#ch: estrid

[wildwren]

Whenever you're stabbed, you leave it in.

NIA TOWLE and MAXIM BALDRY as ESTRID and ISILDUR

[ringsofpowerdaily]

ISILDUR, ESTRID & THEO in THE LORD OF THE RINGS: THE RINGS OF POWER (2022-) S2E03: The Eagle and the Sceptre

[virmire]

no one caaares but i adore her so

[celebrimborsapron]

Ao3 Fanfic Masterpost:)

Rings of Power:

Celebrimbor x OFC, Explicit [Complete] 19k words

Gil-galad x Elrond, Explicit [Complete] 13k words

Adar x OFC, Modern AU, Explicit [Complete] 14k words

Adar x Estrid, Explicit, [WIP] *Ch 25 of 28 posted*

Adar X Galadriel, Explicit *one shot*

Series- One shot per Episode, various pairings [WIP]

Gil-galad x Elrond, Explicit, [complete] *two shot*

[bellejolras]

ch 2 is posted now! featuring estrid Getting What She Wants 😇

ride this like a wave

Isildur comes down with a mysterious illness… luckily Arondir is a talented healer and there to help. Set in ROP 2x04.

(in other words, this is an insane sex pollen fic for a ship that doesn’t exist until now. enjoy!!!!)

for @tolkienpinupcalendar kinktober 2024

Rating: E(xplicit) / No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Arondir/Isildur (so far)

WC: 3384

Other tags: PWP, sex pollen, blowjobs, dubious consent, semi-public sex, gratuitous ocean metaphors, crack treated seriously, putting the ‘fun’ in sexual dysfunction

checking off kinktober prompts (4) handjobs, (5) clothed sex, (6) aftercare, (14) begging, (24) intoxicated sex

It has been hours since they survived a near-death encounter with mud, but Isildur can still feel it dry and crusting against his skin.

No amount of scrubbing with river water seemed to be able to thoroughly clean himself or his clothes, leaving a persistent film behind. The day has truly been one unpleasant experience after another: the mud, the beast, the freezing river, and now an itching, aching discomfort.

It had been bad enough to strip in the water, freezing and bare, vulnerable to the elements and the eyes of his friends should they look his way. Estrid had left them to bathe in peace, setting up a fire and their encampment for the night nearby, but Arondir is there in the water. So stoic he seemed as he washed, the dim light shining off his strong arms and broad back, focused and impervious to the elements. Isildur had stolen a glance and, reminded of his own mannish fragility, shuddered.

Now drying off in front of the cooking fire, Isildur is starting to feel a bit odd. His heartbeat is pounding, he is short of breath, getting chills, and not just from the cold air. In fact, sitting closer to the fire seems to make it worse.

“Smells delicious,” he says, the meat of the mud creature crackling over the scrapped-together fire pit.

Estrid raises an eyebrow. “You must really be starving,” she says, unimpressed.

Arondir grunts in amusement, but keeps his eyes on the fire, prodding it with a stick. A spray of sparks shoots up and he jumps out of the way to avoid the puffing smoke. He leans over to poke the fire from a different angle and readjust the embers, a breath away from Isildur. Isildur shivers.

Unsurpassed in his elven perception, Arondir turns to look at him. “Cold?”

Isildur rubs his hands together by the fire, but the heat doesn’t seem to seep in. “Just the mud. I’m still drying,” he answers, hoping it’s the truth. He can’t stand the thought of having a fever out here in the wild, with danger lurking literally at every turn.

Arondir nods, and goes back to stoking the flames. “I feel it too,” he says. “Something weird in that pit. Nasty stuff.” With his free hand, he flicks a missed spot of dried mud off the front of his armor. It sizzles as it lands in the fire, as though still wet.

Isildur wraps his cloak tighter around himself and tries to remember how to breathe.

The meat is, as Estrid predicted, awful. Nothing worse than a mud beast steak with no seasoning. But food is food, and Isildur is grateful to have it.

It doesn’t make him feel any better, though. If anything, he feels worse. His head is pounding now, he’s beginning to sweat despite the cold, and his heart is still racing. He puts his head down to his hands, suddenly, rubbing his face and trying to take a deep breath.

When Arondir puts a hand on his shoulder, he nearly cries.

“Isildur,” he says quietly, nearly a whisper. “What is it?”

Isildur looks up at him, eyes wild, searching his face. Is it concern he reads on the elf’s face, or does he catch a glimpse of the same madness in Arondir’s eye? As quickly as the thought occurs, it’s gone. “I don’t know,” he rasps. “I need–” and suddenly breaks into a fit of coughing.

“Estrid! Can you get some water?”

The next thing Isildur knows, he’s lying on his back on the ground in their makeshift encampment, an elf gently pouring water into his mouth. There’s a blanket beneath him, protecting him from lying directly on the dirt. The enclosure is not much more than a tarp draped over sticks, but it offers some protection from the wild. And some privacy, Isildur thinks faintly. The water is cold, which is nice, but having Arondir so intimately near is oddly dizzying. Every nerve is on edge, and as the blood races through his body, heat pools in his groin. it must be an effect of the fever, but Isildur can’t recall this as a symptom before. Or maybe his mind is too foggy to think clearly. But when Arondir touches a hand to Isildur’s forehead, a moan escapes. Surely this isn’t a normal fever.

Arondir doesn’t pull away at the sound, though, but rather leans back in and brushes the damp hair off Isildur’s forehead. Isildur can feel the heat radiating off as Arondir leans in to whisper to him, something strange and foreign.

Isildur tries to focus on the words and not the feeling of Arondir’s breath hot on his cheek, but all his schooling fails him and the best he can tell is that it sounds like Quenya.

Arondir pauses, puts a hand back to Isildur’s face for a moment, and then sits back up.

“Isildur, I need you to disrobe”

Isildur’s eyes open wide and search Arondir’s face. “Disrobe?” This can’t be a good sign.

“I suspect poison, but I need to check for wounds. Rule out any injuries that could be causing this.”

Arondir helps him sit up, and shivering, Isildur pulls the still-drenched tunic off over his head. A breeze catches in the damp curls of hair on his chest, raising every follicle to a peak. He shivers, and looks up at Arondir kneeling by his side.

“Pants too”

Hesitantly, Isildur complies, undoing the waist tie and sliding the filthy material over his hips and down, past the stab wound from Estrid’s dagger only days before. He winces, hunching over, knowing Arondir can see.

But Arondir looks him over with only a glance, not appearing alarmed by the obvious injury in Isildur’s thigh.

There’s something much more prominent that catches his eye, a much more pressing matter. Not Isildur’s thigh, but rather between them.

read the rest on ao3!

[procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics]

Unexpected: Part 3

Summary: Thickheaded idiot Ivar finally realizes he’s in love while going to the market with her to get her new clothes and wise NPC (tm) gives him some advice. Aslaug takes her in for an interrogation à la overbearing mother… More smut ofc, but it’s a bit brief this time!

Beginning Notes: the Brísingamen is a necklace that was given to Freya in Norse mythology. From the etymology of the word, it’s possible that the necklace was meant to be made of amber.

Taglist: @bragisrunes @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie @punkrocknpearls @alicedopey @batmandallyboy (hmu to be added!)

Masterlist | Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 4 | requests are OPEN!

He woke up next to her this morning. Ivar can barely process it. When she moved in her sleep, he’d woken up, and he’d gotten to hold her while she was still sleeping, running a hand through her hair carefully.

She’d smiled at him when she had woken up, kissed him, gotten dressed halfway, and then Ivar had ruined her efforts and they were late to breakfast.

Now that she was his, she didn’t have to serve anyone else. Unlike Margrethe, she doesn’t dare sit down at the table, instead pouring his drink and refilling his mother’s and brother’s cups as well. Ivar glares at Sigurd, who leans towards her just to tease him.

Ivar knows that he is more interested in men than women, and that he’s fucking one ever since Hvitserk and Ubbe are taking up all of Margrethe’s time, but he still clenches his fist in jealousy under the table.

After breakfast, they head out alone. Sigurd leaves first, grabbing his Oud before he disappears to Gods know where, and Hvitserk and Ubbe leave soon after, saying that they’ll spar a bit. Ivar doubts it. Then again, his intentions aren’t the purest either.

She follows him dutifully to the market, carrying an empty basket. Before they can buy anything, Ivar spots Helga, who hands him a small vial. She smiles at her brightly.

“This is for your legs. It’s a new recipe, so tell me if anything is off.” She says, looking at Ivar.

Ivar nods, and she’s quick to take it, putting it in her basket.

“Do you need anything?” Helga asks, turning to her. She shakes her head.

“Bodil’s fever is gone, thank the Gods. It would’ve broken Estrid’s heart if her last daughter died too. That Frankish slave, Lothar, he cut himself quite deep, but the others already shared some of your old supplies.” She replies.

“That’s good. If you need anything, don’t be shy to come to me.” Helga says, walking away. Then, Ivar turns to her.

“How do you know Helga?” he asks.

“She helps us a lot. Whenever she can spare her supplies, she gives them to us. There’s a thrall that used to be in Floki’s service who learned from her. She’s a very kind woman.”

“That is true.” Ivar nods. He didn’t know Helga helped the slaves, but it’s her character to do such a strange thing.

The first stall they stop at is a fabric stall. The merchant looks like he comes from Rus, and his heavy accent confirms Ivar’s expectations.

He offers Ivar a good deal on a ready-made dress and a fur, but when Ivar turns to her, her eyes are wide.

“That is too expensive.” She says decidedly. The merchant immediately tells her he’s unwilling to haggle, but she shrugs, choosing a plain fabric instead. Ivar is sure it’s meant for aprons, but the light blue color suits her, so he hands over his coin.

“You need a pelt for when it gets colder.” He tells her. She looks uncomfortable at the thought, but nods.

“But not from this stall. This is luxury clothing he’s selling.”

Ivar lets her lead him away from the stalls on the main road, and towards a tiny stall that sells pelts as well as a few vegetables that have definitely been grown in the sorry soil of Kattegat.

She seems to know the vendor, who looks surprised at seeing a prince at her stall. Ivar chooses the fur, and she immediately begins haggling with the woman, before they settle on a price, she deems reasonable. Before they leave, Ivar spots a deep green, but still plain dress.

“That one too.” He tells the woman.

“You really don’t have to.” She insists, but the vendor readily holds it out for Ivar to inspect.

“No discussion.” Ivar tells her. “You need more than one proper dress.”

“I can make at least three out of this fabric.” She replies but lets him buy the dress.

They walk back onto the main road together, and she offers to go home. She’s blushing as she looks at the green dress, and Ivar can tell that she can’t believe the amount of money he just spent on her.

“I want to keep looking.” Ivar tells her. The blacksmith lives next to the stalls, and Ivar wants to pick up an axe he commissioned. Then, he wants to go to the stall of a Francian who sells wares from the Mediterranean. His mother loves oranges, so Ivar always goes to see if they have any.

While he’s at the blacksmith, he gives her money to go to the Francian. He follows soon after, only to see that she’s still at the stall.

“I don’t sell to thralls.” The merchant tells her as Ivar comes closer.

“It’s not for me, and I have the money. My master sent me to buy them.” She explains. “And I can take the bad ones off your hands, if you’d like.”

“Stop begging and buy off of someone else.” The merchant hisses.

“Is there a problem?” Ivar asks, stepping next to her. His axe is still in his hand.

“Prince Ivar!” he exclaims. Turning to her, he asks, “Why didn’t you tell me who your master was?”

“I didn’t think it mattered.” She presses out, and Ivar can see the barely concealed anger in the way she clenches her jaw, and her knuckles turn white on the handle of her basket.

The merchant hands over the oranges, and then turns around and gives her another crate.

“The bad ones.” He says. Ivar looks at them and sees a few with marks, some with a little mold on them. He would never eat them, but she smiles brightly and thanks the merchant.

“Why did you ask him for the foul ones?” he asks her as soon as they are out of the rude merchant’s hearing.

“They’re not foul.” She laughs. “Just a bit old. These stalls are luxury stalls, so they usually don’t even sell to random thralls, but once, Bodil found a mandarin after the stall had closed down. She brought it to the thrall quarters and shared it with all of us. We kept the peel because it smelled so good. Since then, we’ve been trying to get more, whether that’s the old ones or something that fell off his cart.”

Ivar thinks he understands. There’s one last stop he wants to make today, but before they make it, she spots a young girl. Ivar follows her gaze. It’s another thrall, who waves to her. The girl can’t be older than seven. Unsure, she glances to him.

“Go.” Ivar tells her, and she almost runs off, taking the young girl into her arms. He sees them chatter and the girl grabs an orange from the crate, holding it up high over her head triumphantly. She reminds Ivar of Hvitserk. Ivar turns to the stall he wants to visit.

“I want to buy a necklace.” He tells the merchant. They know each other well. She’s an old woman, who was already selling her jewelry when Aslaug came to Kattegat. Ivar has been going to her whenever he wants to buy his mother a present.

“For your mother?” she asks, and Ivar shakes his head.

“For the girl?” she guesses, and Ivar stares at the ground.

“Just a simple one. With a stone or so.” He tells her. She turns around, going through one of her displays, until she finds what she’s looking for.

It’s a simple band with an amber pendant she hands him, and Ivar finds it almost painfully on the nose.

“Would you like a ring to go with it?” she asks in an almost teasing voice, and it’s only because Ivar has known her all her life that there are no consequences.

“What would I need that for?” he asks coolly.

“I’ve never seen you with that girl before, but I can tell when men are in love. It’s why I sell so much.”

“Secrets of the trade?” Ivar asks sarcastically.

“Precisely that. Tell her you’re in love. And free her if you haven’t already. I’ve heard nothing bad about that girl, and it’s obvious to me she loves you back.”

Ivar nodded, handing over the money before quickly leaving the stall, necklace clutched in his hand. She enjoyed gossip, entertaining his mother whenever she came to her stall, Ivar knew that. She also enjoyed making money. Was it really true that she liked him?

She’s spinning the girl around as Ivar comes closer, before she hugs her and turns around to find him. She almost bumps into Ivar.

“Oh sorry.” She apologizes. “I’m a bit dizzy. You know, from all the turning.”

Her hairdo is dangerously close to falling apart, and Ivar wants to fix it for her later.

“Who was that?” Ivar asks.

“That’s Bodil. I gave her the oranges so she can share with her family and friends.”

“What about you?”

“I already got fabric and a dress, AND a fur coat. I don’t need more luxuries.” She shrugs.

Shakily, Ivar grabbed the amber pendant. “I still want to give you this.”

She accepts it carefully, as if it’ll crack if she cradles it too harshly. “Thank you, Ivar. It’s absolutely beautiful.”

Then, she hugs him, in the middle of the main road. Ivar freezes, not knowing what to do. Carefully, he lays his head on her shoulder.

They walk into the Great Hall the moment Ubbe and Hvitserk return, and Ivar shoots her a regretful glance as his brothers pull him away.

“I’ll clean your room and change your bedding.” She calls after him, disappearing with her new things.

Aslaug’s POV:

Ivar and his thrall had come back from the market just in time for Aslaug to watch her disappear into his room. She didn’t trust this woman. Perhaps she would use Ivar’s trust to steal something he wouldn’t miss. Perhaps she was as ambitious as Margrethe.

Aslaug was going to find out.

The thrall didn’t notice her at first. She was pulling the linens off of Ivar’s bed, her back turned to the door. Only when she turned around did she see Aslaug.

“My Queen.” She said, bowing her head. “Prince Ivar bought you oranges. I’ve had them brought to the kitchens. Is there anything specific you’d like them with?”

“What are your intentions with my son?”

“I don’t have any intentions.” She replied.

“Why did you sleep with him?” Aslaug continued.

“I thought he was attractive.”

“Despite his legs?”

“I’m not as superficial as some other women.” She said calmly.

“Would you like to be free one day?” Aslaug asked

“Which thrall doesn’t?”

“Do you love him?” Aslaug asked finally. There’s silence from this quick-witted thrall. It lasts too long to be a lie. She doesn’t answer Aslaug at all. The queen grabbed the thrall’s jaw, making her look up at her. Aslaug noticed how young she looked. She couldn’t be much older than Ivar.

She remembered her vision. Aslaug had dreamt that Ivar would marry a thrall one day. She had also dreamt that Ivar would die at sea before he would marry. Her visions did not help her. They only conflicted each other.

“He cannot free you.” Aslaug told her.

“Being his thrall has already made me happier.” She replied.

“He’ll marry someone else. A worthy princess or an earl’s daughter. Not you.”

For a moment, Aslaug sees her façade drop. A second of hurt and jealousy. Then it was over, and Aslaug let go of her jaw.

“Break his heart.” She told the girl, “And you’ll have his family lining up to kill you before he does.”

“I know.” She replied, as if that didn’t scare her. Then, the thrall continued cleaning the bed, as if their conversation had never happened.

Ivar’s POV:

She was talking to Hvitserk. Why the fuck was she talking to Hvitserk?

He creeps closer, trying to make out what she’s saying. Hvitserk’s laughing at something she just told him, and it makes Ivar’s blood boil.

“I can teach them how to make the bread.” Ivar can finally hear her say. What?

Hvitserk sees him, and smiles at Ivar brightly. Absentmindedly, he hands her his cup, and Ivar wants to start a fight with him for disrespecting his woman. Except that she is a thrall, and all she’ll ever be is his property.

“I was just asking her about the bread she made. Now that she isn’t in the kitchen, it’ll be the old bread again.” Hvitserk explains.

“Stay away from her.” Ivar tells him, before going to her.

“Jealous?” Hvitserk teases.

“Shut up.” Ivar almost roars over his shoulder.

“If it’s alright I’ll teach the others in the kitchen how to make the bread sometime next week.” She offers.

“I don’t want you talking to Hvitserk.” Ivar says.

“He’s your brother. I’m bound to see him when I’m living in your home.”

Ivar’s hand shoots up, resting on her neck.

“He’s good with most women. I’m not.” Ivar presses out.

“And I am not most women.” She replies quietly. “I thought we’d already established that.”

Ivar could feel the anger creeping up on him. Suddenly, every man in the room was staring at her. The two shieldmaidens making out in the corner seemed to be waving her over, asking them to join. Sigurd was there, Hvitserk was there, Ubbe was there, even Bjorn was there.

They all look like they were going to take her from him. And the worst part was, Ivar knows they could.

“Go to my room. Now. Take that dress off.” He tells her, before letting go of her neck.

He stays until he can’t bear it anymore before he walks towards their room. Hvitserk throws him a look that used to be reserved for teasing Ubbe, but no one else in the Great Hall notices.

When he gets to their, no, his room, the dress is barely over her shoulders.

“That was fast.” She comments. Wordlessly, Ivar grabs her, pushing her against the door. Her back hits it with a quiet thud, and she lets him tear the dress down her shoulders. The necklace rests between her breasts, a reminder that she’s his.

His fingers are on her, groping greedily because Ivar wants to somehow show her that he loves her, and that he wants her to be his – in a way that she cannot be.

“You’re mine.” Ivar says harshly, “Only mine.”

She nods frantically, and Ivar knows that, in any other situation, she would’ve said something snarky.

“Say it.” He demands. He can feel the desperation inside him growing, he wants her to tell him she feels the same way. He needs her too.

“Yours.” She breathes out, the word ending in a moan when his hand finds her pussy.

She repeats it from her own volition, over and over as Ivar leads her to his bed and sucks dark splotches onto her skin. Her hands trail down his chest, towards his breeches and Ivar lets her do it, because this is something he can trust her with.

Her hand finds his cock and she pumps up and down, until Ivar is groaning into her neck, almost ready to beg her. When he pushes into her, it feels just as good as the first time, but this time, Ivar isn’t tense, only angry.

He wants to be gentle with her, so he kisses her slowly, lets his touch become softer. He still squeezes her neck and grabs her hips, because that’s as gentle as Ivar will ever get. When he’s done, he pulls out, using his fingers to get her to finish too.

They lie side by side in silence, and Ivar can hear the sounds of the feast taking place behind his door. He wonders if they heard them. A part of him wants them to know that he can do it. Another part wants her to be his secret.

Her hand finds his. She holds it as carefully as her necklace of amber, staring up at the ceiling. Ivar looks at her, but she doesn’t notice, and for the first time, he sees her.  He sees a reflection of his anger in her. It’s hidden much better, but it’s there.

“Why are you angry?” he asks her. She hesitates, as if she’s considering lying to him.

“The merchant.” She replies.

“I can have him killed if you want.” Ivar offers. She shakes her head, beginning to smile.

“And what would that do?”

“He wouldn’t be able to disrespect you without a head.”

“It wouldn’t change anything. There’ll always be people treating me like I am worth less than cattle. It’s stupid to be angry at them, but I can’t help it. Even if someone freed me, I’d always be the former thrall.” She explains. Ivar knows that he cannot understand fully what she means, and that makes him angrier than before.

“They wouldn’t disrespect you if you were a queen.” Ivar blurts out. She turns to face him, a hand running through his hair.

“My Ivar.” She says, and his heart skips a beat. “We both know that won’t happen. You love your mother far too much.”

I love you too. Ivar wants to say, because he can hear it between the words she does say, I love you and I’d break my promise to my mother for you. I think.

“You’re the only one in the world who understands my anger.” He says instead. It has to be enough, for now.

[wildwren]

ISILDUR AND ESTRID in 2.04

for @aadmelioraa and @sluttyseacadet

[wildwren]

NIA TOWLE as ESTRID

2.03: The Eagle and the Sceptre

[carewyncromwell]

Jacko-boy can be very persuasive. >D

Noooo. Nope, nope, nope -- Ru and Estrid are 150% not the types to do the “dear” and “darling” stuff. 😂 In their own weirdly romantic way, Ru would see those sorts of pet names as “empty words,” more than anything that endearing. I reckon even when Ru bluntly proposed having a real romantic relationship with Estrid (after letting out that similarly blunt confession of their feelings and actually learning Estrid feels similarly), they’d be much more the type to ask if Estrid would be their mate, rather than giving a damn about courting or getting down on one knee and such. (And once they were “mates” with Estrid, Ru would be lurking over her all protective-like even more than they were previously, if that’s possible. “Back off, b**ch, she’s mine.” *snorts*)

AND OH GOD, Estrid, the SHADE. 🤣 Ru would hate it so much and they’d hate her so much and they’d hate her bloody collar more than both of those and you’re damn lucky they can’t change form right now, or else they’d be chomping down on your head, Estrid. :I 

3 and 11 for Jackson, 11 and 17 for Ru 💜

Who named them? (Mother, father, or someone else?)

Jackson got his name from his mama Cassandra Knightly, as a reference to his asshole father, John "Jack" Eglinton. He got the middle name "Lucas" as a reference to Cassandra's favorite tutor from her childhood, a wizard named Lucas Burke.

Do they like their name?

Jackson has a complicated relationship with his name. He hated it so much while he was in his father's captivity, hating having anything to do with this Muggle man who'd stolen him away from his mother, home, and magical future just to enrich himself...but it was really thanks to Adelia expressing such kindness toward his name upon them first meeting that made Jackson decide that he didn't need to discard his entire name, just to give a good old middle finger to his father and everything he stood for. Instead Jackson discarded his father's surname but kept his first name, so as to always remember the gutter where he started and use it as motivation to take the world by storm.

As for Ru, they really didn't have a name prior to disguising themselves as the human Rudolph Ollivander. And honestly, Ru's never liked the name Rudolph. Whenever they say it, it ends up coming out as a nasally scoff, like a horse blustering through their nose and mouth. "Ru" suits the kelpie's sensibilities much better, if for no other reason than it's less masculine -- Ru may present male a lot of the time, since that way they don't have to wear corsets and such, but they're still genderfluid and they don't like being stuck in a gendered box.

What is their opinion on nicknames?

LMAO, Jackson LOVES nicknames. He gives nicknames to everyone, stranger or not. For strangers, it's most common for Jackson to call them "Mr./Ms. [surname]" or some variation of "my dear [fill in the blank]" or "my [adjective] friend." (Ex: Orla @nightmaresart is his "lady Vipertooth.") Once you become one of his close friends, you'll get your own custom nickname, such as "Addy" and "Lia" for his BFF Adelia. Jackson also has several nicknames he'll accept for himself -- Jack, Jackie, Jacko, and Jax are most common. He'll only call you by your full first name if he loves you -- a privilege only extended to his beloved husband, Montelimar Bloom. 💕 @cursebreakerfarrier

As for Ru, they are solely called by a "nickname," so they're okay with them. They're not really the type to give other people nicknames, though, just because they're not human and so didn't grow up giving others with special names or titles. Rather than giving their friends nicknames, or even calling their partner Estrid by a special pet name, they're more likely to call people by their surname until they admit to themselves and that person that they like that person's company. At that point Ru will start using their first name, making it very clear why they're doing so as they are ridiculously blunt and don't see a need to beat around the bush.

Name Ask!

[wildwren]

NIA TOWLE as ESTRID

Episode 2.04: Eldest

[wildwren]

Destined for Darkness • An Estrid Character Study

part of a series with @aadmelioraa

On the ride to Pelargir, Estrid works to understand the stranger she met on the road, and Isildur shares a terrible story.

Read on AO3

Estrid had been walking for too long.

“You should always count your steps,” her mother used to tell her. “When you get lost, you can retrace them .” It was sound advice — Estrid had been a careless child, always half lost in her own head, and she’d learned to make a counting game out of her mother’s warning. Three stones to hop across the stream, two trees bent just so at the entrance to the forest.

One mountain on the horizon to guide the way home

But there was no use counting the trails Estrid had walked by now, the paths she had beaten across this wasted land. She could only sort her journeys into two categories: the ones she’d taken before she bore the mark of Adar; the ones after. She’d walked so long that her shoes had worn through, and she had lifted another pair from a bloated, ash-choked corpse. By now, Estrid had stopped thinking of it as stealing.

It was merely accepting what was offered by the dead.

Estrid had walked long enough, fear deepening the ache into her bones, the burn of a brand searing into her neck with every step. So she could not control herself when Isildur reached down his hand and pulled her onto his funny, proud steed. She could not stop herself from leaning forward onto the narrow shelf of his shoulders, letting her bones stack against his bones, tucking her arms around his waist so she was certain she wouldn't fall off.

As they rode, Isildur spoke almost constantly. He spoke of his horse Berek, how he’d found Isildur in the wasteland and saved his life. He spoke of his father, of the Numenorean ships that would be waiting for them in the bay of Pelargir, and this made Estrid bite the inside of her mouth so much that the skin began to bleed again. She found his chatter strange at first, like he was speaking a different dialect, but after a time, she realized it was simply that they had lived lives quite alien to each other. They had grown in different soils.

After that, his life became a puzzle for her to solve, a knot to chew over until it was untangled. She only asked questions when she needed clarification. Otherwise, she listened. As he spoke, the hum of his voice moved out the back of his chest, vibrating into space between them. It was like the purring sound of some pleased creature, and soon it migrated into Estrid’s own chest — a warm, comfortable sensation — like the steady rush of water or the squeeze of her mother’s hand. For a few moments, she let her eyes drift closed, and the ache of her own vigilance retreated into a far corner of her mind.

“I am thinking of something,” Isildur said, as if starting a traveling game, “something that happened to me before I met you. It’s such an unfathomable thing… it’s hardly possible to believe it happened at all, except…except that I can still feel the memory of it crawling underneath my skin.”

Estrid fidgeted in the saddle. “What is it?” The sense of peace had fled her chest with his words, and she became wary again, a wearyingly familiar sense. “What happened?”

“I’m afraid you won’t believe me if I tell you.”

“Tell me,” she said, a little harsher than was necessary. “I’ve seen my share.”

Isildur shifted, as if he had the urge to turn back and look at her. But then his posture stiffened and he stared forward, his face remaining a mystery to her.

“After the fire mountain…and the burning waste…I found myself in a tunnel underneath the Earth.”

The fire mountain. That’s all it was to Isildur, but to Estrid, it had always been Orodruin, the Ancient Place, the Old Crone of the Southlands.

“See Her white hair? ” Her mother used to say. “She’s lived longer than any man, or any elf. She’s as old as the Earth, and She’s earned Her wisdom, I should say. She shan’t lead you astray.”

But Orodruin’s white hair was gone now. She wept tears of fire and blood, red tears of sorrow in grief for the Land.

“Orcs must have dug it,” Isildur continued, swallowing noisily around his words. “Or…or something else. I walked for as long as I could manage, trying to find my way out, but…I don’t remember. I don’t remember when I lost consciousness.” His voice was turning very strained.

“When I woke, I was in the clutches of some terrible thing.”

It was then Estrid realized Isildur was shaking, a slow shudder moving up from his root until his shoulders were taken with it. She clutched him on instinct, trying to still his terror, and when she squeezed the tops of his arms, Isildur grew still.

He brought Berek to a halt and turned to look at her in earnest. “Have you ever heard of spiders — spiders as large as beasts?”

It was Estrid who shook this time, only for a moment, only long enough for Isildur to notice. Not long enough for him to do anything about it.

“No,” she said, honestly. “I’ve not heard of that. But I’ve heard enough of other terrible things to believe it.”

It was strange — the expression that crossed Isildur’s face. It wasn’t until he spoke that Estrid understood he was relieved. “I’m glad,” he said, “I’m glad you haven’t met this particular monster.” He smiled at her then, his soft, closed-mouth smile, as if trying to reference some secret he assumed she was in on.

“And I’m also glad I didn’t make it up.”

“Who’s to say you didn’t?” she teased.

Isildur snorted. “No, don’t do that.”

“Who’s to say you didn’t get hit ‘round the head with a burning timber and —”

“Don’t,” Isildur said gently, the smile still in his eyes. He placed one hand on Estrid’s wrist, as if this might still her words.

“I’m sorry,” Estrid said, looking away. “I know what you mean. Sometimes you need someone beside you. Someone who understands.”

It wasn’t a very deep statement; Estrid couldn’t speak as clearly and complexly as Isildur on these matters, but she was trying hard to understand him, and she thought he could see that well enough.

“What — what have you seen?” He asked. He was growing concerned — concerned about her. He wanted to understand her in return.

This was something Estrid could not allow.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said curtly. “It’s clear enough this land is lost to the worst sorts of the world. Even a fool knows it can always get worse.”

“You’re not a fool.” Isildur spoke with much earnestness, but Estrid did not respond.

He watched her for another long moment, then turned himself forward and nudged Berek along. The horse had to be coaxed away from a bough of graying leaves before he would go forward.

They rode for some time in silence, and though it was not strained, it kept Estrid on a sharper edge than Isildur’s storytelling had. She fidgeted constantly in the saddle. Finally, Isildur reached for her hand and pulled it around his front, rooting her against his body. She let her thumb curve over the strap of his belt and leaned closer to his warmth.

“It may sound strange to you,” he said, and Estrid had to quell the urge to laugh. Everything he said sounded strange to her.

He continued: “I knew there was something waiting for me in Middle Earth, something important. Turns out I was right. It was an… unspeakable horror. Better that than nothing at all, I suppose.”

“Don’t say that,” Estrid said, trying to hide how disturbed this made her feel.

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t give into it. You can’t give into that despair.”

“I thought you would understand.”

“No, I only mean…you’re going to make it. You’re going to survive this.” She spoke with a confidence she did not truly possess. She was fueled by a sense of desperation, a sudden refusal to accept that this strange, kind man might, too, be doomed for the darkness — doomed along with her homeland, along with all her kin and everyone she’d ever known, along with herself.

“You’re going to survive,” Estrid said again.

You have to, you have to. You can’t give up. Not like me.

Read on AO3

[virmire]

well, i suppose it was my turn to do the dragon age oc template by @marianchurchland which you can find right here! i'm very happy with how these turned out and it was super fun trying to draw something more stylistic

[virmire]

i saw @shadovvheart's inquisitor portraits and felt very inspired to make my own!

so here's estrid cadash, in all her glory!

[virmire]

decided I wanted all of my drawn da ocs in one post so here ya go

[virmire]

Estrid Cadash

[virmire]

i dared to draw something full body and it didn't turn out horrible! i didn't really render it as i'm trying to keep things more simple but i'm happy with this!

Anyways, here's Estrid Cadash