#captainderyn does fictober

[captainderyn]

Fictober Day 5: 5. "No, anything but that."

Prompt: 5. “No, anything but that.”

Genre: Fanfiction (LOTRO)

Rating: T

Pairings: Wulfwryn/Raenor

CW: None

---

Healers always made the worst sick patients. 

Wulfwryn came to this unfortunate realization as a cold snuck up on Raenor. 

At first, it was a slight tickle in his throat that he wrote off as the tree pollen and changing of seasons. 

    Then it was a runny nose that he claimed was the fault of the chilling autumn wind at night. 

    And then the coughing started and his misery set in. And when his misery set in, he was downright pitiful. 

    The way he sat now on the bed, clutching a mug of steaming, poignantly scented peppermint tea, made him look like quite the sad sack. 

    Wulfwryn could smell the bite of the peppermint as she slipped back into their room at the Prancing Pony. Though he’d moaned and groaned about stopping, she’d insisted that the longer they traveled in the harsh elements the longer it would take for him to get over this cold. He’d then grumbled that he never got sick, and she reminded him he’d spent the last hundred years or so in the confines of Rivendell. 

    Human cities had germs abundant. Traveling had contagens aplenty. The autumns in Bree-land were known to be harsh enough to fell even the hardest person to a case of the sniffles. 

    Raenor stubbornly insisted that he did not intend to use up any of his precious supply of tinctures or other supplies to fix this pesky ailment. Though she loved how he worried for their wellbeing on the road, she and he did not see eye to eye that sometimes the now was more useful than the what-if. 

    He most certainly would prefer his wildflower-honey sweetened tinctures to what she carried with her in a little pouch. 

    “I’m baaack.” She sing-song-ed by way of greeting, letting the door clink closed behind her.

    “‘Lo ‘love’d.” Raenor garbled through his stuffy nose and raspy voice. 

    “You sound dreadful.” Wulfwryn proclaimed as she stoked the fire, warding off the chill that threatened to come in through the windows. Though Butterbur did what he could to upkeep the rickety inn, the stubborn breeze sneaking through the cracks of the window was inevitable. 

    Raenor grunted in either agreement or general grumbling, she couldn’t decipher it. 

    She plopped down on the bed next to him, pulling her pouch onto her lap. From it she procured a bundle of garlic and a knife. 

    The elf beside her wrinkled his nose, peering at her over his mug of tea like she’d lost her mind. 

    “Since your so insistent on seeing this cold thru, this will speed up the process.” Wulfwryn shuckled one of the cloves off of the bundle. She peeled it and chopped off the hard ends. 

    The strong odor of garlic mixed with the sharp peppermint around them. 

    Raenor empathetically shook his head, “Bo. Bobsolutely bot.” 

    A mucus-y cough wracked through him, thoroughly convincing Wulfwryn that this was the only way. 

    “I cross my heart, this works.” She insisted, waving the clove of garlic in the air, “You just gotta chew it and get all the goodness out of it.” 

    The look he gave her was absolutely smoldering, brows drawn low over his eyes. Even his ears seemed to droop, “Anything but that.” he grumbled. 

    “You had the option for everything but this.” Gesturing to the empty mugs on the bedside table and the nearly-drained jar of honey she’d got from one of the hobbits in Staddle, she waved the garlic, “This is it.” 

    Raenor glowered at her as she held the garlic out to him, “That is not a remedy.” 

“Ugh!” Wulfwryn gave him a look, “Stubborn healer! Set down your tea and eat the stupid garlic.” 

“Folktales don’t count.” he said petulantly. 

“You are a folktale to the hobbits!” She shot back and his glower deepened. Clearly he still remembered the gaggle of hobbits that had gathered round him in Hobbiton the first time they’d rode in. 

She added, “If you don’t chew this garlic it’s going in your next cup of tea.” 

“Ick.” he protested, but grabbed it from her outstretched hand and popped it into his mouth. 

His face scrunched together at the overpowering taste, his ears violently flicking in displeasure. 

“There you go!” Wulfwryn giggled, “It’ll work I swear. And tell you what, I’ll even kiss you.” 

She pecked him on the lips, whispering, “Even though you have stinky garlic breath.” 

The curse he growled at her was garbled by his cold and finished off with a note of garlic. 

[captainderyn]

Fictober Day 4: “How would that even work?”

Prompt: 4. “How would that even work?”

Genre: Fanfiction (LOTRO)

Pairing: Wulfwryn/Raenor

Warnings: None

--

The night was quiet inside Gondor’s white walls.

Enough hours had passed since the sun sank beneath the horizon that activity had all but ceased for the night. Those who were active under the light of the moon kept to themselves, conscientious of the still air around them. 

Wulfwryn and Raenor still lay awake in her modest stone home, bundled beneath quilts and blankets against the slight chill riding in on the coattails of autumn. Wulfwryn had been saying for months that she wanted to move outside the walls, into the countryside like where she’d grown up. Yet her job kept her tethered to the city for now. 

This would be his last visit for the season, as snow began to cover the passes between Imladris and Gondor. 

Though they knew this routine well, Raenor still pulled Wulfwryn close when she inevitably sniffled. Very rarely did she tell him not to leave, though sometimes he wished she would. Simply so he could have a reason to not feel pulled back to Imladris. 

The words did not leave Wulfwryn tonight, yet Raenor murmured into her hair, “I’m thinking of staying.” 

Wulfwryn paused from where she stroked her fingers through his hair, seeming to hold her breath, “Staying…here?” 

He caught her hand, pulling it from his hand and interlacing their fingers. Their twin silver rings caught the moonlight streaming in from the window, pooling in the matching deep green gems. 

A promise they’d made to each other, back in the hot months of summer. Long enough had passed from the end of the War, they’d known they weren’t acting off the high of victory and survival. 

This was not a decision they’d discussed lightly. It was a lifetime commitment for Wulfwryn, an eternity of love and mourning for him. Elves did not marry for life. They married for life and beyond. 

And a year since that first promise, that first swearing of commitment, was upcoming after the coldest months. 

He held her hand tight, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. 

“I want to stay here with you. I don’t wish to chase the sun back to Imladris tomorrow.” 

Wulfwryn was silent, though she nestled closer to him, draping her leg over his hips and resting her cheek against his heart. 

“How would that even work…?” The quiet hope in her voice opened an ache in his heart and he trailed his other hand down her back before cradling her head. 

“I send a missive back to Imladris that I don’t intend to return back until spring, where, with your blessing, my betrothed will be by my side. There we can have our joining feast before the rest of my kindred head into the West.” 

Her silence was thoughtful before she pulled the covers tighter around them, “You would stay here over the winter?” 

“Mhm.” 

“And after that you would be my husband?” 

“And you would be my wife.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. 

Wulfwryn hummed, and he felt her smile, “Perfect.” 

[captainderyn]

Fictober Day 1: “I Chose You”

Fandom: LOTRO

Rating: Teen and Up

Warnings: None

Relationship: Wulfwryn & Aragorn (Friendship)

Posted to AO3

---

Wulfwryn thought the day the Nazgul stole Amdir from her was the day her world crumbled. Finding Amdir laid, bloody and sickly, on that altar, watching him writhe and rise again in untold evil, ruined her worse than she thought she could be. 

    With the loss of Amdir also came the loss of Strider, as he rode for the Prancing Pony on his own business, leaving her to tie up her loose ends in east Bree-land. 

    Buckland hummed with the soft noise of nightfall. Insects buzzed, fish darted to the surface of the pond she trotted by in a symphony of natural harmony. 

    Lenglinn’s camp rested on a hill above the pond, the dark shadow of his tent alerting her to his exact location despite the darkening sky and deepening shadows. 

    A report was already flowing from her before her horse had fully halted, “Strider says the hobbit with him is known as Underhill, not as Baggins. He sent me back to you to aid however I can, sir.” 

She slid off of her horse, exhaustion taking root in her bones as her feet hit the ground. As she undid the buckles and straps of her horse’s tack, she listened halfheartedly to what she wrongfully assumed would be an acknowledgement and some instruction for the morning. 

“You say that Underhill is with Aragorn?” Lenglinn pulled himself up from the ground, the injury he’d sustained in Chetwood still healing slowly, “I know of no Underhills…I was sent to watch over a hobbit named Baggins. I must assume that is who Aragorn spoke off…” 

His words washed over Wulfwryn, fading into static after that name. That name.

Her fingers fumbled on the straps, sending her saddle’s girth flopping to the ground.

“Who do you mean, Aragorn?” she asked numbly, “Strider gave you those orders.”

Lenglinn trailed off, blinking owlishly at her for a long moment. 

“Who do you mean Aragorn?” she repeated with more force, “The man I know has gone only by Strider!” 

If he was…if that name. Cold was washing over her despite the heat of the fire pulsing beside them. If for two months now she’d walked right beside the very man she’d abandoned everything to find. Abandoned her posting, her family, her life on the desperate rumor that he still lived. 

“Strider is his name to the common-folk around here.” Lenglinn said slowly, “He has his reasons for secrecy.” 

Wulfwryn slowly nodded, covering her saddle with the saddle blanket and placing the bridle and martingale alongside it with controlled neatness. 

“What else do you have for me to do?” she asked, pressing her lips together. Filing away the news that shook her deep into her bone marrow to deal with later. 

For now, finding the pattern of the Nazgul was what she understood. What she knew. 

Even if she felt like she didn’t know anything at all. 

---

Barlim Butterbur must’ve seen something in Wulfwryn’s face as she breezed through the door of the Prancing Pony, for he didn’t offer her a lick of food or drink. Instead he gestured towards the stairs and muttered, “Strider’s up there.” 

 As she stormed up the stairs, pausing at Striders familiar door, Wulfwryn couldn’t decide what emotion caused her hands to quiver and her mind to run in circles. 

She pushed open the door and made sure it closed tightly behind her. 

“Wulfwryn!” Aragorn greeted her, pausing when he saw her stormy expression. 

“You knew.” Her voice wavered despite her best attempts to keep it steady, “You listened to me talk about where I came from and you hid from me.” 

Understanding dawned overAragorm and he squeezed his eyes closed, “Tell me, did Lenglinn slip?” 

“You’re Aragorn, son of Arathorn.” Wulfwryn’s voice dropped, drifting somewhere in the gray between awe and pain, “My rightful king. And you hid.” 

“I am not!” He was quick to respond, but grit his teeth at the bite in his words, “I do not embrace that side of my history, my so-called destiny.” 

All of the time she’d questioned whether abandoning her post, her duty, her people, was the right decision was finally falling into place in sweet validation. She realized then that it was not an emotion that caused her to shake, but sheer emotion. A culmination of years worth of hopeless wandering and barely reputable leads. 

It didn’t matter if he threw away the crown, refusing to bear the weight that it carried. 

    Her knee hit the ground and she bowed her head, hands coming to rest on the pommel of her sword. She hadn’t taken this fealty pose since she’d been sworn on to the guardianship of the White City. 

    “Wulfwryn,” Aragorn insisted, a flustered edge taking hold of his words. He backed up a step, “This is unnecessary. I am no king to Gondor.” 

    She shook her head, “I don’t care about that.” she clenched her fingers tighter to stop their quaking, “If I had known…I left the place I was sworn to protect, on the desperate hope that somewhere you were still out there, a hope that one day the White City would gleam again.” 

    Aragorn’s hand was gentle on her arm, tugging her until she stood.

    “I cannot be that.” he said softly, “But your dedication is admired, my friend.” 

    “I don’t care about Gondor.” Wulfwryn repeated, though it wasn’t exactly true, somewhere in her heart she still cared deeply for the White City that had raised her.     She continued, “I looked at the corruption running rampant in the city and I chose to pursue rumors and hope that Aragorn, son of Arathorn, was still out there. And you are. I chose you, as your loyal soldier, your loyal guard, and now, upon pure accident, your friend. I intend to hold that same loyalty through whatever murky path lies ahead.” 

[captainderyn]

[Fictober] 17. “Are you serious?”

Prompt: 17. “Are you serious?”

Genre: Fanfiction (LOTRO)

Rating: T

Pairing: Raenor/Wulfwryn

CW: Mentions/description of injury

Summary: On the snowy plains of the Misty Mountains a fight goes wrong, leaving Wulfwryn to deal with the consequences.

--

They were surrounded. 

All over the snowy plain goblins and wargs raced towards them, flitting in and out of view in the blizzarding snow. 

Though her ears rang from the roaring incantations Raenor threw at the encroaching enemies she could still make out the cackling of the goblins and the low, throaty snarls of the wargs. 

She hadn’t seen monstrous creatures such as these since the North Downs and Lone-Lands. Long before she’d come to know Raenor’s shoulder pressed into her back or the familiar way they worked in tandem like dancers on a stage. 

She slammed her shield into a goblin, tossing it back into the snow. Her sword flashed in a deadly arc, and she yanked it back with a rattling gasp. 

They’d been fighting for what seemed like forever, inching closer and closer to the snowy edge of a gully. The goblins were pushing them back towards the foothills of the mountains, hoping to back them into the corner. 

“Wulfwryn!” Raenor shouted over the shuffling footfalls of the enemy, “When you say you love me, are you serious?” 

When she said…Wulfwryn bashed her shield into the nose of a warg, sending it skittering back with a yelp. A well aimed blow felled that creature too, only for another well on its way to taking its vacancy.

“Now is not really the time!” she snapped back. 

Raenor’s voice took a manic edge to it, “Answer me.”

The force in his usually soft, even voice shocked the words from her throat: “Of course I mean it!” 

    If she were facing him, and his back were not pressed against hers instead, she would’ve seen a grim smile grace his face. 

    A weight slammed into her back, sending her toppling forward. 

    Her face wet the snow in a burst of freezing and sharp pain, all breath leaving her body as she was sent rolling by a second force slamming into her side. 

    A shadow flew above her, a ragged cry with it. 

    Her vision went red even before she was on her knees, then scrambling to her feet. The snow slid her feet from under her, sending her down again in a flurry of powdered snow and razor sharp ice. 

    “Raenor!” she roared, even as the snow still blinded her. 

    She could see just enough, the red path trailing over the edge of the gully. The snarling of a warg warning goblins from its prey. 

    Her sword knew no mercy as she careened over the edge of the gully, the few foot drop buckling her knees. The warg gave a mighty yelp, snapping at her, but its ferocity could not match the feral rage that set fire to her blood. 

    In the far distance a horn blew, sending the goblins amassing at the top of the gully skittering back towards their masters. 

    Wulfwryn discarded her sword, threw aside her shield. 

    “No, no, you idiot.” she hit the ground beside Raenor, warrior’s hands--not healer’s hands--hovering over the tattered fabric of his tunic.

    No elven fabric, made for light battle, could withstand the sharp bite of a warg’s teeth or their sheer jaw strength. Neat punctures lined across his chest and over his shoulder. 

    Did goblins lace their wargs with poison as they did their blades? She’d never heard of it, but she’d learned long ago never to discount any possibility. 

    Her head went light at the wounds. 

    Elves bled as red as men. 

    “Raenor.” She snarled, ripping her cloak from her shoulders and pressing it tightly to his chest and shoulder. Blood trailed from his temple, no doubt from the dragging fal, “You stupid, stupid elf, what do you think you’re doing?” 

    She cast around for any sign of…something, she didn’t know what. 

    This snowy plain was far from any of the dwarven camps, and they would not be equipped to handle this. 

    He certainly wouldn’t bleed out, of that much her rudimentary skills could tell her, but there were far more sinister things they came from wargish wounds. Their bites were nasty, prone to all manner of festering issues. 

    “Stupid, stupid elf.” She repeated under her breath before sucking a deep breath in. She did her best to imitate the whistle the elves had taught her for their mounts. They’d left the horses forging for sprouts beneath the snow cover before they’d stepped foot on the plain. She prayed the fighting hadn’t scared them back to the camp. 

    She tugged Raenor off the snow and half onto her lap, brushing the snow from his hair. It was ridiculous, there were better things to worry about, but all she could think was how desperately he hated the feeling of clumped snow against the back of his neck. 

    “I’m going to kill you myself if you die on me.” she growled, “I might do it anyway.” 

    She whistled again and after several long moments a speckled gray horse appeared over the edge of the gully. She would have cried. 

    The horse perched at the edge of the gully, head overhanging and gave a loud snort. 

    Wulfwryn extended her hand, “Please.” she’d never begged a horse before, “Please, we need you.” 

    With another bellowing snort the horse eased its way down the hill, slipping and sliding until halting beside Wulfwryn. It sniffed at her hair before dropping its head to whuffle at Raenor’s cheek. 

    It seemed to know who its real kin was. 

    She pushed her freezing muscles to standing, pulling Raenor up with her. He groaned, his weight lolling into her side. 

    The stories always said elven horses were far more intelligent than they should be, but Wulfwryn witnessed it before her eyes as the horse eased itself down onto its knees. Enough so that Wulfwryn could pull Raenor on and scramble up herself. 

    She caressed the horse’s neck when it scrambled to its feet, “Thank you.” she murmured, before looking into the swirling snow. She didn’t know if the horses understood the common tongue, or if it understood speech at all, “What is it your people say? Niro Lim, to Rivendell.” 

    The horse gathered like a spring beneath her, leaping up the embankment. It dug its hooves into the snow and ran like it was made of wind itself. 

[captainderyn]

[Fictober] 15. “What are you doing?”

Prompt: 15. “What are you doing?” 

Genre: Fanfiction (LOTRO)

Rating: T

Pairing: Raenor/Wulfwryn

CW: None

Summary: Wulfwryn and Raenor dance the evening away underneath the Party Tree. Raenor gets an idea to catch the last of the sunset.

--

They danced and danced until their feet ached.

   Wulfwryn never considered herself musical, but Raenor made her heart sing and her body sway to the melody of his infectious love.

   Bright pinks and purples melded together in the sky as the sun set in a blazing globe of orange. While some of the hobbits with the younger lads and lasses had retreated from the Party Tree for the evening, the band was just starting to pick up again as stars blinked out of hiding in the darkest pockets of the sky.

   Before today the only dances she’d known were the awkward, boxy dances of someone deeply uncomfortable. Tonight she learned to let the music puppeteer her, lose herself in the song of the instruments.

   There was no room to be uncomfortable in the upbeat, soul-warming music of the hobbit-folk.

  She let herself go entirely into the guidance of Raenor’s body, matching her motion to his. He spun her, dipped her, and caught her all with a grin on his face as she giggled and laughed like she didn’t think she could.

   As their feet truly began to protest, the still sticky autumn air leaving a sheen on their skin, Raenor guided her in one of the ethereal dances of his people, his hand overlapping her own as he led her in sweeping motions across the improv-ed dirt dance space. While the dance in no way fit the jaunty tune the band played, she was certain if she tried to move any faster she would kheel over from exhaustion.

   Raenor reeled her back from a spin, her back resting against his rapidly rising and falling chest. She leaned into him, dipping her head back onto his shoulder with an exhausted smile.

   He pressed a kiss to her forehead, “I think you’ve about danced me out  meldanya .”

  “Me?” Wulfwryn turned her cheek to nuzzle against his shoulder, “I was following you! You’re the one who’s danced my feet off.”

   His laugh was light against her ear as he leaned down to kiss her cheek, “You looked so happy, how could I stop?”

   She half-opened her tired eyes, “I only look this happy because you make me so.”

  “I’ve tired you to sappiness.” Raenor teased and when he pulled back she whined, tugging on his hand insistently to bring him back.

  He instead tugged back, leading her towards The Hill. Though she followed, she groaned, “My feet are going to fall off if I trek up that hill!”

   “It’ll be worth it.” Raenor promised, “It won’t be far.”

  As he pulled her along up the hill, passed the stone wall of the Appledores they passed by a discarded picnic blanket. The blue gingham was tattered on the edges with use, the blue pattern faded to nearly off-white.

   Raenor neatly plucked it off the ground as they passed it by.

   “What are you doing?!” Wulfwryn looked between the blanket and him, mouth ajar, “Put that back, you can’t just take that!”

   She must be a bad influence on him because she’d  never seen him shoot her that sideways grin before. Though perhaps she should admonish him, she couldn’t help the flutter it caused to see him with that flint in his eyes.

   “It’s been untouched and unclaimed the last few days we’ve been here.” he soothed, “And we’ll put it back”

  He turned it over in his hands as they crested the rest of the hill before holding it up by the edge, “Besides, there’s no monogram, no initials, and I swear this was here last time we passed through Hobbiton.”

   Wulfwryn did her best to give him a disappointed look, though she couldn’t keep her own grin at bay, “You are a sly fox.”

  He shrugged, tossing a mischievous look over his shoulder as he laid out the blanket and settled down onto it. He held his hand out to her, “Would you like to join me?”

   Rolling her eyes, she took his hand and sat down. She nearly groaned with relief as she took her weight off of her feet, “Oh this feels nice.”

   “I figured this would be the perfect place to watch the rest of the sunset.” Raenor gestured out to the landscape from the hill. The rolling hills of the Shire were bathed in the deepening purple light, the lights of Hobbiton twinkling in the distance. Even further out the small boroughs between here and Bywater could be glimpsed through the tree cover.

   “It’s beautiful.” Wulfwryn sighed, “I never get tired of coming here, do you?”

   She turned to look at him, but it wasn’t the sunset that had his attention.

   It was her.

  Even after all this time he looked at her like he was drinking in every detail, his eyes soft. Even now, a light blush tinged the tips of his ears and his cheeks when she caught him.

   She leaned into him as he kissed her, fingers light on her jaw to tilt her chin up. His lips were soft and familiar, his kiss like a breath of fresh air.

She swore she'd never get enough of him either.

[captainderyn]

[Fictober] 14. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

Prompt: 14. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

Genre: Fanfiction (LOTRO)

Rating: T

Pairing: Raenor/Wulfwryn

CW: None

--

Wulfwryn’s white-knuckled grip on Raenor’s arm was going to cut off all his circulation. He swore he could already feel his fingers starting to go numb. 

In the dark, musty basement of the Haunted Burrow, with a fog-like substance that burned his eyes, a massive paper mache bat popped out of the corner. 

Wulfwryn yelped, jumping so hard into his side that he almost toppled over. As it was he stomped in one of the mysterious puddles on the floor, splattering the liquid up his leg. 

“Sorry!” Wulfwryn gasped, pressing herself tight to his side, “I didn’t mean to run into you like that.” 

He couldn’t help his little laugh and she shot an accusatory glance his way, “That was scary!” 

“It was paper mache.” Pointing to the bat, which now hung down on its strings like a floppy, large puppet, Raenor grinned, “We’ve faced scarier out there.” 

“I know but--ah!” She practically jumped into his arms as they continued their trek down the hallway and a battered, articulated skeleton popped out of a barrel. 

Finding the concerned gentle-hobbit’s belongings in this haunted abode was going to take far longer than he’d anticipated. He couldn’t wipe the grin from his lips. 

He slid his arm around Wulfwryn’s side, pressing a kiss to her cheek and whispering in her ear, “Is my mean and scary warrior afraid of some paltry Harvest-fest decorations?” 

A hobbit lass shrieked up ahead and Wulfwryn jumped, shrieking herself when she walked right into some fake spider web. Flailing around she growled, “Yes! Wait no--” She swatted the cobweb out of her face, “I don’t know.” 

“You seem pretty scared.” Raenor crooned, though he pulled her flush against him when another jumpscare popped out from behind one of the corners. She whimpered. 

“We can leave…” he suggested and she immediately snapped, 

“Absolutely not!” 

Shuffling his free hand around in his bag, Raenor pulled out their list and ducked against one of the walls that emitted a sickly green light. It was just bright enough to read the hobbit’s messy scrawl. 

“We still have another three wings to get through.” he glanced askance at Wulfwryn, “We can head back and I can come back in alone…” 

“And have you face all these creatures all on your own?” Wulfwryn was doing a mighty job of plastering a tough look onto her face, drawing her brows low over her eyes, “Absolutely not!” 

Chuckling, Raenor pressed a kiss to her forehead. She tasted of salty sweat. 

“If you insist, meldanya.” he held out his arm and she wrapped herself around it once again, “Just follow my lead.” 

[captainderyn]

Fictober Day 9: “Sounds like a you problem.”

Prompt: 9. “Sounds like a you problem.”

Genre: Fanfiction (LOTRO)

Rating: T

Pairing: Raenor/Wulfwryn

CW: None

--

Wulfwryn really shouldn’t be giving him such a petulant look. 

He’d done them a favor and been considerate enough to wait until she pulled off her sweaty tunic, even gone so far as to wait until she’d neatly folded it in a sun-warmed rock. 

And then he’d thrown her into the pond. 

He wasn’t a monster. 

“Oh don’t look at me like that.” he teased, wading in deeper, “You said you were hot.” 

Wulfwryn crossed her arms over her chest, not to hide the way her undershirt clung to her, but instead to glower at him from beneath lowered brows. 

“Yes, I said I was hot, not that I wanted to go for a swim!” 

Raenor laughed brightly, placing his hands on her waist, “I solved the problem, the water’s nice and cool.” 

“Mmhm,” Wulfwryn hummed, arching a brow at him, “And when a hobbit walks by and sees us?” 

She trailed her hand across his shoulders and down his chest. He’d left his shirt folded beside hers. Out of fairness, of course. 

He cast a look around at the gently rolling hills that surrounded them, the sweeping weeping willows that trailed their branches into the water around them. The main road wasn’t too far away, but many of the hobbits had already begun their celebrations at their chosen locations and those coming up from Hobbiton to the Party Tree would take the eastern route. 

“We’ll be fine.” he decided, unable to help his grin. 

The tug Wulfwryn gave as she tucked her fingers into his waistband, sending him tumbling against her, was decidedly less angry than her glower would have him believe. 

“You,” She grumbled, pausing just before she pressed her lips to his, “Are a troublemaker.” 

“Am not--!” Raenor began as she brushed her lips against his and he felt his legs go out from underneath him.

Quite literally. She took him out at the knees, sending him toppling over into the water. 

He flailed for a moment, scrambling to find his footing against the squishy pond bottom. 

Spitting water out of his mouth, hair plastered across his eyes, he made a blind grab for Wulfwryn. He knew he caught her when she yelped and he wrapped his arms tighter around her, yanking them both back into the water. 

“Raenor!” she spluttered, struggling against him. 

Breathlessly, he laughed. She looked ridiculously indignant, the hair that wasn’t pulled back into a ponytail plastered across her cheeks to frame her flaming blue eyes. Water dripped from her eyelashes, her nose, sliding down her jaw. 

He couldn’t help himself, he kissed her. 

“Don’t distract me!” she protested, planting her hands on his chest as she broke the kiss. Still, her eyes darted back down to his lips, “I’m soaked.” 

Raenor let his eyes roam over her, sliding his hands over her muscled shoulders to cup her jaw, “Mhm, and that sounds like a you problem, not mine.” he grinned, “I don’t mind one bit.” 

[captainderyn]

Fictober Day 3: “That was not my intention“

Prompt: “That was not my intention”

Genre: Fanfiction (LOTRO)

Pairings: Raenor/Wulfwryn

Warnings: Drinking, unintentionally getting drunk.

Cross Posted to AO3

---

Raenor might’ve known that a hobbit challenging Wulfwryn to a drinking game would be a horrible idea. When in fact it was not a drinking game, but a drinking challenge for the Inn League set up at the Farmers Faire in Hobbiton, he knew there was only one way that this could go. 

Badly. 

But this adventure did not start with the Inn League at the Party Tree. Not so. It started far before, in Bywater, when a spiteful man handed Wulfwryn an ale and told her that it was liquid courage to mess with the Bounders, who, according to Wulfwryn, had sticks so far up their asses they had to waddle not walk. 

He had the sneaking suspicion that water the man had handed Wulfwryn had been far stronger than he had mentioned, or hobbits were stouter than Man, because she was swaying slightly on her feet and squinting at the list of ingredients held in her hands with great intensity. 

“Hobbits and their elaborate meals.” She muttered, “And their riddles, why must they write their recipes in riddles?” 

    “May I see the list?” Raenor asked, peering over her shoulder. 

    But Wulfwryn was already gasping, jerking the map down to stare out into the hills beyond Bywater. 

    “The mushrooms are up over the hill!” She said with such despondency that Raenor tried not to laugh, “How are we going to find that? We’re in the Shire, everything is over hills!” 

    He wrapped an arm around her waist to keep her still, holding her forearm steady so he could read the scrawling handwriting the stew recipe was written in. 

    “They over the hill at Three Farthings Stone, órenya.” 

    It was then that he realized the drink she’d been given was far stronger than she let on, as she made a miserable noise, “Of course it says they’re far things, and now there’s three of them? We’re never going to make it in time, Raenor.”

    Raenor nuzzled his face into the side of Wulfwryn’s neck, pressing a kiss to the sun-warmed skin. 

    “No, not three far things,” he laughed, “Three Farthings, the common speech distance.” 

    “Ohhhh!” Wulfwryn looked once more at the list then began to march off. When she lost Raenor’s grasp, she turned and pecked him on the cheek, seized his hand, and dragged him along with her, “Come along! We’ve got an order to fill.” 

    *

    By the end of the night Raenor supported Wulfwryn through the doors of the Bird and Baby Inn into their quarters for the night. The innkeep had seen her stumbling steps, her heavily flushed face, and given Raenor a tired, but knowing look. 

    “I’ll leave a fresh pitcher of water outside your doors and some tea and light bread come morning.” he promised. 

    “You really don’t have to,” Raenor insisted, readjusting Wulfwryn as she slumped against him, turning to bury her face against his chest and wrap her arms around his waist, “I’ll take care of it.” 

    The innkeep brushed him off with a wave of the hand, “Nonsense. I’ll be doing it for most every room in this hole. This happens every year, nay, every festival! I won’t even charge you extra for it.” 

    Raenor gave his thanks and left a tip on the edge of the bar before taking Wulfwryn back to their room. She shucked off her clothing and then threw herself onto the bed, snuggling on top of the covers and into the pillows with a groan. 

    Little did she knew what was coming her way in the morning, when the first light filtered in, and the consequences of challenging a hobbit came to fruition. 

    Her head was buried so deep in the pillows that Raenor barely heard her when she spoke. 

    It sounded a lot like “Argghhhhhh.” followed up with some choice words regarding hobbit festivities. 

    “I have some water for you here.” Raenor suggested in lieu of the incomprehensible groan and Wulfwryn unburied her head enough to shoot him a miserable look. 

    “I did not drink that much last night to feel like this.” she grumbled. 

    “You tried to keep up with the Inn League.” Raenor countered, “There was a lot of drinking by nature.” 

    “Well, getting drunk was not my intention.” Wulfwryn whined, retreating back to her cave of darkness, “I wanted to enjoy today without my head splitting open.” 

    Raenor held out a small ribbon embossed with the Inn League symbol, “You did win this little trinket.” 

    “Fuck the trinket.” Wulfwryn grumbled and he silently laughed, tucking it back away. 

    At least, if nothing else, they agreed that they now had a grand story to tell of the day that Wulfwryn outdrank the hobbits. 

[captainderyn]

[Fictober] 19. “Do we have a deal?”

Prompt: 19. “Do we have a deal?”

Genre: Fanfiction (LOTRO)

Rating: T

Pairing: Platonic M/F friendship

CW: Implied depression.

Summary: After the fall of Edhelion, Raenor returns to Imladris a broken man. A dear friend tries one last time to help move him past his grief.

--

Perhaps he should fade just as Edhelion was doomed to do. 

Raenor knew no peaceful rest since the Dourhands’ attack on the refuge. His home for decades, all gone. Wasted away to crumbled ruin. 

The battered and crushed corpses of those he’d considered his dearest mentors and friends haunted every wandering thought. He thought of them, trapped beneath that stone forever now. 

All to protect the shattered remains of a few relics now safely tucked in the wagons pulled in their caravan back to Imladris. 

    Talagan had died for those relics. Raenor had been helpless. 

    He rode in numb silence a few horses behind Elrond. He caught the worried stares of those who had accompanied the lord of Imladris to Edhelion as they cast sympathetic stares over the ragtag bunch who’d made it out alive. 

    He was now considered a survivor. 

    He wasn’t certain he wanted this survival, if survival meant his world being sucked from beneath his feet, tormented from all sides by foul memories. 

    Even if riding back into the valley he’d known for most of his life felt like stepping into a warm embrace. 

    “Raenor!” That bright voice broke through some of his haze, the arms of one of his oldest friends finding him almost as soon as his feet hit the ground. “Suilad mellon, I didn’t think I’d get to see you again!” 

    Nárissë held him tight, squeezing him so hard around the middle he swore his ribs would crack. 

    “Mae govannen mellon.” he murmured and she pulled back to give him a vitriolic stare. Her honey eyes flashed like bronze. 

    “Mae govannen mellon,” she mocked and stuck out her tongue, “We haven't seen each other for a few decades and suddenly you don’t know me at all? How still and formal.” 

    He couldn’t help his tired smile, even if his lips only quirked up in the slightest, “I see you haven’t changed a bit, Nárissë.” 

    “And you’ve been forced to change in many ways.” Nárissë finally released him and stood back, “How are you doing, mellon, honestly?” 

    This time Raenor couldn’t force a smile; he averted his eyes, ��Tired.” he said simply. 

    Bone tired. Exhausted deep into his bones.

    -- 

Time passed. 

He didn’t know how. Nor how long. 

Hours bled into weeks. Weeks into something distant and further reaching. 

Nárissë let him have his time until his time began to slip away. 

She found him, curled on one of the chaise couches beneath a gazebo draped in flowering ropes of floral. 

“What are you doing?” she asked, sitting down beside him. 

He buried his face into his hand, speaking into his palm, “Mourning.” 

“I’m losing you.” Nárissë placed her hand on his shoulder and he shook it off, “Have you given up?” 

He wasted away just as the ruins of Edhelion surely did. Creeping vines encroaching and choking out what was once beautiful snuffed out the light inside of him too. 

“I don’t know.” his voice was raw, barely above a breath. 

Nárissë shifted, fiddling with a bag she’d set at her feet. 

Raenor watched from the corner of his eye until she sat a beautiful lute beside him. He shook his head, waving it away. 

“I don’t play anymore.” he squeezed his eyes closed before the call back to song snuck its way back into him. He’d given it up the day Edhelion fell. Skorgrim had stolen that from him.

His friend insisted, pushing it closer. His fingers grazed the strings and he yanked his hand back as if burned. 

“I’m not asking you to play.” Nárissë said quietly, “Just give me a day. Paint it with me and in the end we can destroy it if you want. Take it out to the waterfall and throw it into the Bruinen.” 

Raenor opened his eyes, looking sideways at her with a frown. 

Her eyes were wide and pleading, “Please. Just one day. Try for one more day.” 

“And if I say no?” his voice was rough. He couldn’t help the way his eyes darted down to the lute. It was beautiful, intricately made. 

He’d always wanted to learn to play the lute. His harp had been destroyed in the many fires that had taken the refuge. 

“Then I’ll say farewell to you on the shores.” Nárissë’s voice shook as she held out her hand, “Do we have a deal?” 

[captainderyn]

Fictober Day 7. “Check that again, are you sure?”

Prompt: 7. “Check that again, are you sure?”

Genre: Fanfiction (LOTRO)

Rating: T

Warnings: none

Pairings: Wulfwryn/Raenor

(Posted a day late, thanks life)

--

This was the first battle she truly had something to lose. 

The number of real battles she’d fought in was minimal, the most she’d fought a group of bandits and ruffians. 

Even if she could be killed just as easily in those fights as if she was taking on a whole army: that was the thing, it was only her life to lose. 

    If she lost her own life, then it was no longer her concern. If she lost her life then she had made some fatal mistake or it was her call to put down her blade. 

    She fussed with the clasps on Raenor’s thick tunic, tightened the strap that kept his lyre slung over his shoulder. Her hands tremored. 

    She wished he’d wear heavier armor, not just the few thick layers of fabric stitched together. Sure, it could protect against a strike, but for how long, and against what else? 

    These were unknown forces they were facing today, something that connected the evil of Skorgrim and the Nazgul into one. Leaving Raenor behind was never an option, especially not when his own past was so tightly tied to the very enemies that threatened them today. 

    Yet still, she couldn’t squash the part of her that begged to go into this battle alone. To put only herself on the line. 

    “Meldanya,” Raenor murmured, resting his hands over hers, “I’ve already checked my armor and weapons twice or thrice over now.”

    Wulfwryn wrestled her hands free, adjusting straps again, though they were the ones she’d just fixed, “Check it again, you have to be certain.” 

    Raenor sighed her name, his fingers coming underneath her chin to lift her gaze to his. 

    His hair was braided back for this fight, looped into a bun at the back of his neck to keep it out of the way. She tucked a few stray strands behind his ears. 

    “Everything has to be in order.” She muttered, even as she felt those intense gray eyes looking at her. She couldn’t meet them, afraid that too much of what ate away at her mind would be betrayed in her own eyes. 

    She didn’t know what to do with herself, how to handle this curdling mire of worry and anxiety. 

    This wasn’t the first time they’d come up against enemies. 

    “You’re worried.” Raenor said simply and she scowled. 

    “Of course I’m worried.” 

    Raenor traced his hand along her jaw up to cup her cheek, “This is no different than any other time.” 

    But it was. Too insightful for his own good, Raenor sighed. 

    “I promise you I can keep my focus, though Skorgrim will be an unwelcome face. I am not so easily incensed, I will not throw myself at him.” 

    A flush crept up Wulfwryn’s neck, “I did not mean to insinuate…” 

    Raenor pressed a kiss to Wulfwryn’s temple and she let out a deep breath, “I know, meldanya,” he murmured, “I’ll be careful. And you’ll be by my side.” 

[captainderyn]

Fictober Day 5: “Adaptable, I Like That.”

Prompt: 5. “Adaptable, I like that.”

Genre: Fanfiction (LOTRO)

Rating: T

Pairings: Implied/Established Wulfwryn/Raenor

Warnings: None

--

Very little made Wulfwryn question her conviction. 

Angmar was quickly coming close. 

She grimaced as she wiped her sword on her cloak, black and bloodied from the massive Hill-Beast Murragrath laying before her. 

Methodically, she planted her foot on the beast and pulled her arrows that were salvageable, cleaned them, and slung them back into their quier draped over her back. 

The noxious air burned her lungs from the exertion, her throat dry and scratchy. Her waterskin, left at Tasgall’s camp in  Fasach-larran enticed her to work faster. 

Tasgall approached her and she gritted her teeth. It wasn’t that the Hill-man had truly done anything to affront her persay, but the cultural differences between the Notheron and herself were coming out with startling clarity. 

Beginning first and foremost with his insistence that they leave “the delicate elf” at base camp. 

Though Corunir insisted that this was the friendly tribe of the hill-men, and they hadn’t offered any ill intent towards her or Raenor, the barbed comments and doubtful looks raised her hackles. 

“...but we shouldn’t speak of ill-fated things until our safety is assured.” Tasgall was saying when Wulfwryn finally turned back in and she gave an unenthused grunt in agreement. 

    The hill-beasts were brutal creatures, their fits harder than the boulders they through. One lucky strike had caught her just-so and the ache was beginning to fester deep in her muscles.

    More importantly she felt Raenor’s absence like a gaping hole, an uneasy gap in her armor. She needed his allyship in battle just as much as she needed him here for the assurance that he was safe. 

    Separation was a losing strategy. The area around Fasach-larran was fraught with danger. Raenor was more than capable of fending off feral hill-beasts, raging worms the size of Wulfwryn’s leg, and snarling wolves, but being capable enough to handle himself didn’t mean that he should have to. 

    They kept their silence on the trek back to camp. Wulfwryn’s head was pounding by the time she pulled herself from the waist-deep water around Fasgall’s camp, the dry air and smog finally catching up with her. 

    Raenor was on his feet in an instant, eyes roving over her for any injuries. All he found was her, stinking and sodden with the mucky water, and the bruises he would find later. 

    Tasgall came up beside Wulfwryn, “You’re very adaptable in battle for a Southron woman, I like that.” 

    “Choose your next words carefully.” Wulfwryn muttered at the same time Raenor went stiff beside her. 

    That change along in his usually quiet, soft demeanor gave her enough pause that her addled mind nearly melted out her ears when he growled, growled: 

    “Careful how you speak to her.”

 Wulfwryn couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard that much venom in his words. The last time he’d glared with gray eyes sharpened to a steel point. 

“You're speaking to a highly accomplished warrior, chosen by the Chieftain of the Dúnedain himself for this role.” 

    In the space of time she took to register what he said--first and foremost that he’d silently listened to enough of the Rangers conversations in their travels to pick up on one of Aragorn’s multitudes of titles--Tasgall titled his head back and laughed, the tooth-carved ornaments in his hair clanking together. 

    “Forgive me if I did not have high expectations when a Southron claiming to be a warrior and an elf who’s watched the world from above it all waltzed into these darkened lands.” 

    Raenor drew back, nostrils flaring, and she wasn’t sure whether he’d break his lute over the man’s head or worse. She knew he was capable of doing worse, but the times he’d done so she could count on one hand. 

    She didn’t want to add another hand to that count, nor did she feel like cleaning her sword once again if she didn’t check the anger bubbling quickly to the surface within her. 

    “Alright.” She snarled, “Every word you say makes me regret this awful endeavor more and more. If you’ve got nothing better to do than insult me and mine then we’ll be leaving.”

    She could see it forming on Tasgall’s face, that he did not mean for his words to be an insult to her when he’d called her adaptable. She’d seen enough of it in Gondor’s guard and others in her travels as they stumbled their way clumsily into what they thought was a woman’s good graces. 

    As if any of their clumsy endeavors could hold a candle to the bristling elf beside her. 

[captainderyn]

[Fictober] 18. “I don’t think this is your problem.”

Prompt: 18. “I don’t think this is your problem.”

Genre: Fanfiction (LOTRO)

Rating: T

Pairing: Raenor/Wulfwryn

CW: None, but Generally heavier emotionally than some of the other prompts.

Summary: As Raenor heals from his injury, Wulfwryn is forced to struggle with the implications of his devotion to her once again. It's far easier to say it will all be okay when it's just the two of them. (Part II to day 17)

--

The thick woolen blanket around Wulfwryn’s shoulders was doing little to warm her back up. The cold of the Misty Mountains had settled deep into her bones, even as the snow had faded the further she’d careened them down the slopes of the mountains. 

She paced now, up and down the halls of the Last Homely House’s lower floor. The elves that milled about gave her odd glances, but many had seen her in and out enough when she’d been visiting Elrond almost daily that they didn’t refute her presence. 

From time to time she’d falter, looking down at her hands that gripped the blanket. Her hands were clean now, scrubbed until their dry skin bled in the washbasin of her quarters. She’d need to purchase a new pair of gloves before she left Rivendell. 

    Perhaps she couldn’t afford the expense, but she couldn’t stomach looking at her gloves that were sodden with Raenor’s blood any longer. No matter how much she’d dunked them into water and scrubbed, they would always be stained. She couldn’t afford to abandon the rest of her armor, but when she’d scrubbed the rust-dried stain from the metal, at least it had come off. 

    Wulfwryn shuddered, giving her head a violent shake. 

    Enough, she urged herself, Enough of this morbidity. 

    She whipped back around at the end of the hall, staring sightless at her feet. 

    The way she’d snapped at Raenor hounded her.    

    “Now is not the time.”

    She yelped as she slammed into a firm shoulder, careening backwards with apologies already flying from her mouth. 

    Looking up, she found Elrond readjusting his robes. The lord of the house looked more wearied each time she saw him, the tired lines on his forehead deepening. 

    Seeing him now, she couldn’t help but feel that she was a contributor. 

    “Lord Elrond.” She ducked her head, “I’m sorry…is he…is Raenor?” she swallowed thickly. 

    “He is recovering.” Elrond said simply and she heaved a sigh of relief, “While his wounds are painful, they will not prove fatal.” 

    A weight lifted off of her chest, “Good.” she breathed, “I…good.” 

    Elrond raised one arched eyebrow, “It was quite the flight you made from the Northern Bruinen in order to return here.” 

    She pressed her lips together. Was this admonishment for riding the poor elven mount hard? A simple observation? 

    “I didn’t trust that the encampments in the mountains would be able to help.” 

    It was nigh impossible to hold herself steady under the scrutiny of Elrond’s sharp gaze. She fidgeted, tugging the blanket closer around her shoulders. 

    “I didn’t want to lose him.” she admitted in a soft voice, the words drawn out of her by the silent scrutiny. 

    Something in the elf softened, a great sigh heaving his shoulders. 

    “Young Wulfwryn,” Her name was both tired resignation and a worn warning, “Do you know what you ask of him?” 

    All to well. Wulfwryn bowed her head, squeezing her eyes closed, “Selfish love, lord Elrond.” 

    This love was new, and new love should be light as a feather, reckless and unthinking. There was nothing reckless and unthinking in the way they’d entered this unintentional partnership. 

    Trust her, she wanted to say, the thought of the inevitable killed her a little more with each kiss she and Raenor shared. With each more bit he devoted himself to her and her to him. 

“I do not wish to lose another elf to this land.” Elrond took a step past her and she dragged her eyes up to meet his, “I’ve seen far too many fade away in this place.” 

“He tells me he was almost one of them.” Her voice cracked, “After Edhelion. He’s made his choice.”

**

She slipped silently into Raenor’s room. The windows were fogged from the chilly air outside, the hearth blazing happily in the corner. 

Wulfwryn let the door close behind her, pressing her back against it. Let her head fall back against the intricately carved wood. 

    Gave herself to the count of ten before she pushed herself back onto her feet and struck the tears from her cheeks. 

    Raenor was peaceful, the soft blankets bundling him against the cold rising and falling rhythmically with his resting breaths. He appeared to be the elven version of asleep, barely stirring as Wulfwryn settled down on the other side of the bed. 

    Silently she sat, each movement exhausting and heavy, until easing herself down onto her side. She didn’t dare get too close and jostle him. Instead she huddled just close enough to wrap her arm around his, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. 

    Thoughts agonized her, warring for dominance in her mind. She was too tired to sort through any of them and instead squeezed her eyes closed against the onslaught. 

    Sleep took her in dreamless, memoryless seconds. 

    Raenor’s light touch coaxed her awake, his arm awkwardly contorted to lightly graze her cheek. 

    Her eyes fluttered open to find his own fixed on her, groggy gray pools of concern. 

    “Wulfwryn,” Every time he said her name it was with reverence, “Why are there tear tracks on your cheeks?” 

    She blinked, then buried her head back against his arm. 

    His fingers insisted against her cheek again, his voice ticking up in faux lightness, “I was not so gravely wounded to warrant such dramatics.” 

    “You almost let yourself become a warg’s dinner.” Wulfwryn tugged on the strand of worried frustration that still lingered inside of her to give her the strength to lift her head, “What were you thinking?” 

    He adjusted himself on the pillows with a grunt, face twisting into a grimace. 

    “The warg was barreling right toward you.” 

    “I wear armor for a reason.” She smoothed her palms across her cheeks, scrubbing away any remnants from her earlier emotions. 

    Raenor’s eyes did not leave her face and he bright his hand up to stroke across her jaw. She couldn’t help it, she leaned into his touch. 

    “Perhaps I couldn’t bear to see you hurt when I could stop it.” 

    Wulfwryn pressed a kiss to his palm, “It’s my duty to get hurt. It is my oath of protection.” 

    Raenor hummed in what she could only guess was disapproval, though his eyes were searching hers, roving across her expression. 

    She brought her hand up to curl her fingers over his. 

    “When you asked me if I meant it…would things have changed if I’d said no?” 

    She knew she’d fallen into the trap of his perceptiveness when his eyes sharpened. 

    “Of course it wouldn’t have. I simply needed to hear it…in case, well, you know.” he pressed his lips together, “What did they say to you?” 

    She sat back, “Nothing!”

    When he went to heave himself up into a seated position she panicked, planting a hand on his shoulder like she meant to push him back down, “Don’t!” 

    He made it to his elbows before he gave a cry of pain from behind gritted teeth, expression twisting. He refused to ease himself back down when she gave an insistent nudge to his shoulder. 

    Panting a bit from the pain, he looked up at her, “Damn whatever was said. The elves see staying as giving up, but it is not so.” 

    He grit his teeth and Wulfwryn gave a desperate noise, “Raenor please, this is not your problem.” 

    “I bet the words played on what will happen when you die?” He spat the last word out like it burned, “Made it sound as though I’ll waste away to nothing? Like all the time I’ve spent will mean nothing?” 

    “Raenor, please.” 

    He tilted his head back, a mirthless laugh ripping from him, “I know what it’s like to feel this mortal world slip from my fingers. For the passing of the days to become so painful that the sweet shores of Valinor become my dream.” 

    He blinked up at the ceiling and Wulfwryn’s heart dropped to the floor when she caught the way they misted. 

His voice softened, “Please, do not take this away from me. I don’t care how long it lasts. Let me walk this world with you. Iqun lye.” 

It was such a selfish thing, to damn him like this, some part of her still warned. The part of her that shrank from the consequences of a choice that she wouldn’t be alive to see. 

The other part of her, the lounder part, snarled that it didn’t matter. That that far reaching future was not worth destroying the now. 

“You don’t need to beg.” Wulfwryn soothed, “I told you once that I am with you through it all if you’ll have me, that still holds true.” 

[captainderyn]

[Fictober] 16. “You’re looking, but you don’t see.”

Prompt: 16. “You’re looking, but you don’t see.”

Genre: Fanfiction (LOTRO)

Rating: T

Pairing: Raenor/Wulfwryn

CW: None

--

Books upon books upon books spilled from the shelves onto the floor. Leather bound tomes stacked nearly to the ceiling and loose papers with scrawling, loopy script drifted across the floor in wayward packs. 

Wulfwryn hefted another cloth bound book into her arms, flipping through the crinkling pages. The flourish of the handwritten script made her eyes cross. 

“Ugh!” she plopped the book back into the shelf without flipping more than a few pages in and turned to look at Raenor, “This is hopeless!” 

Raenor sat cross-legged on the floor, books stacked around him in a semi-circle three or four books tall. A large book took up most of his lap, spilling with hand drawn illustrations and maps. 

He glanced up at her with a quirked grin, “I don’t think you’ve truly looked, Wulfwryn.” 

Wulfwryn wrinkled her nose, trying to stay on focus as he lifted his arms to tie his hair back into a ponytail, tiring of flicking the long strands from his face. 

Focus. Books. Right. 

“I have looked.” She tried to keep the whine from her voice, gesturing towards the haphazard shelf she’d been picking through for what felt like an eternity, “None of them are scary. What’s so frightful about your Harvestfest feast getting stolen from the table? Spooky creatures that disguise themselves as books and snacks and masquerade as hobbits at tea-time simply to steal your sugar squares?” 

She was well-learned, yes, that neither meant she learned well or that the dust springing up from these books wasn’t clogging her nose. 

“You’re looking, but you don’t see.” Raenor said in that infuriatingly cryptic way of the elves, “These stories are amazing in their own right! A fascinating look into the culture of hobbits.” 

He bent over the book once more, flipping through another page eagerly. 

It was endearing, how invested he became in the workings of the world around him.

Wulfwryn tried to keep up, but at times the world was too wide for her to keep stock of, and she picked up what she could while traveling, not from literature. 

Still she plunked herself down beside Raenor, lifting a heavy book into her arms. The letters on the cover were faded to near illegibility, the pages barely held to the binding by worn out thread and glue. 

“What’s this?” she brushed dust off the cover, trying to make out anything on the cover or title page. Flipping through the pages didn’t offer any more insight, just old and worn drawings that appeared to be of indistinct figures. 

She reached over to nudge Raenor’s shoulder, “Will this work? This looks spooky.” 

He took the book gently from her grasp, flipping through it. She expected him, trained scholar, to be able to make it out, but his brows knit instead. 

“I think it says Chill…I don’t know in what context.” He glanced around for the librarian, “This might be a wonderful find, meldanya, but we should find where our lovely librarian scampered off to and check.” 

[captainderyn]

[Fictober] Day 12: “You’re making my head hurt.”

Prompt: 12. “You’re making my head hurt.”

Genre: Fanfiction (LOTRO)

Rating: T

Pairing: Raenor/Wulfwryn

CW: None

--

“You’re making my head hurt.” Raenor buried his face deeper against Wulfwryn’s tunic, bundled in her lap. The darkness wasn’t absolute, but it was better than the glaring light of the setting sun. 

She shifted again and he groaned, locking his arms around her waist to keep her from moving anymore. 

“I’m not making your head hurt.” She carded her fingers through his hair lightly, lightly trailing her pinky over his ear. Involuntarily he twitched, grumbling, “I didn’t realize elves overheated so easily.” 

“Stop.” he complained as she went to move again, grumbling out a few choice words when she softly laughed, “S’not funny. This place is miserable.” 

Wulfwryn ducked her head, silencing her laughter, “Raenor we are in the Shire we are the furthest place from miserable.” 

She hadn’t considered the summer heat of the Shire as they’d rode from Hobbiton to Bywater and back. Perhaps it should have come to mind that Raenor hadn’t strayed from the tempid Rivendell in…well, decades she supposed. 

She could have expected him to say something, but she supposed to elf himself was so disused to the signs of heat exhaustion that he hadn’t realized either. Or, the stubborn healer had simply ignored his own needs once more and figured he’d deal with it later. 

Consequences, meet actions. 

Wulfwryn smoothed her hand over Raenor’s head once again, “I’m going to go get us a fresh water pitcher, drinking something will help.” 

“Mmph.” 

“I don’t speak mmph.” Wulfwryn mimicked and the elf lifted his head to glare at her. It was a pitiful glare. She’d seen him angry, and what he directed at her was about as scary as a fuzzy kitten. 

“That means you leave.” Raenor translated, plopping his head back down, “And opening the door to the cacophony downstairs.” 

She grinned, “That ‘cacophony’,” she quoted, “is called hobbit music and you enjoyed it the rest of the time we’ve been here.” 

Despite his protests he melted off of her when she went to stand again, burying himself against the downy pillows. 

Poor, pitiful creature. It was about time she have the chance to repay all the times he’d kept her in one piece. 

“I’ll be right back.” she promised, leaning back to kiss his temple. A small smile graced her when he turned his head to nuzzle into her neck, “Stay put.” 

He made a soft sound of assent, all the confirmation she needed before leaving with empty pitchers in hand. 

[captainderyn]

[Fictober] 10. “It’s my name on the line!”

Prompt: 10. “It’s my name on the line!”

Genre: Fanfiction (LOTRO)

Rating: T

Pairing: Raenor/Wulfwryn

CW: None

--

Raenor had never seen Wulfwryn this restless. 

This was a new kind of unease, characterized by her pacing the room like a caged animal. She raked her hands through her hair. 

The heavy canvas flaps of the rounded tent they’d been given in Aughaire rustled with the cool breeze blowing through the camp. Through the fire burned bright it didn’t bite through the chill seeping in. 

Despite this Wulfwryn was flushed, unbuttoning her overtunic and tossing it aside. She interlocked her hands behind her neck, loosing a string of curses too quickly to follow. 

“Wulfwryn…?” he broached hesitantly. 

“We’re getting nowhere!” she exploded, and though it wasn’t towards him he still winced, “They’re sending me on all these ridiculous quests to ‘prove’ myself to them and they won’t even give you the time of day!” 

It was true, while the people of this land would give audience to Wulfwryn they scarcely would give him a second look. Except for the young children and the teens not pulled away, who wanted to gather round him and marvel over the stories he could spin and the intricate metalwork of his elven jewelry. 

“They’ve granted you many honors in our short time here, it seems their way of assuring you can actually offer aid.” 

“Bah!” Wulfwryn dropped her arms to her sides with a sharp smack, “Corunir should step in and set my feet on the right path. How is his company meant to help us find the true evil that drives all of this?” 

Raenor crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back. He was walking on very thin ice, that much he knew, “I’m certain you would’ve heard something from Aragorn if you were beginning to stray from what he foresees for you.” 

That sent her pacing again and Raenor made a face. He had gambled as to whether it would soothe or ruffle her and he had gambled wrong. 

“That’s exactly it! I shouldn’t need him to hold my hand.” Wulfwryn growled, throwing herself onto the bench next to Raenor with enough force that it rocked unsteadily. 

“I need to prove that I can handle this.” She buried her face in her hands, “I’ve already failed so many times.” 

Though she still kept many details of her time before Rivendell close to her chest, Raenor knew enough of her tragedy to sigh in sympathy. Platitudes and reminders of exactly what she’d accomplished since leaving Bree and what they’d accomplished together in the Trollshaws would not ease her mind. 

She just needed to let it out. 

Wulfwryn pressed her palms against her eyes, “I don’t know what I’m doing. I feel as though I’m just following a wild hare and eventually I’ll lose the trail. I can’t fail, I can’t. It’s my name on the line here, my chance to prove myself to the one I left everything for.” 

Her shoulders drooped and Raenor dared to rest his hand on her upper back. She learned into his touch, collapsing against his shoulder. He allowed his arm to slip around her, for her head to rest in the crook of his neck. 

“Promise you’ll stick with me?” she whispered, spent, “Please.” 

“I’m with you.” Raenor murmured, “Through to the end.” 

[captainderyn]

Fictober Day 8: "Do you remember?"

Prompt: 7. "Do you remember?"

Genre: Fanfiction (LOTRO)

Rating: T

Pairing: Raenor/Wulfwryn

CW: Mentions of injury

--

Fighting the foul creature kind in the Lone-Lands was an inevitable headache waiting to happen. 

Raenor had prepared accordingly, making sure he was stocked up on supplies from the provisioner in Ost Guruth before they began the trek to Agamaur. He made sure his satchel of herbs from Imladris was tied securely to his belt, for very few tradesmen in these parts would carry the herbs common to the elves and he refused to pay the markup of those who did carry the rarities. 

    It was an unfortunate inevitability he prepared himself for when a blade finally snuck between the contours of Wulfwryn’s worn armor. The decades of time spent as a healer kept his head on his shoulders, even as the stubborn woman refused to pause their mission for him to treat her. 

    No matter that she moved with the stiff carefulness of someone in pain or that he could see the blood pooling against her armor in a red stain the longer their mission drug out. Yet still, she refused to stop, even as her reckless abandon peppered her with other wounds that she could not parry or dodge quick enough in her state. 

    Though she made it back alive, somehow, with some manner of supernatural ability Raenor swore only the reckless disregard that humans held for themselves, even Wulfwryn’s stubbornness could not avoid the effects of the foul swampy waters and rusted blades. 

    She tossed in fitful sleep beneath Raenor’s healing hands as he peeled away the bloodied bandage he’d last put on. Sweat gleamed across her skin, flushed and hot to the touch. 

    If only he’d caught her before she’d collapsed into the swampy waters. If only she’d mentioned just how poorly she was doing. If only…Raenor could build a castle with all his if onlys with Wulfwryn. 

 Singing softly to himself to fill the silence, he cleaned her wound first with the water warming on the fire he’d dared to light in their encampment. 

    He sent a small, and rather irked, thanks to the gods that he’d tucked some athelas from Imladris’ stores. Though not strictly necessary, he hoped soaking the bandages and cleaning the wound with the athelas mixture would get Wulfwryn back on her feet fast enough that they would not be delayed for long. With all the fell spirits and cursed trees in Agamaur he wasn’t willing to risk this infection being of more sinister nature than a dirty wound. 

    The urgency of their mission could not be understated, but that was not his concern. It was the way he’d noticed Wulfwryn push herself far beyond her bounds that did. He knew if she were not gripped in the restless sleep of infection at this moment that she would be clamoring for them to carry on, damn the consequences. 

    Her dedication to following Aragorn’s quests for her bordered on holy devotion. 

    Raenor pressed the bandages against her wound, leaving his hands to linger. He let his eyes drift closed and murmured a soft incantation. It would not do much, he was still brushing off the cobwebs of his skills for this manner of healing after years of staunchly avoiding battleground healing, but it would do something.

 

    When Wulfwryn’s hand found his wrist he jumped, instinctively yanking his hands away. 

    Her hand clung tight and she grunted as his sudden motion jarred her. 

    “Ach, Wulfwryn, you’re going to scare my heart from my chest.” He muttered. 

    At her silence he found her watching him with an odd look in her eyes. It wasn’t just the feverish haze, but something deeper. A…softness that was unusual. 

    He knew the general distance she usually wore in her expression, the look that made it clear he was held at an arm's-length distance. The heat that lit her eyes whenever they used passion to escape their demons. 

This, he did not recognize. 

She simply said, “Your hands are warm.” 

Raenor held them up, looking at his palms. The glow of his healing magic still pulsed in faint gold veins beneath his skin. He placed his hands back against her wound, pulling back upon that magic. 

“It’s because I’m healing your ungrateful self.” He said light-heartedly. 

The weight of her gaze weighed heavy on him.  

“I’m not ungrateful.” She said it with such deadly seriousness that he looked back at her, convinced her fever had broken and she was back to full coherence. But little clarity registered in her expression, “I don’t know what I would do without you.” 

“That’s the fever talking.” He kept his voice impassive, breaking his gaze from hers, “You would manage just fine without me.” 

The draw of the healing incantation was sapping his energy, muddling his own mind. It wasn’t bitterness that laced his words, nowhere close, but a tired admittance to what he knew was the truth. 

This woman, the fiery light that had pulled him from the haze he’d wandered through since Edelion, neither seemed to truly want him with her or needed him. 

“It’s a lie.” Wulfwryn sighed, voice falling into a mumble, “All this ‘on my own’ stuff. I want you here with me.” 

Her eyes were struggling to stay open, her grip on his wrist going lax. 

Before sleep reclaimed her he caught, “Want you to stay.” 

What he would give for that to be true. 

    *

    By morning her fever had broken, her mind clearer when she sat up and scrubbed her hands across her face. 

    “Good morning,” Raenor glanced over at her, “How are you feeling?”

    She winced, a hand going to her wound, “Much better…what did you do?” 

Tilting his head, he spoke recklessly, “Don’t you remember from last night?”  

Startled, her head shot up from where she’d lifted her shirt to poke at the bandages, “No! Why did I say something?” 

He wasn’t sure what the feeling was that rolled through him, but he shook his head, “No, just woke up for a bit. All you missed was some elven incantations and basic healing. Nothing exciting.” 

“Oh…” She didn’t sound as though she believed him but she shrugged it off, “Well thank you irregardless.” 

“Of course.” He murmured.