is that female characters are vastly underrepresented in my portfolio of Tolkien characters that intrigue me (and I tend to include those in shipping), which might be due to some residue of internalized misogyny and also the fact that I often tend to grow attached to characters that I can sexualize at least a little for myself, which is easier for me with male characters. So there you have it, thanks for making me reflect on this.