#at least middle earth is flat Only For Elves

[queenlucythevaliant]

Pauline? Pauliiiine?

Why does Drinian have a globe? 🌍

Isn't Narnia canonically flat? 🗺️

Isn't that definitively established in This Very Book? 🤔

(Round Narnia conspiracy theory when?)

[fantasyfantasygames]

MiDDDle Space

MiDDDle Space, Stacked Studios, 2002

@identityuniverse sent me a copy of this and I would like to return it please.

The map of Middle-Earth is, as many fantasy maps are, roughly page-sized. It fades out near the edges of its flat world. It is extremely rare for someone working with Middle-Earth to fill in the least bit of that blank space. This game does it in a very unusual manner: it fills that blank space with outer space. It's a little bit Spelljammer, but it's more Starfinder. Elves and Ewarves and even the occasional Ent colony in space, with big ol' spaceships.

"But why the weird spelling?" you may be asking. Well, that's because it's a cross of Tolkien and extremely horny 90's cult TV show Lexx. You know. DDD like a bra size.

Which also explains the name of the game studio.

The setting doesn't bother explaining how anyone got into space or talking about that obviously-Middle-Earth-shaped postage stamp in the corner. It's all about "planet of the Warriors of Men" and "planet of the Dwarven smiths" and "ice planet of the Elven sex clothiers". I like the "Forest Asteroid of the Ents" but that might be more because I love space-forest stuff and Ents. NPCs are bog-standard stock characters who also want to bone.

The rules look kind of like they started off as Rolemaster (MERP, really) hack before shifting over to d20. It uses some custom classes to cover things like the Animist, Mentalist, Mystic, etc. It has plenty of critical hit/fail tables. It ports in some MERP skills directly, overwriting some d20 skills with them. There are places that refer to MERP mechanics like Maneuver rolls, which were not ported in. It's mostly playable if you're willing to do a fair amount of house-ruling.

You have a choice of five ships, with build-your-own ships in a supplement that's "coming soon" (it is not). One of the ships is very Lexx-looking, with the insectoid feel and the phallic look. It's very powerful and extremely unmaneuverable. You can also get a Spelljammer-like galleon with sails and everything, one that looks like an Elven Armada vessel, a vaguely Millennium-Falcon-like ship, or you can each get your own small ship to flit around in. I kinda like that last option. There is never any crew; the ship flies fine with just however many PCs you have. Regardless of which ship you pick, you're going to have a very rock-paper-scissors setup against other vessels and utter domination against anything ground-based.

The art is halfway between Elfquest and Dr. Voluptua. It's all greyscale. I do kinda like that you can see the artist improve in their anatomy and backgrounds over the course of the few years it took to create the game. It does not have a fun-and-sexy sense of humor, and the game plays things straight in multiple senses.

Honestly the thing that makes me unhappy about this game is that it's lazy. If you want to make a horny elfgame (or a horny-elf game), you do you. There are plenty of them out there, another one is fine. But don't make it a knockoff of two or three different IPs, with mechanics from two more, and nothing in it that really provides commentary on any of the above. Do something different or do satire, don't just push out content.

MiDDDle Space was swamped in the d20 tsunami. There were only about 200 copies made in the first place, so it's a bit of a collector's item in some corners.

[thetolkientroubles]

Script and Sources Below

Orcs (And Uruk-hai) are such an integral part of Middle-Earth, and as a byproduct of the influence of Tolkein on the fantasy genre as a whole, part of colloquial understanding of fantasy.

Almost every fantasy story has Orcs and goblins, or goes to great length to distance themselves from these creatures, embracing the concept and thus the concepts of high fantasy that are to be assumed with the orcs, or entirely avoiding orcs, letting the consumer know that this is different fantasy, and to expect the unexpected. But how can one look at (Or read) about something and know it’s an Orc? Well, Tolkein didn’t often describe the orcs in detail, as they more represent the evil, but he did sometimes tell the reader what they looked like, at least vaguely, saying “his broad flat face was swart, his eyes were like coals, and his tongue was red” (Fellowship Of The Ring, p. 325) The word swart in there means Swarthy, which is an old timey way of saying Dark-Skinned. 

Contrast to one of our heroes, Aragorn, the big good king returning from exile to save Middle-Earth, while the series offers very few details on Aragorn's physical appearance, we know he is tall and lean with "a shaggy head of dark hair flecked with grey, and in a pale stern face a pair of keen grey eyes." or perhaps, another of the Fellowship, “Legolas was fair of face beyond the measure of Men " (The Last Debate, RotK) and it becomes a slight concerning that our band of heroes are all fair of face and pale, and our sometimes mindless/sometimes corrupted mortals enemies, the orcs, are described as dark-skinned. Adding in, that in the past of middle earth, “in the First Age, there were the Easterlings and Swarthy Men who were evil” (Human Image…, 2014) draws an uncomfortable picture of the ideology and uncomfortable ideals around race, and problematic ethnographic details. And while Tolkein famously didn’t believe his writings were representative, “his role as a mythmaker is not complete in merely conjuring a world that he thinks should be real; it is also about universal truths and fundamental Christian values.” (Human Image…, 2014) And the issues mount throughout the main Lord of the Rings stories, where the ‘goblin-soldiers’ of Isengard are described as being ‘of greater stature, swart, slant-eyed, with thick legs and large hands’ and elsewhere as ‘large, swart, slant-eyed’ (Two Towers, pp. 415, 451). Additionally, a glimpse of the appearance of the Orcs is also given through the description of Saruman’s half-goblin or half-Orcish Men, the result of his having ‘blended the races of Orcs and Men’ (Two Towers, p. 473). Already in Bree we met a ‘squint-eyed southerner’, the companion of Bill Ferny, who is also described elsewhere as ‘swarthy’ and with ‘a sallow face with sly, slanting eyes’ (Fellowship Of The Ring, pp. 160, 165, 180) Which depicts a commonality of descriptors seen not only for the Orc, but the Uruk-Hai, the Goblins, and the mixed versions of the “evil races.”

 In arguing one of the treatments for a possible adaptation of his work, Tolkien fought against an interpretation of the Orcs, where in the adaptation they had beaks and feathers and thus made more monstrous, Tokien responded in one of his letters that “The Orcs are definitely stated to be corruptions of the ‘human’ form seen in Elves and Men. They are (or were) squat, broad, flat-nosed, sallow-skinned, with wide mouths and slant eyes: in fact degraded and repulsive versions of the (to Europeans) least lovely Mongol-types.” (The Letters of J.R.R.Tolkien, From a letter to Forrest J. Ackerman [Not dated; June 1958]) Which is not good. In fact, it’s so not good that it matches the description used to very racistly describe what is now an outdated and known racist term of Mongoloid, “Flat face with a low nasal root, accentuated zygomatic arches, flat-lying eyelids (which are often slanting), thick, tight, dark hair, dark eyes, yellow-brownish skin, usually short, stocky build” (Taken from Wikipedia) So it’s easy to see this and realise why so many within the scholarly community around fantasy literature and fiction are in recent years decrying the depiction of the Orc. 

But one can argue that regardless of what Tolkein thought, whether he was racist and thought that Dark Skinned and Asian people were monstrous or not, he’s dead and we don’t have to engage with or support his writing anymore, and we’ve moved past racist depictions of Orcs. But in the fact that Tolkein essentially made the modern orc, and it really hasn’t changed from his depiction of it, there are still tonnes of baggage attached to the orcs and the idea of the monstrosity of it. The origin of the Orcs as being inspired by or extrapolated from a racist description of real life people continues its ramification in fantasy media. Despite the fact that Orcs in popular culture now often have what is called a Cockney accent, while English is also famously working class, and traditionally seen as a sign of lower intelligence by classist people. Additionally, Dungeon and Dragons Fifth Edition, the world's most famous roleplaying game, which has players build a character from fantasy species with lore nearly directly ripped from lord of the rings (Halflings or hobbits are sneaky and clever but want to enjoy a good life, elves are long lived, wise, and beautiful, dwarves live underground and have a great deal of greed, etc) gives players statistical bonuses to various attributes based on their character’s species. Dwarves are hardier and have more stamina, elves are more wise and graceful, etcetera. Then, in November, 2016, a new book allowed players to officially play as Orcs. They had a bonus to strength, but infamously, had a negative to intelligence. The smartest Orc player character, as set out by these rules, could never be as intelligent as the smartest elf or human. Thus, the continued implications of Orcs being less-than, as started with Tolkein, continues well into the contemporary fantasy media landscape. Unless authors actively work to undo this era of allowed racism, the problem will not go away, and while Tolkein offered a lot to Fantasy, it’s intolerable to allow these types of things to be perpetuated because of its status as a staple of the Genre. 

-D.D

Sources:

Tneh, David. “The Human Image and the Interrelationship of the Orcs, Elves and Men.” Https://Journals.tolkiensociety.org/Mallorn/Article/View/51, 1 Dec. 2014, https://www.jstor.org/stable/48614822. 

J. R. R. (John Ronald Reuel), 1892-1973. The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien : a Selection.    Boston :Houghton Mifflin Co., 2000.

Tolkien, J. R. R. The Lord of the Rings. HarperCollins, 1991.

Volo's Guide to Monsters Wizards of the Coast, 2016.

[marybeatriceofmodena]

You know, I’ve been thinking today about how Alina doesn’t even really work as a Reluctant Hero, compared her to Frodo to see the key differences (since Frodo is pretty much the Poster Child for the Reluctant Hero), and then I realized... 

You know, I think L/eigh B/ardugo wrote TGT as a very black-and-white fairytale, where Alina is the princess, Mal’s the knight in the shining armor, and the Darkling is basically the dragon, except it doesn’t really work because the worldbuilding requires an approach that’s... a lot more grey? 

The thing is, though, I realized... Alina and Mal are basically meant to be Frodo and Sam. Except that, again... it doesn’t really work. 

Frodo works as a Reluctant Hero, because he makes it clear multiple times that he doesn’t want to carry the Ring. He asks Gandalf to do it for him, he asks Galadriel, he asks Aragorn, and they all refuse, because they are (or are called to be) in a position of power, and while them being in a position of power is presented as good, the One Ring essentially represents the fast, easy way to get to it, which will ultimately corrupt them rather than have them fight their way towards their goal. 

Frodo, meanwhile, is the right person to carry the Ring, because he comes from a humble place and he doesn’t really have any aspirations to become powerful. And while he’s clearly burdened by having to carry the One Ring, and that he makes it clear that he wishes the Ring had never come to him, he still goes on anyway, despite all the hardships he faces, because his ultimate goal is to save the Shire and his friends, and that desire is stronger than any fear or greed he may have. 

Now, J.R.R. Tolkien himself said that he didn’t really see Frodo as THE Hero, and that Sam is the real Hero of the story to him. Which makes sense, given how Sam was based off young men from rural England he met while fighting in World War I. But also, the story makes it very clear that without Sam, who’s arguably the most pure-hearted person in all of Middle-Earth, Frodo would have definitely failed in his task. The reason why he resists the temptation to carry the One Ring is LITERALLY because him protecting and helping Frodo is more important to him. Sam doesn’t give two shits about power. Helping Frodo save the Shire and coming back to everything he’s ever loved is more important to him. 

Both Alina and Frodo are pure-hearted orphans who are given tremendous power: Alina is the Sun Summoner, and Frodo carries the One Ring. In both cases, power is represented as a corruptive force, that makes people go mad with greed. It works in the context of The Lord of the Rings, given how the rings were given to leaders of Elves, Dwarves and Men, and that Sauron created the One Ring to rule over and control all of them. The Grisha, on the other hand, unlike the Ring-bearers, are not in a position of power, given they are essentially victims of Fantastic Racism in pretty much every country. While Ravka treats them slightly better than in Fjerda or Shu Han, it’s still not ideal and it’s something that could be taken away from them at any moment. It would be an entirely different matter if the Grisha were the ones rulling over Ravka and viewing otkazat’sya as lesser, and in that context, Alina being the Sun Summoner would be a very obvious road to her becoming corrupted. 

Frodo refusing to carry the One Ring and asking other people to take that burden from him comes from a place of genuine fear of what the Ring might do to him. In his place, we’d probably all do the same thing. That’s what makes his acceptance of his task all the more admirable. Alina, on the other hand, refuses to be the Sun Summoner and to help her fellow Grisha because that stands in the way of her ending up with Mal. She never gives any sign that she’s truly empathizing with the Grisha’s plight, she tries to run away not once, but twice, and most importantly, she never sees herself as one of them. They are othered, but it matters little to her, because she doesn’t want to be othered herself, because that stands in the way of her running off with a boy. It’s basically the equivalent of Frodo being overcome by fear after seeing the fate of the Shire in Galadriel’s mirror, and just demanding to be sent to the Grey Havens straight away to save his own ass from it all and just leaving the One Ring to whoever wants to deal with it. At that point, it’s not being a Reluctant Hero: it’s being a coward at best, a selfish bastard at worst. 

(And that’s why I don’t really buy her when she tells Aleksander that they could have had it all if he had told her all the truth from the start, because... again, she didn’t seem to care about the Grisha that much and Aleks telling her everything would have actually been a sure way of having her run as fast as possible the other way. I know the story is trying to tell me otherwise and that the plot point I’m supposed to see here is that Alina was willing to do something until she felt betrayed by Aleks, which is... not what was shown here, and it’s especially annoying considering how Alina is a deserter in every sense of the word, and that any army would have court-martialed her for running away.) 

So if Alina is meant to be a pure, selfless heroine, who loses her powers because she also refuses to be greedy... that just falls completely flat, because if anything, she’s as selfish as Frodo is selfless, because all of this really just boils down to her wanting to run off with Mal. 

Now, onto Sam and Mal. Both of them are basically Everymen who are there to help the Hero and keep their feet on the ground. As mentioned earlier, Sam is the one who helps Frodo finish his mission to Mordor, and the story makes it clear Frodo would have failed without him. TGT meanwhile presents Mal as Alina’s “True North”... which could work on paper as Alina’s reminder to temper Aleksander’s efforts and to remind him that in order for Grisha to be viewed as people, it is important for them to also remember that balance and peace between Grisha and otkazat’sya will be essential, so resentment and hatred can be healed between both groups. 

The key difference here is that Sam is completely supportive of Frodo at all times. Even when Frodo sends him away in the film, Sam goes back after him the minute he realizes he’s been tricked by Gollum. He never shames Frodo whenever he falls prey to temptation, he simply reminds him of who he is and what he must fight for, and even when he’s climbing Mount Doom, he still carries Frodo on his back despite being probably completely exhausted, because Frodo’s more exhausted than he is. He completely accepts Frodo as both his friend, the Hobbit from the Shire, and the Ring-bearer he needs to help, even if he might die in the process. 

Mal (in the books, that is) makes it very clear that he does not accept Alina as both the girl he knew and the Sun Summoner. He only wants the girl, and whenever Alina makes steps towards being the Sun Summoner, he basically sulks and yells at her for not paying attention to him. Despite Alina becoming othered in the eyes of the world, he refuses to see her as othered, mostly because it is inconvenient to him rather than because he loves her for who she is. That’s why in the end, people feel like Alina lost her powers in order to be with Mal, because Mal would never accept her in her entirety. Sam, on the other hand, accepts Frodo as both Ring-bearer and Hobbit, because if he didn’t, Frodo would have failed. 

And while they made Mal in the show a lot nicer than his book counterpart, he still doesn’t work as Alina’s “True North”, because he cossets her in her selfishness. He may say he doesn’t care about how Alina is a Grisha in this one, but he also doesn’t consider the implications of it all - which is especially glaring given he’s a soldier himself. Like, look, if you’re going to slap in a racism plotline to make Mal/ina work, you’d think that being half-Shu would give Mal a little awareness that people are going to treat Alina badly for being half-Shu AND a Grisha, and given Alina is the MOTHERFUCKING SUN SUMMONER AND A SAINT, maybe, just maybe he’d tell her: “Heh, it’s kinda lame we’ll just run off and let everyone else in the dust, you know, especially since we could make our lives as well as everyone else’s better?” Seriously, if you’re going to make Mal Alina’s “True North”, have him face her duties and her calling whether she likes it or not, don’t coddle her when she wants to run the other way because she wants to hide under a rock for the rest of her life. 

With all that being said, that leaves us with the Darkling, who... I mean, given his whole schtick is that power corrupts and makes you evil and crazy, I guess that makes him Gollum, but sexy. 

Gollum, but sexy. 

That single expression has been haunting me ever since I started writing the above novel and I fucking hate it. You’re welcome. No one wanted Sexy Gollum. Absolutely no one. Fuck this shyte. See, this is why I want Darkling Redemption. I do not want to live in a world where Gollum is sexy. I need brain bleach. 

Even here it doesn’t even fucking work because Gollum hid in a cave with the Ring with a strategically placed cloth because no one wants to see his crusty ass family jewels anyway, while Aleks worked his ass off to give the Grisha a safe place to live and to at the very least ensure they’re useful enough to not be killed like animals. Like, if you’re going to give the world something that’s gonna definitely not make me sleep tonight like Sexy Gollum, at least do it right. 

[asweetprologue]

me lámh le do lámh - Part IV

First | Previous | Next | Masterpost

They spent a few days in Oxenfurt, mostly for Jaskier’s benefit. The bard hadn’t been lying when he’d said he wasn’t prepared to head out. There was packing to be done, his rooms to see to, appointments to cancel with the university. Geralt was happy enough to wait. It wasn’t strictly a hardship to spend some time lounging in Jaskier’s rooms and wandering the university gardens during the day before following Jaskier to whatever tavern or hall he was to play at for the evening. Jaskier was away for the better part of most days, but Geralt moved his things to Jaskier’s rooms after the first night at the inn. Waking well before Jaskier in the same bed, he was greeted each morning to Jaskier’s arm slung across his chest, warm and comfortable in the predawn silence. His cheeks would be ruddy with sleep and their shared heat under the blankets, his hair flattened awkwardly to his skull where it had been pressed to the pillow.

He’d missed this. After months without Jaskier’s presence, it felt like he was drowning in it, shocked by the strength of his own reaction. With the golden light of the morning sun shining through Jaskier’s one window to fall softly across his brow and pick out the silver strands in his hair, Geralt wondered at how he could have ever misplaced this feeling in his chest. He loved him. He wanted to preserve each moment in fine amber, never to fade.

But finally Jaskier was finished making his arrangements, and they were able to set out from Oxenfurt towards their first destination. It would take them several weeks to collect the components that Ida had mentioned—weeks that Geralt would have to spend dancing around the subject of the ritual and its origins, as well as his traitorous heart. As he caught Jaskier’s bright smile from up ahead as they crossed the Oxenfurt bridge, he hoped that he wasn’t making a terrible mistake.

*

“So where, exactly, are these mysterious elven ruins?”

Geralt grunted, both in answer and in exertion as he swung his sword through another clump of heavy brush, clearing the path. Roach waited patiently behind him, and Jaskier less so. He turned to look back at them both, finding Jaskier giving him an unimpressed look. Geralt forced down the urge to grumble again. “They’re close,” he said, taking Roach’s reins to lead her through the cleared bushes. The path that they were following was barely a deer trail in places, clearly unused for decades. There had been no sign thus far that the area had once been populated aside from the occasional flash of white brickwork that told Geralt they were on the right track.

“Oh, really,” said Jaskier, who had likely not noticed the brickwork, based on Geralt’s past experience with his observation skills. “You know what I think, Geralt? I think we’re lost in the woods in the middle of nowhere, a day away from the nearest hamlet, and we’re just as likely to find a wyvern den as an elven temple out here.”

“Wyverns don’t populate the lowlands,” Geralt said automatically, kicking a large branch out of Roach’s path.

Jaskier made a strangled sound behind him that Geralt might call a growl if it had come from anyone else. “I know that, I was being hyperbolic, you ass. You’re avoiding the issue.”

“We’re on the right path.” Another glint of white stone caught his eye, this time the edge of an arch wrapped nearly over in vines and moss. Only fragments remained, large chunks blending in with the forest floor.

“As if you would admit it if you were lost,” Jaskier griped, shoving a branch out of his own way. “Remember that time near Spikeroog? We were lost in a boat for three days because you wouldn’t just admit that we went west for six hours—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, and pushed aside the last of the foliage.

Jaskier fell silent, and they both looked beyond the treeline into the clearing Geralt had revealed. Before them rose a silent, crumbling stone structure, pale as a ghost against the dark lines of the trees in the afternoon light. Much of its surface had been reclaimed already by the forest, but enough of it poked through to give a general sense of scale. It towered at least two stories above them, though the edges were uneven in a way that suggested it once may have been higher. The front facade rose in a flat wall before them, pierced by a line of arches, their edges decorated in fading but intricate reliefs. Here and there along the line of what had once been the path leading to the central arch, the occasional protrusion of a column could be seen. The path beyond the central arch was shadowed, too dark for even Geralt to see past after so long in the daylight.

Jaskier stepped forward into the narrow clearing, and Geralt followed. Wordlessly, Jaskier raised a hand to trail along the remnants of a low, circular stone wall, perhaps the remnants of an ancient well. When he looked up at Geralt, his eyes shone, two pieces of midday sky in the murky shade of the forest. “I stand corrected,” he said, offering Geralt a giddy grin.

Geralt shook his head with a small smile, drawing Roach further into the clearing. “Let’s set up camp here. You can explore when we have someplace to sleep.”

Jaskier agreed eagerly and they both launched into the process of setting up camp. They fell easily back into old patterns, Jaskier slotting seamlessly into Geralt’s routine. It was always easier to set up and break down camp when the bard was around, though Geralt thought it had very little to do with splitting the work halfway.

Within half an hour they had created a comfortable camp in the clearing and Geralt had Roach tended to, and they both stood before the dark archway into the ruins.

Jaskier hesitated over the threshold, his excitement over the history of the place apparently conceding to nerves. “Well, ah. After you, witcher,” he said, holding out an arm as if holding an imaginary door for Geralt to walk through.

Geralt rolled his eyes and stepped into the small hall beyond the archway, blinking a few times to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. “Come on, bard,” he called over his shoulder, amusement and affection swelling in his chest as he heard Jaskier mutter and quick footsteps follow after him.

The hall ended in a flight of stairs leading down, and they had to pause to light a torch when Jaskier ran directly into Geralt’s back and nearly knocked them both down it. A quick burst of igni had firelight dancing across the smooth white stones as they descended into the ruins.

Elves, Geralt had found, rarely built up. Though their cities had towered in ages past, their true magnificence had always lain below ground. The complex that they made their way down into was labyrinthian, huge open hallways with dozens of rooms and offshoots, archways that looked in on underground courtyards with pierced ceilings that let in the daylight, huge caverns expertly carved into cathedrals. Jaskier quickly brought out a bit of charcoal he often used for taking notes or sketching and began to mark their way with arrows pointing back the way they’d come, so they might not be hopelessly lost in the ruins. Geralt led them mostly by smell, at first; Triss had mentioned that any ritual chambers would likely be on the lower levels, as they were considered private and upper floors were generally public. He followed the cool, chalky scent of wet stone deeper into the ruins, down ramps and stairways until they were all but buried in the earth.

“I never knew the true breadth of them,” Jaskier breathed at one point, as they made their way down a winding spiral staircase that curved along what seemed like a natural cave shaft. “I’ve read, of course, about the scale of the old elven kingdoms, but it’s different to see it all. We’ve been walking for hours already and I feel as if there’s still miles to be seen.”

“Maybe not miles,” Geralt said, keeping one ear out for potential movement and one on Jaskier’s footsteps on the slick stone steps. “One’s I’ve been to before are usually somewhere around five and fifteen levels. We’re getting close to the bottom.”

Jaskier hummed in acknowledgment. “You could take an entire lifetime to study this place. Why hasn’t anyone surveyed it? How do you know the thing you're after for this ritual hasn’t already been taken?”

At that moment Geralt heard a gentle click, and he reached up just in time to pluck the arrow from the air as it hissed past his ear and towards Jaskier’s head. Slowly, he turned to look over his shoulder, finding Jaskier wide eyed behind him. Looking meaningfully down at Jaskier’s foot, he jerked his chin up.

Jaskier lifted up his foot, and the click of a pressure plate resetting filled the narrow space.

“That’s how,” Geralt said, tossing the arrow to the side.

“Of course,” Jaskier said weakly. “Of course the place is booby trapped.”

“And haunted probably,” Geralt agreed, continuing down the stairs. “Stay close. Wouldn’t want you to die before I can make you immortal.” The words were said as much in jest as he could make them, but he felt a brief strum of anxiety all the same.

Jaskier huffed in annoyance, but Geralt could feel him press even closer. He ignored the way that the air between them seemed to heat, the soothing warmth of Jaskier’s presence pressing back the dark more efficiently than any torch.

*

“Look,” Jaskier’s voice came from behind him. Geralt turned around to see Jaskier rubbing at a patch of the wall in the hall they were currently trekking through, the ancient slabs of stone crumbling a bit at his touch. “There’s writing here.”

Geralt stepped up next to him, feeling Jaskier’s warmth radiating along his side. Forcing himself to ignore the proximity, he leaned in to peer at the wall. “Elder, looks like. Can’t make it out.”

“It looks like one of the early northern dialects, closer to Laith aen Undod.” Jaskier scrambled in his small pack and pulled out his bit of charcoal and his notebook, handing the torch off to Geralt. Accepting the light, Geralt frowned at Jaskier as he made a few quick lines on the paper, referring back to the wall a few times. His tongue poked just barely out between his lips, as it always did when he was concentrating. After a moment he stood up straight, leaning towards the light to examine his own markings.

“Can you read that?” Geralt asked, genuinely surprised. He was fairly well versed in Elder, but his knowledge was more practical, learned from his interactions with the Scoia’tael and learning the Signs. The One Speech was well beyond his understanding, not to mention the various ancient dialects of Elder.

“Mm, I’m better at reading Elder than I am at speaking it, I’m afraid. Academic knowledge. Have to be able to translate the old poems and stories, after all.” He flashed Geralt a grin, the laugh lines deepening around his eyes. They sparkled in the light of the torch, turning the blue silver-gold. Geralt’s breath caught in his throat.

When Geralt didn’t respond quickly enough, Jaskier turned back to the notes he’d made on the paper. He muttered a few things to himself in Elder, the words sounding oddly musical—as if he’d learned to pronounce the language through song, which he probably had. Finally he scribbled a few notes in Common. “I think it’s a road sign, of sorts,” Jaskier said slowly. His tone took on the particular quality that Geralt had come to recognize as his “professor voice” over the years. He’d always found it rather amusing. “This complex must have been big enough to necessitate passage markers. See the sideways arrowhead under the top line? It says—well, I’m not sure, but I know the root has to do with the evening meal, so I’d guess it’s pointing to some kind of tavern or dining hall. And this one just says ‘sanctuary,’ I think. That’s a weird one, that symbol in more modern Elder just means ‘place’ but there’s a prefix here that adds a sort of defensive quality to it. Maybe ‘protected place’?” Jaskier frowned down at his own work. Already he had somehow managed to smudge charcoal across his cheek.

“Might be right,” Geralt grunted, impressed. “Triss said it would be in a safe place. ‘Ionad chosanta.’”

Jaskier hummed thoughtfully. “Could be as good a translation as any.”

“Better than wandering around,” Geralt shrugged, and turned towards the hall the arrow pointed towards. Before stepping into the darkness, he paused, looking back at Jaskier. Without letting himself think too hard about it, he reached up and rubbed away the charcoal on Jaskier’s cheekbone. The sweep of his thumb pushed back the soot and revealed the pale skin underneath, still so soft even after so many years spent traveling out in the elements. That skin care regiment Jaskier was always going on about must be worth something, he thought faintly.

Jaskier was silent, staring at him with an expression that reminded Geralt of a hare staring down the point of an arrow. Clearing his throat briefly, Geralt let his hand fall and said, “Thanks. For the… You did good.”

Even in the dim light, Geralt could see the flush that lit up Jaskier’s face at that, spilling prettily over his cheekbones. He gaped at Geralt for a moment before his mouth snapped closed with a near audible clack. Geralt expected a witty rejoinder of some kind, perhaps a jab at his historical inability to offer praise. He knew he deserved it, even if Jaskier meant it in anger rather than jest. Raising Ciri had taught him the value of voicing his appreciation and affection for others, even if he still struggled for the right words to do so. Yennefer had painstakingly beat it into his head. Ciri hadn’t known that he cared unless he said so, and so he had no other alternatives. Looking at Jaskier gaping at him, he wondered how many times Jaskier had assumed that Geralt cared little for him for lack of a kind word. His chest hurt at the thought.

After long enough that the silence had grown heavy and awkward, Jaskier coughed lightly, ducking to hide his expression. The ribbing Geralt had prepared himself for did not come. “Not a problem,” was all Jaskier said, brushing past him. “Let’s get a move on, yes? Don’t want the torch to run low.”

Geralt stared after him for a moment before shaking his head and following.

*

The shrine, when they found it, was hidden behind a thick patch of rubble that Geralt had to blast out of the way with a few precise applications of aard. He slipped inside first, sliding through the small opening in the stone and landing lightly on the other side. His eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom, to his surprise, and he realized that there were several glowing crystals embedded in the walls around him at even intervals. There came the sound of cascading stones and a low curse from behind him, and he turned in time to catch Jaskier’s elbow before the bard fell flat on his face.

“Ah, thank you, dear witcher,” Jaskier huffed, reaching up to fruitlessly brush the dust from his jacket. Looking up, he halted in his motions, taking in the room around them in its soft, ethereal light. “Oh,” he breathed.

It was indeed beautiful, even in its decaying state. Like everything in the tunnels, the structures were unmistakably elven, but even so they appeared alien to Geralt’s eyes. The walls were covered in delicate mosaic work, in patterns that danced in the flickering light of their torch and that of the crystals. The center of the room was dominated by a blank circle of unmarked stone, with Elder runes engraved along the edge that Geralt could not even begin to decipher. The circle was framed by a delicate canopy of carved white stone, supported on four pillars of the same material. The carvings were so minute that for a moment Geralt thought the entire structure might be built not of stone, but of some sort of webbing or silk. It was delicate enough to be blown glass, but when he set his hand against one of the pillars it was as unforgiving as a mountainside.

Jaskier ran his fingers along one of the walls, tracing a twist in the tiny shards of colored glass. “It’s beautiful,” he said, voice pitched low.

“Triss said these places were sacred to the Aes Sidhe. They mark where the elves first arrived,” Geralt said. He found his own gaze drawn back to the center of the unmarked circle beneath the canopy. “Here.”

Set into the very center of the stone circle was a small depression, no larger than Geralt’s palm. He stepped into the circle and knelt down, peering at it. Within the shallow bowl formed by the carved out floor sat an oval stone, maybe three inches long at its widest point. Drawing out his trophy knife, Geralt set the edge of it against the lip of the facet and twisted it. It popped out surprisingly easily, as if it was meant to be removed by design.

Jaskier hovered behind him as Geralt picked up the gaes carraigh. It was cool against his fingers, made of a translucent white stone that became more opaque at the edges. The center was nearly see-through, and when Geralt held it up the light played oddly in its depths. His medallion hummed faintly against his chest, warning him of the presence of magic. “Is that it?” Jaskier asked, resting one of his hands on Geralt’s shoulder to lean in closer.

“Think so,” Geralt replied, trying to ignore the weight of Jaskier pressed against him.

“What exactly does it do?” Jaskier reached out his free hand to press a finger against the center of the stone, curious as always. Geralt allowed it, and forced himself not to flinch when their fingers brushed incidentally. He could feel his ears warm regardless.

“It… binds the words of the ritual, or something. I didn’t ask.”

“Gaes carraigh… promise rock?” Jaskier tried, dropping to lean his full elbow on Geralt’s shoulder, casually slotting their forms together. His fingers barely brushed against Geralt’s collarbone, and he took a slow breath to maintain control over his heartbeat. Suddenly the proximity was overwhelming. Here they were, in a sacred space where possibly dozens of couples had made their vows to each other, fingers both lingering over the stone that would bind their oaths. In another life, perhaps they could have had something like this—Jaskier resplendent in the light of the blue crystals, eyes shining, looking at Geralt with adoration as they made their promises to each other. He would want to dress up, like he always did for a big event, but this time it would be only for himself and Geralt. Would he dress in blue? Or perhaps black, a witcher’s color, his pale skin like moonlight against the night sky. Would he wear a crown of periwinkle and sage, as was the northern custom? He would lean in close, like he was now, and murmur his vows to Geralt in words that flowed as smooth as a song.

He hadn’t known it was possible to want something so badly it was like a physical ache. Geralt was a witcher; he did not allow himself to think on things he couldn’t have. But here in this place, with Jaskier so close and yet so far away, the force of his desire felt oppressive. Jaskier didn’t know what any of this meant, and Geralt had no right to it, no right to want it. It was just a ritual. The context didn’t mean anything, because Jaskier would never feel that way about him.

After all, Geralt thought, looking down at the oathstone in his palm, who would want to marry a witcher?

Jaskier was still talking, and Geralt wrenched himself out of his thoughts when the arm on his shoulder pulled back and Jaskier patted the empty space once, as if in parting. “—probably get going, don’t you think? I do not relish the idea of being stuck here overnight. Not that I am not entirely confident in your abilities, darling, but I feel it’s best not to tempt fate when it comes to ghosts of ancient elven sages. Do you think they would count this as stealing? Probably. Anyways, I don’t want to find out what angry centuries old spirits do to trespassers.”

Geralt grunted, still gathering himself. He felt sluggish under the weight of his own emotions, pushing himself to his feet laboriously. The oathstone was heavy in his hand, and he slipped it into his potions pouch in the hope that it would feel less burdensome there. Without a word, he stood and exited the chamber the way they’d come, Jaskier fumbling after him.

[fandomblr]

Let’s talk about racism in Tolkien’s Legendarium

Trigger warnings: racism, (obviously) anti-blackness, possible anti-black caricatures, racism towards Asian people.

I feel like something that I don’t see addressed in the Tolkien fandom are instances of racism in his work. Now, Tolkien himself was allegedly pretty anti-racist during both war and peacetime, BUT ultimately he was still a British white man that lived in the 1920’s and his writing does show some (although very possibly unintended) racism towards Black and brown people. Note that I am a pale Latino and thus I cannot speak for BIPOC, however, I will be using my readings from HoME (The Lays of Beleriand and The Shaping of Middle-Earth) to show very valid instances of where Tolkien’s racism has been argued for, and I’ll link some research about these criticisms. I strongly encourage BIPOC to add on or correct me on this post, since I do have have a lot of white privilege from being light-skinned.

The first instance of racism in Tolkien legendarium are the race of orcs. And before I go any further, let me show a passage from the Lay of Leithian (taken from The Lays of Beleriand) in which Beren, Finrod and his men are disguising themselves as orcs in order to pass through Angband:

“They smeared their hands and faces fair with pigment black,” which shows us first of all that the color of the orcs skin is ultimately dark/black, at least of the orcs here in Angband during the first age. This also implies Blackface being done by Beren, Finrod and his men here, and while it was used as a survival tactic to pass through Angband without being killed/enthralled/tortured, it’s still pretty darn racist. Black people have also spoken about how orcs have been written (intentionally or unintentionally, we probably will never know) as anti-black caricatures, and this is one article discussing this by a Black person that I found eye-opening.

Another instance of the orcs being racist caricatures is in that in a private letter Tolkien describes them as “squat, broad, flat-nosed, sallow-skinned, with wide mouths and slant eyes: in fact degraded and repulsive versions of the (to Europeans) least lovely Mongol-types." Obviously, this is clearly racism towards Asian people, and journalists have even written about how orcs look like the worst depictions of the Japanese drawn by American and British illustrators during WW2. The same article above also speaks about the Haradrim and Easterlings in the LOTR movies clearly having inspiration from Eastern and non-Western cultures.

Next, another probably more well-known racist issue in The Silmarillion fandom is Maeglin, (Meglin here in HoME’s The Shaping of Middle Earth) who is described as ‘swart,’ aka meaning dark-skinned, and so was his father, Eöl:

Obviously this is racist because Maeglin is CLEARLY a villain of color in this scenario, (he is the cause of the fall of Gondolin plus he basically tries to rape his cousin Idril and kill her child) in a world where other “good” characters are either described as white or whose race is simply not stated. If there were more EXPLICITLY elves of color in the Silm this wouldn’t be as much of a problem, but Maeglin here is one of the few elves (besides his father, who was clearly also a villain) whose skin color we know about, and what color is that? Swart, aka brown. What’s even worse is the fact that Eöl pretty much coerced Aredhel (who we can assume to be white since she’s known as the “White lady of the Noldor” and her skin was described as pale) into marrying him and having his child, which just perpetuates the racist stereotype of men of color being dangerous to white women. Tolkien, sweetie, this definitely reeks of racism.

Next are the men of the East of Beleriand, of who we get a pretty clear description of in The Annals of Beleriand from HoME The Shaping of Middle-Earth:

Here these men aredescribed as having lots of body and facial hair (which is a trait that can be seen in people of color) and their skins are “sallow or dark.” This is probably the least incriminating piece of evidence on this post because as you can tell, not all the men of the East were evil. Bor and his sons specifically were not, and they were loyal to the Sons of Fëanor. However, Ulfang (Ulfand in HoME) betrays the Fëanorians and ultimately is responsible for the tragedy of the Nirnaeth. And even worse, Bor and his sons are even slain by him (although Ulfang did pay his treachery with his life) here in this version. And as a whole, the Easterlings are described as more being on Morgoth’s side than on the elves, and like I said earlier, they draw a lot of non-western inspiration that can identify them as people of color, especially from the cinematic trilogy. Although these men are ultimately supposed to earn redemption during the Dagor Dagorath (aka the end of time when Melkor comes back from the void and the last battle is fought) this doesn’t erase the fact that Tolkien chose to villanize an entire group of Eastern people who we can assume to be people of color. The fact that they are called men from the ‘East’ while Aman/Valinor/the Gray Havens are considered the ‘West’ just shows you how eurocentric Tolkien’s works are by themselves, but that’s another topic for a different post. At the end of the day, lots (if not most of) these men were men of color that were portrayed as treacherous, unfaithful and even “accursed” in the case of Uldor, Ulfang’s son. All traits which demonize people of color in Tolkien’s legendarium.

Now here is the question that’s worth all three silmarils: was Tolkien aware of his racism as he should have been as an allegedly “anti-racist” that was born in South Africa? I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that, and as a person with white privilege I don’t think I’d be qualified to answer this question regardless. This is why again, I’m encouraging BIPOC Tolkien fans to come forward (as long as they want to and are comfortable of course, since this is a triggering topic) and share their criticisms on Tolkien and how he portrays race in his legendarium, add on to what I found and correct me if they think I added something wrong. The thing is, even if Tolkien was intentionally racist, the man died in 1973, and sadly Christopher passed away last January. So it’s up to us as the Tolkien fandom to not only recognize but also address and challenge these racist concepts in his work, and make sure we are creating an environment that’s safe for fans of color and marginalized ethnic groups like myself. One of the things I love about our fandom is the diversity in fanart, since I’ve seen lots of elves drawn as POC and I really want to keep seeing this, but we also have to take into consideration how racism plays into LOTR and all of Tolkien’s works so we can be mindful consumers of it.

[aelaer]

Yes, the landmass did change that dramatically! The entire land of Beleriand was sunk during the War of Wrath bar the area around Ered Luin and Himring. Beleriand was about the size of Eriador so several hundred square miles sunk into the sea.

Also, Middle-earth being both flat and round is part of the same world! The world was flat throughout the First and most of the Second Age, when mortals could physically sail to Valinor. During the Sinking of Numenor and Ar-Pharazon's madcap idea to invade Valinor, Iluvatar "remade the world" so that only Elves could take "the straight path", basically leaving mortals to the newly round world.

At least that's how I remember it. It's been some years since I've done a deep dive into this, but I think the reshaping of the world was quite literally a reshaping.

Frodo began to feel restless, and the old paths seemed too well-trodden. He looked at maps, and wondered what lay beyond their edges: but Tolkien weirdly never drew any of those, so he couldn’t. 

[quixoticanarchy]

Cartographic Practices in Arda: Elves

[overthinking fantasy cartography series: Elves, Orcs, Dwarves, Hobbits, and Men]

o   To what extent do Elves need maps? Can their extensive memories, which serve as archives for much knowledge, also hold spatial records? Do they construct elaborate mental maps of whole regions?

Even if so, they would still need extensive firsthand knowledge to draw on, or at least some reference maps to commit to memory. Local wayfinding and habitual travel could be done using memory, if they recalled precisely what paths they’d taken previously, for instance; but traveling somewhere new or planning large-scale geographic movements (of armies, for instance) would benefit from maps

o  Therefore: maps for planning and exploration, not necessarily for navigation (at least after the first time)

Also, maps as art form and aesthetic – it’s too easy with GIS etc. to think of maps as precise and correct instruments, but they’re also subjective, storytelling art pieces. I think Elves could get behind that

Especially if you think beyond maps as an technical representation of a landscape, per se, there’s a lot of leeway for creative depiction, symbolization, and extremely cultural-convention-dependent meaning transmission

Which could mean Elvish maps might be rather incomprehensible to anyone not familiar with their spatial and symbolic conventions

o   From LOTR we get the sense that although Elrond has a collection of maps and “books of lore” in Rivendell, much of the knowledge therein may be quite old and out of date – the map he has of Mordor was made before Sauron returned there (which is also fascinating – who mapped it? Were they on an official cartographic expedition? Was it a landform map? A political map? A war planning map? Was it commissioned by a king (of Gondor? An Elven-king?)? Did the Elves and Men share maps? During the Last Alliance one can assume they did, but whose?)

A problem with these old reference maps (not just for Elves, either) is that even if it’s stored perfectly in your memory, the world isn’t static. Updates and re-memorization would be necessary

(also, by the late Second Age, the world would have ceased being flat and necessitated a revolution in cartographic practices as they suddenly contend with the idea of map projections... who spearheaded this? who drew the new maps? are there still old Elven maps kicking around that are no longer accurately scaled or proportioned?)

(there’s a lot more so it’s below the cut)

o   I think that it’s fair to say that Elven governments might have employed cartography much as early Western states did, as critical tools of statecraft for managing a) war and b) populations. Given how much attention has to go toward war, it would make sense that Elven cartography, at least according to conventions in Beleriand, would be oriented toward visualizing and managing militarized spaces. Maps are probably a tool for kings, their counselors, and their military leaders. Everyday Elves would probably rely on spatial memory but wouldn’t have access to physical maps, per se

o   Significant differences between Beleriand and Middle-earth maps – political boundaries in Beleriand are essentially drawn by and between Elven realms, whereas by the Third Age in Middle-earth they’ve got a sustained presence only in Imladris, Mirkwood, Lothlórien, and the Havens at a stretch

Beleriand maps would also differ greatly based on who made them, given the hidden kingdoms – would Gondolin and Nargothrond even make maps that gave their location? The map in the Silmarillion would almost certainly not have existed (unless made retrospectively?), because it puts together all sorts of information that shouldn’t have been known openly

Having maps of the continent in general would be a good idea even for the hidden kingdoms, in case they ever needed to venture out, but then again, they didn’t really plan on doing that

o   Mapping practices among the Elves (this could be its own essay)

like Dwarves, the Noldor might favor maps of mineral deposits, physical features, resources for craftsmanship, trade routes. I think they’d appreciate intricately aesthetic maps too, or encoded symbol maps that are incomprehensible unless you know how to decipher them

the Teleri would have coastal maps and nautical maps. What about weather maps? Would they map wind patterns and storm tracks? Tides?

Nothing to say about the Vanyar. I don’t know...

Laiquendi - focus on forested lands, the territories deemed peripheral to other realms, the “blank spaces” on others’ maps

We know very little about the Avari and any cartography they might have had – did they have writing, without contact with Fëanor or Daeron? Did they have unlabeled symbol maps? Did they not need them? Maybe if they weren’t planning any extensive travel, casing the area for resources, planning any territorial expansion or war, or ruling kingdoms and exacting tribute, they wouldn’t have needed conventional maps. Their spatial practices could be focused around their daily lives and navigating the proximate world, relying on memory and experience

In mixed regions, like Mirkwood and Lothlórien, whose spatial practices take precedence? Likely the establishment of formal domains, and their need for defense, mapped borders, awareness of other territorial claims and threats, has become more prominent than it would’ve been for First Age Avari, say, and by the Third Age cartographic practices would probably reflect a war footing similar to First Age Beleriand (and Second Age everywhere, but I feel like the whole flat-earth-becomes-a-planet issue might have derailed a lot of their cartographic efforts for a time)

[elliemarchetti]

Clear As Silver Drops

It’s my birthday and I post what I want to! *sing this as Necessary Evil by Motionless in White*

To be totally honest, this is inspired by @my-darling-haldir who was asking for Haldir fic recs for her bday and I said myself why not? Why not indulge in your love for elves and mixed ocs? So here we are, with something in which Legolas isn’t with the Fellowship and in his place we have Elva, the only woman in a group otherwise made up of men only.  Enjoy!

Words: 3132

"I'm afraid we can't stay here any longer," Aragorn said, turning his gaze to the mountains, raising his sword as if he wanted to curse Gandalf for his recklessness.

“What hope do we have without him, now?” asked Frodo under his breath, talking mainly to himself.

“We’ll have to do without hope,” replied Elva, talking to the whole Fellowship. “It may be that one day at least he’ll be avenged, but for now, let’s have courage and stop mourning: we have a long way to go and a lot of things to do.”

At her words they all stood up to look around, making her weigh for the umpteenth time what her role really was in their mission. She should’ve asked Gandalf when she still had time, but now he had taken that secret to the grave and she could do nothing but find it herself. A skilled archer and an excellent diplomat, Elva felt more like she was there to act as a glue between cultures, and thus prevent those men, all with different histories and upbringing, to go one to the North, dominated by three sparkling white peaks, Celebdil, Fanuidhol and Caradhras, one to the East, where the forward-projected arms of the mountains steepened abruptly, with distant lands extending beyond, and one to the South, where the Misty Mountains stretched endlessly. 

Less than a mile away, slightly lower, as they were located at a high point on the eastern flank of the valley, they saw a lake: it was long and oval, looking like the tip of a spear stuck deep in the basin to the north, with the southern waters out of the shadows, bathed in sunlight but still dark, the deep blue of a clear night sky seen from a lighted room. The surface was calm, and all around the bare banks were covered in soft grass. The Fellowship walked the uneven and bumpy road that descended from the Gates of Moria, just a winding path among heather and twigs, sprouted between the broken stones; it still could be seen that it once meandered from the Dwarf Kingdom’s lowlands, but the broad paved street was now reduced to a ghost of itself, just like Durin’s stone.

“I can’t go on without deviating for a moment to see the wonder of the valley!” exclaimed Gimli.

“Be quick, then!” said Aragorn, checking the gates behind them. “The sun sets early, and even if the Orcs won’t come out, perhaps, sooner than dusk, we must already be very far away at sunset; it’s almost new moon, so the night will be dark.”

Elva almost cursed under her breath: if the lightless night was approaching, even her monthly blood was coming. Of all the advantages of being a half-elf, unfortunately she hadn't inherited the one of not suffering like mortal women.

“Come with me, Elva!” cried the dwarf, distracting her from her thoughts. “I don’t want you to go away without first seeing Kheled-zaram.”

For some strange reason, despite her elven half, the dwarf liked her company, and quite a lot too. Together they descended the long green slope swiftly, followed slowly by the hobbits. A brief glance into the dark waters, and back again to the road, now turning south, going down quite steep from two offshoots that embraced the basin. A little lower than the lake, they encountered a deep well of crystal clear water, from which a steam rose, flowing right after down a rocky groove.

“Thirsty as you may be, don’t drink this water,” Gimli warned. “It’s cold as ice.”

“Over there, are the woods of Lothlorien,” said Elva, pointing at a golden haze in the flat lands. “It’s the most beautiful among all the homes of my people. There are no trees like those of that land: in autumn, their leaves don’t fall but turn to gold, replaced only in spring by the new buds covering the branches with yellow flowers. Then, the soil is gold as the ceiling and the smooth and grey bark of the trees make them look like silver columns, as our songs in Mirkwood still tell. My heart would be so happy if I were among the branches of that wood and the spring smiled!”

“My heart will be happy even if it’s winter,” Aragorn said. “But many miles separate us, let’s hurry!”

For a time, Frodo and Sam managed to keep up, but the warriors advanced swiftly and soon they were left behind. When Elva noticed, she immediately told Aragorn, who, seeing them so far away, ran back on his own steps, calling Boromir to follow him. He apologized, full of disquiet.

“So many things happened today, and we’re such in a hurry that I forgot you were injured. You should’ve said something, because in silence nothing has been done to alleviate your pain. A little further on there’s a place where we can rest for a moment. Come, Boromir, let’s carry them!”

They soon encountered another stream flowing down the western slopes, confusing its gurgling waters with the swirling ones of the Silverlode, diving together from an overhand of green coloured stone and foaming down in a hollow surrounded by fir trees, low and curved, with steeps sides covered with rapeseed and blueberry bushes. They stopped at the bottom, where was a flat area crossed by the bed of shiny pebbles in which the creek flowed noisy. It was nearly three in the afternoon, and they had travelled just a few miles from the Gates. The sun was already turning to west, painting a grave expression on Aragorn’s face as he cared for Frodo and Sam’s injuries.

“Lucky you” he exclaimed, to lighten up the gardener’s mood. “Many have received a worse reward for killing their first Orc. The cut isn’t poisoned, as is unfortunately the case for most wounds inflicted by their blades, so it’ll heal well.”

He then opened his saddlebag and took out some withered athelas. While fresh were more effective, the leaves would still do their work in cleaning the wound. When Frodo’s turn came, he was quite reluctant, saying he was fine and just needed some food and rest, but Aragorn persisted, and took off his old tunic and worn shirt, giving an exclamation of astonishment, which soon turned into laughter: the hobbit wore a silver coat that sparkled before their eyes like light on a choppy sea, the gems bright like stars and the tinkling of the rings producing the same sound as the first raindrops falling into a pond. If word got out that a hobbit had such a wonder, all the hunters of Middle Earth would’ve galloped towards the Shire, but all their arrows would’ve been vain before a mithril armour. Still, there was a dark blackened bruise on Frodo’s right side and one of the rings had passed through his soft leather jacket, penetrating into the flesh. While the others prepared the meal, Aragorn made more athelas water, filling the basin with its acrid fragrance. After the late lunch, the Fellowship put out the fire, erasing all traces of it, and climbed out the hollow, resuming the road. They hadn’t come far when the sun disappeared behind the western heights and great shadows crept along the sides of the mountains. Twilight veiled their feet, and a light mist glided in the depression, while far to the east, the evening lit up with its pale glow lands, plains and distant forests. Sam and Frodo managed to walk briskly and Aragorn led the Fellowship for another three hours with a single, shot break, after which the late nigh imposed her dark reign. There were several stars, but the moon waning would appear much later.

“Lothlorien!” Elva cried. “We have reached the edge of the Golden Wood!”

The trees stood imposing, arching over the road and the river that swept suddenly under their leafy branches, trunks gray in the pale starlight and leaves quivered with a touch of fallow yellow.

“We’re still too little far from the Gates, but we can’t go further. Let’s hope that the Elves virtue will protect us from the danger pursuing,” said Aragorn.

“Assuming the Elves still live here, in this darkening world,” Gimli said, joining them.

“It’s been a long time since some of my folks came back to see the land we abandoned centuries ago,” replied Elva, “but we know that Lorien is still not deserted and a secret force repels evil far from this district. Nevertheless, its inhabitants rarely show up, and perhaps now they live deep in the woods and far from the northern borders.”

Aragorn confirmed with a sigh, as if some memory in him had been awakened. “We must suffice to ourselves, for tonight. We’ll still walk a short distance, until the trees are thick around us, then we’ll leave the path to look for a place to rest.”

“There’s no other way?” asked Boromir, irresolute.

“What better way would you want?” asked Aragorn.

“A simple path, albeit flanked by a hedge of swords,” Boromir replied. “Our Fellowship has been conducted in strange ways, and all of them so far with an inauspicious outcome. Against my will we passed under the shadows of Moria, towards our perdition, and now we have to go into the Golden Woods, even if we have heard of that perilous district in Gondor, where it’s said that few of those who set foot there come out, and of these, non has been released unharmed.”

“Don’t say unharmed, but unchanged, and then your words will be truthful,” Aragon retorted. “Wisdom has certainly diminished in the city of those who were once wise if now they speak ill of Lothlorien. You may not believe me, but there’s no other way for us, unless you want to go back to the Gates or climb the mountains or swim alone along the Great River.”

“Then guide us!” agreed Boromir. “But it’s dangerous.” “Very,” Aragorn confirmed. “Beautiful and dangerous, but only the evil has to fear here.”

They walked a little over a mile into the forest when they encountered a third stream flowing rapidly from the tree-lined slopes, climbing west towards the mountains. They could hear it roar in a cascade hidden by the shadows, before the dark water crossed the path ahead of them, joining the Silverlode in a whirlwind of ponds hidden by tree roots. It was the Nimrodel, the river on which a long time ago the Silvan elves composed many song. She grew up singing them in the North, mindful of the rainbow over the waterfalls and the golden flowers floating on its foam. Everything was dark, now, and the Bridge over it collapsed, but its waters were still able to wash away any sign of fatigue, so she proposed to wade it to find on the other side a place to rest.

“The sound of falling water will perhaps bring us sleep and forgetfulness from sorrows.”

One after another, the men followed her and when they were all on the other bank, they sat down, rested and refreshed. Elva told the stores of Lothlorien, the ones the Mirkwood elves still treasured in their hearts, stories of the sun and stars on meadows along the Great River, from a time before the world turned gray. When finally silence fell, they heard the music of the waterfall that flowed smoothly in the shadows.

“Do you hear Nimrodel’s voice?” she asked. “I’ll sing you the story of a girl who was called like the river next to which she lived a long time ago. It’s a lovely song in Sylvan, but I’ll sing it in Westron for you.”

Then, with a sweet voice so faint it almost disappeared in the rustle of the leaves, she intoned the ballad of the elf with a white mantle edged with gold; she had long hair and white skin, the free girl with a voice clear like silver drops. It was evident that some of her companions thought this creature lost in the dewy mountains could’ve been her, so she sang about her lover, an elven king of trees and clearings, went away on a ship swept by the north wind.

From helm to sea they saw him leap, As arrow from the string, And dive into the water deep, As mew upon the wing. The wind was in his flowing hair, The foam about him shone; Afar they saw him strong and fair Go riding like a swan. But from the West has come no word, And on the Hither Shore No tidings Elven-folk have heard Of Amroth evermore.

When Elva's voice trembled, the song ended. She said she couldn't continue because she didn't remember how it went on, but it was a lie: long and sad was the story about the doom befallen on Lothlorien when the dwarves roused evil in the mountains. She glances sideways at Gimli, who looked somewhat grateful, and quickly changed subject, proposing to camp on the trees for the night. The Fellowship left the path, entering the shadows of the forest further dense, headed west along the mountains steam and far away from the river, until they found a small group of trees with big trunks.

“I’m at home in roots and branches, but this species is unknown to me; I need to climb to see what their shape and way of growing is,” said Elva.

“Whatever they are,” replied Pippin, “they would really be wonderful if they offer a possible night’s rest to others than birds: I don’t know how to sleep perched on a hanger!”

“Then dig a ditch in the ground, if that’s more to the habits of you race,” Elva retorted, impatiently. “But you have to dig fast and in depth, if you wish to hide from the Orcs.”

Before she could do anything else, however, an authoritative voice spoke from the shadows. In amazement, she crouched frightened against the trunk.

“Stay still,” she whispered to the others. “Don’t move and don’t speak!”

A soft laugh was heard in the foliage, and another clear voice spoke in an elven language. Elva looked up and answered in the same idiom, different from the ones the western elves used.

"Who are they, and what do they say?" asked Merry.

"They're Elves," Sam replied. "Don't you hear their voices?"

"And they say you breathe so hard they could pierce your heart despite the darkness,” Elva hissed, silencing the hobbits. To be honest, there was no reason to be afraid: the elves said they’ve been long aware of their presence but they didn’t hinder the Fellowship in crossing the river since they heard her voice beyond the Nimrodel and recognized she belonged to their Nordic lineage.

“They’re begging me to go up with Frodo. It seems they’ve received news about our journey but they ask the others to be patient for a moment and guard the feet of the tree, waiting for them to decide what to do.”

At those words, a ladder was lowered from the shadows: it was made of a silver-gray sparkling cord and despite its frail appearance, it proved itself strong enough to withstand the weight of several people. Elva went up fast, while Frodo tried to persuade Sam to stay with the others. It would’ve been a wise choice, it was easy to offend her people, but the gardener was immovable and in the end they entered the flet, talan in elvish, through the circular hole open in the centre. The elf holding the ladder, the eldest, invited her to sit with his companions, two younger guards, both fully dressed in silver gray fabric, a valid help to hide among the stumps and then greeted the hobbits in a slow Common Tongue.

“It’s rare for us not to use our mother tongue, since now we live in the heart of the forest and don’t like to deal with other people. Even our own relatives in the North are divided from us, but some still go in foreign lands to gather news and watch over enemies, and therefore they speak different languages like me. My brothers Rumil and Orophin understand little of what you say, but we heard of your coming from Lord Elrond’s messengers when they passed by Lorien on their way home. From many years we no longer knew anything about your race and we didn’t think there were still any hobbit in Middle Earth. You don’t seem bad natured and since you come with an elf of our lineage, it’s with pleasure that we’ll help you, as Elrond asked us to, although is not out habit to lead strangers across our land, but you’ll have to spend the night here. How many are you?”

"Eight: me, four of them,” said Elva, alluding to the hobbits, “and two men, one being Aragorn, an elf-friend of the Westernesse folk.”

“The name of Aragorn son of Arathorn is known in Lorien, and he has the benevolence of the Lady. So, everything is fine,” said Haldir. “But you have so far only named seven.”

“The eight is a dwarf,” admitted the girl, never lowering her eyes, no trace of shame in her voice. She knew that Haldir must’ve understood by now that not only elven blood ran in her veins, but he didn’t seem to care.

“This is not good: we haven’t dealt with them since the Dark Days and they’re not allowed into our country. I cannot let him pass.”

“He’s of the Lonely Mountain, one of Dain’s trusted people and friend of Lord Elrond, who has personally chosen him to be part of our Fellowship,” she explained. At her words, the three elves exchanged a long, knowing look.

“Is he perhaps your companion, milady?” Haldir asked.

“Would it make any difference on his courage and loyalty?” she asked, heedless of what some strangers might think. If she had cared about the opinion of all the souls she had met in her long life, her heart would’ve already burst with pain.

"Very well," said Rumil at last, displeased. Ignoring the fact that the hobbits didn’t understand him, he told her in Sindarin that if she and Aragorn had watched and answered for Gimli, he could’ve passed, but only blindfolded.

“Now, we mustn’t waste any more time,” Haldir resumed. “Your companions have been on the ground too long and soon in the morning you’ll have to continue your march. The hobbits will stay here with us, while you’ll remain in the other talan with the rest of the Fellowship.”

“Call if something is wrong!” he added in the end, as a farewell. Elva was halfway down the ladder when she heard one of his brothers mutter something about such a beautiful voice wasted in a terribly vulgar way, but she couldn’t understand his reply.

[odium-amare]

Romance and Redemption for Fëanor

(Disclaimer: This does not and should not apply to real life. No one can change anyone. Only they can change themselves. This is purely for fun and for my own imagination to run rampant. 

Also, If you’re a fan of  Fëanor x Nerdanel pairing, skip this.)

This little guilty pleasure analysis is a little foreshadowing for something I am going to publish on Silmarillion AO3 and Fanfiction soon.

Fëanor is a character I have not often talked about but often think about when it comes to Tolkien’s work. He’s a fascinating character in that he defies all of the traditional Elven stereotypes in Tolkien’s universe. But everyone knows that. He’s charismatic, magnetic, tumultuous, unpredictable, easily changeable, impatient, possessive, direct, virile and most of all, he’s extremely human.

He’s the most beautiful and greatest elf (according to Tolkien but Finrod can battle this) and yet wed to Nerdanel; someone not considered beautiful by Elven standards because like most elves, he loves beauty but in the unconventional sense. Which again, defies Elven standards. 

He sees Nerdanel’s beauty that others cannot and he values her character and talents as an artist and craftswoman. 

Fëanor gives me the impression of one who puts so much emphasis and rage into unfairness and justice whether it be rebelling towards the Valar because of power imbalance or feeling that it is his right to take back his Silmarils which he created. But at the same time, he’s unbelievably unfair and cruel to people who do not do anything evil to him with intention (Indis, his half-brothers and it’s safe to assume he neglects his nephews and nieces as well.) That is his paradox. Fëanor is changeable and a hypocrite. Only he can abide by his own double standards and no one else’s.  But that is probably one of the reasons why the Tolkien fandom loves him so much. He’s so flawed that it’s part of what makes him fun to write about and makes him utterly fascinating. 

He’s sexy to put it straight. 

He loves with all his heart (his father, birth mother, Nerdanel and children) and he hates with all his heart. There is no mediocrity or middle ground for Fëanor. You either have all of him or none of him.

And this extremity of his character is what causes so many tragedies, the dreadful oath that leads to all of his sons’ demise. The connections with all of the events that occur throughout Middle Earth’s history. 

Having said that, as a huge romantic and idealist whilst also a pragmatist, I will be one of the first to say I am not a huge fan of Fëanor/Nerdanel as a couple.  And this is not just because of my bias for not caring about Elf x Elf pairings.

On a purely superficial level, I like the angst of Fëanor x Nerdanel’s conflict and separation towards the events of the Oath and journey to Middle Earth. I like that she grows a spine and rebels Tolkien’s LACE of elves never separating and to willingly separate with Fëanor because he’s beyond saving.  I like the fact that it’s a rare case of the “hot” guy wants the “plain/ugly” girl and not the other way around which have been bombarded by media created by mediocre/ugly men living their fantasies of ending up with the hottest women entitlement.  I like the fact that Fëanor loves her for her accomplishments as her own individual artisan.

But what we hear about Fëanor x Nerdanel’s personal life before everything from Tolkien is extremely vague. The one that stands out to me is:

“... she was able to influence and restrain her prideful husband.”

Hm, in what way exactly? Fëanor x Nerdanel’s relationship may be vague in its descriptions, but there is much we can assume and deduct. While this line may sound nice to other romanticists that’s a fan of this pairing and like that Nerdanel is the only one “wise” and “kind” enough to calm Fëanor down, this line to me just sounds like another one of those kind/ sweet good girl tames the bad boy. 

It’s old and we all know, is a one way ticket towards a toxic and dysfunctional relationship. Nerdanel plays the role of the patient wife restraining her unpredictable husband and even towards the end of her leaving Fëanor, she could only beg him one last time to leave one of her youngest twin sons with her. There’s not much more to the dynamic or at least is written about. While she’s an accomplished artisan in her own right, she lets herself play the role of the patient and motherly figure of 7 sons. She acts as the female homebody to a charismatic but problematic husband and failed to the very end when the two are estranged.

She is lost in the shadow of Fëanor and there is nothing about Nerdanel that stands out to me. Even Haleth, a mortal woman, can stand to be equal to Fëanor to be inspiring.

I like to reread “Another Man’s Cage” by Dawn Felagund which gives us a glimpse into the life of the Fëanorians. While it is a fanfic and should not be read as canon, everything written there is pretty damn close to my own interpretations of each individual Fëanorians. The dynamic of Fëanor/Nerdanel in this fic pretty much confirms all of my beliefs about this couple and exemplifies exactly why I dislike it and why I don’t care for Nerdanel as a female character.  If we don’t have canon, we might as well have this so I’m going to play off of this fanfic. 

Fëanor x Nerdanel are a tumultuous couple and not in a sexy way. To sum it up short, Fëanor is someone who willfully acts on his own whims, does and says whatever he wants. Nerdanel is always the one to make concessions and appeal to him for the sake of her love for him, harmony and the children. She consistently plays the role of the doormat, matronly figure. Every time they fight, she will be the one to apologize first and accept “make up” sex when she shouldn’t. And it’s definitely not making up. It’s communication avoidance.  Other than being a matron role that takes care of the children, blindingly loving Fëanor and his mistreatments with a dash of artisan here and there (to remind us that she’s her own person I suppose,) she does not have much of an inspiring personality. She accepts the fact that Fëanor will always burn bright for all to see and she will be the one languishing in spirit. She’s incredibly muted as a person. 

So this, frankly, leaves me wondering. What is it about Nerdanel that Fëanor falls for exactly? Being a talented sculptor is not much of a reason to sustain love and a marriage. It is said that they were friends before they married. But why are they friends? She’s said to be able to stand up to her husband, but her version of “standing up” to him is more about barely scratching personal boundaries and common sense rather than actually talking sense into his extremities.  Then he fell for her because she’s the “wise” and patient woman who reigns in her terrible husband? 

What a flat and cliche trope of a patriarchal marriage. 

Which brings me to my last point and theory. His wife can’t do it. His sons can’t do it. His half brothers most definitely cannot do it. No matter how they show it, no matter the defiance - Most of the most important First Age figures in Tolkien lives on the whims of Fëanor and his pursuit. 

So who could redeem Fëanor? By the time of Dagor Dagorath and Arda remade, who could heal him while also being able to put him in his place so that he doesn’t scorch a burn with his fire to the point that it overwhelms?

A human woman.

Thank you. Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk. 

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

@rey-jake-therapist

The showrunners said Celeborn will return, so I don’t think they will follow up with an eventual “Elrondriel” plot.  

I think that mess was either “crack theory” or them testing the waters to see if “Elrondriel” was a possibility, which I don’t think so, because the majority of the fandom hated it, and no Tolkien fan would accept such a thing, hence the damage control put in place.

Elrond’s arc in Season 3 will be much about the foundation of Rivendell/Imladris (which appears to be where the Elves arrived at the end of Season 2). In the meantime, Galadriel has to find the future realm of Lothlórien, but Celeborn should be on the show by then (probably Season 4). These are two key Elvens kingdoms in the story, especially after Lindon falls (which I’m guessing it will be next season as well, when Sauron will try to retrieve the Three Elven rings).

About Adar's death: yes, it was Sauron's plan, all along. And the scene did parallel the one in 2x01. Doesn’t mean it can’t have several parallels. Why in the woods? Why not at Eregion? Actually, Adar not being at Eregion was OOC for him, since he was obsessed in finding and destroying Sauron. What happened? He had a religious experience with Nenya, it seems. 

@90shaladriel

I don’t think they will ret-con Haladriel dynamic from Season 1, because the producers said their inspiration to create “Rings of Power” was Sauron grouping of Galadriel’s mind in “The Mirror” chapter of “Fellowship of the Ring”. Meaning, Sauron and Galadriel’s connection will always be at the core of the show. What I think happened in Season 2 was pretty much the aftermath of “Halbrand is Sauron”, and Galadriel having to realize that: the “mortal man” with whom she had a connection, was actually her archenemy all along. In a way, yes, Season 2 marked the ending of “Haladriel”, and the beginning of “Saurondriel”.  

Because we did see Sauron obsessed with Galadriel, and her being heartbroken about Halbrand, but Halbrand is Sauron (like several characters told her). Sauron and Galadriel’s connection will definitely be a part of the show until the end, but they will make it ambiguous, because that’s the safest opinion. But that scene in the finale confirmed, at the very least, that Galadriel still has strong feelings for Halbrand, because she stops her fight once she see him.

I agree with everything about the “fight”. I honestly hated that scene and I don’t think my opinion will change on that: it was bad executed, too much “spectacle” and less emotion, which felt flat. We had that fight because the showrunners thought it looked cool. Sauron is a skilled warrior sure, but he’s a sorcerer, above all. They went with the fight because it was the only way Galadriel could somehow fight back against him, at this point in the story, I guess.

My point is; after giving it much thought, I finally understood the meaning of that scene. But since we had that stupid fight before, the point didn’t come across to the audience as it should have, and it just looks like Sauron stabs Galadriel with Morgoth’s crown to kill her. But that’s not what happened, nor his goal. And that’s why he’s “evil-happy” he thrusts Morgoth’s crown into her chest. 

Sauron was performing Dark magic there (and he talks about this to Celebrimbor in this very episode): he wanted to turn Galadriel into a (ring)wraith and bring her into the Unseen world (“wraith-world” or “shadow realm” as Gil-galad calls it, when he finds Galadriel). This was his plan: he was trying to “ravish” the Light out of Galadriel. He was speaking in the past tense because she could no longer be Queen of Middle-earth; she would belong to another realm soon enough. Nenya was the only thing that was preventing it, and that’s why he wanted the ring (otherwise it would stop the process), and that's why he didn’t heal her. 

Sauron is officially Morgoth’s successor as the new “Dark Lord”: he’s the “shadow of Morgoth”. And, so, he doesn’t want Galadriel’s light anymore (like in Season 1); he wants to bring her into the darkness with him. But - and this has to be explored in Season 3 - Sauron’s blood was also infused on that crown (because Adar killed him with it), which means Galadriel and Sauron are, now, bound together, until she arrives at Valinor in the end of the story. It’s like Frodo’s wound: it will never fully heal, and Sauron did, indeed, bind Galadriel to him.  

But that fight scene was such a mess, this point didn't come across, or they are saving it as "plot twist" for Season 3.

The Missing Piece

@rey-jake-therapist and I have been brainstorming and theorizing about what went down at the finale between Sauron and Galadriel.

From my part, I’ll suspend my dislike for the cringeworthy dialogue and the evil theatrics, because, personally, I didn’t like that scene (sorry) and I think it was badly-executed and that’s what causing the trouble here. The show focused more on spectacle than on the emotional weight of that scene, making it look as if Sauron was only manipulating and deceiving her (he wanted the rings and nothing more), and that Galadriel had no inner conflict whatsoever (she stops when she sees Halbrand, but it's for 2 minutes tops). 

Many of you have already mentioned how Sauron forced Galadriel to bind herself to him (by stabbing her with Morgoth’s iron crown) and that his plan was to make her a Ringwraith (like the Nazgûl of the Nine), but she jumped off a cliff (I will always hate this, sorry).

When I first presented my theory that Galadriel would be wounded by Morgoth’s iron crown at the finale and during her fight with Sauron (you can laugh at it, now), I also speculated that she would be left in a state similar to Frodo’s in “Fellowship of the Ring”, when he was injured by a Morgul blade (also forged by Sauron). And this wound will never heal, meaning she’s now bound to the darkness and to Sauron forever (or until she arrives at Valinor at the very end of the story). I have nothing to add here. 

In “Fellowship of the Ring”, when the Witch-king of Angmar stabs Frodo (at the ruins of the Tower of Amon Sûl), the blade dissolved soon afterwards, and a fragment of it remained within Frodo’s wound, working its way towards his heart and threatening to turn him into a ringwraith. He was saved by Elrond at Rivendell, when he was able to remove the shard and heal the wound, but each year on the anniversary of receiving the injury, Frodo became seriously ill, and only his departure to Valinor offered a permanent cure.  

Morgoth’s crown wasn’t missing anything (I believe), but it was created and used by Morgoth himself, meaning it’s power and dark magic is much stronger than in the Morgul-blades Sauron gave to the Nazgûl. Dealing with this will be, probably, Galadriel’s plot in Season 3, and kick-out her “Lady of the Light” arc. Because we all know the "final" result of this wound for Galadriel:

There seems to be a piece missing to complete this puzzle, emotional-wise, and provide this scene with that emotional weight that's lacking. And it always goes back to the “crack theory” of “it was Sauron on that tent scene of 2x07, and not Elrond”.

I’m aware some like this theory, some don’t (mostly because they believe the showrunners would never go there). I’ve already presented enough evidence on why it’s actually Sauron on that scene, so I won’t repeat myself here. If anything, 2x08 provide us with even more clues.

Adar's Death

Adar's death scene in 2x08 appears to parallel a scene we already saw on "Rings of Power". And I'm not talking about the opening scene of 2x01, which is the obvious answer.

In 2x06, when Halbrand/Sauron wants to kill Adar, for the first time, in the middle of the woods, but is stopped from doing so by Galadriel. During this scene, Adar tries to make sense of why this "mortal man" wants to kill him:

"A woman? A child?" Adar asks Halbrand/Sauron.

At this moment, in particular, this interaction was meant to be a clue towards Halbrand’s true identity (“he is Sauron”), because of Adar being the one responsible for destroying his previous physical form in betrayal. Halbrand wants to kill Adar with a spear (Sauron’s weapon of choice). 

However, in 2x07, Adar really does causes pain to the woman (she-elf) that Sauron loves. At the Battle of Eregion, Adar displays Galadriel trapped in a cage, and has one of his Orcs pierce and bled her neck with... a spear. 

And how does Sauron have Adar killed, at the end? In the middle of woods, like he meant to in 1x06. Using his children to cause him pain, and kill him. And Sauron does it in front of Galadriel, the woman he loves and was, previously, hurt by Adar. 

There are more references to 1x06 in 2x08, because when Sauron appears as Halbrand, he repeats to Galadriel his words to her in those same woods he wished to kill Adar.

Hence: this parallel can mean that Sauron, in fact, witnessed Adar flaunting and hurting Galadriel on the battlefield. I actually joked with @rey-jake-therapist about Adar being toasted after he pulled that off, because there was no way Sauron would let him get away with hurting his Queen... and I was right. 

We know, Sauron was at the walls of Eregion at the time, with Celebrimbor and the guards, and they all saw the arrival of the Elven army led by Elrond. And, yet, the show has given us no reaction from Sauron’s part on what was happening to Galadriel, after he spent an entire season obsessing over her. 

Ghûl's death

Ghûl's death has "well, well, well, if it isn't the consequences of my own actions" vibes for having betrayed Adar and sided with Sauron, instead.

At first, I thought this plot of having Sauron just talk to the Orcs and gain their loyalty so easily was kind of stupid. But when discussing it with @rey-jake-therapist, we got more insight.

Tolkien never specifically wrote about the Orcs lifespans: we know they aren’t immortal like the moriondor (Adar and the other Elves corrupted by Morgoth) and they reproduce like every other “humanoid” being. Meaning, Ghûl has never met Sauron before, and has only heard the tales. He was already suspicious that Adar was sacrificing the Orcs for nothing, with other Orcs believing he was chasing a ghost. Well, when Ghûl meets Sauron for the first time, he’s shocked to discover that he’s not terrible or cruel like he was told, but rather “nice” and soft-spoken (even asking his name). And, so, Ghûl has the confirmation that Adar was, in fact, wrong and killing off his children for nothing... (well, he came to regret that at the end). 

However, Ghûl is the one who places a blade at Galadriel’s neck during the “Adar and Elrond tent scene” in 2x07, and we see Elrond’s reaction to it. And so, if Adar was to give the order, it would have been Ghûl who would kill Galadriel in that scene.

More: when “Elrond” taunts Adar about sacrificing the Orcs’ lives, the camera lingers on Ghûl’s reaction... and guess who’s the first to side with Sauron in the next episode, and strike the first blow against Adar? 

In 2x08, Sauron kills Ghûl after Galadriel throws herself off a cliff and he believes her dead.

Many assume this was done in a rage fit, but this isn’t Sauron’s character. And he already lost control with Celebrimbor in this episode and that’s why, according to Charlie Vickers, he cries in that scene: Sauron recalls his time at Morgoth’s side and doesn’t want to end up destructive and nihilist like his master was.

So I would argue the “rage fit” explanation is not it. Could it be, that Sauron - who is always gaslighting others and in self-denial trying to find justifications for his own actions and project them onto others (as Celebrimbor told him in 2x07) - kills Ghûl because this Orc was the last being he saw threatening Galadriel’s life? And projects his own guilt onto him? And how could he know that, unless he was the “Elrond” in the room? Because Sauron is powerful, but he isn’t able to see everything just yet. 

Where do we go from here? 

With this insane among of clues and evidence, and how everything falls into place, there is no way the person in that tent with Adar is Elrond. Because if it is, there are plot holes the size of black holes in the story. If it's in fact Sauron everything fall into place and makes sense. And it would also explain the lack of "emotional weight" on their scene at the finale.

Season 3: there is the possibility the show might hold on to this reveal for next season. Since in 2x08, we see Sauron brutally killing both Celebrimbor and Adar, and later stabbing Galadriel, revealing this plot twist to the audience could be a little “WTF” and even lose its meaning. And it wouldn’t match the vibe they were going for with Sauron’s character in 2x08, especially since Sauron and Celebrimbor was the core of Season 2;

Ambiguous or "abandoned plot": this is my concern.

[legolas-is-a-himbo]

so i’ve never read the silmarillion (i mean, i will read it. soon. hopefully. as i write this, my copy of it is staring me down from my bookshelf) but i’ve picked up a fair bit of random information from tumblr, ao3, the wiki, things i’ve come across while studying Sindarin, and of course stuff that is referenced in lotr and the hobbit.

i have pieced together a variety of things about it, most of which i have no idea to what degree of truth they are. so just for fun, y’all can enjoy my idea of what the silmarillion is all about. mostly writing this so when i do read it i can come back and see just how false this is currently~

so there’s a dude named fëanor who is an elf and he makes three silmarils which are magic light gem things but the dark lord steals them for his crown

fëanor also has a whole lot of children with a lot of different people and they are all referred to as the ‘fëanorians’. all of them including fëanor fight various dark lords and try to take back the silmarils

anyone whose name starts with m is evil

this includes sauron whose original name is either maglor or melkor or something like that and who is maybe(??) in love with someone named maedhros and who is also canonically extremely attractive. he also likes to trick people into doing evil things

there are at least three kinslayings and i’m not entirely sure what that means but i gather that warring groups of elves try to kill each other off?

everyone commits war crimes

in one of the kinslayings there is an elf named oropher who is somehow exiled or has to run away or something so he establishes himself as king of the greenwood and is more powerful than everyone else in it because they are all silvan and he is sindarin. this creates weird power dynamics. he is also the father of thranduil.

the númenorians are rewarded with the island of númenor because they have fought well in many battles. but they get corrupt and this might have something to do with sauron, and they keep trying to cheat death. they try to invade valinor and because of this númenor sinks and also the earth becomes un-flat for everyone except the elves so now only elven ships can get to valinor. this i am 99% sure is true because i specifically looked it up on the wiki.

luthien tinúviel (not sure if i got the accents/spelling right sorry) is like arwen but more powerful and she can kill people by singing. she is also extremely beautiful. she is an elf and she and a mortal named beren fall in love and they die but her singing is so heartbreaking that the gods give them both a second chance at life except she’s mortal now.

why is everyone’s fucking name start with celeb. celeborn, celebrimbor, celebrian. do they just have a lot of silver everywhere or?

celebrimbor might be in love with someone named narvi? or at least they do a lot of stuff together

someone slayed a lot of balrogs. might have been luthien and beren?

the sindar elves and the noldor elves Really Dont Like Each Other for some reason and they fight a lot

elrond is half elf and he got to choose to be an elf but his brother chose to be a mortal man

lothlórien keeps trying to take land from the greenwood? or it’s the other way around? not sure.

there are a lot of gods and they keep experimenting with yes divine intervention vs no divine intervention. no matter what they do it goes wrong.

there is someone named ecthelion and i thought this was denethor’s father but either i am totally wrong or he is also an elf but that doesn’t make any sense or there is a second person named ecthelion who is an elf

elves in the greenwood are like middle earth hillbillies?

some elves go to the sea but some do not. wood elves generally are less likely to. but once most elves hear the calling of the gulls they gotta go to valinor. there are also a variety of other types of elves, some which never go to the sea (actually i read some of the appendices in the silmarillion and i think i found this in there)

if an elf is Really In Love but their lover dies or it’s unrequited or they are separated, they can ‘fade’ and then die

there are different dialects of sindarin depending on region. people in gondor pronounce things weirdly, and again greenwood elves talk like hillbillies

there used to be a lot of dragons and people had to fight them all the time

lots of bad dangerous things come from in the north

there was ‘the last alliance’ and this involved elves and men and dwarves and they fought maybe sauron together but a lot of them died

people should know magical items are Very Dangerous And Risky but for some reason they keep trying to fuck with them and the same things keep happening

i’ll end it with that. this is probably going to make a lot of people very mad and could probably instantly kill jrrt. i apologize. i will most likely look back on this later on and become very upset.

thanks. sorry. have a good day.

[ereborskingarchive2]

𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚝 ,     𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛   𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 ,     𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜   𝚊𝚗𝚍   𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜     ( 𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚎   𝟷𝟺𝟹 )          ❝     how   far   do   you   think   it   is ?     ❞     asked   thorin ,     for   by   now   they   knew   bilbo   had   the   sharpest   eyes   among   them .      ❝      not   at   all   far .     i   shouldn’t   think   above   twelve   yards ,     ❞     said   bilbo .      ❝      twelve   yards !     ❞     exclaimed   thorin .     ❝     i   should   have   thought   it   was   thirty   at   least ,     but   my   eyes   don’t   see   as   they   used   a   hundred   years   ago .     ❞

𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚝 ,     𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛   𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 ,     𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜   𝚊𝚗𝚍   𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜     ( 𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚎   𝟷𝟺𝟹 )          ❝     [ . . . ]     but   fíli   is   the   youngest   and   still   has   the   best   sight ,     ❞     said   thorin .     ❝     come   here ,     fíli ,     and   see   if   you    can   see   the   boat   mister   baggins   is   talking   about .     ❞

𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛   𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚘𝚗 ,     𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚝     ( 𝚊𝚗   𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚢 )          [ . . . ]     a   young   dwarf   prince   facing   down   the   pale   orc .     his   armor   rent ,     wielding   nothing   but   an   oaken   branch   as   a   shield .     blow   after   blow   the   orc   delivered   upon   this   branch ,     ‘til   one   such   powerful   swing   drove   it   back   into   the   prince’s   head ,     sending   him   down   to   the   ground    . . .

dwarrows ,   with   their   preference   to   remain   underground   in   the   darkness¹   of   their   mountains   where ,     in   such   subterranean   conditions ,     little   light   reaches   the   eye ,     are   more   short - sighted   than   any   other   race   in   middle   earth .     whereas   elves   can   look   across   great   distances ,     dwarrows   can   see   very   fine   details   when   anything   is   brought   close   to   their   eyes ,     an   ability   that   lends   itself   to   the   unmatched   workmanship   that   they   are   able   to   achieve   with   their   craft .     the   short - sightedness   of   dwarrows   does   not   hinder   them   much² ,     and   while   it   becomes   less   easy   to   see   far   away   with   age ,     they   are   otherwise   unaffected   and   unaware   of   any   difficulties .     their   architecture   and   ornamentation ,     comprised   of   straight   lines ,     large ,     prominent   statues ,     stamped   patterns ,     deeply   embedded   runes ,     and   embossed   beads   are   aspects   that   reflect   this   small   lacking   in   their   sight   and   ensure   that   the   dwarrows   do   not   need   perfect   vision   to   navigate   through   their   realm     ( flat   decorations   are   rarely   seen ,     if   made   at   all )     nor   would   they   need   eyesight   by   itself   to   be   able   to   relate   to   their   adornments   that   are   as   physically   representative     ( able   to   be   perceived   through   contact )     ( i.e.   the   rune - stone   received   by   kíli   from   dís   is   meant   to   be   felt   as   much   as   to   be   looked   at )     as   they   are   visually³ .

rare   is   it   that   a   blow   comes   down   hard   enough   to   cause   a   dwarf   any   lasting   harm ,     but   when   fighting   azog   the   defile   during   the   battle   of   azanulbizar     ( 2799   of   the   third   age )     before   the   gates   of   khazad - dûm     ( moria )     ,     a   swing   of   azog’s   spiked   mace   causes   the   oaken   branch   that   thorin   wielded   to   strike   backwards   into   his   head .     he   falls   to   the   ground ,     having   received   a   severe   enough   hit   to   permanently   deteriorate   his   eyesight   further   than   what   is   common   for   a   dwarf .     his   sword   cutting   off   azog’s   arm   instead   of   his   head   is   a   result   of   this ,     because   he   could   no   longer   see   clearly   enough   to   translate   the   abruptly   indistinct   appearance   of   his   foe ,     nor   was   he   able   to   see   azog   carried   into   khazad - dûm     alive .

the   initial   adaptation   was   difficult   the   more   it   deteriorated ,     but   additional   practice   and   training ,     along   with   heightened   hearing     ( he   has   become   particularly   adept   at   hearing   and   recognizing   sounds   and   when   certain   people   are   speaking )     ,     has   him   able   to   participate   in   battle   with   as   much   skill   as   any   other   warrior     ( instead   of   direct   assaults ,     thorin   tends   to   twirl   with   his   weapon   or   use  broad   upward   strokes   as   a   means   to   make   sure   that   he   strikes   his   enemy   and   does   not   fall   short   because   he   could   not   strike   as   precisely )      ( i.e.   this   form   can   be   seen   most   notably   during   the   escape   from   the   goblin   tunnels )⁴     .     his   eyesight   is   not   so   far   gone   that   he   cannot   recognize   shapes   and   surroundings ,     albeit   distorted   or   faint   depending   on   the   distance   between   him   and   what   he   is   looking   at .     around   one   meter     ( sometimes   a   little   farther ,     sometimes   less )     is   as   far   as   he   can   see   without   having   any   problems ,     but   this   depends   on   how   well - rested   he   is ,     and   the   distance   is   oftentimes   less   than   that .     thorin   can   see   up   close   as   crystal - clearly   as   his   fellow   dwarrows .     seasons   passed ,     and   he   adjusted   to   being   able   to   take   in   less   than   others ,     not   thinking   much   on   it   save   for   when   journeying   required   someone   with   sharper   eyes   than   his     ( the   distortion   is   not   so   great   that   he   cannot   commonly   make   these   journeys   by   himself ,     which   he   usually   does )     .     his   instincts   serve   him   well   and   make   up   for   what   he   lacks   in   his   eyesight .     save   for   a   few   strange   instances   that   may   cause   the   dwarrows   that   do   not   know   of   his   disability   to   scratch   their   heads⁵ ,     balin ,     dwalin ,     dís ,     fíli ,     and   kíli   are   aware   and   do   their   best   to   support   him   without   tramping   upon   his   position   as   leader .

amidst   the   mourning   for   the   losses   sustained   during   the   battle   of   azanulbizar ,     which   claimed   the   lives   of   thrór ,     thorin’s   grandfather ,     frerin ,     thorin’s   younger   brother ,     and   resulted   in   the   disappearance   of   thráin ,     thorin’s   father ,     his   eyesight   was   not   forefront   on   his   mind ,     and   was   not   so   for   awhile .     indeed ,     it   took   nearly   a   year   before   he   realized   the   change ,     though   others   around   him ,     namely   his   training   partner ,     dwalin ,     and   vili ,     fíli   and   kíli’s   father ,     noticed   earlier ,     and   kept   a   close   guard   around   thorin .     he   moved   on   without   taking   a   moment   to   grieve   his eyesight ,     working   himself   nearly   to   the   end   of   his   fortitude   to   regain   the   skills   that   had   left   him   in   the   wake   of   this   impairment .     he   neither   cursed   it ,     nor   cared   so   little   about   it   that   it   did   not   make   him   brood ,     nearer   and   nearer   to   thinking   himself   so   much   lesser   than   his   forefathers .     it   was   a   weight   set   atop   so   many   others ,     another   strain   upon   the   dimming   of   his   mind’s   wellbeing ,     but   one   that   he   had   no   choice   but   to   bear ,     even   if   it   snuffed   him   out .

thorin   fumbles   now   and   then ,     frequently   enduring   humbling   mishaps   and   pushing   on   regardless   without   letting   himself   or   the   other   dwarrows   take   much   notice .     he   is   determined   to   still   perform   his   role   to   the   greatest   of   his   abilities ,     and   does   not   slow   simply   because   he   cannot   see   the   path   as   clearly .     he   knows   it   is   there ,     and   that   is   enough .     he   will   make   it   enough .     he   carries   spectacles   in   one   of   his   packs ,     but   only   wears   them   privately .

𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒   ��𝐑𝐄   𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐃   𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐖 .

𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛   𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚘𝚗 ,     𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚝     ( 𝚊𝚗   𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍   𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚢 )          ONE     he   arrived   late   to   bag   end   because   he   could   not   see   the   mark   that   gandalf   had   left   upon   bilbo   baggins’   door ,     which   resulted   in   him   becoming   rather   off - track .     he   walked   up   and   down   bagshot   row   twice   before ,     on   the   third   attempt ,     he   drew   close   enough   to   see   the   mark .          TWO     instructing   balin   to   lead   the   way   when   they   journeyed   out   of   rivendell   was   partly   because   balin   knew   it ,     and   partly   because   it   was   unfamiliar   enough   that   thorin   did   not   trust   himself   to   lead   the   company   with   his   impairment   and   the   steep   fall   on   one   side⁶ .          THREE     in   the   misty   mountains ,     during   the   battle   of   the   stone   giants ,     thorin’s   eyesight   was   shortened   considerably   with   the   heavy   rain - fall ,     and   he   could   not   see   whether   it   was   fíli   or   kíli   beside   him   when   they   were   separated   from   half   of   the   company .     as   indicated   by   the   film’s   subtitles ,     he   does   accidentally   call   for   kíli ,     mistaking   fíli   for   his   brother .          FOUR     thorin   does   not   realize   that   bilbo   is   not   with   him   when   they   make   it   out   of   the   goblin   tunnels   because   he   simply   could   not   see   well   enough   to   notice   he   was   not   there     ( one   of   two   such   accidental   occurrences ,     and   not   because   he   disvalued   bilbo’s   safety )     .          FIVE     it   cannot   be .     thorin   says   this   in   the   tree   because ,     until   azog   the   defiler   speaks ,     he   cannot   see   that   far   away   to   ascertain   whether   or   not   it   was   truly   him   and   not   a   different   orc .          SIX     azog   the   defiler’s   warg   bringing   thorin   to   the   ground   may   look   like   bad   form   on   thorin’s   part ,     but   when   the   warg   leapt   in   the   air ,     thorin   could   no   longer   tell   for   sure   how   close   it   was   in   front   of   him ,     and   by   the   time   it   was   close   enough   for   him   to   see   it ,     it   was   too   late ,     and   he   had   charged   too near .

𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚢          ONE     the   ending   scene   with   thorin   looking   out   at   erebor   in   the   distance .     he   could   see   enough   to   know   the   shape   of   it   against   the   sky ,     though   tragically   not   as   much   as   the   others   in   the   company .

𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛   𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚘𝚗 ,     𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚝     ( 𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗   𝚘𝚏   𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚞𝚐 )          ONE     the   hardness   of   the   stone   path   in   mirkwood   aided   thorin   in   being   able   to   lead   the   company   for   most   of   the   way ,     but ,     as   seen   in   the   film ,     there   are   several   instances   that   dwalin   has   to   find   the   path   for   him   if   it   was   coated   with   enough   greenery .          TWO     the   longer   he   remained   in   mirkwood ,     the   more   his   eyesight   slacked   under   its   enchantment ,     til   nearly   all   of   his   surroundings   were   a   blur ,     and   his   abrupt   command   for   the   company   to   follow   him   and   stray   from   the   path   was   because   he   could   not   see   and   felt   cornered   into   an   unwise   and   impulsive   action .          THREE     thorin   does   not   realize   bilbo   is   missing   when   battling   the   spiders   because   he   still   could   not   see   well   enough     ( the   second   occurrence ,     still   as   much   an   accident   as   the   first ,     and   still   not   because   he   disvalued   bilbo’s   safety )     .          FOUR     his   boot   stepping   on   the   cord   tied   to   the   key   before   it   fell   down   the   mountainside   was   completely   unintentional ,     which   is   why   he   gives   bilbo   the   look   he   does   before  he   stoops   to   pick   it   up .

𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚢          ONE     the   white   stag .     archery   is   thorin’s   least   mastered   skill   because   of   his   eyesight ,     but   that   does   not   mean   that   he   does   not   attempt   it   every   now   and   then ,     saving   it   for   when   he   is   certain   he   would   not   accidentally   strike   others .     what   he   sees   may   be   distorted ,     but   having   grown   accustomed   to   it ,     he   is   better   at   discerning    blurry   shapes   and   concluding   where   their   edges   are .          TWO     the   incident   with   the   barrels   had   him   relying   quite   a   lot   on   his   instincts ,     but   was   also   attributed   to   the   culmination   of   his   tireless   training   to   ensure   that   others ,     including   himself ,     would   not   die   because   of   his   eyesight .          THREE     running   from   smaug   in   erebor   and   the   several   rather   treacherous   leaps .     most   of   his   confidant   running   around   can   be   attributed   to   stone   sense     ( explained   in   summary   in   the   footnotes )     ,     and   the   several   leaps   he   makes   were   ones   of   faith   rather   than   knowing   for   certain   something   was   there   to   grab .

𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛   𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚘𝚗 ,     𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚝     ( 𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎   𝚘𝚏   𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎   𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚎𝚜 )            ONE     he   could   not   see   and   be   sure   that   bard   held   the   arkenstone   until   kíli’s   exclamation ,     when   thorin’s   face   darkens   with   realization   and   his   suspicions   of   the   glowing   colors   that   he   could   distinguish   are   validated .          TWO     the   tragedy   is   that   he   could   not   see   fíli’s   final   moments ,     not   truly .     azog   and   fíli   were   at   such   a   distance   that   while   he   knew   who   was   standing   there   and   what   was   happening ,     the   details ,     such   as   the   last   emotions   on   his   nephew’s   face   before   he   perished ,     were   lost   to   him .

𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚢          ONE     throwing   the   ruby .      it   was   mostly   the   assumption   that   the   shapes   of   either   fíli   or   kíli   would   catch   it   if   he   aimed   it   enough   in   their   direction .     he   has   remarkable   aim   that   he   worked   diligently   on   throughout   the   decades .          TWO     the   warning   shot   let   loose   at   thranduil .     a   miss .     he   had   been   aiming   to   wound   thranduil’s   ride   with   gold - sick   intent .

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 .

¹     dwarrows   can   see   incredibly   well   in   darkness ,     and   despite   his   short - sightedness ,     this   includes   thorin .

²     this   is   because   of   stone - sense ,     something   that   all   dwarrows   have .     stone   sense ,     in   a   summarized   definition ,     is   the   dwarven   ability   to   be   able   to   sense   the   stone   around   them ,     noting   where   it   is   safe   and   where   it   is   not ,     and   using   it   to   make   their   way   through   mountains   both   in   general   and   with   mining .     thorin’s   short - sightedness   is   completely   unnoticeable   to   anyone   watching   him   in   the   mountain   because   of   how   his   stone - sense   guides   him ,     resonating   a   little   more   loudly   than   most   due   to   his   disability .

³     information   was   drawn   in   part   from   this   post .

⁴     in   regards   to   archery ,     thorin   learned   how   to   use   a   bow   during   his   erebor   years   before   his   injury ,     and   while   he   can   only   use   it   to   a   certain   extent   depending   on   the   situation ,     he   is   still   capable   of   shooting   from   one .     that   is   not   to   say   he   is   very   good   at   it ,     however .

⁵     thorin   is   practiced   at   hiding   it ,     and   while   your   character   and   others   may   figure   it   out   eventually ,     it   is   not   outright   apparent   that   he   is   so   very   short - sighted .     your   character   and   others   would   most   likely   not   catch   on   til   they   are   explained   to   by   thorin ,     or   are   in   a   situation   that   reveals   it   because   he   made   a   blunder .     he   will   mostly   ignore   the   question   when   asked .

⁶     this   is   not   to   say   that   he   does   not   lead   the   company   over   treacherous   paths ,     which   he   does ,     only   that   he   merely   hands   over   his   position   in   the   front   when   he   thinks   it   is   necessary     ( and   he   is   not   always   right   about   when   it   is   not )     .

[arda-tourism-board]

My writing (part 1)

I know nobody wants to hear about it, but I've been writing the same stories but slightly to the left each time since 2013 so I may as well share them. I haven't published anything, but i’m hoping to one day.

Also every time i do “quotes” it’s not a quote it’s just words to that effect.

Lillith (part 1)

Lillith (More/many) and Lucian (either enchantment or indebted) (the names were a joke about chosen ones that got out of hand), twin descendants of Arwen and Aragorn, recieve a Silmaril in their parent's will and they now have to hide it. An accident throws them back to the year 2000, before they've even been born, and they suddenly have to navigate the year in a new country, discovering the truth behind their long lost heritage while dodging the unawakened reborn Fëanorions and their "father", Kane Fey.

They start this by almost being run over by Nimrodel, who takes them in for some reason without question.

They don’t recognise them at first in the slightest, and Lucian (now Lukas) strikes up a friendship with “Tyler” before Nimrodel strikes it down.

They manage to befriend them, but things get more complicated when the eldest, "Russell," begins to remember who he was, and seems to recognise Lillith and her real name.

Without the binding of the oath, the Fëanorions are friendlier, less rageful, but their past life haunts them.

Lillith is apparently almost identical to someone they knew in Aman, who had a long affair and children with Caranthir, and disappeared with them around three years before the death of Finwë.

Lillith, who remembers nothing of this, and is most definitely human, is confused to say the least, but they just chalk it down to coincidence.

She and Caranthir - Matt - get closer anyway, but it doesn't work out because she feels he's trying to replace her with her apparent double.

Lucian gets involved with Idrillien - explain later - and begins getting involved with rediscovering their heritage even more. Lillith avoids them due to the political issues surrounding the Silmaril, opting to hide it instead.

Cut to 2020. Lillith has the Silmaril, and an accident occurs where she, her younger self, and her brother, are thrown back in time. This completes the 2020-2000 loop, and starts an 80,000 year loop.

Lillith (part 2) girl falls into middle earth is like, my brand.

Lillith is under a land with only starlight, the desert surrounding her and the only thing in her possession being the Silmaril.

In a fit of madness she eats it (yes I know the plot point is weird but stick with me). This connects her to the two trees, and gives her youth.

She eventually finds her way out of the desert and reaches the path of Eldar heading to Aman.

She joins them, learning the language with them and realising that she's in Arda. This is confirmed when they encounter Oromë, and he points at her and goes "wtf you're not an elf."

She ends up living in Alqualondë, but when she meets a young Morifinwë, she realises that the person she'd been jealous of and thought he was trying to replace her with was herself.

They have three children. Lillith refuses marriage. Marriage would bind her to stay by his side, and she knows what's coming next.

She steals her daughters away to Ennor, and spend the rest of her days in Rhûn, avoiding watching the inevitable.

In the end she falls in love with a Lindi (Nandorin) elleth, Ovranen (abound). Together they travel the world, visiting the most Eastern and Southern continents, eventually returning to Arda and Lillith finally meets Arwen and Aragorn, and finds out the fate of her daughters.

The first, named Helleneth (Sky Maiden), went to Doriath, and met and married Thranduil, a Sindarin Lord. She met her fate to grief from the loss of her fourth child, stolen from the crib (plot point for later on). At this, she confessed her heritage and was banished from Eryn Lasgalen, but an incident meant that everyone thought she was dead. She travelled to the Grey Havens under a new name, Lalyanon (traveller), and sailed home.

The second, named Kemeninya (Earth maiden), stayed in the North, living in Gondolin for a time, but when it fell, ran Northwards, eventually joining with the rangers of the North.

The third, named Rúnanen (freer), eventually rejoined with her father, and joined the Ñoldorin cause. She met the same fate as her father, run through with a sword, but instead dying at the gates of Sirion.

Lillith visits Kemeninya, now going by Dolenath (hidden), and they reconnect.

Lillith and Ovranen then recount their travels for archive, and then continue to travel, never settling down.

80,000 years old, Lillith calls on Nimrodel, and asks her for a favour. Take care of her brother.

Lost

I know crossovers are literally the worst thing in the world but I don't care so you can pry this one from my cold, dead, hands. There’s some romance in this one, but it doesn’t come until much, much, later.

Haruka, a Jedi master, on the run from the Empire, discovers a backwater world where she can disguise herself perfectly. Almost too perfectly. The customs throw her at first but she’s trained to adapt to anything.

She clips a translator to her ear, and she gets a job as a servant in Imladris.

Everyone thinks she's really young, and they're right. She's 32, and elves aren't fully matured until they're 50, but nobody told her that. She wasn't even aware she shared a species with them. Or anyone.

She's more concerned about the fact she needs to hide her left leg because it's made of metal and could rat her out to one of the very criminal merchants that could know about the Empire’s very large bounty on her head.

She does manage to evade the merchants, but when she leaves her leg on her bed at some point she has to explain that,,, maybe she isn’t local.

A diplomatic visit from Eryn Lasgalen in the form of the Crown Prince does change things though. Celeberyn points straight at Haruka and goes “you look exactly like my little brother. That’s weird.”

She’s panicking now because she actually has no idea where she came from, and just nods, and goes, “cool.”

Internally she’s freaking out because he mentioned that said brother had a missing identical twin (yes, you heard me, identical) and now she’s trying to figure out if she’s ok to exist here, cause she’s come across a lot of cultures and there isn’t a 100% track record with that.

After a long day of asking people random questions, she figures out that she’s fine here.

Her translator chip finally breaks (one of the twins stepped on it) and she just doesn’t talk to anyone for a month straight.

She turns 50, and offhandedly mentions it to someone because she’s kinda surprised she hasn’t aged yet and they just go what

Turns out she’s meant to go to school and stuff. And learn to write. That isn’t a class thing here, so they’re super concerned because this is a baby and she only has one leg and can’t write who did this to her

Turns out going “oh yeah I was a general in this war” when prompted to explain the situation has so many questions raised.

Everything is pieced together between her and Lisbeth, the youngest after her, in a clearing.

Turns out Haruka is the long lost twin “prince” of Eryn Lasgalen, stolen by someone looking to make a quick buck by selling her to the Jedi because of her hypersensitivity to the force. (elves are born very far and few between)

She swears Lisbeth to secrecy, but it all comes out when Legolas visits Imladris and demands to speak to her.

Turns out they’re linked, even across galaxies, and whenever she went through great physical or emotional trauma, he felt it, but Haruka learned to block out her emotions a long time ago, so never felt any of his. (Turns out that’s why her phantom pains are so realistic, because she was feeling the sensations on his leg to compensate.)

She is unable to deny the fact of her identity now, but she (rightly) refuses to go by her birth name, mainly because Haruka has been her name from the start anyway (it’s gender neutral).

She decides instead of facing her family, she’ll go back into space (because flat earth arda for elves is a mindset and she’s never even heard of it).

She manages (somehow) to find a merchant, and doesn’t realise she’s been followed by Elrohir until she’s dropped off on Lothal and he taps her on the shoulder like “hey where are we and what are all these creatures i’m scared”

She drags him with her to meet with the new Republic, and she gets a new translator chip, leg, and dyes her hair for fun (this is stressful she deserves the dark blue hair).

They eat lunch at a street café, and have a long conversation about Haruka’s torrid backstory. They don’t bond, but they do become friends.

Before, their dynamic was “random servant number 5″ and “lord” but now it’s “jedi master” and her “friend who only knows three words.”

She offers to take him home, but he declines on the basis that home will be there a lot longer than this will.

They start working together at the new republic. Turns out Elrohir makes an excellent fake body guard (he can fight but that’s not the point), and Haruka helps bring some of the old Jedi practices into the new order.

When the new jedi order falls, Haruka steals as many of the students away and takes them and Elrohir back to Arda.

They chill out in Imladris, hiding out for a few years before Haruka remembers that she left because she was avoiding the whole family situation, and has to confront the fact that she is royalty, and finally meets her dad (her mother’s fate is discussed above).

It goes a lot better than expected. The first thing he asks about is why she’s a woman, and it’s awkward, but they eventually fall into a good conversation.

Haruka thinks, “hey, maybe I can exist here in a family.”

But at the same time she’s got her found family in Imladris (cause you know she basically got adopted the minute she, a child, mentioned that she’d been in a war) (have i read too many salvage fics? yes. will i now compare elrond to hakoda? yes. you saw it here first folks only in this story she’s adopted by the entire serving staff.)

Haruka doesn’t venture to the stars for another for hundred years. For now, she’s just content on Arda. She takes to the stars again sometime after the end of the third age, now bored and eager to explore again. Elrohir comes with her. Together they build a new found family and crew, exploring the galaxy.

Part 2 coming soon

[starryocean]

Finished So I’m a Spider volume 10. I have...mixed feelings about this one. Under the cut, and no spoilers in comments, as always.

First off: what I liked. I liked the stuff with Kyouya, but that’s a given. His armor-piercing question to Ms. Oka was pretty great. Even if, in a way, when considering his history it comes off as a bit hypocritical, at the same time, it makes complete sense for him as a character. He feels a lot of regret over his violence, and he’s always had a complicated relationship with it, both on Earth and here. For him to see someone treading a similarly complicated, bloody path--of course he’d get angry about it, even if only out of a desire to not inflict that on anyone else.

Also, his reactions to not reacting gave me feels. Oh Kyouya, you’re so traumatized! ;-; Poor kid.

I swear this series is just trauma central for everyone. Kyouya, Mera, Ariel, Oka, Shun, Yuri, Hyrince, now Asaka and Kunihiko, and even Kumoko/Wakaba at several points! And more people besides that! They’re all traumatized! I swear the only person who isn’t having serious issues with trauma is probably Sophia, and that’s mainly because of Envy fucking with her head. And even with that, her clingy jealous nature is probably at least in part due to her trauma. I can at least see it, anyway.

No, scratch that, the only one who isn’t traumatized is D. Speaking of, I think we got hints that she might literally be the devil? Like, in the chapter where she gets found out and dragged off by that maid. There was a mention of “several circles of hell,” and with her initial and her proclamations of being an evil god, the devil certainly fits. Interesting personality, though. I wouldn’t normally think the devil as having a non-interference policy, but at the same time it kind of makes sense? In the way that it lets people go wild, at least.

Okay, other things I liked...the banter between Wakaba and Ariel was really good, same with Wakaba and D in that chapter I mentioned. I liked that callback to how Oka saved the nameless spider’s life back on Earth--of course her soul would want to care for Oka because of that. Um, that scene between Bloe and Balto was pretty tragic, especially when considering that Bloe is canonically doomed to fail already. Like, we hear that he dies early on in the Demon Lord’s Aide Interludes. Poor Balto, he tried so hard to protect his little brother for it all to be for naught ;-;

Finally, the best part. ENBY DRAGON. They’re consistently referred to with they pronouns and the narration doesn’t designate them as one gender or the other, nor does the character ever clarify, so I’m calling it that they’re an enby. I mean, they purposely chose an androgynous appearance when shifting to a human form. No cis person could ever. I know that this nonbinary pal only showed up for like 2 seconds at the very end, but I would die for them. We stan. I hope we get to see more of them.

Now, stuff I disliked, and why I’m mixed on this book: first, the pacing in the beginning dragged on too much with the exposition. Maybe it was because I kept getting distracted by my family watching the Mandalorian, but I remember feeling the same way even after they stopped and I was able to concentrate more thoroughly. Ususally, there’s a good mix of exposition and action going on, rather than it being all tell, but in the beginning there was a LOT of tell going on with the spy network Wakaba set up and stuff. And there was a little bit in the middle, too, I think. Didn’t like that.

Then, the main thing I don’t like: The implications of Wakaba’s plan. In a way, breaking the system in such a manner would result in what seems to be planetary genocide. She herself comments that it’s a massive amount of death, even if she also implies it wouldn’t be explicitly everyone who dies, but I’m still not super comfortable with that. Also, killing all the elves save Oka. If Potimas is the main big bad, and the reason why the elves are considered a threat, why do they need to kill all of them?

Yes, you can argue he can just latch onto another elf as a new body, but it’s only certain elves, right? I’m willing to bet none of the out-of-the-loop elves fulfill those conditions. Or, at least a majority don’t. They don’t need to die. They can be told the truth and even help oppose Potimas if need be. Those elves only want to help save the world as they understand it--that’s not wrong. That’s not even a crime! They’re just being manipulated like Oka is.

So why do they have to die, too? Furthermore, with the cyborg elves/any other compatible elf, they can have those “feelers” removed. Magically, physically, or whatever. Or even just put Potimas into a position where he can’t latch onto a new body. Like, there must be a range limit, right? I don’t remember if it said there was, but I can double check later. Or, hell, even use his own barrier against him by modifying it somehow. I’m willing to bet those “feeler” things are related in some way to something that could either resemble a skill or exist outside the system. If conjuring exists outside the system, at least with certain things, then you can theoretically conjure a way to force Potimas to be trapped within his own body when he dies.

It’s magic. Wakaba has already shown that you can basically do whatever the fuck you want as long as you have the energy/runes to do it. So just do something like that instead of committing elf genocide.

I mean, I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the author before, in terms of how she’s (?) handled tropes. Okina Baba might betray my expectations and end up writing something other than literally killing every last elf save Oka and/or planetary genocide. She handled the goblin concept/design super well, and she’s handled the demon stuff petty well. It didn’t read as antisemitic, and there’s been a consistent pattern of Not Always Chaotic Evil throughout the work.

It would be severely disappointing if this is where her writing fell flat, considering how well she’s handled all the other stuff so far, and I’m honestly not sure if it would ruin the series for me. Probably not completely, as there’s a large amount of material that;s legitimately good and fun, but I would definitely be disappointed.

That’s my feelings on it, at least.

[senlinyu]

If you're still taking prompts: Dramione, "Tabula rasa"

Warning: sad.

Tabula rasa. Those are the terms.

Get out of Azkaban, work at her insipid house-elf charity for a year, and pretend they’ve never met before.

It’s weird but anything is better than sitting in Azkaban for a second year.

It’s like a fresh start.

The concept is tantalising.

He refrains from rolling his eyes as he agrees to the terms. “I’d love to act like I’ve never seen her before.”

“The terms will be magically binding. Violate them and you will return to fill the additional year of your sentence,” the weevil-faced lawyer says.

Draco glances at his mother who sits eagerly beside him and is nodding encouragingly.

“Fine. I’m legally bound act like I don’t know her. Sounds ideal. Where do I sign?”

He doesn’t know why the clause even exists in the agreement. Three weeks on the job and he hasn’t even laid eyes on her.

The day he arrived, he’s shuffled off into a cramped office in the basement and, after they try giving him a variety of different tasks, he ends up being assigned to write thank you letters.

It’s his entire job.

Excellent penmanship is apparently the only usable skill that he possesses.

He assumes at first that it will be easy. He’ll come in late, leave early, and spend a matter of minutes charming a couple dozen notes tops.

“Dear Bootlicker, Thank you terribly much for your generous donation if 500 galleons. I’m thrilled there was literally nothing else you could conceive of to do with your money. It will assuredly be used by yours truly to improve the lives of the sentient abominations called house-elves. Sincerely, love and kisses, the Wizarding world’s favourite buck-toothed harridan, Hermione Granger.”

No. It’s not easy. Granger has elaborate requirements for all the thank you letters that she doesn’t even bother to personally write.

He has to go through the society papers and Granger’s detailed personal calendar to make references to the donor’s last meeting with her. He’s expected to ask about children and grandchildren by name, and discuss the inner-workings of the charity as well as to relate anecdotes about all the sad little elves the donor’s money saves.

Within a few weeks he’s maintaining a full-fledged correspondence between the most bizarre assortment of Wizarding folk, a centaur, two vampires, and an alleged forest troll. A correspondence that he is maintaining as Granger, whom he hasn’t laid eyes on in years.

Supposedly she looks over all his letters before signing them and sending them off, but Draco doubts it. After weeks there, he still hasn’t so much as caught sight of her bushy head.

He torn between a sense of outrage and admiration over what a slick ship she runs. He doesn’t think she even shows up in her office most days. If she does, she never slips so much as a toe past the fourth floor, certainly not to any floors Draco’s allowed on.

Granger has a matronly personal assistant the size of a mountain named Charlotte. The woman is like the female version of Crabbe and Goyle simultaneously. Draco is convinced she must be at least a quarter troll. She glares at Draco whenever “passing on messages” and makes clear to Draco that she’d gladly snap his spine if Granger ever gave her the go-ahead.

Draco accepts his “job” with his head down. He just has to endure it a year and then he’s free. Maybe once he’s not at risk of returning to Azkaban, he can expose what a fraud Granger is.

He finally sees her after two months.

She’s walking by with her assistant when he’s standing in the hallway, taking a break from his cramped office’s inadequate air flow.

Granger catches sight of him all the way down the hallway and without hesitating, bolts up to him.

“Hi, I’m so sorry. You’ve been here for over a month and I haven’t said hi.” She’s beaming at him as she takes hold of his hand and shakes enthusiastically. Her assistant comes thundering down the hall after her. “I’ve been admiring your penmanship for weeks. I’m Hermione Granger, and you must be Draco Malfoy. I’m so pleased we could have you on the team here.”

Draco stared at her blankly while she pumps his hand up and down.

Tabula rasa.

Everyone at the charity knows who he is, even though they make a show of not. There are loud comments about the kinds of people who would become Death Eaters. The receptionist pretends to be unable to recall his name or that he has a job there. Draco is obliged to go through the full sign-in process every morning as though he’s a visitor.

However, Granger has no idea who he is. It’s not an act. There is not even a flicker of recognition in her eyes as she grins up at him.

He’s imagined their fake “meeting” a dozen different ways but this iteration isn’t one that occurred to him.

“Granger,” he says as she continues wringing his hand. Charlotte is ten feet away, her footsteps shaking the hall, and her eyes are threatening a slow and painful death. “It’s been a—pleasure.”

“Miss Granger, you have a meeting with Gibbling to review charity finances in five minutes,” Charlotte says as she reaches Granger, trying to tear her away from Draco.

“I do?” Granger’s hand slips out of Draco’s and she looks chastened, as though she’s been slapped. “I didn’t remember—“

“I apologise, ma’am,” the assistant says smoothly, inserting herself between Granger and Draco. “It slipped my mind, I only just remembered he sent a note this morning. I’m sure it will only take a few minutes.”

Granger is craning her neck to look back at Draco as she’s being herded away. She side-steps her assistant and cuts back.

“It was nice meeting you, Draco. I’m having a little party at my flat this Saturday with some of my friends. Would you want to come by? It’s the least I can do after being so rude.”

“I…” Draco glances back and forth between Granger’s hopeful face and the venomous expression of Charlotte behind her, who is shaking her head warningly. “—don’t think I can make it.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

Draco watches Granger trot off with her assistant in tow feeling incredibly confused about what’s going on.

He feels like if anyone were going to tell him, they would have already done so. He’s legally bound to play along with whatever this ridiculous farce is.

His mother has to know, but her lips are apparently sealed on the matter.

“You’re out of Azkaban, darling. Focus on that and never mind anyone else.”

He wants to, but he can’t help but try to figure it out. Why doesn’t Granger remember him? It feels like he’s been personally and exclusively excised from her life and he hasn’t the foggiest idea why he was the only one singled out.

Granger clearly knows his mother. She’s an active participant post-war rebuilding and gives speeches from time to time about things like the Battle of Hogwarts.

Granger isn’t the type to fuck with her memory based on anything and everything Draco knows about her. If she were, he doesn’t know why she’d choose to forget him. And if she did choose to forget him, he doesn’t know why her weird melange of employees and friends would let her hire him.

It feels personal and he can’t bring himself to leave it alone. Is there anything else she doesn’t remember?

When he isn’t ghost-writing her correspondence, he starts going through the newspapers and her old calendars trying to pinpoint exactly when Granger may have forgotten his existence.

He thinks it happened about six months after he was imprisoned in Azkaban following the war. Granger’s exhaustively detailed calendars start immediately after that and her public appearances were sporadic and odd up until then.

He starts hanging around in hallways when he thinks he might run into her. Her assistant is always a few steps behind her, glaring at Draco as though she knows why he’s there and inventing meetings and events in order to get Granger away from him.

He’s been there four months and has barely spoken to her for more than ten minutes in the entire time.

He’s in the middle of writing a sarcastically cordial letter to Romanian vampire when his office door cracks open and Granger sneaks into his office.

He looks at her as she drops into the chair across from his desk and lets out a heavy sigh of relief.

Draco eyes the door, waiting for Charlotte to burst in like a raging erumpant.

Granger notices where his gaze is directed. “Don’t worry. I sent Lotte on an errand. We have at least fifteen minutes before she comes looking for me.”

Draco looks back to Granger. He doesn’t know what to make of her.

This version of Granger is weirdly cheerful, like all her prickly defensiveness has been smoothed away. She still looks frightful, as though she suffers a phobia of hair potion, she’s still bizarre and obsessed with things like saving house-elves and everything else in the world. But he feels like she’s an entirely different person around him.

Maybe he’d just never known her without her claws out.

Granger shifts and looks slightly uncomfortable. “She’s very protective of me. I—I lose track of things sometimes.”

Draco just nods, not really sure how anyone who keeps records of their daily activities as exhaustively as Granger does could possibly be accused to losing track of things.

She glances around his office. “Why on earth did they put you in here? This room looks like a storage closet.”

Draco refrains from telling her that it literally is a storage closet and the absolute farthest room from her office. He measured one day, just to confirm it to himself.

“I’m not picky,” he lies. “It’s more comfortable than Azkaban.”

Her mouth purses. “That’s hardly a commendation. I’ll have you moved upstairs. I’m sure we still have a few extra offices. Somewhere with a window and plants! My friend, Neville, is a genius with plants, once we’ve moved you, I can get a few.”

She pokes around in his office for a few more minutes, interrogating him about how he likes his job and how his “co-workers” are treating him. Draco lies his way through her questioning until she stands up looking at him thoughtfully.

The next day, Charlotte appears looking enraged while he’s at the front desk filling out the visitor sheet for the hundredth time.

“Miss Granger wants your office moved to the fourth floor,” she says, looking as though someone has force-fed her a lemon.

Draco’s new office is two doors down from Granger’s. He has an entire wall of windows.

Granger pops in relentlessly, bringing him plants and a knitted tea-cosy, and “Lotte” looks more and more as though she wants to throttle him.

Granger takes to sneaking into his office whenever Lotte is out running errands. Which seems to occur suspiciously often.

Draco is certain that Granger’s aware that there is something odd going on. Her eyes are sly and calculating. She knows she’s being “handled” and that it involves endless attempts by all her employees to keep her as far away from Draco as possible, which makes her obstinately seek him out all the more.

At first Draco tries to ignore her, but she is his boss. He feels obligated to talk to her whenever she shows up.

Eventually they talk about all the letters he’s writing on her behalf. She looks down at her lap and spends several seconds straightening her skirt.

“You must think it’s odd that I don’t keep up with the donors personally,” she says looking up at him.

“Not at all,” he lies. “I’m sure it’s common for charities of this size. I’m happy my handwriting can be of some use.”

“I used to—“ she says, her voice somewhat halting. “But—“ her head jerks slightly, “my—my memory can be rather—that’s why I keep so many notes in my calendars, to keep track.”

Her expression is visibly strained, her beaming effusiveness gone.

“You’re a very busy person,” he says, eyeing her carefully.

She gives a stiff little nod and her eyebrows furrow. “I think—I used to remember things better. Now, if I don’t have someone to remind me about things”—her head jerks—“I forget details.”

“It’s probably just stress.”

“Maybe,” she sounds unconvinced.

She has all the traditional symptoms of someone who’s been extensively and powerfully obliviated. Absent-mindedness. She’s chronically forgetful, Draco realises over time.

Charlotte does invent excuses to get Granger away from Draco, but many reminders are for real events that Hermione forgets she’s headed to. On several occasions Draco finds her standing alone in the hallway, trying to remember which door is her office.

She’s still smart. Still blisteringly smart, but it’s like watching a bird with its pinions clipped. It’s clear she’s intended to be airborne, but someone has hobbled her.

It’s painful to witness, and it’s made worse by the fact that she’s clearly aware of it.

The memory loss somehow seems to centre around Draco, which he cannot understand. If someone malicious were to go and wipe something from her memory, her best friend’s school rival is not the person Draco would pick.

Obliviation is self-protective. The mind will not consider the idea of tampering or let her realise her memories are incomplete. Whenever a conversation strays anywhere near their shared past, her attention abruptly, almost violently pivots to a different topic.

However, despite how obstinately her memory keeps her from suspecting any past acquaintance with Draco, she can’t seem to stay away from him. As though she can instinctively tell he’s a missing piece.

One day she tells him about a potion idea she has, and it’s almost brilliant except she’s clearly forgotten a brewing idiosyncrasy of a key ingredient. She realises she’s missed something and just comes to a rambling halt in the middle of her explanation, a drawn, embarrassed expression sweeping across her face.

“Never mind. I think—I should...maybe it will work out if I write it down—“ she looks down and her cheeks are stained scarlet.

“Sting slime needs to simmer for six hours uncovered,” he says. “Unless you want the potion to result in weightlessness.”

She stares at him for a moment and then her face breaks into a beaming smile. “Yes! Six hours of simmering. That’s when you leave it under the full moon and gather fresh asphodel.” She sighs with relief and presses a hand against her head. “That’s what I was missing. I thought—thank you, Draco. I thought—I thought maybe I’d gotten it all wrong again.”

Her exuberance causes Draco’s entire body to grow warm and a weird bubbling sensation in his stomach.

He avoids her eyes. “I haven’t brewed much since leaving prison, but everything else sounded correct. If you want to send it on to a potions journal, I can look it over if you ever write it all out.”

Her eyes are shining and she grins at him. “That would be so helpful. My friends didn’t really care much for potions class. I’m so glad I found you.”

She skips slightly as she leaves his office, which causes his entire face to twitch repeatedly as he witnesses it.

Granger spends increasing amounts of time in his office and Draco doesn’t—well, he doesn’t exactly mind.

She’s infinitely better company than dementors, he tells himself.

She incredibly interested in him, in a way that he has no idea how to handle. She wants to know what he’ll do once his contract with the charity is over, and he finds himself trying to come up with ideas to share with her that don’t don’t merely involve him indolently frittering away his time on his family’s properties.

It isn’t as though he’s not allowed to be friends with her. The terms of his contract simply require him to give no indication of any prior acquaintance with her.

They can be friends, he tells himself when she invites herself into his office to have lunch with him.

Good friends even, he reasons, when she invites him to her flat for dinner one evening.

Or more than friends...

Hermione is perched on the arm of his desk chair.

Their faces are getting slowly closer and closer until he can feel her nervous breathing. She has the most beautiful eyes. Her hair falls forward as his nose brushes against hers.

His hand ventures up until his fingertips trace along her cheek.

She smiles. Her smiles always start in her eyes and the corner of her mouth curves faintly up as she dips her head lower.

Their lips are almost touching when the door bursts open and Charlotte storms across the room.

“Miss Granger is supposed to be at a board meeting,” she says as she rushes Hermione away.

Draco has barely gotten his heart rate back down to a steady pace when Charlotte returns in a state of seething rage. She grips him by the robes and physically drags him from the building.

“You’re contagiously ill. Bed-ridden. I don’t want to see you set foot in this building for a month,” she says, glowering at him. “Stay away from her, you Death Eater bastard.”

Draco goes home sulkily. His mother is in France visiting a cousin and he has nothing to do but lie about indolently drinking.

The attempted separation goes as well as Draco expects. Charlotte may be obsessively loyal to Hermione, but she clearly didn’t think through what sending Draco home sick would result in.

Hermione shows up at Malfoy Manor through the floo after three days. Draco has to bolt through the manor and dives into bed mere seconds before she comes trotting into his bedroom, carrying a basket packed with soup and potions.

She fusses over him for several minutes while he lies and pretends to be languishing. Finally she sits down, looking endearingly awkward and starts updating him on the various going ons at the charity.

As the minutes tick by, Draco can’t help but develop a sense of unease. There’s something off about her.

Her eyes begin darting around. She speaks faster and faster. Her hand rises up and touches her throat before twitching up to her temple. Her head jerks.

It finally dawns on Draco why she doesn’t remember him.

She breaks off mid-sentence, her eyes darting around wildly.

“Draco—have I—have I—been here before?”

Draco sits up instantly and reaches for her, trying to keep his voice steady. “Hermione. Hermione, look at me. Focus on me. You were telling me about the elves that came to you yesterday. Don’t look around. Focus on the elves. Let's get you back to the office. I’m feeling better. Let’s get out of here.”

She doesn’t seem to hear him.

She glances up and catches sight of the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. A whimpering gasp escapes her and she falls backwards off her chair.

Draco lunges but she stumbles to her feet and skitters away from him.

Her head starts jerking violently.

“We didn’t! We didn’t—“

Her voice breaks off with a sob.

Her face is turning white and her eyes lock on his. Her voice drops into a ragged, pleading whisper that pulls up memories that Draco has tried to bury in depths of his mind. “Please… Malfoy... Malfoy…please—”

Her head jerks. “We didn’t! We found it—”

She starts screaming at the top of her lungs.

It’s one endless scream that vibrates and tears the air apart. Draco doesn’t know what to do. Hermione keeps screaming until her whole body starts shaking violently.

Her voice abruptly cuts off and she drops to the ground.

Draco has to leap to catch her.

He’s shaking with panic and seething with rage as he carries her downstairs and through the floo to St Mungo’s.

He nearly decks Potter when he and Weasley come bolting down the hallway into the Janus Thickey Ward.

Draco wants to murder them both. “You couldn’t have bothered to explain that the reason she doesn’t remember me is because you obliviated her entire memory of Malfoy Manor?”

They just shove him out of the way as they rush into her room and leave him waiting outside.

Potter is the first one to re-emerge, more than an hour later. He stands staring at Draco for a minute. “She’ll—she should be fine,” he says in a dull voice. “The mind-healers will just have to reseal the memories.”

Draco glares at him. He’s still shaking. He doesn’t think he’s stopped shaking the entire time. “Why didn’t anyone just tell me why she didn’t remember me? And why the fuck did you obliviate her at all? Do know what you’ve done to her mind?”

Potter’s expression turns deadly. “Do I know what I’ve done to her? Why do you think it happened, Malfoy? Did it never cross your mind that there might be long term consequences for telling your insane aunt that Hermione was Muggle-Born.”

Potter’s face starts turning white with rage. “If you want to know whose fault this is—try looking in a fucking mirror.”

Draco stares at Potter in blank horror.

“Did you think people just get over torture? Since the war, St Mungo’s has discovered there’s an entire spectrum of brain damage that the cruciatus can cause, prior to reaching the point of insanity. Your aunt didn’t torture Hermione to insanity, but just—barely. We thought she was fine. The first couple months afterward—she seemed fine. She started having neurological issues a few months after the war. When she got them checked here at St Mungo’s, they found out the cruciatus had fried parts of her brain. That’s—apparently that’s how it works.”

Potter pulls off his glasses and wipes them. He refuses to look at Draco. “The only way they could contain it was by walling off the damage with magic, by using targeted obliviation. So—that’s what we did. It was just coincidental that she forgot entirely about you. I guess, for her, you were just as much a part of it as your Aunt.”

Draco stares at Potter and doesn’t know what emotions he’s experiencing. A lot. An entire maelstrom. More emotions than he knew he had. More than he ever wanted to feel.

“Why—Why did you let her hire me?” he finally forces himself to ask.

Potter’s face hardens. “That—was your mom’s meddling. Your release was conditional on your ability to secure a job. To the surprise of no one, nobody wanted to hire you.” He scoffs and looks down, his voice becomes mocking. “She’ll do anything to protect her son. She’d heard Hermione didn’t remember you, so she went to her with a whole sob story about her poor son who’d been forced to take the Dark Mark before he was an adult and now he was rotting in Azkaban because no one would give him a chance.”

Potter stares bitterly at him. “Hermione can never say no to a lost cause.” He gives an empty laugh. “We couldn’t explain to her why she shouldn’t without endangering her. We thought if you and your mother were both magically gagged, and Hermione was kept away from you, that it would be doable. But of course she noticed how lonely you were, and decided to take you under her wing.”

Potter exhales slowly and swallows. “Stay away from her, Malfoy.” His voice wobbles slightly. “The healers say you and your house are her main triggers. If you hang around her, she will inevitably relapse again. Every time they have to re-obliviate her it’s going to carve away a little more of her mind and memories. If there’s even a shred of anything decent about you, stay away from her.”

Draco manages to nod once before turning and walking unsteadily away.

When he’s home, he floo-calls his mother and yells at her until his throat gives out.

He packs a bag and gets a cheap room in Diagon Alley. It smells and there’s noise from the bar below, but it’s not screaming. There are no chandeliers.

He returns to “work” after a month and is informed that his office has been moved back into the basement. He doesn’t even blink at the news.

He resumes corresponding with Hermione’s growing donor list.

He doesn’t see her again.

Charlotte no longer bothers with passing on messages personally in order to communicate her utter loathing of him. She doesn’t ever leave Hermione’s side.

Draco only has to work at the charity for two more months. He puts up a calendar and X’s off each day.

He’s walking back from his lunch break two weeks later when he catches sight of Hermione’s bushy hair all the way down the hall. He ducks quickly into a nearby closet and waits until he’s certain she’s gone.

He nearly crashes into her as he steps back out.

Her eyes are bright and she’s slightly breathless from running. Charlotte is thundering down the hall after her.

Hermione beams up at him as she sticks out her hand. “Hi! Hi, I’m so so sorry. You’ve been here for months and I haven’t even said hello. I’m Hermione Granger, and you must be Draco Malfoy. I’m so pleased we could have you on the team here.”

Draco stares down at her.

There is not even a flicker of recognition in her eyes as she smiles up at him.

His throat’s so tight it’s as though he’s being strangled to death as he stands looking down at her.

A second year in Azkaban would have been infinitely less painful than this.

He sneers down at the proffered hand. “If you don’t mind, I just washed my hands. I don’t want filth like you sliming them up.”