#but it's the first time in a long time that anduin's felt like he has a home! a real home! probably since his dad died honestly

[corvusalbus93]

Recovery & Mana Strudel

After escaping the Dark Heart and being resurrected by Anduin, Khadgar wakes up in Dornogal two days later. There he’s properly reunited with his gf/so, who thought him dead for weeks, and runs into the first issues with being partially paralyzed.

The last thing he remembered was the rushing wind and a warm embrace. Followed by darkness. No dreams either, not from what he could tell, just a deep sleep, born from utter exhaustion. Then he heard the crackling of a small fire, far in the distance, yet something told him it was very near. He could smell it, almost taste it, but his mouth felt dry. Come to think of it; he really was thirsty.

Khadgar shifted, his senses returning to him as he slowly woke, his mind finally putting together that he was in bed. He was no longer wearing his heavy robe and coat, but was dressed in something far lighter, while a warm blanket was covering him up to his neck.

Where was he? His first instinct was Dalaran, but memories of what had happened to his city made him quickly dismiss that possibility. Sorrow filled his heart, nonetheless. How many survivors had reached Khaz Algar safely? How many had been killed or abducted? No, questions for later, first things first. Alleria and Narami had mentioned a place...

Suddenly he felt wide awake. Narami.

His eyes flew open, but he immediately squinted again, as even the light of the fire proved too much after however long he’d slept. The accompanying groan, meanwhile, did not go unnoticed.

“Archmage?”

The youthful voice was familiar, the name was on the tip of his tongue, but somehow Khadgar couldn’t say who it was. Turning his head, while still keeping it on the pillow, he spotted someone sitting by the fireplace. It was a vulpera with white and dark grey fur, covered in black stripes like a tiger, who he didn’t recognize. Given the robes and the tome he was reading, the vulpera appeared to be a fellow mage.

“You’re awake!” the stranger exclaimed, jumping off his stone chair and rushing to Khadgar’s side. “How are you feeling? Should I get someone?”

“I’m fine, I just need a moment,” he assured the young vulpera, as he attempted to sit up. His legs refused to respond, making the task somewhat awkward. “Where am I exactly?” He recognized the architecture as distinctly dwarven, but that was about all he could tell.

The vulpera’s ears twitched. “Oh, right. You we asleep when we arrived. Welcome to Dornogal, capital of Khaz Algar and home to the earthen dwarves.”

Earthen dwarves? How fascinating. But Khadgar had picked up on something else and his mind finally put the pieces together. “Wait. ‘We’? Thyellagos?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve chosen your visage. It suits you.”

The blue drake smiled, incidentally presenting his small, sharp teeth. “Thank you, Archmage. Guess there’s a lot to catch you up on. Maybe I should get Narami or Alleria.”

“Are they alright?”

“Everyone’s fine. They’re just all worried about you; so many came by to visit. I didn’t know half of them. And Narami has actually been sleeping here the past two nights,” Thyellagos explained, pointing at an armchair next to the Archmage’s bed. Only now did Khadgar notice the more than reasonable amount of pillows and a blanket draped over the backrest. Given how tall night elves were, this had to have been uncomfortable.

“But scolds me for not taking better care of myself,” Khadgar mused with a smile, feeling that familiar warmth in his chest. “You know where she is?”

“She went to get some dinner a while ago.”

“Then don’t trouble yourself or her; I’m sure she’ll be back soon enough.” As much as he longed to see her, he could wait a little longer. But, as if it had heard the mention of food, his own empty stomach suddenly rumbled. “I guess it’s been some time, since I’ve eaten anything myself.”

“I could conjure something,” Thyellagos suggested excitedly, eager to help in some fashion. “I’ve been practising, so Narami and I could travel lighter.”

“Wonderful. Would you mind if I made a request?”

...

A couple of minutes later Thyellagos was sitting with him on the bed, each with a plate in hand and enjoying the freshly conjured mana strudel. It was quite good, clearly not the first time the young drake had done this. The fresh water also had pleasant taste to it, quenching the thirst, which had plagued Khadgar since waking. This didn’t give them a chance to speak, despite the growing number of questions he had. There was so much he had missed.

Eventually, the Archmage’s thoughts were interrupted, when someone opened the door, slowly and with an effort to do so quietly. Instinctively, as someone, who had survived his fair number of assassination attempts and just barely escaped death yet again, Khadgar tensed, if only for a moment. Glancing over to the drake, he saw Thyellagos’ sniff the air, his vulperan nose twitching as he did, only to remain relax and return his attention back to the strudel. His young friend knew who was coming in.

The door swung open with hardly a sound, despite being quite heavy looking. Khadgar’s heart beat a little faster as he looked upon the one person he’d wanted to see most.

“Narami.”

She stood in the doorway, light coming in from behind, obscuring her face. “You’ve been trapped within the Dark Heart for weeks, slept for two days straight and the first thing you do once awake is have a mana strudel?” It was no accusation; her tone was teasing, almost playful.

Thyellagos apparently didn’t quite pick up on any of this, however, as he lowered his ears. “Are sweets bad for humans, while they’re recovering?”

“My dear, you should not underestimate the restorative properties of a well-conjured mana strudel,” Khadgar reminded the night elf cheerfully.

Narami stepped in, the light of the fire finally illuminating her face, and he glimpsed a tear in her misty looking eyes. “I would never,” she said softly.

Presumably, taking this as his cue, Thyellagos decided to give them some privacy. He jumped off the bed, grabbed his tome and headed straight for the door. Narami mouthed a silent “thank you” as he passed her, the blue drake nodding in response and waved at Khadgar before he closed the door behind him.

For a moment Narami just stood there, as they looked at each other. She must have thought him dead for however many weeks he’d been trapped. Had she mourned him? Very likely and Khadgar felt a pang of guilt for being the cause of that pain. That he was suddenly back was probably a bit of a shock in its own right.

After what felt like an eternity, Narami approached the bed, giving him just enough time to set his plate aside. “I missed you,” she whispered as she sat down beside him and reached out to frame his face with one of her hands, thumb gently brushing across his cheek. “I thought I’d never...” She couldn’t quite bring herself to finish that sentence.

He leaned into her touch, and grasped her hand in turn, keeping it in place. “It’s good to be back. I’m sorry for what you had to go through, my love.”

“I’ll be fine. I still worry for you, though. How are you feeling?”

“Still tired, a little weak. No pain, if that’s any consolation.”

She smiled. “It’s one worry less. Your legs?”

Khadgar let go of her hand to run his fingers over a thigh, and Narami too lowered her hand as they both looked at his leg. “I can feel them. I can feel the clothes and the weight of the blanket, but they don’t react, when I try to move them.” He remembered her kneeling beside him, using the skills she’d learned in the temples of Pandaria. “What did you sense?”

“When I tended to you at the priory, guided the flow of your chi... it is difficult to describe, but your chi doesn’t flow properly through your legs.” She traced a path with her finger. “It’s not gone, yet what should have been a river, felt more akin to a rill. The healers said you are physically fine, but without knowing what happened to you, they could not give a proper diagnosis or prognosis.” Her golden eyes met his, and Khadgar got the sense she had as many questions as he had for her. One was the obvious first. “How did you survive?”

He shifted, shuddering to remember his prison, the time spent being formless, trying not to lose himself; another experience he didn’t care to repeat. “The Dark Heart was created not to destroy, but to capture and harness all manner of power. When I felt what it was doing to me, and with no way out, I transmuted myself into pure arcane energy. Allowed it to capture me. Though it seems my transformation without the aid of Atiesh, and my time spent in the Dark Heart, was something my body couldn’t quite handle,” he added, patting his leg. “Admittedly, I didn’t have much of a plan, but I was sure Alleria would continue her pursuit of Xal’atath and trusted she would eventually be able free me.”

“With her powers she was undoubtedly the best suited for such a task. Quite the gamble, nonetheless.”

“Knowing you, I doubt you sat this one out.” Since he’d gotten to know her on Draenor, she’d never been one to ignore a call to action; something he loved about her, yet also made him worry at times.

He watched her reach out, until her hand rested on his chest, right on his heart. “You were dead. At least I thought you were. I mourned you. There was no funeral, but I had to say goodbye.”

“Narami...”

“Only after, did I join Alleria’s hunt,” she continued, before biting her lower lip. Her hand travelled up to his face, her touch light, but affectionate. It almost seemed, as if she was making sure he was really here. “In the temples on the Peak of Serenity, they taught us to seek spiritual balance, and it took everything not to throw it all aside. Especially, once we reached Azj-kahet. It would have been worse, if Thyellagos hadn’t been there with me the entire time.” Finally, Narami wrapped her arms around his neck, and leaned her forehead against his. “You are lucky the people who love you are very persistent.”

Without hesitation, Khadgar embraced her in turn. “I consider myself very fortunate indeed.” It felt so good to have her in his arms again, to be in hers. He was alive, he was back and he was grateful. And as much as it comforted him, he dearly hoped it gave her just as much solace. For a while he allowed himself to simply take in the moment, the warmth that spread through his chest, and share it with her.

After a while her embrace tightened, and Khadgar could feel her grasping his shirt. “I shouldn’t have left you. Remember what I made you promise after the vault?”

Khadgar lifted a finger, though she couldn’t see it, as it was behind her back. “Ah; that was about never rushing into a fight with another Incarnate without getting you first. So, technically...”

Narami leaned back, bringing her hands to rest on his shoulders. “You know what I mean.” This time she really was scolding him, despite her tone remaining gentle. Perhaps it was too early to get back to their usual banter just yet, despite her earlier jest. This wound was still too fresh.

The pang of guilt struck him once more. She’d refused to take his portal and leave Dalaran without him, until his assurance to be right behind her with Alleria. Gently, he stroked her back, his hand slowly running across smooth fabric. “Yes, I know. I also remember we talk about this happening. An adventure one of us wouldn’t come back from. The good chance one of us would outlive the other.” Without Anduin, he certainly would have died this time, the thought sending a cold shiver down his own spine.

“That doesn’t mean I won’t do everything within my power to prevent it. You wanted to look for Alleria and escape. Why confront Xal’atath?”

“I didn’t think I could defeat her, if that’s you believe. Still, I was hoping I could at least disrupt her. Spoil her plans for the moment. I had to try something. But the Dark Heart simply consumed my spell. All I could do was to help Alleria escape, with what little strength I had left.” He grasped her hands, bringing one up to his lips for a kiss. “Think you can forgive this fool one more time?”

“I’ve watched you do a lot of foolish things since Draenor. Not like I’m one talk, considering everything I’ve done, sometimes at your request,” she admitted, her gaze softening again with each word, and leaned closer. “You are forgiven.”

“Ah, you are too kind.”

“But please be more careful. Losing you, going through that pain; it’s not an experience I wish to relive any time soon.” Unexpectedly, a grin graced her lips. “Still, I think I would very much enjoy punching that smug smile off Xal’atath’s face, if I get the chance.”

Khadgar chuckled. “I’d very much like to see that.”

And yet deep down the thought troubled him. Dark Heart or not, Xal’atath was one of the most dangerous enemies they’d ever faced, but confronting her again was inevitable. Khadgar could only hope they would have the tools and allies necessary, when the time came.

No, he shouldn’t entertain these thoughts right now, not when they were finally reunited.His eyes darted to her lips, the warmth now spreading to his face, and it seemed the same idea was crossing her mind in that moment. He knew that look; it never failed to make him blush, to make him feel loved.

As she closed the gap between them, her fingers ran though his hair, a sensation Khadgar had missed dearly. But not as much as her supple lips against his, a tender touch at first, until he leaned in and returned the kiss. Ah, there was that fire he remembered and he felt it too; something about the first kiss after a brush with death. Khadgar arms went around Narami’s waist, needing her closer.

Still, his legs were lying straight on the mattress, while his upper body was angled towards her, which was starting to be a little uncomfortable. And so he tried to move, without interrupting the kiss, only for his legs to not respond, and his hip to sway uselessly. He would either need his arms or more momentum. Curse this.

For most of his life he’d believed, internalized, his aged appearance would quash any chance of finding love. He’d been so happy to have been proven wrong by her, to get to experience what he once feared he’d always be denied. Only for his body to fail him now. It frustrated him how even the simple task of sharing a kiss with the woman he loved was giving him so much trouble. How would he be navigating everything else in the future? A small part of Khadgar didn’t want her to see him like this, not until he’d figured this out.

“Something wrong?”

Oh. Apparently he’d been too distracted and noticing, she’d broken the kiss to study him with a worried expression. His first instinct was to play it off like everything was fine, but Narami knew him too well. She would see right it through it. And so he gestured to his legs, demonstrating another failed attempt at moving into the desired position on his side. “I’m sorry. You already settled for an old man and now...”

“Don’t,” she cut him off, cupping his face and pressing her thumb against his lips. “Don’t think that for a moment. I love you. Nothing about that has or will change. I’ll be there for you.”

Khadgar hadn’t truly doubted, nonetheless, her words filled him with relief and made his heart flutter. “I love you too.” And he meant it with every fibre of his being.

Her beautiful smile returned, her eyes glowed a little brighter and she shifted a bit more to better accommodate him. To his surprise she went on to hook her leg around his waist and pulled him closer. Khadgar couldn’t help but chuckle, when he finally found himself lying on his side and in a snug embrace. This time as they kissed, there were no distractions.

[katieskarlette]

Reactions to spoilery cutscenes

Curiosity got the better of me, and I watched all the cutscenes that WoWhead posted from 11.0.

Spoilers and rambling below.

[Disclaimer: These are just my poorly-organized thoughts after watching cutscenes online without much context. Take them with a grain of salt.]

First, the prematurely-gray elephant in the room: Khadgar. I really enjoyed him as a character and I will miss him. Was it a fitting sendoff for such a huge lore figure? Not in my opinion. It was basically copying Rhonin's death (although at least this was in game and not in a novel). And Atiesh got broken, too. As a mage main, that made me cringe, and the destruction of my home city didn't feel good, either. The visual effects of it blowing up in a void explosion were impressive, at least.

Moving on... From what I've seen, I like what they're doing with Moira and her son, and their dynamic with Magni. Talk about a redemption arc, going from the Worst Father of the Year to doting grand'da. Aww. I'm not sorry to see the diamond shell go away. It was stingy of Azeroth not to give him any armor to keep, though. Harumph.

As for the new short folk...I love their blue gryphons, but otherwise they're not my cup o' tea, aesthetically, and I feel like the mechanical motif should stay with the gnomes and mechagnomes. Also, dwarves without Scottish accents seem so wrong. I know that's a ridiculous thing to say because why the hell did that get to be a thing anyway, but it's what we're used to. (Incidentally, exposure to WoW dwarves helped me do a killer Scottish accent when I want to. My best friend does a great Irish accent, so sometimes we'll greet each other in our respective fake accents. Maybe you have to be there, but it amuses us.)

ANYWAY...

Warcraft has always had a vaguely cartoony style. In the last several years the quality of the character models has improved noticeably. I feel like Blizzard is struggling to find a happy medium wherein it still has that signature Warcraft vibe while taking advantage of the improved graphics. Which is a long winded way to say that I find Anduin's detailed eyelashes and the M.C. Escheresque intricacies of Alleria's hair distracting. Anduin's facial structure, stubble, and the under layer of his hair look somewhat realistic, but the top layer of his hair and his vividly blue eyes look like they're from a different universe.

Speaking of Alleria, I don't understand the need to completely redesign her character. Funky winged eyeliner and an asymmetric cape, a totally different color palette, her hair all over the place...it's like she's a completely different character. Sure, a real person can have a major makeover and that's totally fine, but when you're dealing with a fictional character who has a distinct "look" to them, you should have a very, very good reason to throw away the familiarity/recognition you've already established. I felt a little bit that way when Jaina got her makeover for BFA, but since she's by far the most prominent human woman in the franchise it was easier to adjust. We have how many rail-thin high/blood/void elven women now? A lot. They could have done some cool, subtle things with slowly changing her Legion-era outfit to be more void-themed over time, but I suppose that would require extra modeling work that would deprive the playerbase of a raid tier...

I have no idea who Aelric Leid is, but I'd know Jim Pirri's voice anywhere. I'm glad he's still around the franchise after Nathanos was sent off to live happily ever after in a quiet corner of Ardenweald with his true love after she rescued him from the maw and you can pry that headcanon from my cold, not-undead hands killed off.

So we have a Wrynn not climbing about the fleeing ship with his allies but instead jumping down to fight the thing trying to destroy said ship, even knowing it will probably lead to his death. GEE, WHERE HAVE I SEEN THAT BEFORE?! Okay, I have to admit that did give me some feels. There's a fine line between poignant, thematically significant callbacks and gratuitously echoing past imagery while screaming, "Look! It's the thing! You remember the thing, right? Here it is again! Isn't that cool?" I'm looking at you, tons of Arthas parallels they pushed on Anduin in BFA and Shadowlands. Ahem. So yeah, I see what you did there, Blizzard, and I don't hate it. Let me conjure you a mana cookie.

Ansurek looked SO much cooler before her void power-up. She looks creepy af with all those red eyes and the stuff on her head, yet she's got a normal human mouth and a cutesy nose. WTF? Come on, let the creepy spider queen be monstrous! Trust me, people will still want to fuck her. Source: I've been on the internet.

"With our renewed strength, our kingdom shall be reborn." Zzzzzzz... Huh? Wha'? Oh. I'm sorry, I could have sworn I've heard this schtick about 874 times already.

Is Alleria really stupid enough to think she can kill (the equivalent of?) an Old God with an arrow? There's no way a shapeshifting being of the void could possibly put up an illusion or teleport away at the last second! /facepalm (Although soon after she was able to gut-punch Xal'atath to make her back up, so maybe it wasn't such a dumb strategy... I dunno. I'm just judging a bunch of short cutscenes out of context.)

A Windrunner sister gripping her bow so tightly we hear the leather squeak. Never seen that before, either.

I do like Xal'atath so far. She's got the sultry voice of Azshara, the (over)confidence of Lich King Arthas, and the creepy wrongness of her Old God pals. Voice aside, she's not as sexualized as a lot of her predecessors in the franchise, which is a relief. (I love Azshara to bits but she must have used massive amounts of double-sided tape and/or powerful magic to keep her boobs in that dress back in her pre-naga days.)

So yeah. I watched the in-game cinematics. There was some good, some bad, and some stuff I like to clown on but wasn't actually that awful. I can't say that it made me reconsider my decision not to play the expansion, but I'm glad I know a little bit more about what's going on.

Now, since they so rudely destroyed Dalaran, I'll have to picture my mage curling up in the library in Stormwind Keep, instead. Because that's what I imagine she does when I'm not playing the game. ;)

[jthorsten]

I read the new World of Warcraft short story prequel to War Within: Voices Within, The Calling.

I loved it, but I hate it. This is my opinion on my first read through.

(Spoiler Free below!) Although there’s nothing really to spoil.

I loved it because ANDUIN baby!!! I missed your dumbass! Now go take a fucking shower you ditch sleeper.

I hated it for… multiple reasons. One was the setting/location and the complete and utter LACK of certain characters. Not even a MENTION. Like… we’re HERE… and… seriously nothing? Does even thinking about this other character make him worry he’s gonna fall into an unconscious murder spree?

Second. The ANGST.

Don’t get me wrong, this girly loves her some angst in the right portions. But this was almost 100% Angst and Whump.

He feeds a fox. It’s the only non angsty thing in the whole damn thing.

The kid genuinely has PTSD and other trauma from his jaunt in the Shadowlands. We all do in a sense since we were stuck in the audience watching and unable to do shit about it (lol we were all Jaina for most of shadowlands). So he’s allowed to be fucked up a bit.

But… this?

I’m sorry, Anduin has a brain in his head. I know he’s still sorting his feelings of exhilaration and joy that he felt while under domination, but the kid also KNOWS HE WAS A PUPPET.

Not sure if you loved the hell out of attacking your friends? Okay, start swinging at Thrall right now. Can you do it? Do you feel excited?

Can you even hit him? Could you hit Jaina? Probably not. She’d just frown and blink around him until he got dizzy and gives up.

Also not really feeling the long drawn out mope. Anduin did not need to wander around for three years trying to find himself and forget to do basic shit like bathe. Sorry.

Also, how does someone like Anduin the book nerd for most of his life not know how to tie knots or set snares? …Did…did they forget who his father was? The man who likes to hunt when he could? For all the two of them were very different, Anduin sure as shit knew how to do SOME of that stuff already.

The OCs were forgettable, which I think was the point. Also… why so many things catching on fire?

My rant is finished. I will likely go back and read it again a few times before I settle on a permanent opinion.

I do recommend reading it. It at least gives some context on what he’s been doing for the +3 years he’s been MIA. It’s also very very short. Like… less than an hour. Less than thirty minutes if you read like a maniac like I do.

[scourge-lover]

A lot of questions ik, but these are for Sapphire x Anduin and or Sapphire x Wrathion >:33

If they get married, who proposes?

What kind of nicknames do they call each other?

What’s their height difference? Age difference?

Did they have an official first date? If so, what was it like?

Did any of their friends or family want them to get together?

Who felt romantic feelings first?

Did either of them try to resist their feelings?

@wolf-of-stormwind

1. Sapphire proposes to Anduin. Wrathion proposes to Sapphire!

2. Sapphire calls Anduin my sunrise because he's as beautiful as a sunrise. Anduin calls her my angel because he thought he was dead the first time he met her. Wrathion calls Sapphire my dear because....DEER. Sapphire calls Wrathion my little darkness because he's a black dragon. Anduin calls him a pain in the ass. Wrathion calls Anduin my prince.

3. Sapphire is much shorter than both Anduin and Wrathion both. I've seen that Anduin is like 6 feet as adult. As an adult she's like at most 5' 4" She's also younger than Anduin. He's like 15 in War Crimes and she's 14.

4. I've already got a draft for a first date for Anduin and Sapphire! They have a picnic by the lake near Stormwind Keep. Sapphire falls into the lake and panics because of her fear of water. Anduin has to save her.

5. BOLVAR. Bolvar orchestrates them meeting and constantly manipulates events into keeping them close together. A certain black dragon wasn't a part of the plan but luckily it works out just fine. Marwyn loves the idea of Sapphire dating a prince she deserves nice things.

Arthas likes to think he's different than any stupid mortal but he falls for typical Dad behavior and HATES Anduin and Wrathion ("what do you mean Sapphire is dating TWO princes????" - Arthas)

6. Anduin and Wrathion honestly fell for each other *and* Sapphire first.

7. Sapphire's confused on her feelings for a long time because she's afraid to get close and admit any feelings. She thinks it'll never work because she's a *literal* monster. Anduin being a whole ass prince complicates things. She's a MENETHIL. Honestly at least Wrathion is easier to consider because he's a dragon and KNOWS Sapphire's identity.

[first-and-last-neocount]

@straysinfiltrator thanks for the tag Kaley! :D

10 blorbos/fandoms/tags in no particular order other than that Gerald gets first place billing as always:

Gerald Tarrant - the Coldfire Trilogy

Damien Vryce - the Coldfire Trilogy

Anomander Rake - the Malazan Book of the Fallen

Jake Chambers - the Dark Tower

Anders - Dragon Age 2

Raistlin Majere - DragonLance

Andry - the Dragon Prince trilogy by Melanie Rawn

Vanyel Ashkevron - Heralds of Valdemar

Lestat - the Vampire Chronicles

Anduin Wrynn - World of Warcraft

11th place honourable mention - Astarion Ancunin from Baldur's Gate 3, I haven't gotten to play the game yet myself and he's too new to quite make my Greatest Hits list yet but I can tell I'm going to be extremely unwell about him for a long time to come so he gets a shout-out anyway. XD

I was trying to limit myself to one blorbo per fandom but Gerald and Damien both really deserve to be on this list so I allowed myself that one, lol. Surface-level trends are that sorcerers, healers, and blonds are all heavily represented on this list - bonus points to Anders and Anduin for being all three at the same time - but I would say the real themes here are survival through hostile circumstances, healing and moving past severe trauma, and self-made identity. Most of these characters are in a complicated place on the scale of good vs evil, antiheroes or good people with terrible deeds to their names, but they are all characters who have rejected the world's demands and chosen to become their own people.*

*very little of Anduin's development post-legion is canon to me and the attempts of the writers to force him into the Varian 2.0 mold will not be taken into consideration in the construction of this list

Like Kaley's list there is also definitely a common theme in appearance here. Most of these are very powerful men who prioritize their intellect over their physical strength, and several of them are directly stated to be quite lightly built, along with being notably beautiful or even effeminate in their looks. As a young person who hadn't quite found their own identity yet, I felt a strong kinship with these characters, and now that I've come to know myself better and grown into my identity as a transmasc that sense of kinship has shifted a little in understanding but only gotten stronger in a lot of ways.

I see Kaley already tagged Potato, so I'll tag @notwithstandingclause (no pressure of course!) and anyone else who wants to join in the fun. :D

[bisexualbumblebee-writes]

To Love a Ranger Chapter 9- Aragorn x OC

Aragorn x Issa

Description: After docking at the forest edge of the Anduin the Fellowship is ambushed by a legion of Uruk-hai and Orcs, ending in another devastating loss.

Word Count: 2.8k

“Hannon le (Thank you),” Issa muttered politely as a Lorien guard finished clasping a green cape around her with an Elven brooch. The guard merely bowed to her before stepping away as Lady Galadriel began going down the line of the Fellowship, giving a gift to each of them. 

Boromir was given a new sword, Merry and Pippin received appropriately sized swords as well. Legolas was given the Galadhrim bow and for Sam, Elven rope. Next was Gimli, who was given three strands of Galadriel’s hair. Then came Frodo; he got the Phial of Galadriel, and Aragorn received a sheath for his sword, Andúril (his sword). Finally, she arrived in front of Issa with a small smile. 

“And for you, Issa Goodwin, I present to you these two gifts,” she held up a sheathed sword, which Issa gingerly took. “This is Ringil, a sword forged for Fingolfin, the first High King of the Noldor. It served him well in life, it should serve you well now.” The girl couldn’t help but gape at her, then she carefully unsheathed the sword from its leather holder. She stared at it in wonder as it glittered like ice under the still rising sun, then looked at Galadriel again. 

“M…My Lady, this is a most generous gift. I cannot thank you enough,” she attempted not to stutter, but she just couldn’t help herself. In her hands was the sword of a high King of old. She almost felt unworthy to even look at it. Nevertheless she strapped it to herself then faced Galadriel with a wide and grateful smile. 

“For your second gift, I offer you this,” the Lady of Elves continued, gesturing to an Elf guard, who stepped forward holding a silver box. Galadriel opened it and retrieved something from it. Upon her holding it out, Issa realized that it was an intricately carved silver whistle at the end of a dainty but long silver chain. She stared at it curiously, then looked at the Elf. 

“Forgive me if I sound impolite or ungrateful, but a whistle, ma’am?” She questioned, not even attempting to hide her confusion. Galadriel smiled once more, this time a more patient smile as she nodded. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know what I’d need it for,” Issa added, sounding quite embarrassed about it. 

“All in due time, dear Issa,” the Elf responded simply. “You will know the right time to use it.” The girl was still confused, but she knew that was possibly the only answer she would get from them, so she just nodded. 

“Thank you,” she muttered earnestly, bowing her head a bit. 

“Use it wisely, and you will find that it may be more useful than you think,” Galadriel concluded. Her vagueness only served to puzzle Issa further, but she said nothing and allowed the guards to lead them down to the boats that they would ride down the Anduin river, where they would ultimately leave Lothlórien. 

They spent the day traveling the river southward in the three Elven boats Celeborn and Galadriel had kindly given them. Once it began to grow dark the Fellowship decided to dock on the bank and set up camp for the evening. After helping set up the campfire and even aiding in cooking dinner, Issa stood, ready to stretch her legs. 

That’s when she noticed Boromir hiding behind a rock watching the river. As she made her way over to him she followed his gaze to a log that floated down the river. Just faintly she could see a hand grasp it and pull itself onto it. Whatever it was, it definitely seemed like it was trying to remain hidden from their sight. 

“It is Gollum,” she heard from behind both her and Boromir, making them both turn to face him. “He has tracked us since Moria.” Issa wasn’t truly surprised to hear that. She knew that they were being followed, she supposed it was like a sixth sense after growing up around Elves. She just hadn’t realized that it was him that was doing it. 

“I would have thought we would lose him on the river,” she muttered as she watched the log run into a rock on the other side of the river before stopping. She noticed Aragorn shake his head as he moved to stand beside her. 

“He’s too clever a waterman.”

“And if he alerts the enemy to our whereabouts, it will make the crossing even more dangerous,” Boromir muttered before facing Aragorn. “Minas Tirith is the safer road. You know that. From there we can regroup. Strike out for Mordor from a place of strength.” 

“There is no strength in Gondor that can avail us,” Aragorn responded simply. 

“You were quick enough to trust the Elves,” the Man retorted defensively, growing desperate in his words when Aragorn just listened impatiently rather than responding. “Have you so little faith in your own people? Yes, there is weakness. There is frailty. But there is courage also, and honor to be found in Men. But you will not see that.” 

Once again the Man did not answer. He turned away from Boromir, but stopped when Boromir grabbed his tunic, turning him to face him. Issa was quick to grab his wrist and force him to unhand the tunic without thinking. She wasn’t overly fond of people touching her fiancé in such a way. 

“You are afraid,” Boromir exclaimed quietly, paying no mind to the girl’s actions. “All your life, you have hidden in the shadows. Scared of who you are, of what you are!” It seemed that Aragorn wasn’t going to answer her again as he readjusted his tunic and turned away. He quickly turned back to Boromir though. 

“I will not lead the Ring within a hundred leagues of your city,” was all he said before turning away once again. 

“Aragorn,” Issa sighed, attempting to grab his arm to stop him from walking away, though to no avail. He merely shook her hand off and proceeded to take a seat beside Legolas, who was keeping watch on the forest behind him. She then looked at Boromir, who merely scoffed at Aragorn before walking away from her to sit beside the river bank where the boats were. 

While she agreed that taking the Ring to Minas Tirith was not the best idea, the way that Aragorn and Boromir were going about it was terrible at best (and disastrous at worst). Just like Galadriel had said the night they entered Lothlórien, their quest stood upon the edge of a knife. If they strayed even a little and it will fail, to the ruin of all. They were not going to get far if Aragorn and Boromir continued to disagree on such trivial matters like these. There needed to be a compromise or else the Fellowship would fall to ruin. 

The very next morning they were back in the water continuing south. Issa could practically feel Boromir’s scathing look on Aragorn as he paddled his boat even though she wasn’t even in the same boat as either of them. Instead she was in the boat with Legolas and Gimli, which sat in between Boromir’s boat (which contained Merry and Pippin) and Aragorn’s boat (which held Sam and Frodo). The Elf and Dwarf had refused to let her aid in paddling the boat so she’d been biding her time by silently checking on everyone. Occasionally she would lean over to one side of her boat and flick water at the Hobbits to get a laugh out of them (their laughs always brought a smile to her face). 

However, there was no one she checked on more than Aragorn. There were a few occasions where he met her gaze, and they would always share a smile before turning away, but Issa noticed that Aragorn refused to even look in Boromir’s direction. Issa thought they were both acting a bit childish, but she had a feeling that pointing it out would only make things worse. 

Eventually she grew sleepy. Not doing anything for a certain amount of time did that to her. After checking that the world wouldn’t explode if she rested her eyes for a few minutes, she made herself comfortable by curling up to the side of the boat with her head resting on top of the edge and her eyes fell closed. Unfortunately she was quickly woken up when she heard Aragorn call Frodo’s name softly. Her eyes fluttered open, and she gasped in amazement at the sight before her. 

Two enormous statues towered above them like three hundred foot pinnacles on either side of the river. They had been gorgeously carved into images of the Gondorian Kings of old, each holding a hand outstretched in a ‘stop’ stance while the other held a sword as a sign that they were there to protect Gondor against enemies. They stood tall, powerful and mighty, much to the awe of the Fellowship. 

“The Argonath…” Aragorn trailed off softly, and after one look at him Issa could tell that he was moved by the stone sentinels. “Long have I desired to look upon the Kings of old... my kin.” 

The Fellowship remained silent in amazement as the current moved them through the narrow gap at the statues’ feet. Only a mile down the river they ended up in a large lake right before a huge waterfall that finally ended the river. They quickly docked their boats and climbed out, ready to settle for the night. 

“We cross the lake at nightfall, hide the boats and continue on foot…we approach Mordor from the North,” Aragorn instructed, eyes grazing over each member of the Fellowship. 

“Oh yes,” Gimli grumbled gloomily. “Just a simple matter of finding our way through Emyn Muil, an impassable labyrinth of razor sharp rocks. And after that it gets even better… a festering, stinking marshland as far as the eye can see.” Issa rolled her eyes at him. 

“That is our road. I suggest you take some rest and recover your strength, Master Dwarf,” she responded for Aragorn. The Dwarf looked indignant at her words. 

“Recover my…” he repeated in offense before grumbling under his breath. Issa tried to suppress a smile at how easy it was to rile the Dwarf up, then watched as Legolas faced Aragorn with urgency. 

“We should leave now,” he muttered quietly. 

“No. Orcs patrol the Eastern shore,” the Man responded in the same tone. “We must wait for the cover of darkness.” 

“It’s not the Eastern shore that worries me,” he spoke, eyes glancing over the Parth Galen forest that stood just a few feet away from the shores. “A shadow and a threat has been growing in my mind. Something draws near, I can feel it.” His words worried her, and the knowing look that Aragorn offered in return didn’t help in the slightest. She watched as Merry walked over and dumped a small pile of kindling at Gimli’s feet before looking around. 

“Where’s Frodo?” His question caused a chain reaction in everyone. Within seconds everyone was up and looking around for the Ring Bearer. Issa’s eyes fell on Boromir’s shield, and she came to the quick realization that Boromir was missing as well.

“Aragorn…” she trailed off slowly.

“I will go look for him,” Aragorn said, taking her hand in his. “You stay here with the others.” Issa wanted to protest, wishing to help him find Frodo, but ultimately decided against it and instead nodded. She watched as the Ranger disappeared into the woods, an uneasy feeling sinking into her stomach. She had a feeling Legolas noticed because he began walking over to her but suddenly paused, which confused her.

“Legolas?” She called worriedly. The Elf had no time to say anything before a terrifying sounding war cry broke through the trees. Without warning, a swarm of Uruk-hai and Orcs surrounded them. In an instant the Fellowship was up yet again. It was an ambush!

“Get to the woods,” Legolas instructed urgently. 

Issa ushered Sam, Merry and Pippin into the woods. Sam immediately ran off to find Frodo, ignoring the girl’s calls for him to come back. She knew it was all for naught, however, so she instead focused on the rest of the Hobbits. Unfortunately that didn’t last long as Merry and Pippin ran off after him, leaving her alone. Unfortunately she couldn’t even find time to run after them as she suddenly became surrounded by a small group of Uruks, ready to kill her. She pulled out Ringil, ready to fight. 

And fight, she did. She had managed to kill at least half before she finally received help in the form of Legolas, who stood back to back with her as they took down the remaining group surrounding them. Their victory was short lived as they heard a horn sounding in the distance. It was the horn of Gondor. 

“Boromir,” Issa gasped worriedly. 

“Come on Issa,” Legolas grabbed her hand and began pulling her in the direction that the horn came from. 

It took them much longer to reach him than they expected. On the way they caught sight of Gimli fighting off his own horde of Orcs. Of course Issa couldn’t just let him do it alone so she and Legolas jumped in, helping him finish off before recruiting him to help find Boromir. Legolas thankfully remembered what direction the horn was coming from. 

They picked up their pace until they reached a small clearing, which held a rather large amount of Orc and Uruk bodies. Just faintly she could hear more soldiers running away, but she stopped dead in her tracks when she realized Boromir was on the ground in Aragorn’s arms, three arrows sticking out of his chest. 

“I would have followed you, my brother...my captain, my King,” he muttered to Aragorn with the best smile he could muster up. Then, just a moment later, Issa watched as he took his last breath. She gasped quietly and covered her mouth in shock as tears welled up in her eyes. Aragorn carefully laid Boromir on the ground, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead afterwards. 

“Be at peace, son of Gondor,” he whispered before standing up with his head still low. 

He turned, then his eyes met his fiancé’s. They moved towards each other in unison until he finally pulled the girl into one of the tightest embraces she’d ever felt from him. She felt his shaky hand grip her like a lifeline, and she couldn’t help but allow her tears to fall as she looked at him over. He looked exhausted - emotionally and physically. 

“Are you okay?” She asked quietly, pulling away just enough to look into his eyes. The look of pure love and adoration in his eyes took her back for a moment. 

“I’ll be okay. What about you?”

“I’m fine,” she nodded before looking down at Boromir. “What… what happened?” 

“He was trying to protect Merry and Pippin,” was all the answer she needed. She nodded then sighed shakily. 

“They will look for his coming from the white tower…but he will not return,” Aragorn continued sadly. 

“They will know that he died with honor and valor,” she reassured him gently, then hesitated. “Aragorn, can we…” The Man didn’t even have to hear the rest of her question to know what she wanted. She wished to bury him at sea so that he could rest in peace. And that was the greatest honor they could do him for his bravery. 

So, Aragorn and Legolas carried him back to the river, laying him in one of the remaining two boats (where the third was, Issa didn’t know yet). Issa laid his sword on his chest, arranging his hands so they were resting on the hilt, while Gimli muttered a Dwarvish prayer. Once everything was set, Aragorn untied the boat. All four of them watched as the boat followed the current before finally falling down the waterfall, putting the warrior to rest. For a moment they just stood there in silence laying their respects, then Legolas moved over to the last remaining boat. 

“If we are quick, we will catch Frodo and Sam before nightfall,” he said quickly. When Aragorn didn’t answer at first, Issa looked at him. The Man was looking towards the far shore where Frodo and Sam’s boat was. Both she and Legolas immediately understood what he was thinking. 

“You mean not to follow them…” Issa muttered in realization. 

“Frodo's fate is no longer in our hands,” Aragorn answered simply.

“Then it has all been in vain,” Gimli grumbled. “The Fellowship has failed.” 

“Not if we hold true to each other,” the Man protested. “We will not abandon Merry and Pippin to torment and death, not while we have strength left.” He paused to pull a hunting knife out of his pack and strap it on before looking at them again. 

“Leave all that can be spared behind,” he continued grimly. “We travel light. Let's hunt some Orc.” His conclusion excited the Dwarf because he laughed heartily. 

“Yes!” His enthusiasm earned a small laugh from Issa as she strapped any weapons and other supplies she’d need to herself. Once everyone was ready they followed Aragorn back into the woods, following the Uruk-hai trail.

[catofadifferentcolor]

The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King

...he thought to make a great shield-wall at the last, and stand, and fight there on foot till all fell, and do deeds of song on the fields of Pelennor, though no man should be left in the West to remember the last King of the Mark.

I first read The Hobbit in sixth grade. It had long been one of my mother's favorites, and the fact she delayed so long in giving it to me to read was almost certainly so I could appreciate it fully the first time I read it.

I read The Lord of the Rings a year later, but there was some sort of delay between when I finished The Two Towers and when I started The Return of the King - a family trip that was so chaotic that even I couldn't read find time to read - and so my overriding memory of RotK beyond wow was frak, where did the palintir come from?

That being said, Part V remains one of my favorite parts of LotR - though I know I've said that a lot by this stage in the game. If Book III is graven on my heart, this one is probably on the ribs which surround it. I bawl like a baby every time I get to the Battle of Pelennor fields - Theoden's death! Eoweyn and Merry against the Witch King! Eomer's reaction when he finds them dead! Eomer's speech when he sees the black ships on the river!

I often say Faramir is my favorite, but frak if Eomer isn't a very close second. To say nothing of the growth of Merry and Pippin! And Aragorn's final acceptance of his mantle - although one of the few things I think the movies do better is show this journey rather than have Narsil reforged at the beginning and Aragorn announcing to all and sundry in Rohan who he is before the bitter end.

Part VI is... well, who doesn't cry at the Crack of Doom? And maybe there are a few too many endings, but there are many heroes and many tales, and each person's part finishes at different times. I do adore Faramir and Eowyn finding each other... and both loathe and love that Legolas and Gimli are always mentioned together, because they were able to shine fully in Part III and their role feels much reduced in RotK and I love them dearly.

Also, the first time I read The Return of the King I didn't appreciate fully "The Scouring of the Shire" - indeed, it felt a bit like the narrative was ramping up unnecessarily again - but with age comes wisdom, or at least the ability to see narrative echoes in the pity of Bilbo for Gollum and the pity of Frodo for Saruman - and Wormtongue. The Rangers went to aid Gondor, and for that the Shire suffered, and all things can fall to darkness - but so too can be they be healed.

And frak, being the terrible nerd I am, I even love the appendices. ("Then Legolas built a grey ship in Ithilien, and sailed down Anduin and so over Sea; and with him, it is said, went Gimli the Dwarf." !!!!!)

But now that I have reached the end - having read all of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings in four days - what can I say? What is left to say about something that is so perfect though it follows almost no convention? It is too long, too dependent on a history only hinted at, has too many characters with too many names and too many passages untranslated or unexplained - and yet that is the very reason it succeeds. It was not written to meet a deadline or a publisher's standard. It does not spoon-feed the audience. It is rich and deep and the tip of a glorious iceberg.

But at the heart of it is a simple premise: hope always prevails. It may seem dark, and your own life and people may fall to darkness and despair, but while there is hope all things are possible. And more than magic rings or Dark Lords or hidden kings that is a story which resounds.

Tolkien knew what he was doing. If I could have even a sliver of his talent, I would never need anything else.

[cobra-in-singapore]

Hello! I saw that you wrote for World of Warcraft and was wondering if I could request headcanons for Anduin with a civilian s/o, maybe they are an artist? Some fluff would be great! Thank you in advance

Greetings! I have not forgotten about your request, I apologize for the very, very long delay. I've had some difficult times, but I've decided it's time to get it over with. Please enjoy ;)

Anduin Wrynn x Artist S/O

When you are the king of the Alliance, there is no way to just walk around the city, and it is extremely dangerous. Anduin, although it seems somewhat naive that in principle this is partly true, due to his rather young age, nevertheless, cannot be isolated from society. One way or another, he also wants to communicate with his peers, the huge responsibility placed on his shoulders really suffocates and hangs like a permanent stone on his soul.

One day he just felt a sharp need to forget himself at least for the night and take a break after countless work and a constant sense of danger hanging behind his back. Therefore, young Wrynn, aware of all the dangers and risks, nevertheless escaped from the castle at dusk. Of course, he didn't forget to disguise himself! So this time – no heavy armor and nothing that could attract the eye to him, he took only an ordinary sword from the weapon with him. Is he insane? Perhaps.

And what about s/o? You are just an ordinary resident of Stormwind, although you also have a hard time, at least because you need to earn something for a living, and for an Adventurer you were not strong enough or simply not motivated enough to rush through the fire into danger and eternal wandering. So you decided to devote yourself to art!

And so, having walked almost through the whole city to the stairs leading to the port, you, who were sitting on a high enough point with a good view, already put up an easel and began to arrange paints, brushes, a jar of water and other things for drawing to capture the beautiful moon and majestic ships. You loved painting terribly, because you believed that you would preserve such beauty forever, putting your soul and love into it so that others could always enjoy it. Still, you didn't like the gnome technology that allows you to take photos.

You moved a couple of meters away from your seat to pick up another bag, which was kindly held for you by a guard who agreed to help. Thanking the polite person with a smile, you turned around and froze, looking at the figure in a cloak, carefully examining your workplace. Coming closer, you coughed, noticing with a raised eyebrow how nervously and warily the stranger turned sharply to you, looking down from above with a funny expression on his face. However, you were attracted by his eyes. There was something... warm or innocent about them. Anyway, he didn't look like a typical thief, and what's there to steal from you?

"O-oh, uh, ahem!...I'm sorry, lady, I didn't mean to, uh... well, I'm sorry! I didn't know whose it was, so I came over to look, but I see you're busy, so I-" he looked pretty nervous and maybe confused, but you just smiled amiably, slapping him weakly on the shoulder, "Nah, don't worry ‘bout it, buddy! 'm glad you didn't decide to take my things. You can join me if you want, although I usually paint alone"

Actually, it was your first acquaintance! Anduin was pleasantly surprised by how beautifully you draw in his opinion. He could see with what diligence and love you approach your work, and was fascinated not so much by the landscape as by your actions. And although he was the king of Stormwind, this does not mean that he has already ceased to be just a boy, so basically he just stood a meter away from you, hands folded behind his back and silently watching, so as not to disturb your creative impulse. You were the first one who started talking to him, and he was happy to support your conversation! You turned out to be quite an ordinary person, although something either in your character, or in your desire to "preserve the beauties of the world" still hooked him, interested him. You communicated with him easily and naturally, not even suspecting who was standing next to you, and it was like a breath of fresh air for Anduin.

On the other hand, you found him very cute! You were so engrossed in talking and drawing that you didn't ask his name, but you told him yours. In the company you drew more comfortable and more fun, there was a pleasant friendly atmosphere. And although you didn't consider yourself a psychologist, you carefully pulled some information out of the guy, learning that there was something that was gnawing at him, not allowing him to relax under heavy pressure. Being by nature a calm and kind person, you expressed words of support to him, but decided not to focus on this, continuing a light conversation about art. You even shared with him the dream of traveling the world in order to continue to leave pieces of your soul in the works of the world that you loved so much despite the wars and other horrors lurking deep in Azeroth.

When the drawing was almost finished, and the moon was about to hide behind the horizon, you were already packing your things to go home, when Anduin politely offered to help you move the easel and some things. Of course, you were embarrassed by such a display of attention, but you did not refuse help, although you tried to insist that you could carry it all yourself, but in the end you walked carrying a light bag on your shoulder.

Wrynn had a great time with you, and to be honest, he wanted to meet you again, but he had to come back. Before he left, he promised that he would meet you again and set a meeting place. The young king returned to his chambers before his absence was noticed, he was not even confused by the lack of sleep, because all the next day he was in an upbeat, inspired mood, wanting to finish his business as soon as possible and meet you again.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Today in Tolkien - March 25th

And here we are, at the last day of the Quest. (And the last consistent day of this blog-series. I may or may not make more posts later on, but I won’t be making a point of consistently covering each day, as many have no specific events.) It’s hard to know what to say here, because we all know the events so well that any summary can only seem bland, and there is little to add that has not already been said.

So I will note a few things I hadn’t noticed before. First, the change to a wind from the north is noted in three different places.

For the army of Gondor and Rohan: As morning came the wind began to stir again, but now it came from the North, and soon it freshened to a rising breeze.

For Frodo and Sam: The wind had fallen the day before as it shifted from the West, and now it came from the North and began to rise; and slowly the light of the unseen Sun filtered down into the shadows where the hobbits law.

And for Faramir and Eowyn in Minas Tirith: A wind that had sprung up in the night was now blowing keenly from the North, and it was rising.

These winds help to carry the Eagles of the Misty Mountains south fast enough for them to come to the Battle at the Black Gate, and then to rescue Frodo and Sam.

Second, the comparative briefness of the battle at the Black Gate - and the number of men of Rohan and Gondor who survive it, along with Pippin and Gimli and Legolas - is due to Sauron indulging in spite. He could easily have loosed his assault against them at dawn, or even during the night when they were camped near the Black Gate. But Sauron had a mind first to play these mice cruelly gefore he struck to kill; he uses up a substantial portion of the morning by sending the Mouth of Sauron to taunt them (with gratuitous use of contemptuous-thou) about Frodo’s supposed capture. Given the disparity in forces, if he hadn’t done so the army would likely have been destroyed before the Ring was, and even victory would have left both Gondor and Rohan kingless and heirless. As Gandalf says at Isengard, Often does hatred hurt itself!

Third, related to the above, everything is over fairly quickly - the Ring is destroyed before noon. Again returning to the battle at the Black Gate, there is just time fir the first assault from Mordor (including hill-trolls) to hit the front lines, for Pippin to kill a troll and save Beregond, and then he hears the cry of “The Eagles are coming!” And at that same moment Frodo puts on the Ring in Sammath Naur, and the Nazgul turn and fly for the mountain; and moments later the Ring is destroyed.

Finally, the fall of Sauron, from four perspectives. First, Sauron’s:

And far away, as Frodo put on the Ring and claimed it for his own, even in Sammath Naur the very heart of his realm, the Power in Barad-dûr was shaken, and the Tower trembled from its foundations to its proud and bitter crown. The Dark Lord was suddenly aware of him, and his Eye piercing all shadows looked across the plain to the door that he had made; and the magnitude of his own folly was revealed to him in a blinding flash, and all the devices of enemies were at last laid bare. Then his wrath blazed in a consuming flame, but his fear rose like a vast black smoke to choke him. For he knew his deadly peril and the thread upon which his doom now hung. From all his policies and webs of fear and treachery, from all his stratagems his mind shook free.

Second, Frodo and Sam:

A brief vision [Sam] had of swirling cloud, and in the midst of it towers and battlements, tall as hills, founded upon a mighty mountain-throne above immeasurable pits; great courts and dungeons, eyeless prisons sheer as cliffs, and gaping gates of steel and adamant: and then all passed. Towers fell and mountains slid; walls crumbled and melted, crashing down; vast spires of smoke and spouting steams went billowing up, up, until they toppled like an overwhelming wave, and its wild crest curled and came foaming down upon the land. [The imagery of the final destruction of Sauron recalling the diwnfall of Númenor feels very fitting to me.]

Third, the army of Gondor and Rohan. Gandalf calls them back from the tide of battle that has turned in their favour, and bids them stand and wait.

But Gandalf lifted up his arms and called once more with a clear voice.

“Stand, Men of the West! Stand and wait! This is the hour of doom.”

And even as he spoke the earth rocked beneath their feet. Then rising swiftly up, far above the Towers of the Black Gate, high above the mountains, a vast soaring darkness spring into the sky, flickering with fire. The earth groaned and quaked. The Towers of the Teeth swayed, tottered, and fell down; the mighty rampart crumbled; the Black Gate was hurled in ruin; and from far away, now dim, now growing, now mounting to the clouds, there came a drumming rumble, a roar, and long echoing roll of ruinous noise.

“The realm of Sauron is ended!” said Gandalf. “The Ring-bearer has fulfilled his Quest.”

And as the Captains gazed south to the Land of Mordor, it seemed to them that, black against the pall of cloud, there rose a huge shape of shadow, impenetrable, lightning-crowned, filling all the sky. Enormous it reared above the world, and stretched out towards them a vast threatening hand, terrible but impotent: for even as it leaned over them, a great wind took it, and it was all blown away, and passed; and then a hush fell.

And fourth, Faramir and Eowyn in Minas Tirith:

And it seemed to them as they stood upon the wall that the wind died, and the light failed, and the Sun was bleared, and all sounds in the City or in the lands about were hushed: neuther wind, nor voice, nor bird-call, nor rustle of leaf, nor their own breath could be heard; the very beating of their hearts was stilled. Time halted.

And as they stood so, their hands met and clasped, though they did not know it. And still they waited for they knew not what. Then presently it seemed to them that abive the rudges of the distant mountains another vast mountain of datkness rose, towering up like a wave that should engulf the world, and about it lightnings flickered; and then a tremor ran through the earth and they felt the walls of the City quiver. A sound like a sigh went up from all the lands about them; and their hearts beat suddenly again.

“It reminds me of Númenor,” said Faramir, and wondered to hear himself speak.

“Of Númenor?” said Eowyn.

“Yes,” said Faramir, “of the land of Westernesse that foundered, and of the great dark wave climbing over the green lands and above the hills, and coming on, darkness unescapable. I often dream of it.”

“Then you think that the Darkness is coming?” said Eowyn. “Darkness Unescapable?” And suddenly she drew close to him.

“No,” said Faramir, looking into her face. “It was but a picture in the mind. I do not know what is happening. The reason of my waking mind tells me that great evil has befallen and we stand at the end of days. But my heart says nay; and all my limbs are light, and a hope and joy are come to me that no reason can deny. Eowyn, Eowyn, White Lady of Rohan, in this hour I do not believe that any darkness will endure!” And he stooped and kissed her brow.

And so they stood on the walls of the City of Gondor, and a great wind rose and blew, and their hair, raven and golden, streamed out mingling in the air. And the Shadow departed, and the Sun was unveiled, and light leaped forth; and the waters of Anduin shone like silver, and in all the houses of the City men sang for the joy that welled up in their hearts from what source they could not tell.

[roselightfairy]

After watching a bunch of ROTK behind-the-scenes with @daisyfornost this weekend, I’ve decided it’s time for Part II of my writing-things-actors-did-as-though-they-happened-to-the-characters: AKA that really sweet moment with Orlando Bloom giving his horse a sweet little nose-smooch. Except I was also reflecting on how there’s not enough Gimli hurt/comfort (especially re: Paths of the Dead), so it turned into something... kind of different. But here it is anyway, for your enjoyment. Legolas and Gimli, gen but very possibly heading towards something more...

It’s slapped-together and unedited, so maybe someday I’ll clean it up, but don’t hold your breath.

...

Stabling a horse should not take so long.

Gimli shifted from one foot to the other in the doorway of the small inn room he would be sharing with Legolas, fighting the urge to glance behind him as though to ensure that the room was truly empty. After days of long hard travel, he still felt the chill of the Dead at his back, the stir of displaced air from the shapeless ripple of their presence. They were gone now, or had seemed to disperse – but how could something without form be trusted to truly vanish?

He shivered, rubbing at his arms, the chill swarming like ants over the skin of his back. He must trust their absence, must he not? After all, their presence had been real enough.

Aye, real indeed – he shuddered again at the memory of that shapeless mass exploding at last into form behind him, beside him, spears and swords flashing into being in the gleam of sunlight, fighting with the ferocity of ten men each – but it was not the fighting that stayed with him. The source of that fear was not their blades, but something deeper – something that clawed at his gut in that primal birthplace of screams: the horror of something that was and was not: something without stable form, that left impression without taking space –

Even in his thoughts, he could not put words to it, and that elusiveness of description only added to the distrust.

Around him, Aragorn’s Ranger companions made their way down the halls, returned from stabling their horses to find their own rooms. They were finished, it seemed, worn from fighting and the long ride preceding it and ready to snatch the first night of rest any of them had had in days at this small inn in Pelargir – and yet still Legolas did not return.

I will just see our friend settled, he had said to Gimli, with a hand on Arod’s nose. Go find us a room, will you not? I will join you soon.

Soon, he had said, and yet the last of the Dunedain trickled in and still there was no sign of him, and Gimli found he could not bear to settle in alone.

How long had it been since he had been alone? Months since Rivendell and the privacy of his own room there, certainly. There had been Lothlórien, of course, but that had only been perhaps a fortnight ago, for all that it felt like so much less – and even then, he had rarely been alone, for Legolas had always accompanied him.

The question was not, perhaps, how long it had been since he had last been alone – but how long since he had not had Legolas at his back, at his side. A few short weeks only since Lothlórien, and already he felt as though he had known the elf all his life. His steady presence, his soothing words – they were the only thing that had kept Gimli with the Company through that long, hard, freezing ride with the Dead at his back –

Gimli closed the door behind him, tucking the key away in his breast pocket, and set off for the stables.

Ah, but his muscles ached with every step – the twinge in his hips and chafing burn between his thighs from days on horseback, a position he had never intended to know so intimately; the stretched-out ache between his shoulder blades from swing after swing of his axe. He had not felt these aches in days, too busy accumulating new ones by curling up so tightly in his bedroll at night that he could not feel the chill of the Dead, by clinging to Legolas’s waist during the day, his face buried against the elf’s back. But they were present now, making themselves known on their first – and only – night of real rest before they must make their way forth again tomorrow, sailing to Gondor.

At least these boats would be larger than the tiny leaflike canoes they had paddled down the Anduin. And at least he might have a rest from the horse’s back.

A few words from the innkeeper set him on the path to the stables, though he could have found his own way from smell alone. He had grown accustomed to the scent of horse in the last few days, but the scent was intensified in the stables, with all the horses gathered together: hay and dust and dung and sweat. Most of the beasts seemed sleepy as well, he noticed as he passed, and it was no wonder – for all that he felt the ride of the last few days, he had at least not been the beast of burden!

Legolas had settled Arod in a stall at the far end of the stable. The horse seemed well groomed, at least to Gimli’s untrained eye, but Legolas stood still beside him, passing a brush over his back in slow, almost dreamlike circles.

Gimli stood still for a moment, watching the almost hypnotic motion of the brush. It was strangely peaceful; he could be almost lulled to sleep – and for a moment he wondered if Legolas was asleep, in that strange way of elves. But no – after a moment, Legolas sighed deeply and turned to face him, his face drawn as Gimli had rarely seen it, eyes and mouth folded in tired lines.

For a moment, there was no sound but the quiet shuffling and snorting of horses, and Gimli forgot why he had come to seek Legolas as the silence stretched between them. But at last he found his voice again and took a few steps forward. “Not settled yet, hm?”

“Not - ? Oh.” Legolas looked at the brush in his hand and then gestured with it in a half-shrug that sagged as quickly as his attempt of a smile.  “I was merely . . .” He trailed off.

Gimli waited for him to finish, but Legolas only gazed at him – no, through him, his eyes vacant as sleep again. As though he had forgotten he was speaking.

Gimli cleared his throat, and Legolas started as if out of a dream, his eyes focusing again, but did not speak – so Gimli took it upon himself.  “You said you meant to settle our friend,” he said.  “He seems well settled, unless I miss my guess.”

“Yes,” murmured Legolas. “He is . . . I was only – thinking.”

“Thinking?” Gimli prodded.  For the first time in days, some emotion other than his own misery was returning to him – concern for whatever this strange mood might mean. “Will you share your thoughts with a friend?”

Legolas let the hand holding the brush fall to his side and took a few steps, but stopped at Arod’s head and began to stroke his nose instead. “Perhaps . . .” he said. Arod whuffed and nuzzled his head into Legolas’s hand, and Legolas gave the smallest of smiles and murmured something in elvish.

Gimli hid his fond smile behind a snort. “I meant myself, not the horse, Master Legolas,” he said.  “Come, now, what troubles you? There is a hard road ahead, but the Dead have left us, at least.”

“The Dead do not trouble me,” Legolas said vaguely, and then as though he had heard his own words, his head snapped up.  “Oh! But” – And then he was turning to face Gimli in full at last, his eyes clear as though he finally saw him.  “Yes, they have left us.  And how do you fare now, Gimli?”

Gimli’s cheeks heated under the warmth of his regard. He had not meant – but then, at least Legolas seemed present in the moment at last. “I am well enough,” he mumbled.  “But if it is not the Dead, it seems something is amiss with you. Will you not come back to our room and unburden yourself to me?”

Legolas let out a long, sad sigh.  “I think not,” he said, “not yet. It is still too near, and I do not know what it means – but yes, I will come back with you.  Thank you for coming to fetch me; I do not know how long I would have stayed here.”

“Too long, doubtless,” said Gimli.  “Our friend deserves his rest as well as we do; he has run hard these last days and endured more than any horse of Rohan ever ought.” For Arod too had loathed the ride with the Dead. Gimli approached him cautiously – he did not feel as at ease with the horse as Legolas did, but he thought they had reached an understanding in the last two days. And sure enough, Arod whuffed gently, a gust of warm air over Gimli’s outstretched palm, and let Gimli pat him cautiously on the nose as well.

“He does, and he has,” Legolas said softly. He took in a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh, his shoulders slumping.  “Very well; you are right. I will leave him in peace and come with you.  Good night, my friend,” he said to Arod, and leaned in to press his lips to the horse’s long flat nose.

The sight made something in Gimli go soft and loose, but he forced himself to hide it behind a laugh. “Such a farewell!” he made himself say. “You will see him in the morning!”

Legolas shrugged and laughed a little.  “He deserves it,” he said, and then he was eyeing Gimli speculatively.

The gleam in his eye made something in Gimli’s belly clench, but before he could speak, Legolas was coming toward him, stopping only to drop the brush into a bucket of grooming tools, and taking his face between both hands. Gimli had no time to react before Legolas had leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead as well, directly between his brows.

His lips were there and away in a moment, but Gimli swore he could still feel them tingling, a print against his face. “What was that for?” he managed to splutter, pretending amusement even as his bones threatened to melt and leave him a puddle on the straw floor.

Legolas looked at him for a moment longer, some strange combination of melancholy and tenderness in his eyes, and then shook his head.  “Everything,” he said simply, and slung an arm around Gimli’s shoulders, turning them both towards the entrance to the stable and letting it rest there as they made their way together back towards the room.

Only moments before, he had wondered if the chill of the Dead would ever be banished – but now, Gimli thought he had never felt so warm.

[hallothere]

Brave the Darkness

Previously titled “Blunt Force Ghost Trauma” but since no ghosts actually get served onscreen I changed it. Also because like Halros and the Very Bad Time it isn’t uhhh.... funny enough for that kind of title!

(warnings for Candaith Going Thru It but there’s no like blood or anything)

Somehow, the cold was coming from inside his bones. The chill was ice in his marrow. Radanir visibly shook next to him, as did some of the others. He was hard-pressed not to tremble. Halbarad, his companions, they would all have to stand strong together. They had been warned off once by the Oath-breakers in this cursed place. Candaith supposed these were not the sort of spirits to give a second warning. 

The frostbite within only sharpened as he continued further onto the Forsaken Road. With a glance over his shoulder, he wondered if Thurvi- his shadow in this lightless place- had ever felt such a chill in the Mountains of his homeland. The Guardian seldom spoke of the land of his birth, of the Dwarven city of Kechel, nor of Dwimorberg whose fell name lay like a shadow over their quest. Perhaps he hoped not to discourage his companions. Perhaps the dwarves did not venture near enough to these places to know them so well.

Candaith had become accustomed to the mask his friend had acquired in Lhanuch. The Grey Company’s enemies were Thurvi’s enemies as well-- and they knew his face. Though there were likely few Dwarves in Enedwaith, he sought to protect them with his anonymity. It was the same logic behind their ‘uniform’. Though a dwarf traveling with a bunch of Dunedain was going to stand out like a hobbit in Othrikar, Candaith appreciated every precaution. 

After all, his friend had kept the company from danger more than once. Though quiet, he was quick to action and sturdier than the rest of them. The last Candaith had seen of Thurvi before his summons, the dwarf had been preparing to head to Angmar with nothing but a large club and a scavenged shield. But the Grey Company’s odd companion out had returned from parts unknown with a dwarf-make axe of strange metal, and a shield with the unmistakable stylings of Khazad-dûm. 

It was only too bad there was no time to stop for a fire. If the Guardian could coax a spark from the bed of the Anduin, he would not be much surprised. Still, the Grey Company needed more than warmth to kindle their hopes. This was a desperate gamble, but one Candaith believed in. If they could gather this host of the dead on behalf of their Chieftain, if they could muster an army unhindered by death nor pain nor hunger-

Maybe it was not such a vain hope or a far-fetched plan! Surely the Oath-breakers tired of existing like this? Did they not long for peace? Candaith did. His kin yearned for it, as did the Eglain, the people he had spent so much time near. The heir of Isildur could bring it. He believed that. Surely the Dead- if not motivated by honor- could only see the release from their curse as gain! A swift, deathless army to bring peace to the world. An invincible host at Aragorn’s command…

“This seems to me a good sign, Thurvi!” he whispered, turning back to his companion. It was dimmer still here, but they could both carry on. “If the Oath-breakers will fulfill their oath to Isildur, we will command an army the like of which has never been seen in Middle-earth. Surely victory will not be far behind!” His comment was met with only a tight smile. This place weighed heavily on them all. 

But soon they would be free of it. Of this, he was certain. 

Another shade flickered into view before them. The Dead all appeared able to hide themselves from sight if they wished, and it was an effective intimidation tactic. Based on the temperature, this could be none other than Britou before them. Idly, he wondered if Dwarves were hardier to this fell atmosphere than Men. Candaith stopped and his Guardian friend came to stand beside him. 

If it was a show of force the Dead wanted, so be it. They acquitted themselves well, though Candaith found the glacial air sapped his strength and stiffened his limbs. He looked to Thurvi but could see no sign he was in any way affected. Britou was probing for weakness, but he would find none. There was strength in the Dunedain. Candaith would not fail his brothers. 

Back to back they fought on. Ghostly blades rang against their steel, but these Dead did not move with the same fell determination as others had. Doubt began to chip through the frost around Candaith’s heart. Was Britou toying with them? This test was little more than a farce for his amusement. What then? Did he desire proof? More learned foes than he had doubted the line of Kings remained unbroken. What would the Dead on the Forsaken Road know of the way Aragorn’s ancestors had endured?

They cared little for the living, that much was clear. They threw around insults, hurled belittling words without thought. The Dead had nothing but contempt for them. Indeed, with the bones of travelers and the plague of shades above ground, what evidence did they have that any of the Oath-breakers’ intentions were honest?

Hah. He was a fool for giving them the benefit of the doubt. But no longer! If they would not be swayed by words or arms, let them be swayed with power. 

“Hold!” He thrust his blade through yet another shade with a shout and commanded the attention of the leader of the Dead. Candaith was breathing hard. The doubt had wormed its way in deep, but he could not let it end like this. Greed was a powerful enough motivator for any Man, even those among the Dead. 

“I have the authority to command you and all your kind, Britou!” He straightened up, emboldened by a confidence he could not feel but must not let waver. "For I...I am the Heir of Isildur!"

He could feel Thurvi’s eyes upon him, as well as the attention of the Dead. The cold was like a rock in Candaith’s chest. As long as they were in peril, he could not falter, but every breath became heavier. It seemed the very air was hardening to stone and ice within him. 

Britou fell silent. For a long moment he stared, sizing Candaith up. Now was not the time for fear. More than ever, he was grateful for the mask. It was as much a shield as the one his Guardian wielded. Perhaps his and Thurvi’s uses for them were more alike than he had thought. 

"What evidence do you have that this be so?" 

Britou’s voice reverberated off the frozen walls. Now more than ever the cold pained him. Candaith tried not to wince as he drew the breath to answer. Taking a finger of his glove in his teeth, he slid it off without lowering his sword. "Only this: the Ring of Barahir, heirloom of Isildur's line!"

After all, they had been made for one purpose: to deceive the enemy. Why not use it now, as it had been intended, for their advantage? 

It was a long while still before Britou spoke again. “I see.” The cavern was still. “We will fulfill our oath at last, that the Heir may lift the curse. Tell your Men."

Candaith could not breathe a sigh of relief. The cold had taken him, and it was all he could do to nod, to turn around, to look for the relief that must be plain on Thurvi’s face. 

It was not there to greet him. Candaith saw only fear.

"But that is not the Ring of Barahir, and you are not the Heir of Isildur."

He did not have time to think. There was ice on his skin now, on his fingers. Cold pierced him. Thurvi was moving faster than Candaith had ever seen him go. There was a horrible rending of metal, and the ice splintered under his skin. Dust and rock rose up to meet him. 

There was a black and frozen pause. Trapped within a pincushion of ice, Candaith did not notice at first that he was being moved. He could clear little space in his lungs to cry out, and he could not coax his algid limbs to motion. Too many frosted shards had gathered themselves within him. They cut like glass, tore at his mind, and ate at his heart. He knew naught of what was transpiring, only that he had failed his kin. He had led them to this place of ruin, and now he was to join the miserable Dead. 

His whole body was jolted up and sideways. A single pauldron came into view. Thurvi! Candaith’s tears were surely frozen, but he felt the warmth of relief thaw them a little. It mingled with the heat of shame long enough to warm sensation back into him. There was new pain too. His back was taut and tearing as Thurvi hurried him away. With a final cry, his awareness too failed on the cursed road. 

Something was trying to crush him. A pressure bound him, constricted his thoughts. He could not will himself to move or to breathe. So Candaith struggled. The now-familiar cold had abated some, but it had not released its stranglehold on him. He had failed, but for now desperation overrode his shame. The others-- his brothers were nearby! If nothing else they needed a warning, they needed to know that no Dead would ride by their side save to run them down. 

Candatih fought to turn over. He had fallen flat before Britou in that frozen chamber, and now he must get up! He must get up or let his brothers be slaughtered for his reckless gambit--

“Fool! Be still, Candaith!” 

A hand, warm and living, reached him from the darkness. It held his shoulder with a gentle firmness that made him pause. There was no time for this! So far underground, they needed every moment to escape.

The crack of a log fire hoisted him up from the dark then flung him down into awareness. His waking senses hit him with force and the air was driven once more from his lungs. Suddenly Candaith discovered he could feel, only to wish desperately that he could not. What had once been solid ice had thawed, and his whole body burned in the spaces where it had been. He turned to push his face into whatever had been beneath his ear. Candaith was on the ground, and pain trampled him flat. 

The hand was joined by another on his other shoulder. He tried to smother a rising scream as the fire was stoked again by his squirming. 

“Candaith, listen to me.” The voice was familiar, but it was as full of uncertainty as he was. “We are out of there now, but you are lucky to be with us! Lie still if you can. If you are too stubborn to listen, it will be hard to bring you back to Lhanuch alive! We will give you…” Here the voice paused, and with more clarity came a growing certainty that Candaith had never heard Radanir more distressed. “We will give you something for the pain.”

“Radanir!” Halbarad’s voice cut through the fire and the relief was like a balm. More crushing a blow than the catastrophe he knew would have been the loss of their leader. Halbarad was the cord that held them together in Aragorn’s absence. They would follow him with the same loyalty and should he be lost grieve for him with the same sorrow. 

But Halbarad lived. It brought Candaith less comfort than he had hoped. 

“Hold him up. We must do something for the wound before we try moving again.” It was not at all what his leaden limbs wanted to hear. This time Candaith could not stifle a groan as Radanir hefted him like a sack of potatoes. 

“You could not… be more careful?” The words sounded strained to his own ears, but as his head was being rested over one of Radanir’s shoulders like a sickly infant’s, he would not get to see a reaction. 

That did not stop Radanir from having one. “And you could not stop from telling falsehoods to the undying shades of traitors!"

It brought down a deathly quiet. A popping ember rang as loud into the night as a thunderclap. Radanir had gone as stiff as a statue, and only after a long pause could Halbarad get things moving again. 

“It is a grave wound, but it might have been much worse.” Candaith could feel the sleeves of his tunic, but the back had been torn asunder. Now exposed to the night air, he wished for the blanket or cover that had seemed so smothering a moment ago. Halbarad was moving the fabric. Every pull jostled the nettles that had taken up residence in his limbs. He tried to push away, but Radanir held him up under his arms. 

“If we have to set you back down, there will be less firelight to work by.” The words were terse, but there was an undercurrent of concern nonetheless. Radanir was right, Candaith was a fool. It was becoming more and more obvious just how close he’d been to being a dead one. 

To his surprise, Thurvi stepped into his narrow field of vision. The dwarf offered out his hand. Weakly, Candaith took it.

“Distract him if you can, Thurvi.” Halbarad instructed. “We are lucky he is awake but we might have been luckier were he not- at least, not for this.”

Candaith was reluctant to meet the Guardian’s eye. It had been a rather poor performance on the Forsaken Road. He had shamed himself and shamed the entire Company. Only by a miracle was he out under the stars instead of rotting among the Dead. To his surprise, Thurvi did not attempt to make conversation just yet but began sliding up the metal mask that had long covered his face. 

Despite everything- or perhaps because of it- Candaith could not bite back a delirious laugh. “You have a line! Clear… right across your face from cheek to cheek, over the bridge of your nose-”

Halbarad chose that moment to strike. Something cold and stinging coursed down his open wounds. He gritted his teeth and tried to crush Thurvi’s hand and Radanir’s arm. The work had begun in earnest. Now, Halbarad would not stop until everything was dressed to his satisfaction. 

Thruvi pulled his hand down. Attention diverted, Candaith managed to look up. “Your cloak did not make it, I’m afraid.” The Guardian said in a solemn tone. “Alas, it was the first casualty. And my shield gave its life for yours. Cursed be the blades wielded against the craftsmanship of Khazad-dûm!”

Candaith could not laugh. Thurvi’s heart was not in the attempt at wounded pride. It was hardly the shield of his homeland, and besides that it called to attention a more glaring absence. 

Ignoring the agony behind him, he ground out a question. “The others…?” His mind flew to Linnor, his and Saeradan’s friend, to Calithil who he had last seen by Radanir’s side. Old Hodhon and Himeldir had been there as well, they who had been fraught with worry over Dagoras’ capture and thick as thieves again upon his return. 

Thurvi’s face was more exposed now than it had been underground. The mask was pushed into his hood on top of his head. Candaith did not know if his friend was old for a Dwarf, but he looked older than he had the last time his face was on display. 

“Scattered.” he said at last, “We lost all the torches as the Dead gave chase. You and I were tempting enough targets to allow the others space to run. If they were pursued to the road or to the bluffs, I do not know. We ran into Halbarad and then Radanir in the dark.”

Candaith tried to focus on the words instead of the pain. Whatever salve Halbarad had conjured burned as fiercely as his shame. Loath might he be to admit it under other circumstances, Radanir was right. Who was he to command the Oath-breakers? What right did he have to try!

There was little left of his strength. Candaith used it to first return Thurvi’s grip on his hand, and then to better support himself on Radanir’s arm. Neither he nor Halbarad had spoken again, and it was time for Candaith to acknowledge the disaster on all their minds. 

“I should never have-- I would give my life a thousand times... to be even the smallest help to Aragorn… That was all… all I-” Halbarad took his shoulders and started to tip him back. The movement clouded his vision so completely he could hardly be sure he was still awake. Numbness started to overpower him and Candaith did not have the strength to be alarmed by the empty wave. 

The void held him captive for a moment. But, vigilant Pain was quick to revive him as bandages met the raw edges of his wounds. He was slumped in a sitting position as Thurvi held him up and Halbarad finished wrapping the tender flesh. Candaith was given something bitter from a water flask, and then worked up the courage to try and speak again.

“I am… sorry-” he croaked from the ice-carved hollow in his chest. 

“If you are sorry, Candaith, I am doubly so.” Halbarad’s voice was thick with worry, and regret. “For had I not sought to make copies of the Ring of Barahir, had I been more focused on keeping us from danger, this never would have occurred.”

Halbarad finished tying off the bandages, and Candaith was surprised to find Radanir waiting there at his shoulder. He was without a cloak, as were the others, and did not waste time in guiding his dead-limbed companion to where the collected fabric was balled up into a makeshift bedroll. Far though they were from a suitable camp, he was going to see that Candaith had some small comfort. Not Thurvi, not Halbarad, but Radanir who was rightfully furious with him. 

Of all their companions, he was one of the least likely to shy away from saying what he meant. There was no quip too untimely, no sentiment best left unsaid. No doubt it was why he had taken on this task. Halbarad was too noble to scold a man on death’s porch if not it’s doorstep. And something about Thurvi’s tight-lipped expression had told him that the Guardian had seen the events transpire in an entirely different light.

Of one thing Candaith was sure: whatever reproach Radanir had ready for him would be well-deserved. Only, Candaith did not know if he could bear it. He had almost just gotten eight of their number killed in an ill-advised attempt to sway the Dead- the Dead who were known chiefly for their treachery! He feared the long night as he had been frightened of the long road underground. What if the others had not made it out? Their blood would be on his hands, and he would have to meet the rest of the Company alone with his shame.

No doubt his chief critic would be Radanir. Radanir who had been forced to flee with the others, who had stumbled across Thurvi in the dark, who must have been told the tale from the eyes of an observer- and the only one of them who could never have done the same in his place! 

Still he could not help but to look. Candaith turned his head to the side and found Radanir’s stare fixed on him. Guilt swept over him again before it was replaced by great confusion and worry. The firelight illuminated anger, yes, but also vivid fear that took a moment for Radanir to conceal. 

“I suppose I prefer you a living fool rather than a dead one.” The irritation in his tone was as empty as Candaith felt. “Still,” here an edge of something crept back in, “do not ever attempt such a thing again.”

As much as he wanted to assure Radanir that he would not dream of it- that he was shaken to find a lesson learned had nearly cost his and his kinsmen’s lives- Halbarad had designs of his own. Whatever herbs had been in the water were beginning to take effect. The pain of his wound was no distraction anymore. Already sensation was floating away. It felt as if he would dissolve if it began to rain, like dust on stonework. Candaith could no more keep his eyes open than he could leap up and begin the search for the rest of their group or to share the burden his decision placed on them. 

He could no longer see the light of the fire when Radanir’s hand came to rest carefully on his shoulder. Their companions were discussing something too quietly for him to hear. It would not be long now before Halbarad’s bitter potion forced him to rest. 

“That was a fear so cold I thought I would never be warm again.” Radanir’s voice was nearly lost to the cushioning effect of the medicine on his ears. “But I would prefer to never be rid of it than to lose even one of my brothers.”

The candor in Radanir’s words did not absolve him, but it was a balm to a hurt no healer could treat. Comforted beyond measure, Candaith could at last bear to face the night and any troubled dreams it could conjure.

[elliemarchetti]

An Unfriendly Waste

As someone seems to have appreciated the previous chapter, here is the sixth, in which Elva, the half-elf protagonist who left together with the Fellowship in place of Legolas, and her companions begin to sail south.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Words: 2250

The Fellowship went on their long way down the wide hurrying waters, borne ever southwards. Bare wood stalked along either bank, and they couldn’t see any glimpse of the lands behind. The breeze died away and the River flowed without a sound, not even the birds’ voices breaking the silence. The sun grew misty as the day grew old, until it gleamed in a pale sky like a high white pearl, fading finally into the West, followed by an early dusk and a grey, starless night. Far into the dark quiet hours they floated on, guiding their boats under the overhanging shadows of the western woods. Great trees passed by like ghosts, thrusting their twisted thirsty roots through the mist and down into the dreary, cold water. Elva sat listening to the faint lap and gurgle of the River fretting near the shore, until her head nodded and she fell into an uneasy sleep on Haldir’s shoulder, who carried her ashore and wrapped her in his cloak, as Gimli, who had taken on the task of lightning a small fire, later brough back to her.

"You've been lucky, if it was just my job I don't know if I would’ve managed not to get you into the water, as tall as you are," joked the dwarf. To have elven blood, Elva wasn’t particularly tall, but to dwarves and hobbits they all had to appear equally part of the Tall People. The time for jokes was incredibly short, as they started again before the day was broad, not that most of the Fellowship were eager to hurry southwards: they were content that the decision, which they must make at latest when they came to Rauros and the Tindrock Isle, still lay some days ahead, so they let the River bear them on at its own pace, having no desire to hasten towards the perils that lay beyond, whichever course they took in the end. Haldir let them drift with the stream as they wished, husbanding their strength against weariness to come, but Aragorn insisted that at least they should start early each day and journey on far into the evening, for he felt in his heart that time was pressing, and he feared that the Dark Lord hadn’t been idle while they lingered in Lorien. Nonetheless, they saw no sign of any enemy that day, nor the next. The dull grey hours passed without event, but as the third day of their voyage wore on, the lands changed slowly: the trees thinned and then failed altogether, while on the eastern bank they saw long formless slopes stretching up and away towards the sky, brown and withered, as if fire had passed over them, leaving no living blade of green, an unfriendly waste with nothing to relieve the emptiness. They had come to the Brown Lands that lay, vast and desolate, between Southern Mirkwood and the hills of the Emyn Muil. What pestilence or war or evil deed of the Enemy had so blasted all that region, even Haldir couldn’t tell. Upon the west, to their right, the land was also treeless, but flat, and in many places green with wide plains of grass. On this side of the River they passed forests of great reeds, so tall that they shut out all view to the west, as the little boats went rustling by along their fluttering borders. Their dark withered plumes bent and tossed in the light cold airs, hissing softly and sadly. Here and there through openings Elva could catch sudden glimpses of rolling meads, and far beyond them hills in the sunset, and away on the edge of sight a dark line, where marched the southernmost ranks of the Misty Mountains. There was no sign of living moving things, save birds, but they were seldom seen, small fowl whistling and piping in the reeds. Once or twice the travelers heard the rush and whine of swan-wings, and looking up they saw a great, black phalanx streaming along the sky.

“How wide, empty and mournful all this country looks,” said Elva. “When I was younger, I always imagined that as one journeyed south, it got warmer and merrier, until winter was left behind forever.”

“But we haven’t journeyed far south yet,” answered Haldir. “It’s still winter, and we’re far from the sea: here the world is cold until the sudden spring, and we may yet have snow again. Far away down in the Bay of Belfalas it’s warm and merry, or would be but for the Enemy. You are looking now south-west across the north plains of the Riddermark, ere long we shall come to the mouth of the Limlight that runs down from Fangorn to join the Great River. That is the north boundary of Rohan, and of old all that lay between Limlight and the White Mountains belonged to the Rohirrim. It’s a rich and pleasant land, and its grass has no rival, but in these evil days, folk don’t dwell by the River or ride often to its shores. Anduin is wide, yet the orcs can shoot their arrows far across the stream, and of late, it’s said they have dared to cross the water and raid the herds and studs of Rohan.”

Elva looked from bank to bank uneasily. The trees had seemed hostile before, as if they harbored secret eyes and lurking dangers; now she wished that the trees were still there, as she felt that the Fellowship was too naked, afloat in little open boats in the midst of shelterless lands, on a river that was the frontier of war. In the next day or two, as they went on, borne steadily southwards, this feeling of insecurity grew on all the Fellowship, so they took the paddle and hastened forward, the banks sliding by and the River broadening and growing shallower: long stony beaches laid upon the east, and there were gravel-shoals in the water, so that careful steering was needed. Elva shivered, thinking of the lawns and fountains, the clear sun and gentle rains of Lothlorien. There was little speech and no laughter in any of the boats for each occupant was busy with his own thoughts: Haldir’s heart was running under the stars of a summer night, Merry and Pippin were ill at ease, for Boromir sat muttering to himself, sometimes biting his nails, as if some restlessness or doubt consumed him, sometimes seizing a paddle and driving the boat close behind Aragorn’s to peer forward, gazing at Frodo. Sam had long ago made up his mind that, though boats were maybe not as dangerous as he had been brought up to believe, they were far more uncomfortable than even he had imagined. He was cramped and miserable, having nothing to do but stare at the winter-lands crawling by and the grey water on either side of him. Even when the paddles were in use, they didn’t trust him with one. As dusk drew down on the fourth day, he was looking back over Frodo and Aragorn’s bowed heads when something suddenly caught his sight: at first, he stared at it listlessly, then he sat up and rubbed his eyes, but when he looked again, he couldn’t see it anymore. When they camped for the night, certain that no one was paying attention to him, he decided to talk about it with Elva, sure she was the one who would understand the most.

“A log with eyes?” she asked, partly perplexed, partly for confirmation.

“I saw what I took to be a log floating along in the half-light behind Boromir’s boat, but I didn’t give much heed to it,” he confirmed. “Then it seemed as if the log was slowly catching us up, and that was peculiar, as you might say, seeing as we were all floating on the stream together. Just then I saw the shiny eyes, on a hump at the near end of the log. What’s more, it wasn’t a log, for it had paddle-feet, like a swan’s almost, only they seemed bigger, and kept dipping in and out of the water; that’s when I sat right up and rubbed my eyes, meaning to give a shout, if it was still there when I had rubbed the drowse out of my head, for the whatever-it-was was coming along fast now and getting close behind our friends. but whether those two lamps spotted me moving and staring, or whether I came to my senses, I don’t know: when I looked again, it wasn’t there, yet I think I caught a glimpse, with the tail of my eye, as the saying is, of something dark shooting under the shadow of the bank. I couldn’t see no more eyes, so I said to myself I was dreaming again, but I’ve been thinking since, and now I’m not so sure. What do you make of it?”

“I should make nothing of it but a log, the dusk and sleep in your eyes, if this was the first time that those eyes had been seen, but it isn’t, and Haldir beheld a strange creature with eyes climbing to the flet that night we slept in the woods, and Elves reported something like that too going after the orcs,” replied Elva, thoughtful.

“I don’t like my thoughts, but thinking of one thing and another, and Mr. Bilbo’s stories, I fancy I could put a name on the creature,” replied the hobbit, instilling a certain terror in her. She had only a vague idea of what Bilbo Baggins had been through on his journey with the dwarves, but whatever might’ve followed them from Moria was no good news.

"I'm not going to ask of your suspicions, just if we have to fear for our lives, or for the mission,” Elva said, wondering why her companion spoke of the matter specifically with her.

"According to Gandalf's thought, I believe that nothing in this journey can be considered safe, and for this I cannot be sure that what I have seen isn’t a risk, but as wise as the Lady you are in your words, since I haven’t yet discussed with Mr. Frodo about it, and I'm not sure I can divulge the details of his relative's story,” Sam replied, slightly blushing. Whether it was for the compliment just given, or for having openly admitted that he was keeping a secret from her, Elva never knew, but still advised him to talk about it with his friend, and once they came to a conclusion, to feel free to talk openly with her, since she wouldn't have mentioned anything to anyone if they didn't want to.

"For the moment, I'll just have an extra eye on it," she concluded, and no more was said that night, though Sam’s words still lingered in her mind for a long time. Was Galadriel as wise as everyone assumed and it was just her whom had misjudged her actions? Or was she a ruthless leader, devoted solely to her own lands and willing to sacrifice her people as needed? Certainly power could’ve corrupted her in far worse ways, and since the bearer of the ring was a hobbit, a being who could do nothing against an elf of that kind, if her heart had been moved by the thirst to be a worthy rival for the Enemy, she could’ve stolen it from him, by deception or by force, yet she hadn't. In conclusion, perhaps she had judged her too harshly, thanks to the fear she had towards her own King, his immense power and fickle character. If only Gandalf had still been among them, she could’ve asked for more information, as he had been the one who suggested to go to Lothlorien, certain that its Lady would offer them help and advice. With those dark thoughts lingering in her head, she fell asleep and came out of it only when Haldir shook her gently in the early morning.

“It’s a shame to wake you,” he whispered, “but it’s time.”

Sure, it was time to go, but it was time to start thinking too about when their paths would part, perhaps forever. If sleeping under the same roof and strolling through the streets of Caras Galadhon had united them, those silent journeys and those kindnesses exchanged under a black and starless sky, in a place where beauty and goodness had long been forgotten, had tightened the knot even more strongly, and Elva feared that to untie it, it would be necessary to cut something, which she was afraid, at least on her side, it would never grow back.

"You should discuss what torments your heart," Gimli said one day, when they docked to rest. After the night Sam had talked to her about the log with eyes, they had reversed their schedule, sleeping by day and travelling by night.

“It would be of no use,” she replied, while setting a rudimental camp, “for what troubles my heart is as inevitable as death itself.”

"Unheard of! A half-elf who talks about death! You will still see endless sunrises, and you will explore the world more than my long-lived race can, before reaching the sunset of your time, and yet you are here to worry about the same pains of us all," the dwarf teased, glancing sideways at Haldir. "It’s true that those who have more time don’t know how to use it.”

Elva didn’t reply, but blushed violently, and that was enough for Gloin's son.

[vkapple]

Hope

It was quiet, calm. Many wandered back and forth. Someone gave orders, someone sat at the table making jokes and stories. Many were tense, perhaps even afraid.

Nobody knew what would happen tomorrow. No one knew if they would return home. To friends, To the family.

She stood far from everyone, looking back at everyone for a few seconds. Hair is disheveled, she was all in scratches, bandages. Wounded. Her blue eyes glittered, as if the girl could cry at any moment. She closed her eyes a couple of times, warding off tears.

He spoke her name. She turned around. His gaze was full of sadness, but at the same time warmth.

—  Hello —  he said quietly.

—  Your Majesty —  She bowed her head in greeting.

He wanted come closer and put his hand on her shoulder, but he stopped halfway.

—  Please, no formalities —  he said wearily, adding her name —  I just wanted to talk a little.

She met his gaze. She lifted the corners of her lips, taking a couple of steps back.

—  Before me is the King, and if others hear how i speak to you, I think your reputation will be tarnished.

He just signed.

—  I dare to assume that now no one will eavesdrop on our conversation. Everyone has their own tasks now. I would like them to have the strength to rest and prepare for tomorrow.

—  Unless they’re happy to gossip.

He said nothing. He had only recently been able to get used to her taunts, although their last meeting was a year ago. She was too angry.

— I would be glad if you could continue to enjoy your usual calm days in Boralus.

—  I couldn't leave you ... —  She leaned against the wall, crossing her arms —  you understand that.

He did not take his eyes off her.

“I'm making you suffer again,” he whispered so softly that she wouldn't hear.

During that little conversation, many of the soldiers had already gone to bed. And the rest go about their business. Well, it looks like others are really not interested in the usual conversation between the King and his subordinate.

—  Sometimes I think what could have happened if I had done everything differently. —  She touched her black as darkness. Or fel...hair.

He remembered how she was covered in blood, begging to leave her. She had lovely brown hair, but due to the incident it was dyed black. Despite her beautiful blue eyes, which he often compares to the night sky, they were hidden that day by a veil of darkness that frightened him.

There was not a single wound on him as long as she was covered in scratches and cuts, and her clothes were covered in dust, dirt and blood.

He could save her. Help her. Even if it would have cost him his life ... But he was not allowed to do even a little.

The next thing was an execution. The people shouted and demanded justice. He stood there listening to her judgment. He had to decide her fate. Execute or have mercy....

—  The last thing I would like is to watch how you never have a choice and for this you pay too much.

—  I always have a choice —  she looked at him —  I just do and then think. If i have time for that later.

She leaned slightly away from the wall and took a step forward.

—  But sometimes you decide. Should I fall or move on. Fight or die like a dog in a ditch ... But sometimes ...

She put her hands to her face.

—  Sometimes you just keep silent and watch me and I do not know what to do in such moments. Do I need to say something? Keep silent? Leave? Hell I don't know —  she started to chatter

—  I just want you to have a choice —  he interrupted her

—  Choice? Your Highness, you must understand that I am an ordinary mongrel that you picked up from the street.

—  All people are equal and we are no exception.

—  In wars people die for you and do you think that we are all equal?

—  First of all, they die for their country and family —  Despite the anger that began to boil in him, he tried to remain calm.

— But I'm doing this to protect you! —  she hit the wall —  I have no place to return to. All I have is a debt to you, which I want to repay.

—  You always sacrifice yourself, but not return the debt. You lose everything, if it means I'll live. This is where you go wrong.

—  I do not care about myself, first of all you are the king. I am an ordinary soldier who obeys your orders. A soldier's honor is to die for the King.

—  If you’ll always sacrifice yourself, it will not be an honor, but ordinary stupidity.

He took a step forward towards her.

— If a soldier is honored to fight for the king, then it is an honor for the King to fight for these soldiers.

She could not even utter a word, just looked down.

—  Do you remember our first meeting? —  he asked.

There was a training session with recruits. She was heading towards the King. Then there should have been her first mission. She was young and scared. While her legs were carrying her, her thoughts were completely different and not there.

Something flashed from afar in her eyes. She wouldn't have noticed if she hadn't heard someone's voice. She turned and noticed the light of the young man's head. They looked straight into each other's eyes.Out of embarrassment, she was the first to look away, nervously greeting the prince. He smiled in response, but was interrupted by his father.

They later met only after the death of the King.

— I was told that when you were just learning how to use the sword, many, as the war was approaching, made riots out of fear, and when it was almost bloodshed, you calmed each side. Someone with words, and someone with fists.

—  Everyone threw out their emotions and I was no exception.

—  I can only imagine how you first arrange a fight, and then you sing with them.

—  I can't believe that you know about this either ... —  She was very embarrassed. She laughed nervously and rubbed her neck with her hand.

—  Sometimes it is necessary for a person to do something rash, then many talk about it too long —  he smiled —  I remember when you went too far with drinking, decided that it would be a great decision then to go to the New Moon Fair and ...

—  It's not my fault that the gnomes are so short as children! —  She interrupted him in desperation and looked red as a tomato.

— I thought it was quite funny how you tried to find his parents, considering him a child.

—  I had to pay him moral compensation, but I think then he forgot me, like a passing cat. —  she laughed

Finally, the anger and resentment finally evaporated.

—  Hell I would like to know your awkward stories.

— I-I think it would be too embarrassing for people to laugh at my bad deeds.—  He got nervous and looked away. His ears turned red.

—  Apart from the fact that sometimes, when we met, you stumbled or sometimes dropped everything that you had in your hands —  She sees how he covered part of his face with his palm —  I can only remember how you once asked Greymane how he experiences a trip on the water.

—  Save the light, I was very embarrassed, but I had to find out if he had seasickness or not.

—  God, this is the best that I heard then —  she was no longer hiding laughing

 —  I thought I’d go crazy without laughing. Only Greymane's fierce gaze said that if I made any sound, he would choke me.

He burned with shame as he listened to how she controlled herself not to laugh. He could see tears glistening in the corners of her eyes, and she was holding onto her stomach.

—  When you are away from business and responsibilities, you gather a lot of people around you. You hook them with your qualities and character. You find a common language with them.

—  People are drawn to you too, Your Highness, there is nothing wrong with that.

—  I'm not talking about this at all —  His heart fluttered a little — When I manage to watch you from the side, I see your real emotions. Your laughter, your anger, your clumsiness.

His hand rested on his chest.

—  But at our meetings you hide your feelings, and I rarely see the real you, like today.

—  There is a difference between us and you know it.

—  Even if you say so, let it be. But you should never sacrifice yourself. According to you, we are not equal, but you are still the same person as me. You are the person. And I'm honored to fight with you.

 She rubbed her palms together nervously. Her gaze changed from surprised to sad.

—  Someday I will be able to get a title in the war and maybe we will talk on equal terms.

—  It will take years and we both understand it.

—  I want to deserve it. Then I can proudly look you in the eye. And with this I will not darken your reputation and your name.

—  For this you do not need to achieve something. You've done enough.

— I've done too little. I want to protect you and all these people.

His heart ached and he said what he had wanted to say for so many years.

—  Then marry me...

—  Anduin! —  She in surprise uttered his name and covered her mouth with hand.

—  If my life is important to you, then ..!

She interrupted him by covering his mouth with her hands. For those few seconds, she looked around in fright in the hope that no one heard this. And she removed her palms sharply when she realized that no one had heard anything.

—  By this I meant "To tarnish your reputation", I beg your pardon for my impudence, Your Majesty.

— I won't apologize for those words, but I didn't mean to scare you.

—  I hoped until the last that you could find yourself a woman equal to your status —  her voice was shaking

Despite her reaction, she stood close enough to him. He very slowly and carefully took her palms in his. She didn't budge.

—  If you say no, I will understand everything. But this is what I will always say to you —  The King smiled

—  When you talk about your feelings, I want to be worthy of them.

—  What we have is enough for me

—  I just want people to be able to forgive me.

—  And if this happens, will you give me your answer?

She raised her eyes to him and lifted the corners of her lips.

—  I thought you knew my answer for a long time. But yes, then I will answer it.

She felt his hands grip hers a little tighter. His hands were always so tender and warm to her.

The girl slowly released her hands, after taking a couple of steps.

—  I hope then we can really talk on equal terms.

He watched her walk slowly away from him.

—  It will be enough for me that you will say my name and not my title as it was before —  he said quietly.

A warm smile lit up his face.

...

...

...

...

...

…

…

...

He wants to scream, beg.

He begs the Light to help him find her and bring her home. But no one answered.

He still remembers how he tried to grab her hand. A tear slowly rolled down her cheek. She disappeared right before his eyes. He will never believe that she is no more. Her laughter, her voice, her smile.

It would be better if he never let her go.

[scarlet-it-was]

Aftershocks

Tags up top: #world of warcraft #sylvanduin #sylvanas x anduin #older woman younger man

Set immediately post-Kingsmourne cinematic. Hastily written because it has been gnawing on my brain like Tred’ova. No betas, we die like warriors. The explicit version of this can be found here on AO3, just skip to chapter 2.

She watches his face; she can see the slightest twitch at the corner of his eye as he fights exhaustively to surface, but it’s of no use. The Jailer extracts the key from the Kingsmourne and Sylvanas is tasked with “putting away” the vessel until it is ready to be used again. Her head nods once, curtly, and her face remains unchanged as she takes over Anduin’s mind with her own banshee magic. Electric blue fades and shifts to a neon violet before she walks him from the balcony. He’s steered along several of the twisting corridors, bypassing his own prison and is taken to another. 

The lair of the Dark Lady, inasmuch as she has laid claim to in this unearthly realm, is modestly sized. Unsurprisingly, many of her personal effects are twisted and gruesome. Skulls from every race known to Azeroth and the outer realms hang on the wall in a morbid gallery. Of the items that aren’t nightmare inducing, none of them look particularly sentimental or personal, likely left on Azeroth for safe keeping. The aesthetic here is carefully and intentionally curated.

She locks the door and proceeds to remove the sword and then unclamp the heavy armor while he wobbles in place and she whispers the necessary magic to keep him under her spell. Beneath the heavily spiked pauldrons and chest plate, Anduin is still a large man, larger than she would have expected from the man she’d goaded as the ‘boy king’ for the last several years, but his presence feels far smaller. Deft hands remove the final pieces of his armor as she lets the echo of her voice trail off, allowing him to come back to himself when he is clad only in tight black pants designed to keep the leather from chafing, and a loose black shirt that served the same purpose.

As the ocean blue of his eyes returns, he gasps in a panic, and the first thing he sees is her. Anger, white hot, burning righteous fury. If he’d had enough strength to call down the light, he would have smote her where she stood. Instead, he lunges at her, and it becomes apparent why she’s taken the time to relieve him of his weapons and armaments. It’s the exact reaction she expects, and while she is confident he’ll never catch up to her to land a punch, she’s not interested in taking chances after pride had won her a new scar at the hands of Saurfang. Sylvanas dodges his strikes, and sidesteps his advances for a few tense moments before his anger turns to something he can catch.

Her face remains passive as he smashes each of the skulls that hung on the wall, demanding answers after each is splintered in a thousand shards, practically reciting everything she’d done in his memory. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have answers to give him that will satisfy the depth of the ache he feels. Sylvanas begins the process of removing her own armor while he rants and destroys her room. “You know, I will just get more to replace them, and if they aren’t available readily, I can create them myself,” she warns, but doesn’t expect it to stop the destruction.

“STOP. UNDRESSING,” he booms at her, in equal parts anger and exasperation. He’s never seen her so...undergeared. It feels too private, and entirely too intimate for the emotions swirling through him. He wins only a narrowing of her eyes as she unfastens the heavy leather strap that holds the guards for her hips and thighs. He’s nearly hysterical; it’s hard the first time, and he doesn’t have the boon of being dead to numb his emotions. No, the Jailer needs him as a living mortal within the Shadowlands. 

“Why?” he demands, as if he’s going to get a better answer than he has up until now.

Anduin rounds on her again and his face is flushed and streaked with tears. Careful, they’ll burn themselves onto your face, she can feel the chiding remark on her tongue, but for once she swallows it. She has no defense against his litany of her crimes. “Answer me, Sylvanas!”

His gaze is at once accusatory and pleading and it cuts her like the mourneblade all over again. Her memory hasn’t faded--she can feel his hurt and betrayal because she owns the same ones. Time hasn’t healed those wounds, it has only grown them into the anger and hatred she wears like armor around herself. It unpleasantly occurs to her that while he has been but a brief annoyance in her own long life, she has been a constant source of misery in his own. From the time he was young, so much has been taken. His peace, his father, his home, and now his free will; and she’s played a part in so many of those moments. Suddenly she’s finding it uncomfortable to maintain eye contact, and she lets her gaze drop.

She’s already got one foot braced and turns around in time to catch the charging Anduin solidly against her front. Sylvanas grunts when her back hits the wall, fangs bared, but she doesn’t strike back. This isn’t a man who wants more violence. She wraps her arms around him instead. “Shhh,” she hisses against his ear, holding him tightly against her while he flails to get free. He pushes at her, tries to pull away, but the attempts are half-hearted at best.

Eventually, he stops fighting and his arms go limp at his sides. Sylvanas feels him surrender, and her hold becomes less severe. She thinks back to the days her Little Moon would fling herself into Sylvanas’s arms and cry over whatever latest injustice had besieged her heart. Her memory marked them as petty endeavors compared to the broken boy she held now, but the muscle memory, at least, was helpful. His weight pressed against her made it easy to balance herself as she slid down the wall, pulling him down as well. He gave no fight, just crumbled to the ground with her, and his arms went around her waist. For a moment, she freezes and looks down at the mess of blonde hair. His head rests against her chest, which does not rise or fall, nor offer the comfort of a steady breath or heartbeat. She settles in once again, this time keeping an arm around his back while the other tugs loose the tie from his hair so she can thread her fingers through it. No words are offered--any she could say felt hollow, and certainly untrue.

Until the Maw, Sylvanas was the coldest place he’d ever known, but here, she feels like a respite--the smallest and most fragile of fires in a night that promised death from the howling wind. There isn’t much hope in it, but he clings to it nonetheless. He doesn’t expect to find himself on the floor of her room, wrapped up in the mysterious and infuriating elf, but the moment she offered him shelter instead of slaughter, he fell apart. Her fingers twine through his hair and it’s a small comfort. His eyes still burn, and so does his throat, but eventually he is able to pull himself together, in no small part due to the solid presence he rested against. He scrubs his eyes with the heel of his hand and she pauses her ministrations to allow him to do such. Her hand hovers for a moment before falling to the side when she realizes he won’t be putting his head back down.

He looks at her in earnest then. He’s never seen her out of her martial attire; she remains only in leather pants and a soft black under shirt. Sylvanas’s hair spills over her shoulders, flat from hiding beneath a hood. He’s always found her hauntingly beautiful, but nothing compared to her stripped of her war vestments and staring at him like...It wasn’t exactly compassion he saw in her eyes so much as understanding. Anduin had gained a new perspective as well--hers. 

The fact that she chose to bring him here and comfort him rather than locking him back inside his circular prison speaks volumes, but that was never enough for him, because Sylvanas is never what she seems. “Why have you brought me here?” he asks, since it certainly isn’t to apologize. She hasn’t expressed remorse, or regret.

Sylvanas lets her head drop to the side so that she’s looking at him without her head leaving the support of the wall. “Because I can not give you peace, Young Wrynn, but I can at least make sure you sleep comfortably, and dreamlessly, if you so desire,” she drawls. Afterall, she has no use for her bed, she doesn’t require sleep and when she does sleep, it’s more out of habit or boredom. As she speaks, he feels her brace her feet and she lifts both of them, though this time with his help. She leads him to the bed and eases him down as though he is a broken thing.*

She sees him start to speak again, and she knows the question before it comes out. She stops it by pressing two cold fingers against his lips. “Shh, there is nothing to be done about it,” she tells him matter of factly. “Not yet. Be patient, little lion. The threads of fate are frayed and unravelling. Soon we will weave our own.” Sylvanas doesn’t remove her fingers from his lips, but rests her forehead against his with her eyes closed. “And no one will ever control us again,” she says, trying to convince him as much as she is trying to convince herself. Her fingertips and head lift at the same time and she leans forward to press a kiss on his brow, imbuing him with an irresistible urge to sleep. “Rest now,” she murmurs, settling him in the throng of pillows as he slowly blinks, trying and failing to stay awake. Her hand smooths over his forehead once more, pushing slightly faded gold locks out of his face in a tender gesture he won’t remember by the time he wakes. “It won’t get any easier from here.”

[ink-and-flame]

Kinktober Day 11 : The Other Grom [WARCRAFT M/M]

Kinktober Day 11 Prompts: Hand jobs (receiving) ~ Wrestling ~ Flogging (heavy) Fandom: Warcraft Tags: Exophilia, m/m, hand jobs, wrestling, dom/sub themes, swallowing cum, blowjobs, rough oral sex, cum marking, slight blood Pairing: Grom/Thrall

[Author’s note: This came in as a request after I wrote SubThrall with Anduin and I wasn’t sure what day would fit until I had a second look at the ones that were free and day 11 just worked for me. I had initially tried to cram this somewhere in the Warcraft 3 timeline, but I forgot how much of an idiot sammich Grommash was then and I couldn’t quite find a good place for it so I figured, eh, the Iron Horde version of Grom works too. So that is what I did. Also I couldn’t really figure out how to get flogging in there so I cut it from the list, but 2 out of 3 ain’t bad.]

What led Thrall to this decision, to this choice, was a series of events he never could have foreseen. There was also a considerable amount of guilt as well, but he pushed that down, deep down inside of himself. He had to believe that his decision had been right, that it was the only one he could make. He had to believe that Garrosh’s words held no truth at all to them, because if they did then perhaps he made a grave mistake. A mistake that could never be undone, a choice that could never be taken back. 

They had defeated the fel armies, the Iron Horde was no longer a threat or an enemy. This other version of Grommash was actually a somewhat refreshing change from the Grom he knew in the past. Though that didn’t stop Thrall from missing his old friend and seeking something with this alternate version that he had never had. His love for Grom, his own Grom, had run deep and blurred the lines of friendship. This new Grom, well he was just different enough that Thrall felt ok with the familiar feelings bubbling up inside of him. This new Grom was definitely something else.

This was a Grommash that was calm, composed, rational, it was a little strange and Thrall wondered if his own Grom had never been corrupted, would this be how he ended up. Would Garrosh have had a chance at being great like Thrall had hoped he would be. Those thoughts plagued Thrall, along with others he dare not share. It was how he found himself standing in front of the red portal, not long after most had gone home. It wouldn’t hurt to go back and check, just this one, make sure that everything really was ok before leaving that world to its own fate. 

Taking a breath and Thrall stepped forward, the lurching in his body somewhat painful as he landed on the other side. It was strange how different everything looked, but they hadn’t been gone for that long. It made Thrall curious and he moved on seeking the new leader of the Mag’har, or at least Thrall assumed Grom would lead anyway.

It took Thrall a bit to find the new encampment and he was impressed by how much had been accomplished, impressed and a little confused. There were a few moments where Thrall had to question his sanity just a little bit but maybe he would have answers when he found Grom. Which when he finally did he became even more confused. Something about Grom seemed a bit off and Thrall couldn’t place it. Though it felt good when Grommash looked happy to see him and clasped his arm pulling him into a hug. 

“It has been a while. I wasn’t sure if we would ever see any of you or your Horde again, are you here alone?” Grommash tugged Thrall towards a large tent. “Come, you are just in time for food.”

“A while? How long?” This was concerning, if time passed differently between their worlds it might not be safe to go back and forth. He would have to speak to someone in the bronze dragon flight to see if they had answers. 

“A few years, why?” Grom tilted his head looking a little confused but not too put out. 

“It didn’t seem as long from our side.” Thrall didn’t feel comfortable lying, so he told a half truth. Something he did well. 

“Magic, who knows with that shit. Come, eat, drink.” 

Grommash seemed different. Calmer than before, more happy, and it was a little strange to say the least. Thrall wasn’t used to it, but he liked it. Though there was still and edge to Grom, something in his eyes told Thrall that maybe he wasn’t as calm as he appeared. 

The food and the company were both enjoyable. Thrall found himself laughing and feeling lighter as he spoke with the Mag’har, orcs from different clans come together to form one. There was much laughter, boisterous and loud. Singing, even dancing. Thrall wasn’t sure what was being celebrated, if anything. Perhaps it was simply a love of life, or an enjoyment of peace. 

Thrall had been entranced by everything around him, he had missed Grom staring at him, almost suspiciously. When he finally noticed his blue eyes widened a bit. Swallowing down the last of his drink Thrall cleared his throat.

“Is everything alright Hellscream?”

“Come, ride with me.” 

Grommash stood and gestured for Thrall to follow him outside, leading him over to some stables and getting Thrall a fresh wolf to ride. Snowsong was enjoying a meal and taking a much needed rest at the moment. Mounting up Thrall let Hellscream lead, curious as to where they would go. The ride was a little longer than anticipated and Thrall grew worried. Something started to feel a little off. 

 When they finally stopped Thrall waited until Grommash got off his wolf to do the same. Walking over to the brown skinned orc Thrall was careful to keep his expression neutral. Even if he was a little worried.

“I know, you know. I know who you are, sort of. I know you aren’t who you say you are at least.” Grom turned to Thrall, yellow eyes narrowed slightly.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Stop. I know who he was. The stranger. I just don’t know how.”

Thrall sucked in a breath and sighed, rubbing his face. “I don’t think there is an easy explanation, even I do not fully understand it. Do you really need to know?”

Grommash looked away. “Was he really my son?”

Now Thrall was uncomfortable. “Yes, and no. He was the son of another named Grommash, but he was not your son.”

Hellscream turned and looked at Thrall, this time with more curiosity than suspicion. “Did you know this other Grommash?”

Thrall nodded. “I did, quite well actually. We were close, he was one of my dearest friends. I was there when he died. I held him, as he died.” The raw emotion in Thralls voice would be hard to miss. Even after all this time, thinking on that moment, when the life left Groms eyes, it still hurt some part of him. Maybe the pain was new and fresh again because of what happened with Garrosh, or that another version was standing next to him.

“Did he look like me?” 

It was a curious question and Thrall shook his head. “Not really. I mean yes, of course, but also again no. His whole jaw was black, his skin was green, his eyes red. His body was a bit thinner in some ways. I think the fel taint did something to him. It changed his body and sometimes he was bigger, others smaller, it depends on how long it had been since he drank of it. The hair was almost the same. I think yours might be a slight bit fuller, but you both wore it quite long and almost identical.”

Grommash hummed and was staring at Thrall again, this time with a slight smile. “So which of us is better looking?”

Thrall balked leaning back and looking at Grom with wide blue eyes. He coughed and shook his head. “I, um. What?”

“Don’t be a pussy, who is better looking. Me or the other me?” Grom was smirking now

Thrall had to think, objectively think. “You are both attractive orcs in  your own way.”

“Really? I think you are just not wanting to admit that there is a difference between being attractive, and being attracted, and you are attracted. So, who is better looking. It's me isnt it?”

Thrall laughed loudly and just nodded. “Yes, fine, it is you.” Really to him they were both attractive to him, but this Grom was here, was alive, and it felt good. So maybe stroking that ego would actually get him somewhere this time. 

“I bet I am stronger too.” 

“Stronger than him? Hm, possibly. Stronger than me? No.” Now Thrall was the one smirking and crossed his arms across his chest. 

What Thrall wasn’t expecting was for Grommash to leap towards him and push him back. At first he thought it was an attack, until he saw the smile and the glint in Grom’s eyes. He grappled the brown skinned orc and found that their strength was pretty evenly matched. They were both in their prime, trained fighters, and while Thrall had the elements on his side they were quiet and he wanted to test himself. 

The grappling soon became wrestling as they rolled on the ground trying to get the other to submit. For a while it looked like Thrall just might best Grommash, but slowly, every so slowly, Thrall found himself on his back more and more often and for longer periods. He was struggling to get his feet under him, or to throw Grom off. It had been a while since he had wrestled another orc like this and it was thrilling. 

He got Grom into a hold, his knee in the other orcs back as he tried to get Grom to tap out by choking him. Somehow Grom managed to get a grip and bucked Thrall off, tossing him off to the side. Thrall rolled trying to get to his feet but was knocked back as Grom launched from a crouched position. 

Back on the ground, rolling, grunting, straining. Thrall found that he was becoming aroused and when Grommash had him on his stomach, there was a moment he was tempted to tap out just to preserve his own dignity. At least until he felt something hard pressing into the back of his thigh as Grommash held him down. Thrall wiggled and tried to get free, but could not and now he was distracted.

“Submit Thrall, submit to me.” Grom’s voice was deep, husky, a low growl in the other orcs ear. 

Thrall felt himself throb. There was no way to hide it now. His robes might have hidden it before, but not now. Feeling a bit petulant he huffed. “Make me.”

“You’d like that. Wouldn’t you?” 

There was something in Grom’s tone that made Thrall pause. Panic filled him slightly as he realized that this Grommash could very easily be connecting some dots that Thrall would prefer he did not. 

“Did you submit, for him?” 

“No.” 

“Why not?”

Thrall sighed and growled as he tried to wiggle free but found that Grom really did have him well and truly pinned. “I never got the chance.” It was as close to the truth as Thrall would say.

“Hmm, well I am not him. Which you are lucky since I am clearly the better looking one, but I can give you what he didn’t. Again, proving I am just better.”

Thrall laughed, but it wasn’t a joyful one. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why not?” Grom moved his arm, getting a better grip on Thrall so he could pull the other orc up on his knees. 

This time Grom pressed himself against Thrall’s ass and pushed his hips in a slow and deliberate grind. Not ready to release the other orc in case Thrall tried to escape. 

At a bit of a loss for words, and quite angry at his traitorous dick Thrall found himself relaxing just slightly in Grom’s hold. It did feel good. Arms so different and weirdly familiar, a voice that if he closed his eyes was just close enough to fool his mind. Why not let go, why not see what happened? Why not submit?

“You are too quiet Thrall. If a line has been crossed, Say so.”

“We never, I never, not with him.”

“But you wanted to, didn’t you? I can feel it, I can smell it on you. You wanted this from him, he never gave it to you, I am offering, so why not take it?” Grom questioned his grip loosening enough to slip one hand down and grope the front of Thrall’s robe. 

The hardness he found there made him smile, it made him want this even more. This powerful green orc was something unique, different, and he wanted Thrall, but he wanted Thrall to submit to him. Pushing at the belt holding the robe closed Grom was able to loosen it enough to slip a hand in and fondle Thrall through his loincloth. 

“Awfully quiet there. You want it, so tell me Thrall, what is stopping you.”

Giving in Thrall bucked into Grom’s hand. His reservations and hesitance bleeding away from him as he thrust his hips forward seeking stimulation. Hands reaching back he gripped Grom’s hips, pulling the other orc closer to him, wanting to feel Grom’s arousal. 

“Nothing, nothing is stopping me.” Thrall gave in. Grom could have whatever he wanted, could take whatever he needed to. 

“Good.” Grom scraped his tusks along the side of Thrall's neck and tugged hard on the green orcs' loincloth, tearing it.

Pushing the scraps of fabric aside Grom gripped Thrall’s hard cock stroking it slowly, his thumb brushing over the already wet tip. Lips turned up in a smile as  he could feel Thrall trying to stay still and failing, the smallest movement of his hips was enough. 

“Give into it. Your pleasure is mine to give. You feel good, because I want you to feel good. Remember that.” Grom growled and nipped Thrall’s ear. “Just be glad what I want right now is for you to feel pleasure.”

Thrall moaned, losing the battle with himself and giving in. Arching up he thrust his hips into Grom’s hand, hesitantly at first. His rhythm stuttered and jerky as he hesitated just a bit. Wasn’t this wrong? Wasn’t he using this Grom to make up for what he never had with the one he lost, the one he loved? He was thinking too much and what he wanted more than anything was to let go and just enjoy this. 

“That’s right. Move your hips. Fuck my hand. I want you to bring yourself to orgasm using my hand, and you better do it quick or I might just leave you like this.” 

Gasping Thrall sped up his hips, thrusting faster and harder into Grom’s tight fist. He could feel his balls tingling, pulling up slightly as his cock twitched in the rough calloused hand that felt so much better than his own. His moans were getting louder as he gave into this, gave into the pleasure he was feeling. 

Before long Thrall was cumming with a loud cry, his hips snapping forward hard as his cock swelled and pumped rope after rope of cum into Grom’s fist and onto his robes and the ground. Thrall was panting just slightly when he felt Grom’s hand near his mouth.

“Clean it, and you better be thorough.” Grom snarled. 

Obediently Thrall licked at Grom’s hand, sucking his own seed from the fingers, and lapping it off the palm. Tasting himself wasn’t completely unusual, he had done it before. Never quite like this and the situation had usually been something a little different, but this time he liked it. Not so much the taste as the experience. 

“Stay on  your knees.” Grom stood up and moved in front of Thrall. 

Pants already undone and cock out Grom held it in front of Thrall’s face. “Lick it, kiss it, show me you want it.”

There was no hesitation as Thrall leaned forward and did as commanded. His thick tongue dragging up the shaft and over the head, kissing the tip reverently before moving back down to lap and suck at Grom’s balls. When the other orc grunted Thrall moved in sucking a little harder before sliding his tongue back up to the tip, his hand coming up to cup Grom and squeeze his thick heavy balls. 

“Fuck, and here I thought you wouldn’t know what you were doing.” Grom pushed his cock towards Thrall’s mouth. “You are going to suck it, you are going to suck my dick like you need air to breath Thrall, and you aren’t going to stop until I am satisfied. Understand?”

Thrall nodded as he licked over the shaft and head. He had not actually sucked all that much dick in his life, but this time he was more than eager to try and he wanted to impress Grom. Of course he did, but more than that, he needed this.

Grom grabbed the back of Thrall’s head and pushed his cock forward into Thrall’s open mouth, sliding in until he felt resistance. He would let Thrall have some control, just for a bit, but he fully intended to fuck Thrall’s face and that made Grom eager as his balls twitched in anticipation. He knew if he just started fucking Thrall’s throat he would cum quickly, something he didn’t want to do. He wanted to drag this out, something inside told him this would be his only chance for this. 

Grunting he looked down to see blue eyes looking back up at him as Thrall obediently bobbed his head taking in inch by inch of thick brown cock. It was a beautiful sight to behold. Those thick tusks, surrounding his shaft. Those incredibly, almost haunting, bright blue eyes. Grom wanted to ruin Thrall, to break him down and build him back up again. For now, this would have to do. 

It was hard to resist, thrusting into that tight throat, but somehow Grom did. He let Thrall continue to work his shaft. That tight throat massaging the tip of him, the gentle sucking, the way those thick fingers tugged at his heavy balls. Grom was in fucking heaven, but he still wanted more. 

“You are doing such a good job, but I need more. You are going to want to take a deep breath Thrall. I am going to use your mouth and throat how I want, and you are going to be obedient and let me. Aren’t you?”

Thrall nodded and relaxed his position slightly, angling to give Grom better access. This would make it easier to take that thick cock further down his throat. It was a trick he learned from Vol’jin and honestly thought he would never need to use again. He let out a muffled sound of surprise as Grom thrust into his throat as promised, but it was a little deeper and harder than he had been prepared for. 

Breathing through his nose, Thrall made himself relax more as he closed his eyes, letting Grom use him like this. His own cock was hard again, painfully so, and leaking. He was tempted to touch himself but didn’t he hadn’t been told he could. He wanted to be obedient, to show Grom that he could listen and obey. 

“Fuck you got a tight throat. Open your eyes Thrall. Look at me.” Grom tugged sharply at Thrall’s ear until those blue eyes opened. “I want you to burn this into your mind. NEVER forget that it is me, not him, me, that you are doing this for. I am the one you are on your knees for. I am the one that is fucking your throat like my own personal toy. And I am the one that brought you pleasure. Me. Not. Him.” Grom snarled and snapped his hips forward hard.

He watched as Thrall gagged on the full length of his cock, carefully keeping an eye on him to make sure he wasn’t hurting him too much or suffocating him. He could see Thrall’s eyes rolling back just a bit and eased up, pulling himself out a few inches, but he was ready to cum and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could drag this out. 

“Good, so good Thrall. You took all of it, I am so proud. Can you do it again. I want to be fully buried in your throat when I cum. Just nod if you can.” Grom’s smile was dangerous, but delighted when he saw the determined look in those blue eyes and the firm nod.

Gripping Thrall tight by the back of the head Grom pumped his hips fast a few time and the slammed his full length deep in Thrall’s throat. His cock swelling as he came hard with a roar. Pulling out suddenly he finished himself on Thrall’s face, coating the kneeling orc in his seed as he smiled down at him. 

“You look so pretty covered in my cum like that. It’s how I always want you. You are mine now Thrall, and no matter where you are or who you are with, that will never change.” Grom used a thumb to rub his seed into Thrall’s cheek, marking the green orc with his scent. 

Thrall stayed on his knees looking up at Grom. A part of him never wanted to leave, never wanted to go back home, even though he knew he had to. He wanted to hold onto this for as long as possible. He tugged open the top of his robe, baring his chest, neck, and shoulder. 

“If you mean to mark me, then do it, or quit posturing.” There was something fierce and defiant in Thralls eyes, a challenge. 

Grom did not like to be challenged and while he knew this could go badly, he didn’t care. Leaning down while yanking Thrall up he snarled and dug his long sharp tusks deep into green flesh, tasing blood. He worried at the wound, wanting to make sure there was no mistaking this scar for what it was. Thrall’s moans only drove him on as he stayed latched on long enough that even with healing, it would never fully go away. Pulling back Grom looked into Thrall’s eyes.

“Mine. Not his. MINE.”

[pooktales]

Greymane’s Garters

I made up a fake history because ‘Greymane’s Garters’ is so fun to say and imagine. Enjoy!

The Order of the Grey Garter, more popularly known as "Greymane's Garters", has origins comingled in Human myth and legend. It is now considered somewhat ridiculous, as it instantly conjures a mental image of the noble King Greymane of Gilneas, him covered head to toe in white fur as he is in Worgen form, but for some reason wearing a pink-and-gray frilly woman's garter strapped to his leg.

Image: from ebay (only 1 left!)

This, I assure you, Greymane's Garters are not! They are hardly a male Worgen lingerie trend, but an order of noble knights and also so much more. Firstly, female Worgen find themselves members of this ancient order as well. Secondly, the garter is only a symbol--today it is often worn around the arm at ceremony or as a badge, a flat pink-and-gray belt coiled in a hoop and showing its buckle, that it was once considered part of suit of armor to help keep plate buckled over the legs. Only attend a Greymane's Garters initiation and see for yourself and you can be assured of this. The members proudly wear very little but their fur, to show they have at least embraced their Worgen side (this is a subject of contention even within this royal order, but they at least agree fur is alright). So the wearing of yes, admittedly, skimpy clothing to show off fur and the traditional garter around the leg is a thing. But if it is not buckled around the leg, then it goes proudly on the arm above the bicep, or on a cape--it may look strange indeed to the unschooled, but it is an honorable form of dress. Greymane’s Garters are not 'furries in SM gear' whatever the modern youth mean by that. A Greymane's Garter would maw you and strap you to a pole or a bedframe or some other handy torture device if they ever heard you calling their order a low-key furry headcanon, never that.

Military History

The order was first formed in the Second War. Under pressure to conform to the standards and military norms of the Alliance of Lordaeron, Gilnean leadership made a pledge that they would stay a distinct force as far as they could, focused solely on the political advantage of their own kingdom. As such, they felt a need to distinguish their military leaders on the battlefield with a brand that could not be overtaken by the blue and gold Alliance regalia. Their other goal was to remind their soldiers that their home kingdom, Gilneas, should always be the priority. Of course, this manifested itself in only a token support force sent to aid the Alliance at that time, all of them good-looking men in excellent polished plate, saying things like 'What ho!' and also 'Get gabbin' or get goin!' which were practiced phrases to deflect accountability. They made it subtly clear that they were only interested in doing those tasks for the Alliance that would further Gilnean interests. And they defiantly wore their pink, gray and white garters high up their thighs. The grey garter became an emblem of their stalwart resistance to Alliance assimilation. The effort was a great success from the Gilnean perspective. Not long after the first Greymane's Garters arrived in Lordaeron, the Alliance despaired at them, actually, and didn't prod the Gilnean King for any more his "help". And then the Greymane’s Garters went back home after the conflict and eventually the Gilnean wall went up too, which certain Alliance leaders were pretty relieved for, even if they couldn’t say it. The wall also had the effect of ‘keeping it over on their side’.

Mythical Origins

The more mythical origins of the Greymane’s Garters involve a magical Grey Lady who walked out of the Emerald Dream one evening in the forests of Gilneas, accompanied by gray feydragons. Everything she touched turned into a gray mist. A knight set out to slay her, believing she was a witch, but instead, she mesmerized him and inspired him to gather his fellow knights to return to her and perform a great task that would, she said 'Make little sense now, but will mean everything to saving your kin' in the far future. They Great Grey Knight then returned to the mists as the Grey Lady bade him, with three axemen, five lancers, and twenty-six cavalry men. And then, standing in a circle, she gave them all the garters of their order to wear, attaching them to their legs and buckling each to cinch proud and tight. And then she showed them a traditional dance. It was the gray dance of death that much empahsized squats and lunges with the legs, later used to train King Greymane's personal guard for ages, who one day kept him alive during the conflict with Sylvanas.

Competing accounts say the first Greymane’s Garters never learned a fighting technique, but they did serve her special gray ritual wine made from special silver grapes. And she made them grill her delicious capon and venison for supper. In exchange for that, what she taught the knights was how to create a 'Grey Garter', a special kind of powdered sugar dough dessert that is made in loops of pastry. This sparkling gray dough dessert was passed down in the Gilnean court and would still be cooked today if not for the disruption, again, of Sylvanas laying waste to Gilneas.

Modern Findings

Today, historians cannot find any real evidence connecting the myth of the Grey Lady to the military dance of Greymane's personal guard. (If it can even be considered a dance.) Nor can they say with confidence that a legend of that era really would be an elaborate way to convey a few cooking recipes involving gray food. Most recent research makes a more practical suggestion as to the actual events concerning the Grey Lady. That is, the knights soon discovered the Grey Lady was in fact a witch, or at least a very strange woman with the skill of a pressure salesman and a lot of mist handy where she happened to live in the forest. She clearly had a thing for knights wearing garters so halfway through their weird dinner-date, the men who weren't drunk and drugged off their feet got together and slayed her. They vowed, there and then, to come up with a better story for what happened and be 'reborn in blood'. From there on, the 'grey garter' story became a joke among the Gilnean nobility descended from these surviving knights, and when an opportunity eventually came up during the Second War to give the Alliance of Lordaeron the proverbial middle finger for making them provide aid against the Orcs, the Gilnean nobility reached back for the 'grey garters' story, layered some more meaning in it, and then made it a part official military dress. As an in-joke among the Gilnean crusty uppercrust. The rest, as they say, is history.

Motto

The motto "reborn from blood" has passed into common parlance of course, though many Gilneans may not even realize it. One often meets a Gilnean or a Worgen who, thinking of the turmoil their people have endured, make the remark that Gilneas will be reborn from the blood of their enemies. This derives from none other than the Greymane’s Garters.

Source: wish.com

The Ribbon

As you can see, the ribbon itself has changed over time. First, in the era of the Grey Lady myth, it was a very tribal-looking chevron in white, pink and gray colors. Later, it was a bold pink-and-gray plaid. Even later, due to lack of resources and the loss of the kingdom to Sylvanas' forces, it was mainly the sort of spider's silk, large swaths of pink ribbon were easier to come by in Darnassus where most Gilnean refugees settled.

The pink color of the Darnassian iteration (also referred to as the Gilnean diaspora, so show some respect) isn't "girly" as some consider it. First of all, pink is a color, it doesn't “belong” to anyone. Second of all, the whole thing was going to be abandoned when the order was re-formed after the fall of Gilneas recently, but many of the prouder Worgen members insisted it was also the color of roses, or raw meat or flesh, which connects back to that side of the Gilnean experience. Gray connects back with Greymane and white is the color of a new moon, of hope, of Greymane's own fur hide. So they keep all the colors, pink, gray and white, intermingled whether in the traditional plaid pattern or the primal, very bold chevron that can be easily seen strapped to a Gilnean's leg across the battlefield. Or, yes. In frilly Darnassian pink if that's what's available.

Notable Members of Greymane's Garters

King Archibald Greymane

King Genn Greymane (current sovereign)

Princess Tess Greymane

Queen Mia Greymane

Lord Darius Crowley

Lorna Crowley

Lord Vincent Godfrey (posthumously stripped of rank due to treason)

Speculation

It is rumored that King Anduin Wrynn has been offered a place in the Greymane’s Garters (with a special exception made for his devotion to Stormwind of course). However, Greymane is most likely still awaiting confirmation that Anduin will accept. Undoubtedly he will, of course! Anduin’s biggest reservation is said to be ‘Wait, aren’t those guys a furry group that wears underwear on the outside? This is for real?’ Though SI: 7 refuses to comment on whether the the young king actually said this. It may be that Genn is waiting for Anduin to mature some more before offering Greymane’s Garter again. Or, it may be that other rumors are true, that Anduin is prepared to make his own royal order of garter-wearing knights if he has to, to get out of wearing fancy underwear given to him by Greymane.

Because, of course, two garters on both of Anduin’s legs, ontop of his armor? One leg pink and the other blue? That would look completely ridiculous and anyone would obviously agree.

Unless you are a proud member of Greymane’s Garters that is!!

-fin-